\”I feel responsible for my son\’s death\”: the surge in Student Suicides
Baljeet Kaur saw the way they looked at her: at the funeral service, at the temple—which smelled of ghee and of underarm sweat—where a small congregation gathered after the cremation. When they came to the house carrying covered casserole dishes and potted plants. The hushed whispers, the looks of reproach, the pity on their faces. They looked at her as if they were surprised that she was still here on earth, still able to stand, and walk and breathe. Often they did not even meet her eyes or they looked away when they did as if her pain might be contagious.
“Yes, I am a mother to be pitied.” She wanted to yell and scream until her throat bled.
Elderly and Anxious: Desperate to get a vaccine
Rajeev sat at the six-drawer wooden desk that he had bought for twenty dollars at a thrift store when he’d moved to California some three decades ago. It was made of oak and at one time had been a sturdy piece of furniture, probably purchased for some fashionable den or office space in someone’s home or workplace. Now it sat on a threadbare Kashmiri silk rug with one of its legs propped up on two old record album covers of Muhammad Rafi—considered one of the greatest Indian film playback singers—that had once belonged to his father.
He took a big sip from the steaming cup of masala chai that his wife had brewed for him and prepared to go into battle.
Creating lemonade out of lemons: Cheers to all those to made the most of 2020!
Anil hears the baby crying upstairs in her nursery. She’s woken up from her mid-day nap. Earlier today than usual, he thinks with a lopsided smile. He hears the sounds as his wife opens the door to the yellow wallpapered room, rocks Arya back and forth, murmuring against her ear. Snatches from a familiar Hindi lullaby crowd his mind.
Anil shakes his head, forces himself to concentrate on the email sent from his boss about the reopening of distribution channels to China. In less than an hour, I’ll have time to go meet baby Arya. Eat my lunch with her perched on my lap. She will coo and gurgle. I’ll talk back to her. Teach her how to say ‘Papa’. Arya will look at me and laugh. Ah, what bliss. A wide, genuine smile like curling oil spreads across his face. Thank you, Bhagwan for this pandemic!
Her brain has turned to mush: Inside Nursing Homes
After months of near isolation inside her senior care facility—India Home—Suman Pandey no longer recognizes her daughter, Tanya.
Tanya stumbles out of her mother’s room towards the nursing station just outside, too overwhelmed to speak. She’d expected to see some changes, yes—after four months of not being able to visit Mummy she’d felt her chest heave at the shrunken woman she found slumped against the pillows, her thick black hair had gone fine, wispy and completely white. Bits of pink scalp showed through. Had it truly been so long?
But what made Tanya’s knees buckle and her mouth fall open in a cry that was like the wail of a broken, desolate heart was the blank face her 84-year-old mother turned to her as she entered, bearing a box of Mummy’s favorite besan ladoos.
“Who are you?” Suman Pandey asked, her eyes huge and confused.
There\’s A New Demon in Town: Lord Corona
Good thing it was her shift that night.
Reema was sweaty and grumpy. In full PPE (gown, N95 mask, face shield, and gloves) for the past five hours. Every time she exhaled her glasses and face shield fogged up. She tasted stale air and burnt coffee from breathing in and out through her mask. (Note to self: schedule teeth cleaning on a weekend that you are not on call!)
She got a page. Getting a page marked ‘urgent’ was not unusual because the St. Vincent de Paul Modesto Shelter had new admissions all the time for people experiencing homelessness who were positive for Covid-19 and need a safe place to recover. But the content of the page was unusual. A new mom and her two-week-old baby with Covid-19 were on their way to the shelter.