The “entire globe is a unit” during a pandemic. This is how the government justified in the Supreme Court its decision to export vaccines amidst a surging second wave of COVID-19.
The Hindu, May 16, 2021

At Rs 700-Rs 1,500, price of Covid vaccine in India’s private sector among costliest. From Rs 250, the cost of vaccines in the private sector has shot up by up to six times. The Times of India, May 10, 2021

A funny thing happened on my way to the vaccination centre

The day I went to get my Covid 19 vaccine did not start well.

To begin with, I had to get up at an unearthly hour. (Though I use this phrase often, I don’t really know what an unearthly hour is. Since even knowledgeable friends had not been able to unearth its exact meaning, I was forced to come up with my own definition. There is a cosmo-karmic lapse between the time popular gurus and swamijis fold up their yoga mats after attaining nirvana, and rush off to market commercial health products. The predawn period between these two ethereal events is, possibly, our unearthly hour.)

But back to my vaccination story. Got up at an unearthly hour (but not from a yoga mat), bit dazed from lack of sleep, yet managed to rush through the getting-ready process. And now of course, my scooter’s self-start did not work. My scooter acts like this sometimes, especially when it senses urgency. After straining long unused kick-starting leg muscles, the two wheeler finally growled rather grudgingly. And off I went to the nearest petrol bunk, where I realized my wallet had not left with me. Rushed back home, grabbed wallet, greeted unfriendly petrol bunk attendant again, fed my scooter and rode off into the sunrise, ready for my vaccine adventures.

Generally on such mishap-mornings, my superstition levels would be way up. And I would just plop down in front of the TV to await auspicious moments. But on this day I was forced to forgo the luxury of indulging in irrationality, because I had to deal with a stronger force – my friend Mathew. After much debate and discussion, Mathew had convinced me that we should go and get Covaxinated at a prominent private hospital. Refusing to listen to my pleas about going at a civilized hour, he insisted that only early birds would get the vaccine. Apparently this hospital was a popular vaccination destination for local hypochondriacs. So if we wandered in after ten am, all the best vaccines would be gone. And our wait would stretch eternally into a hot, soul sapping afternoon. I might not have better things to do, but since Mathew did, he made me promise that I would be at the vaccination venue at 8 am sharp.

You must have guessed by now that Mathew was extremely well organized. If I get around to reading that bestselling book ‘7 Habits of Highly Effective People’, I am sure I will find Mathew has at least six of these habits. But me, I was just the opposite. I did not prepare or plan for foreseeable futures. And to look good and please others, I would make regrettable mistakes, like giving away things I would desperately need later on. Come to think of it, I was just like the Indian government’s vaccination strategy – which had not foreseen that Covid would be waving at us a second time. And had proudly exported vaccines to other nations, causing a vaccine shortage in the country.

But shortage or not, I was hoping to get one of these precious doses for myself. I have been told that one should do six impossible things before breakfast, but on this day I could only manage two. First, I reached the vaccination venue before 8 am, and two, I got there before Mathew. A little crowd of vaccine-seekers had already gathered and more were trickling in. But something was odd. There were no hospital staff to be seen anywhere. Had they all gotten sick and taken the day off? But no, I found out that all the staff had gone for morning prayers and would be back only after 8.30 am.

A frustrating delay for sure, but I think it’s a good idea to have morning devotions in hospitals. Surgeons with hangovers could pray for fewer scalpel slips, radiologists could hope that x-ray machines don’t act up again and fill the room with a disco-green glow, and nurses could hope that no napping babies are kidnapped on their watch.

Of course I cussed out my friend when he showed up. You see, till recently Mathew had been an employee of this hospital. And he should have warned me about morning devotions and other daily delays. The staff soon returned to their posts, looking calmly confident after their divine dose of vaccination against troubled and troublesome patients.

And thanks to the staff, this was my best vaccination experience of all. For one thing, the whole process was manned, or womanned, by energetic and beautiful ladies. Though they were masked, I was quite sure that their confident efficiency was a reflection of their movie starlet faces. Blank forms were given out, filled ones received, token numbers were issued and vaccine-aspirants guided to seating areas assigned separately for first and second dosers.

In India the lineup for everything, from vegetables to visas to vaccines, is tediously long. And as expected, all kinds of bossy and authoritative people were trying to jump the queue, trying to get ahead of the common crowd. But the ladies in charge shook their heads decisively, pointing out that the token number system was influence-proof. Good for you, movie starlets!

Finally a girl with an especially nice looking mask called out ‘token number 30’ in dulcet tones. That was me. I was swiftly led to a corridor where I sat in a queue, on one of the linearly arranged chairs. And after a little wait, I was promoted to the vaccination room. I sat in front of a nice nurse who asked me about allergies and chronic conditions. I really wanted to sit and chat with her about how I was allergic to the current political scenario, but she went through her list of healthcare questions efficiently and sent me on my way to the most important part of the vaccination process. ‘Will that be cash or card, sir?’, the next beautiful clerk asked me. Feeling truly ashamed for still using old fashioned cash in digital India, I handed over potential covid-contaminated currency.

Recently, the cost of vaccines had shot up to pandemic proportions. What was recently affordable to the undernourished classes had swiftly reached fat-wallet levels. So I was really glad I was getting my shot in the arm before vaccine prices went up again.

Feeling a great sense of achievement, I took my place in the rather ordinary-looking vaccination chair. My Vaccinator was an efficient nurse, also quite beautiful under the mask I was sure. She quietly asked me to pull up my left shirt sleeve to expose my shoulder. And before I could even finish thinking ‘I really ought to have much bigger biceps’, the jab was done.

But the nice staff did not want me to leave yet. I was asked to sit in a post-vaccination room for half an hour in the presence of medical personnel, just in case I lost consciousness or my conscience (no one really knew about the vaccine’s side effects). And when I was allowed to leave, another pretty nurse came over and handed me two paracetamol tablets, to be used if I felt really ill after reaching home. This made me pause. What if I went home and collapsed? Or worse, what if I had a momentary lapse of reason and starting supporting right wing agendas? I should probably get the paracetamol nurse’s phone number just in case. Purely for medical advice, of course. But my friend Mathew gestured impatiently and literally dragged me out. As I had mentioned earlier, he had important things to do. (And I did not.) So I left abruptly, without bidding adieu to the lovely movie starlets. Or at least saying ‘see you later, Vaccinator’ to an overworked, underpaid nurse.

After starting the day with snags and stumbles, I had finally gotten my pandemic panacea. But now, I was a bit worried about blood clots. Not the actual clotting itself, because people had told me ways to take care of that. A wise friend had said, ‘an aspirin a day’. And a whole bunch of wiser friends had recommended stiff shots of blood-thinning brandy. No, my worry was about legal problems. A friend who reads a lot of newspapers thought that anyone who complained about post-vaccine blood clots or other complications could possibly be arrested under the Sedition Act of 1870. He warned me that such complaints could easily be interpreted as bringing “hatred or contempt … or disaffection towards the Government”. In their infinite wisdom, the British had apparently foreseen that such an Act would be essential for an independent nation during an epic epidemic, when irresponsible people would complain about blood clots, vaccine shortages and poor pandemic governance.

When covid 19 was first introduced to the world as a pandemic, the Indian government had swiftly announced a nice, people-oriented policy. ‘Free vaccines for everyone, and cost of covid treatment will be reasonable’, they said. And so people were extremely happy. What a grand gesture by our politicians, they said, in keeping with the Republic’s socialist secular democratic principles. And to show their appreciation, people came out of their houses to light oil lamps and bang on tin plates.

But though the people were happy, this official beneficial announcement confused private healthcare facilities. “Is it really possible to provide free vaccines and low cost medical treatment?’, they asked themselves. Just to be sure, they rushed to their posh offices to re-read recently updated versions of the Hippocratic Oath. And to their relief, in bold and beautiful letters, it clearly stated, ‘There ain’t no such thing as a free vaccine’. And so covid vaccine prices in India became among the costliest in the world. And gold, real estate and covid treatment became the nation’s most expensive indulgences – though not necessarily in that order. After all, who knows when another good pandemic will come along?

My first dose of Covid 19 vaccine was an eye opener. I could see both sides of the moral coin. On the sad side, a nice socialist vaccination program was now revealing aggressive capitalist tendencies. Pandemic profiteers were fleecing people of their life-savings instead of saving their lives. And on the glad side, unsung unknowns were holding out helping hands to strangers in need. Free vaccines, free oxygen cylinders and other essential free stuff were being given out, well, freely… These generous people were not politicians and the freebees were not election stunts.

I am sure that my second vaccine dose will enhance all my other senses. And I will be able to understand the chaos and confusion, pain and panic that had taken over the world. And in the end, how hope, human kindness and probably a few hangovers, helped beat an anti-national – or in this case, an anti-international pandemic.

References:
https://www.thehindu.com/news/national/centre-justifies-move-to-export-covid-19-vaccine-in-supreme-court/article34571071.ece

https://timesofindia.indiatimes.com/india/at-rs700-rs1500-price-of-covid-vaccine-in-indias-private-sector-among-costliest/articleshow/82509814.cms