The room at home has lots of comfort. The table at the far corner is the ideal niche to contemplate and comprehend the challenges wrought by the pandemic.

It’s at this corner where I sat, hand rested on head, grieving over the loss of my uncle in August. From the coziness of this corner, I taught two webinars, wrote my emails and edited news articles for my publication.

Nine months after I occupied that corner, I now realise how my world has gone inside-out. No doubt the virtual space has expanded wider than before, but the physical space is another matter. The best I could do now is to amble along the living room to the dining area and to my mother’s room just ahead. The white cane isn’t my able ally in the cluttered interiors. And so, I stretch my hand forward to make sure I wasn’t veering towards the furniture or get dangerously close to tripping someone.

After a stint in the isolation ward, the cozy corner isn’t cozy anymore. It feels as if the walls are closing in and I’m in the solitary confinement of the pandemic prison.

When I walk in this restricted place, I don’t recognize myself. “Where’s the swagger, the swishing of the white cane and the devil-may-care attitude?” I ask myself.

It seems the pandemic and the lockdown have taken me back twenty-nine years ago, when I dreaded to traverse the streets of Madras for fear that I’d crush the ceramic penguins lined up by the street side vendor on the pavement. I walked with stooped shoulders and stiffer posture, as if something would unexpectedly smack me right in the chest or head.

Without solitary outings, the walks along the footpath wielding the cane (and scaring a stray dog or two on the way), I’ve lost several finer skills of movement I had learnt over two decades. My heart collapses like a deflating balloon at the thought.

Not too long ago, I had the freedom to book a ride on Uber or Ola (on my speech-activated mobile phone. I could take the driver’s help to slide into the rear seat and expect him to guide me through the chaos of people and vehicles. Of course, the virus wasn’t threatening us, and we need not obsess over sanitizing the fingers or touching the mouth to ensure the mask was in place.

Using the white cane was almost second nature. Even in the company of a sighted person, I’d insist on using the cane to survey the space around me and spot the obstacles. The cane identified who I am and brought a lot of attention and some much-needed help.

Two years ago, I remember hurrying through the back gate of Bengaluru railway station, jumping into the electric cart and urging the driver to hurry towards the Shatabdi Express ready to pull away from platform 7. I felt my way to the entrance of the coach and stepped on the footboard into the vestibule when the train started with a jerk. A man standing at the entrance took my suitcase and pulled me into the train.

Months later, I was just minutes before boarding the train with my mobile phone completely running out of juice. The only ticket I had was a text message containing my seat and coach number.

“You can’t travel five-and-a-half hours reclining on the vestibule without producing valid ticket,” the ticket examiner chided me, bemused by my calm, and smiling expression. Even now, I’m thoroughly envious of that confident self that managed to find a co-passenger who offered to charge the mobile phone and eventually helped me produce the text message with seating details.

The best moments came when I walked through the aisle, found my seat, and sat down with a sigh of relief. The very thought that I fought off a challenge all by myself and found my seat without panicking even once would make me smile. The confidence surge was precious beyond words. Here I was, a blind man who should’ve been condemned to restricted mobility, enjoying every moment of a journey made alone in places where I didn’t even speak the local language. The journeys added to my experience, enriched them with human interaction and offered time and space for reflection.

If ever the pandemic eases, or the vaccine puts an end to the virus proliferating freely like death’s shadow, will I ever walk down the street with the same confidence? Or will I crash into something and realise the struggle to rebuild the skills acquired over several years?

This isn’t self-doubt. In fact, this isn’t only about me. I’m worried how the world around me will react to my presence. In the pre-pandemic world, I could walk off with a shrug when someone stopped me for no reason and asked why a blind man should travel alone? In the ‘new normal’ world, such a question would touch a raw nerve and probably needle me enough to say something that I might regret.

One thing is certain. I won’t let the restricted space remain restricted, even if it means fighting my way through to the freedom of traveling alone, enjoying the enclosures with voices of strangers all around comforting me into reading the news on the phone or, quite simply, doze off until the destination arrives.

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