Tunnels: An open letter to my one year nephew
Dear Izzy,
You are walking and I am not there to chase you. I want to be, but the vast distance between wanting and doing is what we are all grappling with right now.
These — I hope to remind you when words make sense — are surreal times. I don’t know if I can adequately explain the love-hurt-loss that envelops our existence, but I want to try.
The world where you went for evening walks every day is not a world that exists anymore. The subways you are so fond of don’t run as frequently, the restaurants your parents took you to have all shut their doors. When your grandparents talk to you, you are the only thing that makes them smile. We hope things will get better, but for now, it looks like things are only going to get worse.
There is a virus, and it has taken over our lives. It’s in all the places you’ve visited and all the places you’re yet to see. Unwelcome yet omnipresent, it has taken over everything — schools are shut, offices are closed, the streets are deserted. The only place that’s overcrowded are hospitals, and that’s never a good sign. In New York, your home, the air is thick with fear. In Dhaka, where the birds never sleep, uncertainty roams unshackled.
Izzy, on a more hopeful side note: now is the perfect time to stage a rebellion against the Adults. The adults don’t know what to do. They’re all pretending we’re okay knowing full well we are not. There’s a lesson in there somewhere.
These last few days, I have found myself going back to a memory from my childhood. Before you came into this world, before the virus, before your parents had met each other, your mom and I used to go on covert adventures. As soon as school closed, we’d force your grandparents — not as gray-haired back then — to take us to Nani’s house in Sylhet. There, we would set aside the first evening to plan for the next month. One summer, we decided to dig a tunnel.
Our intentions were honorable. A chicken had gone missing and we suspected the neighbors were to blame. With the gusto that is reserved strictly for children, we hoisted upon ourselves the responsibility to take back what was rightfully ours. Early next morning, we scoped out the situation. We’d need time, discretion, and tools. A rusty knife was acquired, the afternoon was identified as a good time to act. It made sense — that’s when the adults napped. Every day, as soon as the house grew quiet, we’d tiptoe out of Nani’s room, past the courtyard and into the large clearing between Nani’s house and the neighbor’s. This is where the trees touched the sky; where the chickens went to roost; where the air smelled of fresh cut grass.
Our project started under a mango tree, slowly at first, and slower as it proceeded. The knife was far too small, the ground far too hard. Our routine expanded: when the going got tough, started motivating ourselves by going off on walks. I wound up at the pond, your mother wandered off to the rhododendron bushes. And as the days went by, we went to the ‘tunnel’ with the sole purpose of wandering off.
In the interest of honesty, I must report the tunnel was never finished. But over that summer, we each learned new things. I learned how to fish. Your mom learned that rhododendron nectar did not, in fact, make you lose your mind. We never found the chicken, but we collectively decided our days would be better spent focusing on the things we could control.
I write this from a world held captive to results. Here, tunnels must be finished. The chicken must be rescued. Here, there is no time to wander off. The virus is highlighting the fallacy of our choices. Our way of life, at least for now, has ended.
As you grow up, you will be free to choose which tunnels you want to dig. Some tunnels might lead nowhere, others might never be finished. When you get stuck, I hope you pause. I hope you go off on walks. I hope you look up to a sky of blameless blue. In those quiet moments, in the rustling of the leaves, I hope you hear your new world breathing.
