It was a day like any other. A sneeze. A sliver of doubt. Could this be it? Well, let’s not take chances. My elder son came out with an action plan. Isolation. Neem. Steaming. Oxygen concentrator. Contact numbers. The young chap felt a headache coming on and retired to his room, wondering if this was an early symptom. But this is not another story about how we survived or succumbed to the virus. The disease I encountered that day was far more devastating and far-reaching.
We managed to get a number for home sample collection. With two doctors at home who have been dealing with patients and possibly infected friends and family members, it made sense to get tested through the entire pandemic. A few hours after calling and booking a test, we heard the front doorbell ring. The lab technician was equipped with his little kit and ready to put on his PPE and get started. One by one, he took down details and efficiently swabbed both nose and throat. As I got up to leave, I turned and asked through the double mask,” What’s your name?”
Silence. Then, “@&£%#,“ he mumbled.
“What’s your name?” I asked again. This time a bit louder, in a more strident voice, so that I could be heard through the mask.
As I observed him, I saw hesitation and a hint of real worry for the first time in his face. “Ismail, sir,” he said more clearly, but still sounding diffident and nervous.
In that moment, I realised what it must feel like to be marginalised or discriminated against in any society, in any part of the world. Whether as a woman in a patriarchal world, a Dalit, a sexual minority or just an outspoken person in a society that does not tolerate reason. Ismail was worried whether his name or identity would have unpleasant repercussions. “Thank you, Ismail,” I said.
“Isn’t it time for you to break your fast? Do you want water or fruits?“ Ismail told me that he wanted to be back home for the last prayer and Iftaar meal with his family. He accepted the bananas I offered and ensured me that the reports would reach in 24 hours.
The Chinese virus or the Indian strain, Shetty or Sharma, Amar, Akbar or Anthony? Would we be able to use this pandemic to rise above nomenclature and labels and move onto the universal religion of humanity and kindness? Only time will tell whether the Bard had a point when he asked us, “What’s in a name? That which we call a rose, By any other name, would smell as sweet.”