by Shadab Zeest Hashmi
We get half a sunny day every other day since Corona has coaxed us to quit public spaces. In the past fortnight or so, sunlight has been in short supply just as masks, disinfectant spray and toilet paper. When the sun is out, it’s no ordinary gift; it brings a rush of joy that wipes out not only the free-floating, dystopic COVID -19 anxiety, but also the other recent traumas we’ve faced as a family. Indoors, socially-distant by three feet, hunched over our phones for news of loved ones, we forget it is spring, but mornings the sunlight hits the windows feel as if God has turned on the power-wash setting: one is shocked into vigor, tricked into optimism. On such a day, I step down the patio threshold as if pulled by a magnet; just out of the shower and still combing my wet hair, I’m suddenly aware of another gift— soap.
In recent months, my husband and I have been involved in taking care of our critically ill parents; each of them has somewhat recovered by now but our heads are still swimming with hospital visits, devastating scenes of witnessing the pain, discomfort and breach of privacy of those we love the most in this world. We step forward and offer what meager solace or cure we can muster but we are aware of limits. We’ve seen more needles, tubes, blinking-, beeping- monitors, procedures, more bruises on our loved ones’ skins in two months than our whole lifetimes. Reality is clothed in the clinical language of unpronounceable drugs, softened and made bearable by a sister, who, as a doctor, filters and translates it into the personalized language we need in order to participate in healing.
During this time, Corona has become a growing threat; fatigued and stressed, we wash and wash our hands in the hospital, at home, and come back to hold our parents’ hands; soap lingers in the air. We have not held their hands for as long as this since we were children. We are aware that any of us could be carriers of the deadly virus, also that distancing is antithetical to caregiving. And now, under lockdown, the thought occurs to me that our sadness and theirs is lessened by touch and contamination is lessened by soap. Read more »




I was a minor mess in high school. Had no idea what to do with my curly hair. Unduly influenced by a childhood spent watching late ‘70s television, I stubbornly brushed it to the side in a vain attempt to straighten and shape it into a helmet à la The Six Million Dollar Man or countless B-actors on The Love Boat and Fantasy Island. I couldn’t muster any fashion beyond jeans, t-shirts, and Pumas. In the winter I wore a green army coat. In the summer it was shorts and knee high tube socks.
I must admit that when I first flipped through Capitalism on Edge: How Fighting Precarity Can Achieve Radical Change Without Crisis or Utopia by Albena Azmanova, it did not look too inviting. The blurbs on the jacket did nothing to reassure me, suggesting that this was yet another post-Marxist critique of greedy capitalists and their enablers. As it turns out, it is, but in a way that is more interesting than I had assumed. As soon as I started reading the Introduction, I was gripped by the lucidity of ideas and clarity of the prose. For an academic text written from the perspective of Critical Theory, this is a wonderfully direct, incisive and insightful book. One does not need to agree with all the details of the analysis to find reading it a rewarding experience.
Sughra Raza. Mid-winter Fall. February 2020.

If you, like me, have read premodern philosophers not just for antiquarian interest but also as possible sources of wisdom, you will probably have felt a certain awkwardness. Looking for guidance or assistance in ordering our own beliefs, attitudes and actions, we inevitably run into the problem that the great thinkers of the past knew nothing about what our world would look like.

Being a horrible person is all the rage these days. This is, after all, the Age of Trump. But blaming him for it is kinda like blaming raccoons for getting into your garbage after you left the lid off your can. You had to spend a week accumulating all that waste, put it into one huge pile, and then leave it outside over night, unguarded and vulnerable. A lot of time and energy went into creating these delectable circumstances, and now raccoons just bein’ raccoons.