K.S Subramanian’s short story captures the emotions of a doctor caught in the second wave of COVID-19 in India that resulted in multiple deaths across the country.
Outside the hospital in the sprawling island city, quite a few families looked either crest-fallen or shaken to the core. They were with sick or desperately ailing persons, who were clearly in the evening of their lives. The kin knew and could see that their geriatric kin had only a few evenings to see, possibly before the dark. They had seen years go by in all their tumult once, sometimes in happiness but never foresaw the uncertainty looming before them.
The reception staff was busy with the phone lines, mostly with their mobiles, but the talk was invariably shrill or pointless. Their medical specialists kept hammering on a single query that had no answer.
“Have the oxygen trucks come? Where are they right now? At the least, we need two trucks for our immediate need. There are 30 patients gasping for breath, at the edge of the precipice. There are many others too in varying stages. “