Vaxxed, and ready for what?

 

Vaxxed, and ready for what?

It was an event of sorts as I made the near life-changing decision to get the Covid vaccine this past week; life-changing for both – for me as well as the virus as I imagine the virus if any in my body, and the anti-bodies are playing chor-sipahi (catch the thief) after Thursday.

Vaccination is now open for those above 60 years and those above 45 years with co-morbities. We had some discussion on private vs government hospital but the scale tilted in favour of a government hospital simply because if something happens to the vaccine during storage or transportation, the government agency would procure fresh stock and ignore the economics.  

The registration though was a bumpy road and it took a while to complete the process and find the centre. Finally eureka, a friend found a crevice in the time slot and it was done.

Since it was my major task of the day, I was in no hurry. And when you are in no hurry, you have time to see and hear things which might not even matter in your life later.

The question which constantly nags me is why do we Indians crowd round a counter when delivery is always better if there is a legitimate queue and one person is attended to at one time. There was a small crowd and one could hear multiple voices asking multiple questions at the same time. Finally a lady with a voice of authority (who I later learnt was from the Chief Medical Officer’s office), managed to ask everyone to fall in line.

Now there were supposed to be two queues, one for those who had registered online and the other for fresh registration. But the uncertainty of it all and all those standing a little farther in the lines were still asking what was the line they were in for. I, along with the thin man with loud nasal voice behind me, finally took up the job of asking people sneaking up front to go back in the queue. It was a good way to pass time for nothing was actually happening. People were trying to filter in from various sides with excuses like ‘have to get it for my father’, ‘am with this old woman who cannot stand without support’, ‘I came before you did but went to drink water’, etc., etc.

The problem was that the two officials sitting at the counter were working with their mobile phones. They would look at your Aadhar card, click your photo on those mobiles and issue you the card after writing the date and your name. Their data would run out, the server would take frequent breaks and there would be a fresh wave of the frequently –asked question-ab kya ho gaya (What has happened now?) from the crowd. After watching the circus for more than half an hour, we got tired of it and decided to go to the other centre in the same hospital.

The process was quicker there. A smaller number of people standing in a queue and after a short wait came our turn.

I barely looked at the consent form or even the fact sheet and mechanically wrote my address the third time, ticked off all boxes, and went in for the ‘jab’ as the newspapers so lovingly put in their headlines.

I have admitted that I get very few phone calls.  A mobile is not one of the three things I would carry with me if I plan to be alone in a deserted mountain cabin, so it is no wonder that I generally forget mine at home. 

I realised I had done that again only when I saw that vaccination provided an excellent photo opportunity. The gentleman sitting with his right forearm bared for the nurse to do her job, was clicking away to glory. I saw him take pictures of the ice box containing the vaccine, the vaccine box cello-taped to the ice box, the vial on the table, the syringe in the nurse’s hand, the needle in it and the room while the number of creases of irritation on the foreheads of people around increased though their masks hid their overall facial expressions.

And then at last his wife’s phone whirred with what I thought was a burst of pictures of him getting that shot. Finally he put the mobile away in his pocket with an explanation- “Bachche bahar hain na, unhein bhejni rehti hain.”(Children are abroad, have to send these to them). I imagined his children groaning as they look at the photos, and muttering papa bhi na… ek photo kafi nahin thee? (Papa…? Wasn’t just one photo enough?)

I did not stop to ask if the lady with the weapon of mass Covid-19 destruction in her hand, had changed the needle. A prick of the sharp point and the whole exercise was over within a couple of seconds.

The vaccinator had no story to tell, it was just a job for her which she was doing probably 300 times a day. But in the waiting area (where 30 minute post-shot wait is mandatory to ensure there is no reaction) every recipient was ready with a tale to share.  

An old thin man with a small hump seemed greatly overwhelmed by the whole experience. He peeped into the vaccination cubicle and in a burst of emotion said, “Beti, ye tum bahute achchha kaam kari (Daughter, this is a great job that you have done). Within a few seconds I saw the mask of the woman with the huge bindi on her forehead (who I presumed was his wife) moving under her exhaled breath and in a loud shrill voice she spat, “tankha na mile hai in ne ka? (Don’t they get paid their salary for that?)” I could see the heads of the rest of us nodding whether in agreement with the husband or the wife, no way to tell.  

As the nursing officer with the open ends of her white gown flapping against her huge frame in her authoritative voice boomed, “Who is bringing this black powder in?” when she noticed the black rubbery residue from a gentleman’s Chinese sandal splattering the clean hospital floor, the recipients (as the official documents call them) bombarded her with questions clouding their minds-- Can we rush home to have chai? When can we eat after the shot? Will we actually get the next dose on April first (incidentally, All Fools’ Day)?

A television photographer was thrusting his mike in front of some faces and the people seemed ready to share this twice-in-a-lifetime experience with his probable audience. What I had thought was an exercise in self-preservation was now a moment of glory. The man with his hair dyed like boot polish, started vaise to main … ka political chief hoon, and I lost interest. Just as they rave about celebrity-spotting, the more elegant ones among us talked of who had received the vaccine where, the short-sleeved dresses specially chosen for the purpose, whose well-being they were concerned about or on whose insistence they had come.

They threw about suggestions and concerns in the air for whichever pair of ears caught them about the long process of repeatedly filling out details of the recipients although all the information was already available in cyber space through the initial registration. The   officials could have merely printed out one copy per person. This would have saved time, effort, money and environment. A group was going gaga over yeh Modi ji ne kitna bada kam kar diya (this is a great job that Modiji has done) and forced by my imagination, I pictured the prime minister himself darting about a la Usain Bolt vaccinating all bhaiyo aur behno (brothers and sisters) as he likes to call his fellow countrymen. Another discussed in hushed tones how this whole regimen was a brilliant way to promote businesses by way of purchase of stationery, hiring of personnel and computers etc.

It seems we were not the only ones who got the vaccine that day. The whole day we kept hearing of various levels of our acquaintances telling their own achievements, how fast they got it, how smart were they as they managed to get the other vaccine and the praise of the hospital they had chosen for the vaccination.

The only answer I liked was from a friend who, a great supporter of everything natural and opponent of anything that comes from the scientific world, said, “Why shouldn’t I have got it? Isn’t it the in thing to do?”

Now as I wait for my second shot I am wondering if the people on facebook are allowed to change their status to vaxxed ?

I do not mean to sound cynical but I am waiting to see the fun when vaccination is open for younger public who constitute a major chunk of our population and the melee it turns into. I am also waiting to hear of somebody who has actually read the ‘fact sheet’ which came with the consent form and chosen to turn anti-vaxxer after that.

Mani is wondering why he was given the paracetamol tablets while I was not. I dare not share with him my  guess- he should give them to me when my head hurts on constantly hearing him suggesting to all his friends and acquaintances Yaar, maine to aaj vaccine lagwa lee hai, tum bhi jao na.(Pal, I got my vaccine shot today, you too go and get it.)

He seems to be doing a very good job as some of his friends then registered online and now have their appointments or even received the literal ‘shot in the arm’. The government should make him their ambassador for the vaccine.

The only question I need an answer to is if I am allowed to wear a badge on my chest to declare that I got the vaccine because I am told I still have to follow the mask, sanitiser, social distancing regimen.

Of course, the monumental occasion demanded a celebration, and celebrate we did by inviting ourselves to a close friend’s house for a great dinner of golgappe and sambar dosa, accompanied by Dr Zenzen. Don’t frown at the combination, please!

                                                                                                                      - Anupama S Mani