Unmasked
It was delicate and jade green, like a fresh breath of life in a monochrome world. She uncapped her bottle and
let a few drops of water drip into the brown patch of soil. The parched blade of grass absorbed it almost
instantaneously. Ahalya smiled to herself. Her name meant ‘beauty’, and it was in deficit in their world. Such
green spectacles were rare to come by. She squatted on the banks of what was once the river Ganges. Closing
her eyes, she prayed to the river goddess. “You saved us in the lore. Bless us just one more time.” Just as she
bent her forehead to touch the grey soil, there was a booming thud. Afroze cursed as he wiped the sweat off his
brow. “Every time I return from the bazaar with cans of water, this happens. Every single time!” “There, there”,
mocked Ahalya. “Don’t shed tears over this. It will be difficult to replenish the water!” He shoved her playfully.
Were it not for the wrinkles on their forehead and the greying hair, it would have been easy to mistake them for
the teenagers they once were. “Let’s head home,” Afroze muttered. After a short walk, they reached a towering
building studded with specks of green. The sun was at its zenith. The solar panels reflected its blinding light.
After some rapid beeping, the doors shuddered and slid open. “Welcome Afroze, welcome Ahalya! Identity
checks complete.” an electronic voice droned. Ahalya drew a deep breath and peeled off her mask. Sometimes,
she thought, if she closed her eyes, it felt like nothing had changed. She felt like a little girl running around in
the verandah, giggling as the birds chirped and the river gurgled. When the leaves rustled rhythmically with the
breeze, she would blow at the dandelions, attempting to imitate the wind. She remembered how her mother
would laugh and envelope her into a hug calling her ‘my nanhi pari’1. She smiled to herself and unlocked her
phone to find some memories. She heard Afroze sigh loudly and flop onto the couch.
How the world had changed, Afroze pondered. It was as if one day he had been roaming freely on Mohammed
Ali Road2, breathing in the aroma of freshly skewered shawarma3. And then, suddenly, he was fifteen. The
gully he knew so well, the one he remembered to be the beacon of life during the month of Eid, fell silent. He
couldn’t step out to take in the chaotic beauty of the city he so loved - the city that never sleeps, or more
precisely, slept. Mumbai was lulled into a dull slumber for the first time in over two hundred years. All of it,
because of a virus he couldn’t see. But he accepted all of it. The poet in him smirked at the irony of all of it. How
many now wore visible masks to protect themselves from an invisible virus. But in all truth, did all of them not
wear masks even before N-95s became the norm? Some masked their pain, some masked their entirety. It
would be reductive to call the pandemic ‘a great equaliser’. No, it had simply ripped off the masks we had worn
for centuries, it had brought to the surface all that we hear, but refuse to listen to.
He knew it was dangerous to hope, but he held onto it, a naive boy of fifteen dreaming lucidly of a future that
never came to be. All of them had heard the warnings, they had seen all of it coming, yet it seemed as if they
had just been toyed with, floating around idly, powerless in the grand scheme of things. At any rate, that’s what
those in power would have them believe. ‘We had been warned that the waters would rise. Instead of acting to
allay their fury, we made our buildings taller and our factories larger. Tall stones cast large shadows. Not even
their shadows were spared when the great flood came. He thought it would have been an easy death. Everyone
annihilated in one clean strike. But nothing had changed. As the air grew hotter, their hearts had only grown
colder. And what better was he? Just another poet so enraptured by the world’s sorrow. The only weapons he
knew to wield were words. The world had changed marvellously. The Mumbai he knew was silenced forever - a
memory of some euphoric past. The city would have never lost its essence, so instead, it received a glorious end,
buried in the depths of the raging seas. But none of it had stopped them. The buildings had only grown taller, a
testament to their foolish and baseless pride. The only green and blue he ever saw had been born of their
hands. Sometimes, the house provided respite from seeing the world like this – dying, with no hint of fight in
1
a term of endearment meaning ‘little fairy’
a famous street food lane in Mumbai, India. It is renowned for its Eid delicacies.
3
An Arabic meat dish, skewered and grilled. Popular street food in India.
2
her. In other times, its monotony gnawed at the recesses of his thoughts. But Ahalya had always been there.
The unlikely sister he never had. On most days, she was what kept him going.
Scrolling through the pictures, Ahalya revelled in the old days. As a child, she loved visiting places full of trees
so tall that they seemed to touch the sky, where the ground was covered in thick grass that bounced with
morning dew. It was as if life was seeping out of every crevice, against all odds. She tried to remember what the
call of a Bulbul4 sounded like. It did not come back to her. Now her days were filled with metallic sounds of
thudding, the constant beeping of the motherboard and sometimes the sharp ringtone of her phone. It was a
dark world, she thought. Human beings lived in constant fear of each other and drinking water came at a heavy
price. The world was artless in its dull melancholy. Seeing other people was a rare sight, but not the dictator’s
men. They marched each day in the market. ‘To enforce peace’, he had said. No matter what the people who
aired on the telly every Monday night told her, she knew in her heart of hearts that peace cannot be bought or
forced. Peace is felt in the hearts of the people and she was not sure if a lot of the hearts she had known ever felt
anything. So, she hung her head down when the dictator’s men marched. ‘Will better days ever come?’ she
wondered. The world had changed. All the green had sunk into the depths of the earth. All she could ever see or
hear was grey planes zooming past and the rhythmic thudding of soldiers’ feet. The bazaars which were once a
place of myriad vibrant colours, aromas and lively calls of the shopkeepers had now been strangled by a dull
silence. All of it reeked of tar and concrete. She had always been an optimist. But this world somehow felt
different. As much as seeing white and grey all around her should have made her feel peaceful, the colours
seemed to taunt her for being hopeful. Somehow, she still managed to love the world in all of its fragile and
broken beauty. Afroze loved Rumi’s5 poetry. She wasn’t creatively inclined, but there was one line she couldn’t
forget. ‘Only from the heart can you touch the sky.’ Could she? She remembered the pandemic. She was sitting
in an air-conditioned car as she watched labourers walk back to their villages barefoot. They were unemployed
and starved. She vividly remembered a woman, carrying a metal container on her head, a crying child slung
around her waist, walking home barefoot. The woman had no care for a mask, much fewer sanitisers and
vaccines. She was in a cruel limbo - no medicines for disease and no food or resources for health. All of Ahalya’s
complaints and worries seemed insignificant at that moment.
She sighed and stood up. She did not want to spend much time with her thoughts. Besides, she had found the
picture. “Look, remember this?” It was a picture of them before the great flood. They were sitting on the
kitchen floor eating food together. “Yes,” he said. Pointing at a chubbier version of Ahalya, he said solemnly,
“That’s why I would always go to the kitchen first, so I could get some before you ate it all!” “Afroze!” Ahalya
elbowed him. It was good to remember the old days when they lived as neighbours and those they held dear
were still alive. In times like these, the palpable and soulless air somehow felt lighter.
In such moments, they realised their humanity. Such moments gave them strength. Even in the darkest hour, if
one human soul could touch another, they knew they would survive. As she watched Afroze smile, Ahalya
thought to herself, maybe mother Ganges had blessed her after all.
4
5
a traditional Asian songbird, famed for its unique plume and melodious voice.
Rumi is a famous 13th century Persian poet.