I have just joined the Grand Army. I have got Covid19. I am now one of the 400 million people who have experienced the great blight of our time. I am no longer the stand aside, wallflower type who watches others writhing and keeps spouting words. I am marching along with the ‘band of brothers’ and hope to be so remembered ‘from this day to the ending of the world.’

I hope I will not be among the men and women who have been promoted so far to the hereafter. I can’t go anywhere, I can’t see anybody. I have had to cancel all meetings and seminars. I am constantly in my apartment. Strangely, I don’t feel at all deprived. Why should I? It is a large, bright apartment. I have plenty of food and access to more. It is astounding what kind of access I have with a phone, a computer and a strong wi-fi connection. I can read books and newspapers, see movies and serials, and hear all kinds of music. I can not only talk to my friends I can see them on the screen.

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If the walls start to seem a little restrictive, I simply go and sit on a chaise-longue on the terrace. The near-spring sky is sparkling blue and the number of birds that fly past my home seems endless. If I feel like doing something more active, I simply go for a walk, in the afternoon when there is none on the trail, around the small lake nearby. I am content to walk in the gentle sun and caressing breeze and watch the geese give me occasional, noisy company. I am not one to spurn society and, Heaven knows, I enjoy being in lively company. But I don’t quite see why I should feel mortified if I have to spend some time with myself.

I always have a shelf of books to read and a pile of records to listen, and often feel guilty to see the collections grow. So, a quarantine (fortunately most authorities don’t seem to know that the word means fourteen days) of five or seven days is hardly a bother. I am glad to have the chance to reduce my stack of unread books and unheard songs.

Many people I know seem unduly upset at the prospect of having to spend some time with themselves. They appear to dread their own company and cannot bear to think of passing a couple of hours without the saving grace of another’s company, be it a spouse or sibling, a colleague or cousin, even a barely known neighbour or nonentity. I am happy to have a few hours of solo survival, especially when I know I can always supplement it with some friendly company on the phone or a stimulating conference on Zoom.

The close touch of Covid wasn’t expected to be pleasant, and it wasn’t. I sweated through fever for three days; the nights were fitful, fretful and partly sleepless; my joints, however exercised by treadmills and swimming laps, ached inconsolably. I had heard but forgotten that even a reasonably fit body is scant defense against an insidious adversary that can turn you into a weakling overnight. I bowed to friendly counsel and simply yielded to a lethargic life. I rested, read, and watched television. I have not taken a single medicine during the entire period, barring the sole acetaminophen I popped when an acute headache interfered with my writing. I live in a land where people swallow pills aplenty, apparently in astounding faith in unknown chemicals.

Pharmacists have told me that few in the medical profession are entirely sure of the interaction of the numerous tablets that the average adult happily consumes every other day. I decided to place my reliance on the recuperative ability of my aging body. There is the ancient story of a sage scholar who lived in a dense forest and relied heavily on the fruits and vegetables of his neighborhood and the occasional gift of meat from a hunter. Though elderly, he enjoyed good health and his pastoral lifestyle. Maybe the meat he ate or the berries he savoured on one occasion made him sick. As he lay in his simple bed in his modest forest home, a passing traveler took pity on his condition and wanted to share some medicines with the scholar.

The old man was grateful and profusely thanked the traveler for his concern and generosity. But, to the surprise of the traveler, he refused the gift. He facetiously remarked that he preferred “the company of a familiar though irritating guest to the risk of a well-meaning but quite unfamiliar benefactor.” I swallow enough pills in a week to keep my doctors and specialists happy, but I am loath to increase my intake of ‘unfamiliar benefactors.’

I will continue to depend on the range of pills and my luck to cling to my longevity and will seek to survive by exerting a little more perhaps on the treadmill or in the swimming pool. Those keep me happy – and happiness perhaps is not a medicine not to be spurned.

(The writer is a US-based international development advisor and had worked with the World Bank. He can be reached at mnandy@gmail.com)