Atrayee pens an evocative story about fear and panic that grips us all, from a doctor’s viewpoint, in the times of the Coronavirus pandemic. A Special  Feature exclusively for Different Truths.

“Replace the gloves. SANITISE.

Remove protective clothing. SANITISE.

Remove headgear. SANITISE.

Remove mask. SANITISE.

Remove cap. SANITISE.

Remove the disposable latex gloves. SANITISE.

Removal Completed… Removal Completed.”

Dr Nishtha slouches on the chair, left out at the nurse’s counter. The crown of her head throbs incessantly. She pulls down her mask and a tired sigh slips out. She is sweating. Her upper lips are drenched so much so, that she tastes the saltiness in her tongue. She gapes at the rickety ceiling fan. Hardly any breeze reaching the floor, yet that clinking metal noise pierces through her nerves. This fan can cause a more disastrous breakdown of staffs than this Corona.

Dr Nishtha slouches on the chair, left out at the nurse’s counter. The crown of her head throbs incessantly. She pulls down her mask and a tired sigh slips out. She is sweating. Her upper lips are drenched so much so, that she tastes the saltiness in her tongue. She gapes at the rickety ceiling fan. Hardly any breeze reaching the floor, yet that clinking metal noise pierces through her nerves.

A month ago, a request has been put for a new fan. However, Management moves with a notion nonpareil. ‘If the fans function, nurses won’t function’. Hahaha! Nishtha ponders; are they even considered as humans?

“Even idols in the temples get AC these days.” She mutters under her breath.

Nishtha moves the pile of files to one side of the table and makes a small clearing to put her head down for some time.

Bloodshot eyes. Stripped of sleep. Sixteen hours of nonstop duty at the Emergency Unit; Nishtha is tired. Famished. All she needs now is some rice to eat and at least an hour of sleep. And, there, instead of exploiting this moment for a power nap, her head chooses to ham up the same chain of PPE instructions. Again and again. That too, in the same robotic voice.

Weeklong bitter bickering between the hospital administration and the government and a new batch of PPE kits arrive. Finally. An animation video comes along. Good. What to do and how to do is easier to grasp and less time consuming this way. However, the voice in the video sounds quite funny. Typical American accent; Sister Arunima calls it JARVIS. Iron Man’s user interface in the Marvel World?

Weeklong bitter bickering between the hospital administration and the government and a new batch of PPE kits arrive. Finally. An animation video comes along. Good. What to do and how to do is easier to grasp and less time consuming this way. However, the voice in the video sounds quite funny. Typical American accent; Sister Arunima calls it JARVIS.

Just that, this JARVIS stretches out to be Just A Repetitive Vile Irritating Sound. Funny, No?

A stinging cramp embraces her lower abdomen and Nishtha sits up straight. It’s the second day of her menstrual cycle and she never got a chance to change her sanitary napkin. She gets up hurriedly and checks her kurta. Hopefully, there’s no stain she has been wrongly parading all this while.

No! Nothing on the kurta.

Frustrated, she mutters something and walks straight to the locker room. Before she resumes her COVID ward duty again, she must equip herself well against any embarrassment. Wearing and removing that PPE kit is far more backbreaking than the actual duty.

***

Aamir takes the last bite of the sandwich. In fact, wharves it down with some water. He looks anxious; eyes running curiously through a case file.

“Hey, Aamir… You have a duty in OT no? Dr Pradhan’s patient.” Nishtha asks as she shuffles for her stuff in the locker.

Aamir is in his final year of MS, Orthopaedics. Yet, last night, he too was called to the COVID section. A sudden hike in the inflow and within a span of two hours, fifty-three patients flooded the Emergency Unit. A new ward has been chalked out in that wee hours; with no other way but to be in the corridor of Block C. 20 beds; secluded and prohibited zone. Only for COVID patients.

Aamir is in his final year of MS, Orthopaedics. Yet, last night, he too was called to the COVID section. A sudden hike in the inflow and within a span of two hours, fifty-three patients flooded the Emergency Unit. A new ward has been chalked out in that wee hours; with no other way but to be in the corridor of Block C.

Aamir nods his head with a monosyllabic hmm. “Arthroscopic keyhole… Both the knees.”

“Hope they don’t pull you out of the OT again for this COVID fuss.” Nishtha chortles.

And, before their conversation gets any further, an announcement fills the locker room. Two pregnant women, scheduled for tomorrow’s delivery test positive for the dreaded disease. “Dr Nishtha Mathur, report to the COVID reception counter immediately”.

Aamir sneers, still poring through those papers. “Whether this asshole virus kills us or not…This nonstop call for duty is definitely going to kill us.”

Nishtha feels sick. Head is still throbbing as if a rigid band is squeezing from the sides. Little dizzy and nauseated, she rushes to the washroom. A few dry retching, and there comes out a little watery vomit. Oh! That’s bitter. She pukes and splashes water again and again on her face. Acidity. She knows that and feels the burn searing through her chest as well.

Nishtha feels sick. Head is still throbbing as if a rigid band is squeezing from the sides. Little dizzy and nauseated, she rushes to the washroom. A few dry retching, and there comes out a little watery vomit. Oh! That’s bitter. She pukes and splashes water again and again on her face. Acidity. She knows that and feels the burn searing through her chest as well. She cleanses her mouth a couple of times and hears the announcement again.

She has been on an empty stomach. Since how long? God only knows. She quickly attends to the more pressing job she has come there for and takes out a Marie Biscuit packet from her locker. That can console her growling stomach for the time being.

Nishtha wishes luck to Aamir, dashes down the stairs and makes her way to Block C; of course, munching on the biscuits. With the fourth call, Dr Nishtha stands outside the COVID section for the thermal check followed by primping inside the PPE.

Primping? Doctors are berating these days.

PPE is uncomfortable indeed. Unnerving, even in its elementary description. With the hood cap, shoe leggings, coverall suit; first of all, one looks like a scientist in Steven Spielberg’s movie experimenting on an alien or on dreadful and life-threatening species. Secondly, it is stifling amidst this maddening crowd.

It’s a government medical college. Preternaturally understaffed, and it deals with a motley of disease, despair and death almost every hour in every department. Have a 360° scan and a yelping woman can be heard. One troupe will be picking a fight with the junior doctors, for they believe that their patient is ill-treated purposely. There is another setting, as well. Visual dismay.

It’s a government medical college. Preternaturally understaffed, and it deals with a motley of disease, despair and death almost every hour in every department. Have a 360° scan and a yelping woman can be heard. One troupe will be picking a fight with the junior doctors, for they believe that their patient is ill-treated purposely. There is another setting, as well. Visual dismay. Never-ending queues stand for availing free treatment. Some vomiting blood. Some accident cases; broken limbs, bleeding foreheads. Crying and yelling and pleading.

In a place like this, COVID is not the only fear to deal with. And PPE becomes more of a hindrance rather than a saviour when a doctor must shuffle between her normalcy and this impromptu pandemic.

And, who knows this better than Nishtha. Since the lockdown, she’s been bargaining her time between her usual duties in the Infectious Disease Department and in the COVID unit as well. What to do? Nobody is anchored in their nicely carved niche. Every doctor is asked, rather ordered to serve for the pandemic as and when called for. Even the OB-GYN HOD has to scrub her turn.

Anyway; Marie Biscuits, as usual, serve well in this hunger crisis. The stomach is no longer sobbing like any of those dead patient’s family. Nishtha clears the procedure, smiles at the duty staff and coolly slips into her PPE.

No crease on the forehead, no curled up eyebrows, never a gesture of apathy or anger, but a sweet smile intact. That’s a doctor for you. That’s the very essence of her job. Dr Nishtha cannot lose her cool. She can never be tired. She is a Demi-God after all; breathing every second to save humanity.

No crease on the forehead, no curled up eyebrows, never a gesture of apathy or anger, but a sweet smile intact. That’s a doctor for you. That’s the very essence of her job. Dr Nishtha cannot lose her cool. She can never be tired. She is a Demi-God after all; breathing every second to save humanity. She cannot, rather she must not say no to her duty; come what may.

***

“Maids are not allowed.” The watchman stopped Malti at the main entrance.

Malti knits her brows, sniffs in disgust to the watchman and dials someone on her mobile phone. She is one of the domestic-help at The Frond Apartments. Going by the clout she disperses, one can call her the leader of the maids’ gang.

“Madam, they are asking me to go,” Malti tells someone over the phone. She nods her head a few times and speaks again. “You come down and speak to these men. I cannot spoil my mouth in the morning.” She cuts the call.

Malti stands buttoned up on the other side of the gate, grimacing at those watchmen. A printed multi-coloured handkerchief covers her nose and mouth. Hands folded, she prances at the concrete entrance with such aplomb as if Modi-Ji himself is going to come to receive her.

Malti stands buttoned up on the other side of the gate, grimacing at those watchmen. A printed multi-coloured handkerchief covers her nose and mouth. Hands folded, she prances at the concrete entrance with such aplomb as if Modi-Ji himself is going to come to receive her.

Soon, a woman comes out from Block 2 and walks towards the gate. She is Mrs Srivastava, judging by the golden retriever accompanying her.

“Yes… What’s the problem?” Mrs Srivastava enquires. Face puckered up, thin eyebrows arched like an inverted V, she is fully braced for a battle.

Trust, for a verbal one though.

More than a month of lockdown. Everyone is oppressed. Work from home; none to make even a cup of tea; no maid. How can one survive like this? Top it all, the situation has impaired further. Schools have opened up with their online classes and fathers remain clueless.

Mrs Srivastava’s plight is more generic. Whether working or not, everyone needs the maid now.

The two watchmen fall short of starch before Mrs Srivastava’s arguments and simply requests her to take the issue to Frond’s Association head.

If the maids can take proper precautions and follow the government prescribed guidelines, they must be let in. The whole IT sector remains active. Vendors of all the essentials are working. Municipality workers, Police, these watchmen…If they all are allowed, what harm a maid is going to cause. She touches every possible stratum to convince the Association with her moral policing speech. The committee interrupts her, showing the rule book. She reads the highlighted line and trains her guns onto tender prey.

Her reasoning is simple. If the maids can take proper precautions and follow the government prescribed guidelines, they must be let in. The whole IT sector remains active. Vendors of all the essentials are working. Municipality workers, Police, these watchmen…If they all are allowed, what harm a maid is going to cause. She touches every possible stratum to convince the Association with her moral policing speech. The committee interrupts her, showing the rule book. She reads the highlighted line and trains her guns onto tender prey.

Dr Nishtha Mathur. Block 2, Flat 203. A tenant.

“You can allow a doctor in and out as and when she asks for…But for a poor, underprivileged woman like Malti…Does she become a cause of COVID for you people? Hypocrites!” Mrs Srivastava accuses that four-member committee.

By this time, the mess has invited a good number of spectators. Even if the maid issue is marooned, Dr Nishtha is, of course, a cause of worry. Nettle has been festering around for quite some time now. Though, in mild whispers.

Can a doctor not be a carrier? Of course, she can. Turn the pages of any newspaper; every day nurses are turning COVID positive. Is our government doing any tests on the doctor? Huh! Never possible. Doctors are not even considered as humans. Do we not know how much they slog that too in medical colleges? Nishtha can very well be positive, let alone be a carrier.

A number of claims infuse into the room. Some affirmative, some exclamatory. Many are interrogating and intriguing in chorus. More residents join in, more opinions reap along. And, after a few hours, when the conclusion comes out, it turns out like; the phrasal tussle over Malti’s entry has now taken a detour to Dr. Nishtha’s exit.

No tests are done, no reports, no symptoms. No proof, nothing. Yet, Dr Nishtha Mathur is now declared COVID positive by a gang of a hyper-concerned pseudo-intellectual citizen of the country.

No tests are done, no reports, no symptoms. No proof, nothing. Yet, Dr Nishtha Mathur is now declared COVID positive by a gang of a hyper-concerned pseudo-intellectual citizen of the country.

***

Another wristwatch check. Another sigh. No apron, no stethoscope around the neck, Nishtha has been discharged for the day. More than 22 hours of duty is unthinkable and unworthy. She looks fresh after the bath, impatiently ambling outside the OB-GYN OT.

A nurse peeps her head out from the OT door and calls out. “It’s a boy Doctor. Healthy…Don’t worry… Go home.”

Nishtha gasps in relief. The mother turned out positive in the morning and an emergency C section is performed. Prof. Banerjee doesn’t suspect the infant to be positive though. But, Poor soul! Came out of a dark shield of the womb and again sent back to another shield; The COVID shield.

Nishtha gasps in relief. The mother turned out positive in the morning and an emergency C section is performed. Prof. Banerjee doesn’t suspect the infant to be positive though. But, Poor soul! Came out of a dark shield of the womb and again sent back to another shield; The COVID shield. Quarantined.

Nishtha heads out of the wide corridor of GYN department, assimilating the satisfaction of a No-COVID Death-Today. A little pat she deserves. She smiles, for she can have a peaceful sleep tonight.

***

Mr Subramaniam adjusts the torchlight. Bright yellow light falls on his wide-open mouth, focussing specifically on the upper palate and tonsils.

No. There is no redness. No swelling. But isn’t he feeling heavy in the chest? Breathing trouble… That’s a symptom of COVID. He calls out for his wife, Geetha and also asks her to bring the thermometer.

“Ennachu?”

Seventy-three-year old, already a prey to gout, Geetha enters the room balancing on her walking stick. Forehead rolled up, she mutters slight displeasure.

“Thermometer doesn’t stay in the kitchen. It’s in your medicine bag.” She glowers at Subramaniam and sits down on the bed. Although, Subramaniam remains busy analysing his body.

He checks his forehead from a different angle, then confirms his pulse rate. Little high, he feels. How many times he has passed motion? That’s not linked to COVID, he presumes. After a while, he takes a deep breath and strikes the pose of pranayama. 

He checks his forehead from a different angle, then confirms his pulse rate. Little high, he feels. How many times he has passed motion? That’s not linked to COVID, he presumes. After a while, he takes a deep breath and strikes the pose of pranayama.

Geetha blinks in awe at his absurdity.

“If you can do this…” Subramanian pauses to release his breath. “Your respiratory system is fine.”

She has lost all her patience to deal with a hypochondriac husband. She stares at him and insisted to know, why all these all of a sudden.

And there, slick as a whistle Mr Subramaniam broaches out the whole farce going around The Fronds. Geetha remains detached though, as she lends her ears for his extrapolation.

“I think I am getting fever…My eyes are burning…I can feel it.” Subramaniam claims and puts the thermometer under his tongue.

“No, you are not.” Geetha quips. “Why panic?”

Subramaniam removes the thermometer and chides her disinterest towards her husband. He has spoken to Nishtha the other day regarding his liver cyst.

“Who told you she is positive?”

“Of course she is. She is a doctor…Always surrounded by so many patients…I cannot risk my life.” Subramaniam yells and puts the thermometer back.

98.9. Oh, God! Another hour it will be crossing 100. He cannot wait any further. Precaution is better and he gulps down a paracetamol tablet.

A loud howl distracts the old couple. Geetha puts her mask on and opens the main door. Few people are hanging about Nishtha’s door and shouting. Mrs Srivastava is also there; almost hurling abuses.

Dr Nishtha looks helpless. Where will she go at this time? She tries to convince the whole gang of protestors. However, all her clarifications, pleas or protests fall onto deaf ears.

Dr Nishtha looks helpless. Where will she go at this time? She tries to convince the whole gang of protestors. However, all her clarifications, pleas or protests fall onto deaf ears.

Geetha watches everything from her threshold and requests all of them to leave the doctor at peace. Poor old soul, she gets nothing except a fierce bash from Mrs. Srivastava, for intruding into this significant life-saving matter.

When nothing pacifies the growing number of griping residents, Dr Nishtha calls her senior for help. Dr Priya Singh. She lives close by, just on the opposite side of the main road.

Nishtha must get some sleep now. That’s all. She has no stamina to combat that verbose Mrs Srivastava and her eccentricities at this hour. She has had her enough, not only today but earlier as well. Nishtha packs her bag and gladly moves out of that mess.

***

“Good Morning!” An old lady draped in a white saree wakes her up. Nishtha puts her glasses. Dr Priya’s mother is holding a cup of tea for Nishtha.

She hurriedly gets up. “I am sorry Aunty…Din realise the time.”

“No problem…One day you relax.” The lady hands her the tea and asks Nishtha to join for the breakfast. Dr. Priya has already left it seems.

Out of luck, Nishtha couldn’t have a better rescuer than Dr Priya at that nick of time. Dhanvantari, as their house is named, is one of the oldest in this locality. A family of doctors, Priya’s father was the Dean of the medical college. Mrs Singh is often seen spending time in her terrace garden.

Out of luck, Nishtha couldn’t have a better rescuer than Dr Priya at that nick of time. Dhanvantari, as their house is named, is one of the oldest in this locality. A family of doctors, Priya’s father was the Dean of the medical college. Mrs Singh is often seen spending time in her terrace garden. And summers are specially used in making different pickles.

Nishtha slurps on the aaloo paratha. Ahaa! It seems like coon’s age since she has had something so delicious. Mrs Singh insists her to eat more, just like a mother. Over the breakfast table, Nishtha experiences an unrestrained feel-good moment. After a long time. She has an off-day today. After a weeklong duty, management has decided to give her a day of rest.

“Aren’t you afraid Aunty?” Nishtha pauses to see an undeterred expression on Mrs. Singh. “I work in the COVID unit.”

Mrs Singh smiles. “You know…Fear is the most dreadful disease… Not Cancer. Not COVID.” She pats Nishtha on her back. “You can stay here as long as you want…Don’t worry.”

Mrs. Singh smiles. “You know…Fear is the most dreadful disease… Not Cancer. Not COVID.” She pats Nishtha on her back. “You can stay here as long as you want…Don’t worry.”

Actually, come to think of it, this house has an ideal architecture for pandemic situations. There is a small washroom at one corner of the garden. Priya’s grandfather lived through a cholera epidemic it seems. Perhaps, past experiences have chalked out the house in this way.

Mrs Singh informs Nishtha about that washroom and asks her to use that after she comes back from the hospital. Every member of the Singh family does so, COVID or not.

***

It’s 9 PM. The releasing doctor informs Nishtha about the three patients’ worsening condition. She gets her scrub and suits up in PPE.

Two of the three are at least able to breathe with the help of a ventilator. But, the third one; she seems serious. Already immunocompromised; Kidney, non-functional; liver, half-rotten; a bypass surgery is done around six months ago. Hmm! She is in trouble. Pulling through the night is highly doubtful.

Two of the three are at least able to breathe with the help of a ventilator. But, the third one; she seems serious. Already immunocompromised; Kidney, non-functional; liver, half-rotten; a bypass surgery is done around six months ago. Hmm! She is in trouble. Pulling through the night is highly doubtful. Pulse rate fluctuating; BP falling gradually; she has been heaving since 8.30 PM. And now the time is 12 past 10. And she still scuffles with her breath.

At quarter-to-three, the dreaded long beep emanates from the vital-signs monitor. The heaving stops.

Nishtha stares at the body. No, not afraid; she is a seasoned player now.

“No heartbeat; breathing negative. Pupils enlarged and no response to light stimulus.” Nishtha dictates and waits for five minutes. She checks again. No change. Another 90 seconds she counts for an autoresuscitation. No. Nothing at all.

“Patient No. 32 is dead.” Dr Nishtha declares. “Reason of death- COVID”.

And, in a bat of an eyelid, the preassigned ward boys set foot inside to wrap up the dead body according to the prescribed guidelines and dispose of it. Dr. Nishtha sends the word to the officials to inform the concerned families.

The night whirls out to be a Sybil of Death. 13 patients, in a span of 3 hours; DEAD. All are declared dead due to COVID; though two of the cases remain ambiguous for Dr Nishtha, catering to their case history. Well, as they died in the COVID unit, the cause of death remains the same. Simple.

The night whirls out to be a Sybil of Death. 13 patients, in a span of 3 hours; DEAD. All are declared dead due to COVID; though two of the cases remain ambiguous for Dr Nishtha, catering to their case history. Well, as they died in the COVID unit, the cause of death remains the same. Simple. That’s the unwritten rule.

***

“15 missed calls,” Nishtha mutters. She sits on the canteen table with her breakfast and checks. One is from her father and the rest is from Mrs Geetha Subramaniam. Her phone vibrates again.

“Hello.”

“Nishtha?” Mrs Geetha is trembling with fear. “Subbu is vomiting since 3 in the night…I don’t know whom to call. Ola is not coming…Where to take him?” And she breaks down.

“Nishtha?” Mrs Geetha is trembling with fear. “Subbu is vomiting since 3 in the night…I don’t know whom to call. Ola is not coming…Where to take him?” And she breaks down.

“Mam…Mam…Listen… Tell me properly.”

“Don’t know…Last night he said he got a fever. He took some tablets…I don’t know. Now his stomach is bloated like a balloon…Vomiting.”

Nishtha realises the inside track. She asks them to call for an ambulance. Invariably, they will be brought to the medical college emergency section. She highly doubts it is Corona.

***

“What did you eat uncle?” The junior doctor presses Subramaniam’s upper abdomen and asks. Subramaniam cries out in pain and repeatedly asks for Dr. Nishtha. She has been treating him since two years now.

“She is coming uncle…Wait.” He puts the IV channel and starts the drip. No temperature, no heaviness in the chest, Subramaniam needs no isolation. At least for the time being.

Nishtha comes and checks Subramaniam’s pulse. “How many paracetamols you gulped?”

Subramaniam is spooked. Who let the cat out? He searches for Geetha. Nishtha smiles and asks him to take deep breaths.

“No phlegm… Lungs are fine.” She quips and takes a pause. “Until unless temperature crosses 100, paracetamol is not advisable for you… How many you took? 4? Every hour?” Nishtha looks serious now.

“No phlegm… Lungs are fine.” She quips and takes a pause. “Until unless temperature crosses 100, paracetamol is not advisable for you… How many you took? 4? Every hour?” Nishtha looks serious now.

Subramaniam accepts his misdeed.

He has been a little maniacal over medicines and diseases. He belongs to that genre of humans who feel good to talk about their complicated diseases. An eternally self-pitying soul. Top it all, when the Corona panic gripped The Fronds, his fear just burst forth. An already hypoactive liver couldn’t bear such heavy doses of paracetamol and here is Mr. Subramaniam, lying prone in the emergency section due to excessive dehydration.

***

It’s been 10 days now; Malti is attending to her work. On the other hand, Mrs Singh has offered Nishtha to stay in their house. If her conscience prohibits, she can be their paying guest.

It’s been 10 days now; Malti is attending to her work. On the other hand, Mrs Singh has offered Nishtha to stay in their house. If her conscience prohibits, she can be their paying guest.

Nishtha has also put up a request to The Fronds association to let her shift her belongings; though many of her block mates have advised her to take it to the Police. It is, after all, an inhuman behaviour. However, Nishtha doesn’t have time for all that now. Let this Corona wave ebb out, then she can think of all that. She has detailed everything to her NRI flat owner. So no problem for the time being.

“Six people are positive.” Sister Arunima reports to Dr. Nishtha. “Guess what! All are from your apartment.”

Nishtha is shaken. She snatches the list of new admissions and the very first two names in the list is Mrs Pooja Srivastava and Mr Arjun Srivastava.

“What about their kids?” Nishtha enquires. “They have two… One 10-year-old and the other…7, I guess.”

“They aren’t here…Perhaps no symptoms.” Sister Arunima is interrupted as Nishtha rushes towards the COVID unit reception.

Wow!

Malti is already admitted; along with her family of five. And soon enough, Nishtha sees a series of patients getting admitted. Mrs Srivastava looks serious, provided her asthma history.

Malti is already admitted; along with her family of five. And soon enough, Nishtha sees a series of patients getting admitted. Mrs Srivastava looks serious, provided her asthma history.

Dr Nishtha hurriedly dials a number and everyone around hears a loud yell. “Seal The Fronds Apartment… I repeat… Seal The Fronds Apartment.”

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