She scoffed at my suggestion. I hate that place, she said. I was surprised. She went on to explain how that particular church is run by a criminal gang and when the leader of this gang passed away, this man, with several charges of heinous crimes against him, was given a grand funeral at this church, with helicopters flying in and dropping flowers from the sky to honour his departed soul. I later found out it was an extremely controversial event that made the headlines across Italy.
I still wish to go to the church. And despite it being right next door, despite passing by it so often, I haven't gone even once even 6 months after moving here. I don't know why, something about what she said. We have a saying in Kannada, never go looking for the source/roots of a river or a sage. Both will leave you disappointed, the former because it is perhaps some tiny, unimpressive trickle of water somewhere, the latter because, like Rishi Valmiki, he was maybe a dacoit or a brute. And what is true of the sage must be true of the place of worship as well.
These days though, every time I stand on my balcony, which is pretty often, I feel a sense of longing to visit the church. Perhaps because it is next door. Unfortunately , "I wish to check out the interiors of this domed building that looks great from the outside" is not a sentence I want to learn in Italian so I can say it to the police officer, who I'm guessing will not have much patience for my lockdown breaking behaviour. The luckiest scenario would be me being slapped with a massive fine, in the thousands of Euros, while the worst case would be having to spend 3 months in prison.
All these months, every time I looked at the church and felt "I should go in sometime", going there was actually an option. I could just choose an evening or a weekend and pop in. Not anymore. Now that I do not know when I will be able to go, it just makes me think more and more about the inside of that majestic building.
The bells of the church toll at 7 pm everyday. I noticed this exact timing only around a week ago. Now it has become a rather sombre reminder. Everyday at 6 pm, the "protezione civile", the equivalent of the Home Ministry, gives a press conference about the corona virus. I don't know enough Italian to follow the press conference, but I know one little feature of the press conference. The first thing they mention is the number of people who have recovered. First, the recoveries and then all the other numbers - new infections, deaths, region-wise distribution of these numbers, etc. At the end of the press conference, around 6.40 pm, the numbers from the press conference are released on the official website of the Protezione Civile. And by 7pm, some great soul somewhere, updates the "2020 Coronavirus Pandemic in Italy" entry of Wikipedia with these latest numbers.
When the bells toll,
There are no good days. Good news? I think we'll get to hear that only 3 months from now. Or maybe 18, whoever knows.
But somehow I'm grateful for this little exercise. Time can sometimes seem to move fast, when you're doing a lot. But time can also seem to be moving fast when you're doing nothing. Minutes go slow, the days fly by. And you miss the activity. You miss the feeling of keeping track of time using how much you've done. When how tired you felt was a clue on how far past Monday it was.
When the bells toll though, there is a semblance of order. To know that across the deserted streets where the occasional ambulance passes by, in the building I imagine to be oh so beautiful, though empty, someone sits there diligently and makes sure the bell tolls at 7 pm. And I sit here diligently, a little anxiously, peering at the numbers. Until the next day, then the next. Until the lockdown is lifted and on day 1 of freedom, I finally visit the church.
Or so I plan, as I have for the last 6 months.