Ladakh

I could feel myself burning. My limbs were so heavy that I could 

not move even an inch. My eyes were glued shut. My voice was 

being held hostage inside the chord cage. My only option seemed 

to be to continue lying down as I had been. The head felt as if a 

boulder was weighing on it. Sleep seemed a million eons away and 

yet I knew I needed to be able get some rest.

Unable to find an alternative I remained on the bed, feeling the fever rise. But I needed a distraction, something to take my mind off of all that the virus was causing. If not sleep, I needed to relax so as to help my body get through this first night. Music, my all time remedy, could not be a comforter. I had no energy for music. So I decided to shut my eyes. Some solace would come my way, I was sure. 

And as I heard the faint late night traffic move, my mind started playing the reel of our journey to and from Khardungla. Even through the strains tying my muscles, I could feel myself smile. Ladakh. I could feel peace fighting to enter my body. The trip in September had rekindled my love affair with the mountains, a love that I had long forgotten. I always knew mountains made me smile wider than beaches, made me sing sweeter than did the waves and made me soar higher than salty sunsets. Somewhere I had lost that loving feeling. But Ladakh came and I was a teenager who had found her first love. That emotion settled in me, I needed no distraction because I was transported back to the paradise of India. 

Khardungla had stirred my pot.  The number of vehicles and people trying to pass through, get a customary picture, and grab a cup of tea was an interesting sight. Yet it was freshly white, uniquely spiritual and uncannily calm. As the mind played that reel it also seemed to hum the melody Jaan Nisaar from Kedarnath. I had no means to understand why this melody then, but as I am writing I think it's because in the last few years I have terribly missed the mountains and do not want to make that mistake again... न मारेगी दीवानगी मेरी, न मारेगी आवारगी मेरी, के मारेगी ज्यादा मुझे मौत से नाराज़गी तेरी। No more staying away.

The mind was helping me and the reels kept pace. The next one that came up, when I had experienced it in person, had excited my core and calmed my being all at once. This was the drive from Leh to Upshi to Chumathang before getting to Tso Moriri. A scene crafted for the big screens by a graphic artist, this drive had the grey, purple and brown mountains running on one side of the highway with the faint blue river running alongside. In spots there were trees crowding together and then there was sparse land with red and brown sand. Soon came sudden oases of red, orange and green foliage humming of autumn and then very slowly they faded away. Had the virus not caused my heart to beat like a train on the track, with this memory it surely would have flown away. 

But nothing could have prepared me for what came next - Tso Moriri. As the visuals from the lake started to play, my heart beat began to relax. The clear blue skies above were cradling the lake in the crib of the mountains. Tears started to unglue my eyes. The setting sun had created an orange and golden crown atop the snow capped peaks. My limbs started to get some of their life back. Standing a top the viewing point, looking at the horizon where the turquoise and deep blue waters of Tso Moriri melted into the glorious mountains, I felt as if this truly was paradise. The biting cold felt like a lush lullaby soothing away all the tenuous knots of worldly concerns. The other tourists,  like birds on a winter evening, flew away from my vision. I just stood there in stillness, absorbing the mighty mountains and the lucious lake. It felt I was in the sanctum Santorum and nothing could touch me. As I relived that evening my first omicron night, all my heart could do was hum मैं सर झुकाए खड़ी हूँ प्रीतम , के जैसे मंदिर में लौ दिये की। 

Tso Moriri waters were sweet. So much so that lying on the bed I craved a sip of the same. The calmness I encountered at the shores of the lake the next morning cannot be explained in words. What I can say is that the same stillness got my body to relax and rest such that even though sleep still alluded me, I felt lighter. The weight from my limbs was gone. The eyes moist were now open. My voice had got itself unhooked, and even though I was still burning I was lighter. I got up from the bed, had a sip of water and said a prayer of thanks. One day I will go back to Ladakh. I will travel there to feel all that and more again. And till that day I will continue to be grateful for the mountains and for the memories of Ladakh. 

The waves and the whirlpool

The second Covid wave was brutal. My days started at six in the morning and ended way past midnight. In between work and chores I attempted to connect the needy to the ones with means. Very often I felt like a hustler. On occassions I hated the fact that there was just not enough; enough time, enough resources, enough energy, enough compassion or enough decency. There were multiple extreme frustrations and there were some small wins. By the time May 2021 bid adieu, I started to look at this frantic pace coming back to a more bearable rhythm. Soon it all quietened out and life came back to normal or the new normal.

 

Tonight as the ambulance sirens once again tear the dark silence, I am taken back to those dreadful days and nights. Each time the phone chimed the adrenaline rushed and the mind sat upright. However, very thankfully today the phone remains silent. It's a milder wave or so they say. Those detected positive chime this. There seems to be comfort. But these terrorising ambulance sirens take me back to those day; those days that cannot return, those days that we cannot live again. 

Maybe it's time to share what has not been said. It started on 17th of April. It was a simple message of help needed in Indore. I reached out to an old acquaintance. He was gracious enough to lend some help. Well the help went some way through. The ship still seemed to be in control. The storm was rising but the vessel seemed to stay afloat. 

And then came the fateful day of 22nd of April. Like any morning I sat browsing the digital news when my phone rang. Usually one to ignore calls from unknown numbers I uncannily decided to take this call. And I had not even said hello when the lady on the other end started to beg for help, "Ma'am you have to help. He is unable to breathe. Please help his saturation is at 60". I could not have heard this correctly. So I ignored the last bit and with complete composure took stock of the situation. His fever had not taken a turn for the worse but his breathing had. What the doctors had labelled typhoid was actually Covid. The city of Kanpur was seemingly out of oxygen and an urgent hospital bed was needed. 

I hung up and called a known doctor knowing I would get some help or guidance. Instead I encountered pure unadulterated arrogance. "You do what you want and call who you want but we will not admit your patient". The lack of compassion is not what shook me. But it was the sheer conceit; the unleashing of power that this life saver held. Not to cower down I called HR for reinforcements. The machinary started churning. I was going to put all effort to ensure this life was saved. So I dialled someone with political connections. Worst case I would have another dose similar to that of the doctor but my skin was leather coated by then. The response had me humbled. Compassion came pouring out with a promise to help. So now I waited and my patience was rewarded. HR had found a bed and the connect had an order from the distric magistrate to admit the patient. Having hustled many oxygen cylinders of all shapes and sizes, team HR and family now prayed as the healthcare workers took him in. The air was ripe with anxiety. It had been a tough five hours but we now had hope. Suddenly my phone rang and it was over; the help had come a little too late. There was nothing more to hold on to, no more hope and no point in prayer. I slumped in my seat and I stared. Words, tears, emotions; I was bereft of all things seemingly human. Twenty minutes later I started going about my meetings and obligations to inform stakeholders of our loss and put the next steps in motion. Nightfall came, ambulance sirens filled the suspending gloom and sleep decided I had to repay for my failed attempt. The storm was a whirlpool. 

For the next three weeks I spent hours in trying my hardest to ensure that there would be no repeat of 22nd April. The first small satisfaction that came was when on a Sunday we were able to get timely help for an acquaintance's mother in law. The price was 3x but we got help. The next was when a desperate couple were led to a refilling station to have an urgent refill of their oxygen cylinder and rush back home. The wife was grateful and apologetic at the same time; grateful for finally having refilled and apologetic for breaking the queue. But the one that I feel most grateful for was being able to help the teacher who we got timely to the hospital. Both her children were away and God ensured we could be a conduit of help. The whirlpool was not sucking me in anymore. I was swimming on the top. 

A neat methodology was put in place to transport goods from one part of the country to other. A chain of people was formed to organise consults, oxygen and medicines. A number of strangers came together to provide help when the above two failed. It seemed that the whirlpool was ready to spit me out; and eventually it did. But when I landed I was fatigued. So July and August were spent in replenishing the energies and from there on life came back to normal. 

What I missed, however, were the bruises. As the sound of the sirens tonight send the bile up my throat I wonder why is the pain so excruciating? Why is the adrenaline not rushing to my rescue? Why is the body still? And in an answer to these questions I am seeing the unhealed bruises, those who with just the sirens are getting scratched again. 

Writing has always been cathartic and so I took the pen to the paper and started writing this piece. This may be a milder wave but it is a wilder wave. I need to regain the strength and the calm to tide this without coming in contact with the whirlpool. With this post out there, I am hoping that I will be able to deal with ambulance sirens without the bile. That every friend messaging with a positive detection news will be cheered and comforted. That every instance I will pull myself towards the life boat and away from the whirlpool. Here is hoping that this wave ebbs with the same pace with which it rose and that we will all heave a sigh of relief soon.