The momentary wave of the pandemic in India has brought death, destruction and depression on a massive scale. Death and indignity spread through the streets. While other people hide in their homes or in hidden places, the street has become a sight worth seeing. The street has been remodeled into a theatre – an epic theatre – of our time. He did the visual things in the vilest way. As indignity spread through the streets, mourning found no place. It filled us with indignity.
Despite its actual physical absence, mourning has the temperament of day and night. It was coming, as well as concern about the virus. It was something we could not have sustained in combination in the absence of the collective, in isolation. Life was interrupted, breathing was interrupted, pain was halved, and pain was completely interrupted. Humanity has been torn from its own frame at times and in layers like an onion.
What can be a worse feeling than feeling like we’ve let the dying down?We may simply not provide them with flowers, incense and firewood. Thus, the spectral opposed authority, “what can you do to me now?”m dead), does not work. He reasons for unworthiness even in death. Kill the dead. It enslaves hope in a dream. This can shorten grief. Pragya Tiwari’s report summarizes these indignities:
The corpses of coronavirus patients are left unattended on floors, corridors or even under hospital beds, naked. Others remain in morgues for days and arrive piled in hearses before being cremated. In one case, the frame of a man suspected of having died of COVID-19 taken for an autopsy in a garbage truck, and in another, fitness staff were filmed throwing a corpse into an open ditch. Woguy who died from the virus rotted for 8 days in a bathroom cubicle at the hospital where she was being treated before being discovered.
Such a remedy of the dead shows the end of humanity. But it also brings the frame and the brain to the edge, to the barricades. In the absence of network and solidarity, mourning spreads on faces like makeup on corpses. behind; He didn’t cry with you. You didn’t finish a shoulder. Dry tears in the eyes; feelings, in the heart. Humanity has lost its meaning in the absence of touch. Forbidden to communicate with his neighbors, the walls screamed without sound.
What scene can be more heartbreaking than crying and not being able to touch and calm down?You may just not hold their hands; They may just not press their fingers. You may just not give them a hug. You may not lean on your loved one’s body. You may not kiss the head of a dead man. The families fell into their very eyes after failing to give a dignified start to the dead. in the distance:
The sky is crying Can you see the tears flowing in the streets?I’m looking for my baby AND I was wondering where he might be.
In this scenario of unspeakable hell, some stalls spoke too loudly. These sites became stages. In the absence of documents, they carried the collective reminiscence of the disaster. The first scenario emerged from hospitals where patients died without oxygen. The scene of the moment emerged from the crematoria. There were bodies and chimneys everywhere. The one who survived burned with anger and sorrow, and the one who died burned without firewood. One frame came here after another because there was no end. Bodies poured out of the cemetery, crematoria dwindled, firewood arrived, and iron furnaces melted like hearts. The cities were closed and corpses had crowded the crematorium.
While the scenes come from the pandemic, they were also situations of reduction. He also says that the necropolitical state can cause a pandemic at any time by exposing other people to death. The third situation arose on the banks of rivers in northern India, where carcasses floated like dead fish on the surface. They stretched for miles. Reuters fired a symbol of the mendacity of corpses on the banks of rivers. It showed piles of bodies, covered with saffron-colored cloth, scattered for miles. Separated through bamboo canes, the bodies looked like works of art: the frame of the fascists.
When roads were empty and villages turned into ghost towns, rivers and sewers floated with bodies while dead fish floated in ponds after being poisoned. The dead walked silently in the dark and sealed their bodies in the sand so that the symbol of the country would not be desecrated. Death and destruction were expected in the pandemic, but not the humanitarian crisis of the exodus that spread before us. The expected drama, but not the nudity. The meaning of life and death lost all meaning, and Aristotelian tragedy lost its intrigue in the face of the Indian authoritarian ploy because neither the homeland nor the king were in a position to cry, and the choir continued to sing the king’s praises.
How many dead will you mourn?How many bodies are you going to bury?And how many bodies are you going to burn? Not one, not ten, but millions died. While the resources are silent, some said a million. Some said five million. Some said more. We will never know the numbers. The leader said he was the invisible enemy. It turns out then that death will have to be invisible or become invisible. The figure is true to the spirit of a crime against humanity or genocide. A genocide becomes genocidal in a literal sense when we no longer count the number of dead; when bodies are piled on top of bodies; when bodies lay on potholes; when the dead look like ghosts; when bodies look like the Holocaust; when the dead fill the morgues; when the dead fall from ambulances in a last protest; when the dead not only lose their lives, but also their dignity in the end. We can only call it genocide and a crime against humanity.
Courtesy of Body on the Barricades: Life, Art, and Resistance in Contemporary India, Brahma Prakash, LeftWord.