I read the message slowly.
The most awaited, much-anticipated news was knocking on my doors and I wasn’t jumping with joy.
I looked at him expectantly. He was slumped over his laptop.
‘Did you get the message?’ I asked him.
‘Well, they shall be sending it to the wives first.’ He declared.
I glared at him. You could never expect straight answers from him.
‘Actually, we would first see the response in you. If all goes well, we shall take it next week.’ He explained generously.
I threw a pillow at him and walked out of the room.
‘I also think your hospital would be getting the other one.’ He told my receding back.
‘You are getting the better one?’ I charged at him.
‘Of course, ours’ is a better hospital. A-grade, you know. We are a covid hospital so obviously, we get the preference.’ He spread his hands.
Over the years I had learned to not believe everything he said.
I would let him get away with this.
‘Whatever, my hospital is a major corporate, famous too and we have been doing credible work.’ I defended my hospital.
‘I would still check.’ He advised with all the seriousness of a well-wisher.
That was a good idea. What use were these WhatsApp groups if they didn’t come to your rescue?
‘Sir, which one are we getting?’ I immediately typed in our hospital group.
The reply came within a minute.
‘The Covishield vaccine, madam.’
I really loved our admin.
‘See there.’ I shoved my phone at him.
‘I am still not sure about this.’ He kept shaking his head.
‘Enough!’ Why should he know more than my hospital head?
I read the message again.
If only I had been less curious on Saturday, the first day of vaccination.
I recalled calling up Suraj, my friend in the HR department.
‘Are we supposed to register?’ I enquired.
‘Madam, the hospital has sent all the names. I shall talk to Tushar or maybe you can call him up.’ He sent me Tushar’s number.
‘No, its fine. I am not in a hurry.’ I would rather wait for a week.
I looked at the message again. Some people obliged you unnecessarily.
I needed to get my eye checked up on Monday. I was seeing floaters probably due to vitreous detachment. It wasn’t easy growing old.
I had to attend my clinic too in the afternoon. What if everything went wrong!
‘You can always call your friend for help?’ My friendly neighbourhood Spiderman advised.
Did marriage give him a licence to read my mind? I wondered sourly.
‘Why should I call her?’ I fumed.
‘You might be in trouble,’ he said, calmly.
‘Should I take the vaccine or not?’ I spread my hands and asked him point-blank.
‘Of course, you should.’ He didn’t hesitate for a second.
‘Even though I am diabetic?’ I asked.
He shrugged.
‘Even though I am on aspirin.’ I attempted again.
‘So what.’ He shrugged again.
‘Even though I am allergic, have chronic urticaria, taking cetrizine for 15 years?’ I questioned him.
‘Makes no difference.’ He was looking at his laptop.
‘What if I have a retinal detachment needing some surgery?’ I didn’t want the vaccine to be blamed unnecessarily.
‘You won’t need to.’ He maintained. The unrelenting Covid consultant!
The whole country was having vaccine jitters!
‘You really think I should take this shot?’ I attempted again.
‘Of course. You have a responsibility towards the community, isn’t it?’ He smiled.
He had a point.
‘You owe it to your country, your society.’ He said and I nodded.
‘And to the social media.’ He finished and my smile disappeared. I felt almost as vicious as Covid.
It was time to leave the room again.
Would enforcing a vaccine on your spouse entail domestic violence? Maybe, but the disease was new and I couldn’t be very sure about it.
I paced the floor outside.
What if we were simply jumping from Scylla to Charybdis? The hurriedly given approval for emergency use of vaccine, didn’t give much confidence.
My phone rang. Kajal was calling me.
I moved back into my bedroom, ignoring the man buried in his laptop.
‘Hi, are you taking the vaccine tomorrow?’
‘Are you?’
‘I’m not sure. What if it produces autoimmune diseases through the antibodies?’
I had never thought of this.
The phone was on speaker and the insufferable spouse was listening.
‘She has enough autoimmune diseases already. I don’t think it would affect her.’ He grinned.
‘Come on, be serious.’ Kajal complained. ‘You published papers on small children suffering from antibodies produced by the disease.’
‘More so the reason to take the vaccine.’ He answered. ‘All vaccines have adverse effects. Stop doubting.’ He said seriously for a change.
‘I am busy till Thursday.’ I told Kajal. Work, it always gave you a brilliant excuse.
My better half was making faces at me.
‘When are you taking the vaccine?’ Kajal asked my warring half.
‘I will watch her for a week.’ He offered, graciously. ‘I have told her to keep all her insurance and bank account papers before she leaves tomorrow.’
Kajal laughed and disconnected.
I kept quiet. I needed a second plan of action to fall back upon.
I messaged Suraj.
‘Need to get an eye check-up. What if I don’t turn up?’
I waited for an hour. He had read it but didn’t reply. I called up Tushar.
‘Hello.’ I voiced my concern.
‘No worries, madam. They will send you a message again.’ He assured me.
‘Will my name come last if I miss my turn?’ This was worrying me.
‘They will start calling alphabetically from Tuesday.’ He clarified.
My parents! Why couldn’t they think of a better name?
They might also move the vaccination out of the hospital. It was always more comfortable getting the shot in your own place.
‘You are worried about the vaccine?’ The voice came from the other corner of the bed.
‘I am worried about my eyes. What if I have a serious adverse effect along with a bad vision?’ I was ignoring my needle phobia and my allergies.
‘You can dilate only one eye.’ He had a point.
‘I think I will get the shot tomorrow.’ I decided. It was better now when they were fresh.
‘That’s what I have been saying,’ he said.‘But you keep the papers out, just in case. You know I don’t know much about our insurances and finances.’ He was impossible.
But the cloud of suspicion had lifted and I felt light.
The next morning, I woke up to the V-day with a resolve. I messaged in my family groups: ‘Taking the jab today.’
I received a couple of thumbs up, a few hearts, and my sister’s call.
‘You should have waited for a week,’ she said. It felt good, someone fussing over me. I looked pointedly at the man busy talking to someone on his phone.
‘Actually, they are calling only 100, and if I don’t turn up the dose gets wasted.’
‘Why?’ She sounded surprised.
The vial has ten doses and has to be used up in four hours. They can’t even fill up with someone without a message. So, I can’t waste such a precious thing.’
‘Your responsibility towards the community, eh?’ The man of the house had raised his head.
I ignored him. I had my priorities set for today.
My eyes and then the vaccine.
‘Inform me as soon as you get the jab.’ My sister said and hung up.
I entered the eye clinic and almost bumped into my ophthalmologist
He took a deep look into my eyes and said, ‘There’s no detachment. You can rush for your vaccine. But we need to check again after dilatation.’ He informed me.
I got the drops instilled and rushed off.
I pushed open the door on the second floor and was immediately enveloped in a cool and comforting ambience of the vaccinating area.
‘Madam, temperature check?’ The security person at the door held the now-familiar thermal probe.
I held out my hand obediently and peered inside. I could see some familiar people.
This used to be the Covid ICU which was later shifted to another floor. So many people had died unexpectedly and unnecessarily. Would they be watching over us today? I said a silent prayer and was about to step inside when I was stopped.
‘Madam, please show us the message.’ There were two people seated behind a desk. One of them was a woman who was asking me. Women security personnel always evoked respect within me.
I held out my phone to them. They checked my name and went over their list.
I didn’t want them to tick the wrong person. The name given to me by my parents was a little unusual in this part of the country and I had often faced consequences that I didn’t want to be repeated.
‘It’s here, madam.’ She ticked it.
‘Did you have something to eat, madam?’ She asked, pleasantly. She was filling in my details on a card.
I was surprised. It felt good being treated as a ‘normal person’ and not a ‘know it all’ doctor for a change.
‘Your number is 58, you will go inside, turn right, and wait.’ She handed over the card to me.
A strange excitement gripped me. Gone was the fear and dread plaguing me for the last two days. I stepped inside the ICU-turned Covid vaccination centre.
‘Finally, you came.’ Suraj came forward grinning at me.
I felt a little sheepish.
‘Good decision, madam.’ Tushar greeted me.
I saw a couple of my colleagues in the pre vaccination area and moved to sit beside one of my paediatrician friends.
‘You are No. 58. It will take another hour.’ He said sipping his coffee.
Tea, coffee, and biscuits! Wow.
There was a small cabin behind the curtains where they were giving the shots. I peered inside.
‘They aren’t taking much time, 5 minutes per person.’ Tushar told me. The team had been sent by the government.
Despite the massive scale of the operation, they were all very courteous and soft-spoken.
‘What’s the big deal about having these vaccination drills?’ I remembered mocking them sometime back.
I had enough time to sneak out for my eye check-up.
‘Done with?’ My ophthalmologist asked excitedly. I never knew a vaccine would give such celebrity status.
‘Not yet.’ I sighed. He looked into my eyes and put some more drops and asked me to wait.
I remembered being asked if I had eaten something so I dashed to the OT changing room and took out my tiffin.
I was met by many curious colleagues and some envious ones too.
‘Why did they call ‘you’ today?’
‘What’s the criteria they were following?’
I had no answers. I would have very well traded places with any of them.
‘Only celebrity doctors are getting the vaccine.’ The barb hit home.
I squirmed.
‘There are those who worked so much during Covid.’ She sounded aggrieved. ‘Yet others are getting preference.’
That was unfair.
What they got, they deserved; but what others got, was partiality!
. First Covid and now its vaccine was here to trigger weird emotions and curious situations. Or was it stripping the veneer of civility we bury our civilisation with and bare the truth of our existence?
I smiled sarcastically. The vaccine was baring the uncertainties, jealousy, and envy afflicting our souls
‘Can you tell us who sent you the SMS, in case we miss it?’ Another senior colleague asked
I patiently showed her the message.
‘Why don’t you talk to Suraj?’
‘I don’t know Suraj. Anyways, I am in no hurry.’ She replied stiffly, clearly misled.
I had not realised that my turn would cause so much of a furore.
I finished my fruits and moved back to the hall.
‘Number 57 is inside madam.’ Tushar told me
I wouldn’t have to wait much.
‘Number 58!’ The gentleman in uniform called.
‘You go to the first counter. They will register you.’ He explained to me.
I was ushered inside. It was like an electoral booth. I saw Suraj clicking a picture of another doctor who just had his shot.
‘Please give us your photo I-card.’ A pleasant-looking man on the first counter asked me.
I handed over mine.
‘Madam, we have to take a picture.’ He was holding his phone camera.
Oh great! Pictures made you happy anytime.
‘Should I take off my mask?’ I asked.
‘It will be in your certificate.’ He said, kindly.
I immediately took off the mask.
‘The photo should be good, whatever happens after the vaccine.’ I murmured. The girls standing next to him giggled.
The gentleman clicked, handed my I-card back to me, and asked me to move to the next counter. Another guy who was sitting there ticked my name and asked me to wait for my turn.
The photo session of my predecessor at the hot seat was over by then.
I handed over my phone to Suraj.
‘Take good pictures.’ I whispered to him.
I moved to the chair. And bang on! On the table lay that multidose vial!
The priceless vaccine.
Overriding so many controversies, so much of politics, it bore testimony to human resilience. Humanity couldn’t be defeated so easily. The imprint of our scientists triumphing despite all adversities.
I watched the weakened virus enter the syringe slowly! The taming of the shrew.
But my grin lasted only till my eyes reached the needle. I was immediately phobic.
‘Madam, you are being given Covishield.’ The nurse informed me. She had filled my card. She went on enumerating the adverse effects. My mind was, however, focussed on the needle.
‘Sister, I am scared about needles.’ I wish I could tell her that in all the histrionics I had almost missed my tetanus injection in pregnancy.
‘You won’t feel anything, just look the other way,’ The other nurse held my hands.
I smiled at Suraj, err…at the camera before I looked the other way.
I held on my breath in anticipation of pain, that never actually came.
‘Finished, madam.’ I let out the breath I was holding. That was damn quick.
‘You would be informed about the second dose. Please go back to the second counter.’ The nurse said filling the time of vaccination in my card: 18/01/2021, 12.43 pm.
Phew, it was over! I had been vaccinated. A surge of happiness followed by intense relief flooded my senses.
The future was uncertain, but the moment stood proud and victorious.
I raised an invisible middle finger at the virus and moved back to the second counter. He smiled at me and once again ticked his register.
‘You shall have to wait for 30 minutes.’ I nodded.
12.44 pm.
I received a message from the COWIN app congratulating me on my vaccination. It shared my date and time of vaccination and the contact details of my vaccinator.
My successor was waiting for me to move out. I waved at him and walked into the post-vaccination area.
To my delight many of my colleagues were there. We cheered each other and used the time, generously to click selfies, err vaxxies. We were all part of a historic day. I got some coffee and was soon deep into silly gibberish, indulging in banter superseded by more clicks. After a long time, we were letting our guards down and smiling freely.
We were the warriors, once again, getting the vaccine before the rest. The apprehensions, the trepidations were all a thing of the past. Today was a day of celebration.
I scrolled through the clicks. Why were my photos looking blurred? Disappointed, I was about to complain to Suraj when I remembered the eyedrops. My eyes had started to dilate. I squinted my eyes to see better.
Finally, I zeroed on one picture and updated my status!
‘Jab we met!’
Finally, rolled up my sleeves to usher a new era!’
Soon there were congratulatory messages. It was an effort replying to all through my dilated vision yet I savoured the moment.
‘Bravo!’ One message read. I felt like a hypocrite.
‘No 58?’
I looked up at the smartly dressed up lady.
‘Madam, your 30 minutes are over. You can now move outside,’ she said, calmly. My coffee was also over. I had no adverse effects. None at all!
It was 1.13 pm. She entered it into my card. I felt a strange reluctance leaving the area and looked at the place longingly. I would be back after 28 days for the next dose.
My OPD would start soon. Meanwhile, I had to get my eye checked up.
My doctor was waiting for me.
‘Got you vaccination, madam?’ He asked.
I raised my finger in the victory sign. He congratulated me and went on finishing my eye check.
‘Your eyes are absolutely fine.’ I was relieved. The floater was also diminishing. Things were getting back on track.
‘The vitreous tear stays but the brain learns to ignore.’ I was always in awe of the power we carry over our shoulders.
I was moving out when I bumped into my senior admin.
‘I got my vaccination.’ I was bubbling with relief. The fog had lifted.
‘I know, we took all our elderlies and the vulnerable group today.’ He replied.
‘That’s gross.’ I glared at him. He laughed.
I still had my clinic to finish. Despite my vision and a tight schedule, I had managed to update on all my social platforms.
‘Go people. Take the vaccine without fear.’ My media handle urged people.
I added the hashtag ‘#saynotovaccinehesitancy’. This was my social responsibility.
‘Hope you are fine, no problems.’ The incorrigible spouse also called up.
There were messages and calls appreciating and congratulating me.
‘Leading by example.’ If only they knew!
My post was inspiring some, to take the vaccine.
No efforts from me yet there I was, graciously accepting something akin to gallantry award. I felt a little phony.
I was beginning to feel the strain in my eyes. Time to take a tea break.
As I sipped tea, my phone rang.
‘Any side effects?’ The spouse had called again.
Not all side effects of vaccination were due to the vaccine.
‘None till now.’ I couldn’t divulge more.
‘Hope they didn’t give you just distilled water.’ He said. I counted to ten slowly
‘Updated your social media handles?’ My sparring partner was back in action. ‘I mean, about no adverse effects till now.’
I ignored him. I wasn’t so gullible to adulations on social media.
‘Some of those in my hospital had a fever and sore throat too.’ He interrupted my misgivings.
‘Probably, they didn’t get the good vaccine.’ I quipped. Who said revenge wasn’t sweet!
My sister called up too.
‘I don’t know when we will get the vaccine. Very few doses in our city!’ She sounded disappointed.
‘Don’t worry, everyone will get it.’ I assured her.
On my way home I read about low numbers turning up at AIIMS and many health care professionals refusing the vaccine. So many doses were wasted. From vaccine hesitancy to envy, the vaccine was provoking such contrasting emotions.
Whatever! I was done with my responsibility.
My phone beeped again.
‘Mom, which vaccine you took?’ My progeny had messaged.
‘Covishield.’
‘No love for your country!’ The young man reprimanded me.
‘My vaccine was also from the country and for the country.’ I reminded him upfront.
‘I will take our indigenous one. Mere desh ki dharti sona ugle, ugle heere moti!’ He wrote back.
‘Ok, you take the moti.’ I agreed.
‘I won’t even get moti!’ He cried out, forgetting everything about the vaccine. The omni-absent girlfriend!
I had touched a sore point, unknowingly.
What troubled the adolescents was graver than either Covid or its vaccine.
My better half had also returned home.
‘Did you read the latest update? Those with medical disorders or on blood thinners can’t take the vaccine.’ He informed.
‘I had asked you if I should stop taking aspirin.’ I cribbed.
‘ If this doesn’t work, we have many more vaccines coming up.’ He consoled me.
‘What?’ I wasn’t going through another vaccination programme.
‘You know Johnson & Johnson is coming up with a single dose vaccine, 100 percent protection in four weeks. They are coming with the reports in just two weeks.’ He informed me. News about the vaccine flooded the screens more than news about Covid, these days.
‘You take that one.’ I pointed out to him.
‘I have a better idea. If you tide over this week, we shall try this one on you.’ He shielded his face with his hands as the pillow landed on him.
There was another way to control the spouse. I knew he was looking forward to a new Netflix series. Watching them came a close second to goading me.
‘I am going to the other room.’ I told him menacingly.
‘You’re not feeling well?’ He asked, immediately concerned.
‘No, I want to write my will.’ I snapped at him sarcastically. He laughed.
I moved to the other room. It had been a long day. I rubbed my arm. It felt a little sore. The day had opened with possibilities but had ended with so much hovering on the horizon. Whether the vaccine would work or not, would there be AEFI (adverse event following immunization), now or in the next couple of months, there were so many unanswered questions.
But one thing was sure. This weapon that I was carrying in my hands. I threw the remote on the bed and flopped on my pillow. Let the hateful man watch his favourite series without the remote.
Not all troubles were because of Covid nor was the vaccine the only solution. I could hear the restless movements from the other room.
I smiled gleefully, pulled up my blanket, and went off to sleep. The V-day was over.
Tomorrow was another day, tomorrow we would spar again!
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