I am reading John Ruskin’s Work, a lecture he delivered at the Working Men’s Institute at Campbell. I try to tempt myself with the thought that I’d enjoy preparing for my upcoming class whose topic — “class disparity” — is close to my heart.

I start reading through Work but after the first paragraph I feel my heart sinking. The news of a friend’s father being put under a ventilator clogs my view.

“I’ve to prepare for my class,” I remind myself, half-heartedly. I open my Facebook account from which I usually remain logged out these days. I see the status of a friend whose father has passed away. I get scared and call him. He does not respond. I open another folder which contains reading material about Samuel Beckett’s Waiting for Godot. For a tiny fraction of an unknown moment I get excited about preparing for that very class. Waiting… is a perfect contemplation on contemporary times. I speak aloud with myself, about the parallels which I will want to present in front of my students to prove how relevant and universal literature is and how absurdity has seeped deep in our structures. I am aware that I will do this while being conscious of my physical appearance on Zoom or Meet. The fraction of moment dies. The excitement diminishes. This is absurd; preparing to teach absurdity!

The evening passes, the night falls and the next day begins. I reopen Waiting for Godot on my laptop, holding a cup of tea, reminding myself that today I will need to prepare for at least one of the four classes.

I put my head down on the keyboard. The QWERTY shivers. Perhaps, I should prepare for this class as well. My mother calls me from the lounge and asks me to give my father his daily dose of afternoon medicine for Parkinson’s. I shudder on getting a reminder about the conditions he has with almost non-existent immunity. I will give him medicine and come back to the dining table, my temporary office table, to prepare for the class. I force myself to remain honest to my profession.

There are many factors involved in this forceful, fractured resolve including individuals, structure and money which I don’t know if I will get after the month or not.

My mind reprimands me for being a coward. I fight within and without. The voices grow in my head. I want to cry, but I can’t. There is not enough space available at home. I may use the toilet as my space later and I can cry to myself over there but, for the moment, I need to prepare for at least one of the four classes I will be teaching in the coming week.

Also, I need to equip myself with Meet, ZOOM, Jitsi, and Microsoft Excel and answer the 40-odd messages on our official group as well as the 10 official emails that I’ve received in the last half hour or so. Crying can wait.

I open my mailbox, read the first email and start writing a response to it. In the middle of it, I begin to feel my head exploding and the words starting to pollinate on the screen. I shut down the lid of my laptop, and send a message to my partner asking him to speak with me as and when he can. He doesn’t answer. The evening passes, the night falls and the next day begins. I reopen Waiting for Godot on my laptop, holding a cup of tea, reminding myself that today I will need to prepare for at least one of the four classes.

The writer teaches English literature at various universities, and is also a poet and an independent researcher. She can be reached at ramsha.ashraf@live.co.uk