#21Days

A cure for stupidity

9.40 pm

We're still on Day 12. I'm trying to wrap my head around the information Dr. Pulkit has just given me.

"Isn't there another hospital they can go to?"

He shakes his head. "We have the capacity to take in 80 patients Ma'am. Many others don't even have the capacity to take in 20."

Meanwhile, the old man is looking at me expectantly. He has brought his wife along, who although has covered her mouth with the stole of her sari, is still coughing vigorously. The few minutes she doesn't cough, she lets the stole hang loosely behind her. It billows in the wind, absently touching the few other people who've collected around the hospital to protest along with this old man.

There are at least another 20 people with him, protesting in front of the hospital, who at this very moment could be affected by the virus.

I look at Dr. Pulkit and mime a face mask. He understands, quickly going inside the hospital to bring a few masks out for the crowd. As soon as Dr. Pulkit leaves, the furor goes up a notch.

"Parvati Ji, we're here to seek help and the only doctor who came with you has also gone back into the hospital. Just because we're poor, doesn't mean our lives don't have any value," one of the boys who's part of this impromptu protest gang screams.

"You're right," I tell him. "Being rich or being poor doesn't take away the right to live or die from anyone. But being careless and stupid does." Thank God, my PR team is not here to listen to my speech. They would be feverishly working in damage-control mode, to counter the statements I'm making. 

I'm angry. As angry as I can be. These people have not only risked their own lives, but they will be risking countless more by spreading the disease.

Turning my attention to the boy who just screamed at me, I ask: "How old are you?" 

"How does it matter?" he retorts.

"Humour me."

"Twenty-four."

"And who all live with you at your house?"

"My mother, father, my grandmother, grandfather, my older brother, his wife, and his two-year-old daughter."

"And how big is your house?"

"You're trying to rub it in that you're rich and I'm poor?"

"No, I'm not. But answer my question, how big is your house? I can tell you about my house. I know you'll think that as a popular TV actress I probably live in a mansion, but I live in a one-bed apartment."

There is pin-drop silence amongst the crowd. I ask the boy again.

"How big is your house?"

"Two-bed apartment."

I look at him like I've probably looked at Mata Rani a few times in KPK, mostly when she was about to take Kunal away from me. If looks could kill, the boy would be dead by now.

"So you willingly decided to put the lives of your grandparents and your two-year-old niece at risk because you wanted to come here and protest about class discrimination?" I'm shouting at the top of my voice, but I don't care. 

"What part of stay at home, what part of stay safe, what part of essential services do you not understand?

"You know right that the people most vulnerable to this disease are old people and infants? And people who have a weak immune system or someone who is already on medication for another disease?

"What did you think? That doctors here are having fun? That they're enjoying this time in the hospital? That there's a picnic going on inside?

The boy has the decency to lower his eyes. But I am beyond caring about what the others are thinking. I know all this has been said before, but I don't think it has been said enough. If it had, these young men wouldn't be out protesting.