Chlorine, Class, and Corridor, by Bidisha Chandra, Kolkata
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Born, raised, and currently living in Kolkata, West Bengal, Bidisha lives to tell stories; be it through writings, dance or paintings, her existence rests on her expression.
Thrusting the French window open, we stepped onto the verandah of the first floor under the sweltering June sun. My phone lit up with a popping reminder– I had around half an hour to log into the classroom.
I looked through the ornate glass into the hall opening to a marbled corridor. Squeezing their eyes shut, two masked men opened the mouth of a brass nozzle, spritzing out a mixture of bleaching powder and water. The infected family members were already quarantined on the fourth floor of my house. Thus, the sanitization of the rest of the house was underway.
“Can you still teach your class?” father asked, looking at the time.
“Cancel it. Your school will understand,” mother added.
“I know that,” I said, yet I was unwilling to cancel my class.
The virus that apparently deters the sensation of smell, made way for the fiery chlorine to bruise our nostrils and invade our minds. I had ten minutes to decide: I could either cancel my scheduled class and succumb to a debilitating life or persevere. I chose the latter.
“What are you trying to do?” asked my mother as she saw me getting up.
I switched on my portable broadband device. My watery eyes looked at the time– it was a minute to 2 p.m. I entered the virtual classroom using my phone. I kept my camera off and my microphone on. As I started teaching in the Verandah itself, unfortunately, my instructions got lost in the loud horns of passing vehicles. A parasitic panic stealthily flew into my head, but I was desperate. Before a flicker of doubt could outwit my stubborn move, I opened the door of the French window and went inside the room being sanitized.
My parents screamed, “There is bleaching powder all over the floor!”
Every inch of the hall was drenched in the pungent odor. Frantically scurrying on the wet floor of the already-sanitized room with the broadband device, phone, and the notepad piled on my palms, I continued teaching. I sweated profusely, as I wasn’t allowed to switch on the fan (the solution had to dry by itself). I was only halfway done when the gentlemen walked into the room again, for the second round of sanitization. I hopped out of the room into the corridor and continued the class. I didn’t even notice that I walked into the bathroom twice while answering my students’ questions to escape the chlorine rain; later, one of my students pointed out how they could figure out my pants and gasps as I struggled across the floor.
Soon it was 2:30 p.m. and I had successfully completed my class.
While I bid my students goodbye, I realized my bid! I swam into the calamitous storm without ducking, and paddled my way to take the boat to the other side. I looked back on the hour with a smile. As I capered down the chlorinated corridor after my tiny triumph and the thoughts of the next strike of the vicious virus, I stepped onto the verandah once more, only to see- the sky a little less agitated and the breeze a little more bracing.
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(This story was prepared for an “Imagine Another World” online storytelling workshop held October 14, 2020.)
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