When When the World Held Its Breath!

By

R. Suleman

The loss of taste and smell descended quietly.

One morning, I brought a cup of tea to my lips and tasted nothing. There was no warmth from the spices, no bitterness, and nothing familiar. It was just hot water and texture. I realized I had lost something I never thought to be grateful for until it was gone.

At the start of the pandemic, disbelief and fear surrounded the virus. We wiped down groceries and measured our distance from others. We listened to daily briefings, waiting for good news, like people hoping a storm would pass by.

Even though we were careful, the virus still reached us. My wife and I both got sick.

My fever rose steadily past 101, then 102, and finally settled at 103 degrees. Nights became long hours spent counting each breath. It is humbling to focus on something the body usually does on its own. Inhale. Exhale. Repeat.

In the past, I have faced obvious dangers that required quick action. This was different. COVID was like an invisible siege. It stayed with us, demanding patience over time instead of a single act of bravery.

When you are sick, life comes down to the basics: a bed, a glass of water, and the silent reading on a digital thermometer. Outside our window, the streets were quiet. The whole world seemed hushed by the pandemic, as if everything had paused.

And yet, inside that stillness, something unexpected emerged.

Our children and grandchildren started calling us all the time. Their voices came through speakers and screens, sounding small but strong. They asked about our symptoms, reminded us to rest, and told us to eat even though we couldn't taste or smell. Their calls filled the calm that could have turned into despair. My five-year-old grandson said, “Grandpa, you have to recover. Otherwise, who will write stories for us?”

When the body weakens, attachment strengthens.

During those long nights, I thought often about another kind of gathering that had formed me decades earlier.

When I was ten, sometime in the mid-1960s, my father brought home a set of forty abridged Shakespeare plays for children. The books were slim, no more than 25-30 pages, had illustrations, and looked simple. To me, though, they opened new worlds.

He asked me to read one play every two days. After each one, we would sit in the living room and talk about what I had read. We didn't just discuss the plot; we explored the meanings. Why did Macbeth reach? Why did Othello doubt? What did Lear miss? My father asked questions patiently and with real curiosity. He made the stories come alive for us.

Those evenings taught me that literature is not just something to read, It is something we share, as a breath passed from one person to another.

Years later, seeing my grandchildren focused on their screens, I remembered my father's gentle purpose. I didn't dislike technology, but I wanted to give them something more—the gift of conversation formed by stories.

So I started writing short stories for them. I printed them at home and stapled them together. They were simple and imperfect. My daughter-in-law read them aloud at bedtime, and the children were excited that their grandpa had written for them. They kept asking for more, and some stories became their favorites. When I visited, they talked about the characters as if they were family.

Through these moments, I remembered something I had almost forgotten: stories help us stay connected. They push back against isolation.

The pandemic made that lesson even clearer.

As I recovered and my strength slowly and unevenly returned, I started to think about what a crisis reveals about stories. Why do we turn to them during hard times? Why does imagination feel so important when reality is too much?

Illness breaks up our experience and narrows what we notice. Fiction, on the other hand, brings back a sense of depth. It helps us find meaning in suffering—not to erase it, but to hold it.

Thinking about what we went through, I wanted to explore the ethical challenges that come with a crisis. It's not just about physical struggle, but also the moral one—the choices people make when systems are under stress, when fear and responsibility clash, and when some take advantage of others' suffering.

The novel that came from this was more about asking questions than fulfilling a wish. What happens to love when it is tested? How does everyday life change when certainty disappears? What is left when everything we rely on disappears?

One day, the pandemic will pass into history as statistics and reports. But what most of us will remember are the small moments: quiet, empty streets; the glow of a phone screen in the dark; and the gentle voice of someone asking, “How are you feeling now?”

In that delicate sense of continuity, I saw what my father had given me years ago through Shakespeare—a connection that goes beyond our circumstances.

When the world seems to pause, we help each other keep going.