Shillong Jottings

Covid time woes

The traumatic times that COVID-19 has created for the country is having its devastating trail in Shillong. The grim stats tumbling out every day will tell us that the elephant is in the room. But stats are figures that don’t tell the story of human miseries and trauma of finding a hospital bed with oxygen or locating an ambulance. Relatively unaffected last year, the second wave is giving the citizens a tormenting experience. Ask those who have had a first-hand experience. The invisible virus has brought to the fore the inadequacies of the state health infrastructure, thereby adding to the woes of citizens.
Of the many shortcomings, the perplexing shortage of ambulances is paramount. Calling 108 is futile. The limited number of ambulances are working overtime 24×7, what with hundreds of reported COVID-19 cases. If 108 is unable to assist distressed citizens when their loved is infected and the oxygen level is plummeting, it can be traumatic for the family members. Helpless victims of this huge gap in the system are left to fend for themselves. Some try to seek the support of the umpteen number of non-official ambulance services. Sadly, the COVID-19 scare has got the better of them; almost nobody is willing to help. The common refrain is, “We don’t carry COVID patients!” Imagine, there must be scores of privately operated ambulances funded by an MP, MLA or MDC but unwilling to stick their necks out at this time. A distraught citizen was heard asking “Where are they today? And where are our elected representatives? Are they birds of fair weather?”

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In these trying times, God forbid, if death befalls any family. Added to the sorrow of losing a dear one, it is the ordeal, if not a mental torture that awaits them. For fair reasons, to get the system to move speedily to dispose of the body is next to impossible. Nobody wants a dead COVID patient to lie at home indefinitely. The fear becomes overpowering. Family, neighbours are all tensed up until the body is removed. But that’s easier said than done. The response of the concerned personnel manning the crematorium is usually delayed, understandably so, because of the relentless mounting pressure on them. The rigmarole of sealing the body before eventual burial or cremation is another cause of misery. The near and dear ones are unable to accompany the body, let alone give a decent farewell to the deceased. In many cases, the trouble is prolonged because of inadequacies of the system of cremation. The double-furnaced electric crematorium at Jhalupara runs only on one furnace because the management is unable to meet the high power costs. With a single furnace in operation, not only does it put additional load on the overused furnace but also makes it an enormously long wait for the bodies to be consigned to flames. Almost as a double whammy, the traditional cremation by using firewood comes unstuck because stock of firewood often runs out. In the lockdown situation when all normal activities have come to a grinding halt, death, it seems, is not the end of human misery, at least for those who are left behind to bear it all.

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Our Prime Minister may have declined to impose a national lockdown this time, but lockdown it is for many of the hamlets and small villages in the peripheries of Shillong. Over and above the officially imposed restrictions, some of the village bodies have taken it a step further. In habitats like Lawsohtun, Umlyngka, Laitkor and adjoining areas, the traditional institutions have imposed a physical barrier on all entry points. None, repeat, none, is allowed to move out of the village even for a certain period of time, regardless of the fact that many areas have frontline workers and those providing essential services. They are told in no uncertain terms that if they step out, they will not be allowed to return. The action, no doubt, is unique and effective for halting the community spread of infection. However, the flip side is that the government machinery is getting that much more stretched due to a depleted workforce.

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A couple of readers called the SJ team to narrate their harrowing experience of getting caned by some persons who pose as Dorbar officials in certain localities. They alleged that on most occasions after the fall of dusk and long before curfew sets in, the sight of any solitary pedestrian on the main thoroughfare prompts harsh caning in the name of enforcement of curfew! One such caller further alleged that those self-appointed vigilantes are also high on spirits and therefore enjoy inflicting such strange methods of punishment. True, some citizens are incorrigible and habitually behave irresponsibly and deserve such hard-handed action. But can this despicable practice of caning citizens be justified? Who is answerable for this?

Summer eludes us…

Whilst the scorching heat is by now taking a toll on most parts of India, Shillong is yet to experience what the summer of 2021 unfolds. We hover between winter and spring with temperatures still dipping to 13-14 degrees in the evenings.
Of course, there is a bit of warmth during the day when it does not rain. And yes, we have been able to shed our winter clothing but just about. The moment the thundershowers come down, we have to scamper for some woollens.
As of now it’s uncertain when summer will really meet and greet us and on this note ensues an interesting conversation between mother and son.
It is a Sunday afternoon which most families set aside for a relaxed hot bath. Since the weather outside is gloomy on most days, the son decides to have a hot water bath.
The mother, trying to save on electricity, says, “Why do you need hot water?”
Pointing to the bean of sunlight that peered into the kitchen, the mother says, “If the sun can pay us a visit right into the kitchen then isn’t it a shame for you to have a hot water bath? Don’t you think cold water would do just as well?”
“But it’s cold outside,” the son argues.
“Cold? But winter has left and will return only by November, son,” the mother says.
The son retorts, “But where is summer then?”