IN sector F-7 in Islamabad, there is a small market — Rana Market. Small, shabby — though it is rapidly gentrifiying — and nearly always crowded, it is home to tiny shops including a fish shop, frequented by those who can afford it. Adjacent to it runs a street where daily labour has found its own marketplace. Men sit there all day long, their skills obvious from the paintbrushes or drills beside them — morning, evening, weekdays and Sundays. Crowded under the trees or with their backs to the high walls that hide the fancy houses from the eyes of the bystander, they sit, waiting for a chance to earn a day’s wage.

The lockdown has not emptied this street as such. Every evening, as the sun sets, a big car can be seen parked to the side; perhaps it’s a different one each time. As soon as it is parked, it is surrounded by poor men who are then provided with what appear to be food rations. Weeks into the ‘lockdown’, there is more organisation to the routine — earlier the men would swarm around the car but now, they can be seen forming a queue.

It is a new sight in a city that seems to have grown rather quiet.

Islamabad was growing up into a city but in recent days, it resembles the sleepy town that it was in recent memory. The roads and side streets are Sunday quiet at most times, and at night it appears ghostly as I return from work after nine. It’s dark and midnight quiet with nary a car and few people in sight, except for the security guards who continue to sit near the gates. Even the shops, which three weeks ago were bursting with worried people, have now settled for a slower pace.

It’s hard to understand why a city that over 10 years ago was shaken by suicide attacks seems scarier now.

It is Islamabad, and its upmarket areas now have a man sitting outside the shops with a bottle of hand sanitiser. No one can enter without a squirt of the prasad (offering). Inside, everyone is clad in masks and gloves, and sanitiser bottles are displayed in every nook and cranny. But there is a camaraderie, which was missing earlier. Social-distancing rules for their shops have made the men behind the counter less busy or perhaps the worry over the coronavirus has drawn them and their customers closer.

So, we discuss the merits of the various sanitisers available (I was assured that the one I was buying was produced by Waseem Badami!) and the saamaan (items) ordered and stuck ‘somewhere’ because of the lockdown. A single-item purchase stands out, questions are asked; no one steps out to just buy one thing during a pandemic. Grocery shopping can now not be less than an expedition.

We may recognise each other through the masks but the sense of urgency is far from over. Many are still buying in bulk, though here in our part of the world, the disinfectant wipes, and not toilet paper, are in great demand. People hold bags warily as if they can see the virus on them. Money is handed over and accepted gingerly. And in places less frequented (where there is less familiarity) there is just urgency and a palpable sense of panic. One morning at a bank, a woman in an N95 mask entered and walked up and down restlessly till she asked the officials to allow her to approach the teller without waiting for her turn. The mask wasn’t enough for her for she was 60, she explained.

It’s hard to understand why a city that over 10 years ago was shaken by suicide attacks seems scarier now. The moment we step outside, we are held hostage by our sense of fear. It was easier post-2007 perhaps because now the air around us can be the enemy. Or is it because we ourselves are the threat?

And hence, we people are always in a hurry — in banks, grocery shops and pharmacies. It’s easy to get infected by this sense of urgency; it’s as if there is a five-second rule to the coronavirus too. If we don’t dawdle and rush back as soon as possible, it will not follow us home.

But what else does one do to stop the stalker from following us? Wash your hands, says one. Change your clothes, advises another. A third says, clean your shoes with bleach. It is easier to not ask for advice because the more one hears it the more it seems impossible to be safe.

But then comes evening and work. Despite the masks, the temperature guns, gloves and the pervasive smell of Dettol, there is the familiarity of life, or of what it once was. Technical glitches, disappearing guests and corona fatigue. Trying to find virus-related stories and relevant guests every day is exhausting in itself but there is a weariness too with disease. A colleague, as he fiddles with the camera, strikes a chord when he says, “Thak jaate hain corona se toh drama dekh lete hain (If we get tired of the coronavirus, we watch the drama).” Invariably, I see one colleague or someone else, who is now never without gloves and a mask, rub his eyes at length. It brings home our far from perfect public-awareness campaigns.

The other day, a handyman, who came over to fix something, did the same thing. When I remonstrated, he laughed and said, “Aap kiyun fikar karti hain? Kuch nahi hota, humari taraf aa kar dekhain, machli bazaar hai, (Why do you worry? Nothing will happen, come to our area and see — it’s a fish market!),” as his mask hung from his chin.

No disease, not even a pandemic, is an equaliser. The mansions in Islamabad have drawn up their imaginary bridges and hide behind their high walls; others who can afford to have reduced their outings and are now either learning how to cook or yearning for company. But for many, life hasn’t changed much. (The handyman claimed his working routine had not changed at all.)

It is not out of carelessness, as many (including politicians allege). As Ziaur Rehman, a Karachi-based journalist, points out, “No one is asking the poor why they are not staying in their homes.”

The writer is a journalist.

Published in Dawn, April 14th, 2020