April 22 was Earth Day. An annual event in which 1 billion people from 193 countries come together to demonstrate their support for environmental protection.
It was also the day I lost my Mausi (my Mother's elder sister). She succumbed to Covid-19, within hours of testing positive.
She was a few months short of turning 70, and in otherwise great health.
I will always remember how I had spent April 22, a Thursday, for the rest of my life.
It started with a phone call from the brother of a friend, concerned about her, as she lives alone in a big house.
I assured her that I'll look out for his sister, especially given the worsening COVID-19 situation.
Then I had an unusual lunch of bread pakodas and cucumber raita and an entire cantaloupe.
Meanwhile, I had gleaned from overhearing phone-calls that my Mausi had tested positive for Covid-19 and was going to be admitted to a private hospital for treatment.
She had been taking care of my Mama (my Mother's younger brother, who was recovering from Covid-19) for the past several days and had recently come down with a bout of dysentery.
Always one to put the needs and welfare of others before her own, she had ignored her own ill health and put off hospital admission till the last moment.
When she finally did get admitted, it turned out that the hospital was ill-equipped and short of medical oxygen.
Still not aware of the fragility of Mausi's condition and thinking that she will bounce back like Mama did, I continued with life as usual.
But that evening, I could not complete my exercise routine, somehow. My heart was not in it; I cut short my session by half and had an early dinner.
Just after dinner, I overheard my Father speaking over the phone in a panicked tone about Mausi's falling oxygen levels.
From 90%, it had fallen to below 40% within a few hours.
We later found out that she also spat blood and had suffered cardiac arrest, while still battling the deadly coronavirus.
Advised by the doctor treating her to shift her to another, better-equipped hospital, we decided to drive down there.
At this point, I still believed that Mausi would make a recovery.
Little did I know what lay ahead.
Driving through the streets of locked-down Bhopal, with a baleful silence stretching over empty roads lit by muted yellow electric lights, I felt that I was living through a disaster movie. It was also reminiscent of the terrible industrial tragedy that had hit Bhopal 37 years ago, on December 3, 1984.
It was the same kind of frightened quiet that seemed to pervade this Central Indian city on the night of April 22, 2021.
Driving away from and around extensive road barricades, we managed to reach the hospital, only to find chaos reigning there.
Mausi's children were there -- bewildered and concerned; her friends were also present -- one of them, a doctor, weeping by the side of the road.
Perhaps she knew how serious Mausi's condition was.
But I still did not want to believe that this would be the last time I would see her alive.
Then followed the absolutely avoidable and eerie pantomime of procuring an oxygen-equipped ambulance that would transfer Mausi to the hospital which had a ventilator, and which lay on the other side of town (a distance of over 20 kms).
It was already past 10 p.m. and the ambulance was nowhere to be seen.
Someone then suggested that we take her to the other hospital in a van, with her son driving it, since the hospital did not have its own driver...!
All this was unnecessary and we lost precious time due to this -- time that would've helped save Mausi's life, at such a critical stage.
When the ambulance did arrive, more than 60 minutes late, her condition had deteriorated beyond recovery.
But no one was ready to accept this.
I still remember the last time I saw her -- being taken out of the hospital on a stretcher and into the ambulance.
Her medium-length stark grey hair was brushed back from her forehead, her face showing a mixture of distress and resignation, her sweat-drenched clothes clinging to her frame, her light-grey eyes closed, as if in meditation.
My Mausi was a follower of Osho (also known as Acharya Rajneesh). Her entire life had been dedicated to serving her family, raising her three wonderful children, taking care of her husband and living a life devoted to Osho, and this occupied a large part of her daily routine, ever since the death of her husband in 2017 left her with more free time.
Fellow Osho-ites were also present at the spot as the ambulance carrying her supine body drove away on that dark night towards the other hospital, 30-mins away.
All of them were equal parts distressed and geared up to hear the worst.
With the ambulance gone, I returned home with my mother, had a quick shower and went to the living room to wait for news of further developments.
It was around 11.30 p.m. that my Father's phone rang.
And even before he had answered the call, I knew what it was about.
I heard with growing panic and disbelief what I already knew intuitively -- Mausi was gone; she had collapsed at the hospital, moments before being admitted to the ward with a ventilator bed, which could have saved her life.
It was the most difficult night of my life.
I had dealt with the loss of friends and family before this.
What made this loss so terrible and almost unbearable was its abruptness and complete avoidability.
She died before her time because the system in place to prevent deaths such as hers failed her at every step.
I still wonder what would it be like if she had not contracted Covid in the first place (nursing her younger brother, who was Covid positive).
What would have happened if she had got the proper care at the first hospital itself?
What if the ambulance had arrived on time and reached the other hospital on time?
What if there was no shortage of ventilator beds in a large city like Bhopal, the capital of Madhya Pradesh?
What if lockdown restrictions had not been relaxed?
What if the second wave of the debilitating coronavirus disease was not allowed to spread and nipped in the bud?
There are no answers anymore.
The more I think of such 'what-if' scenarios, the more forcefully her death hits me in the solar plexus.
The thought that we could not do enough to save the life of this gentle, loving soul, who had only love and empathy for everyone, keeps me awake at night.
We failed her, every step of the way.
We failed her because we did not act sooner.
Because the ambulance took so long to arrive.
Because it then took too long to reach sanctuary.
Because she should have been given the necessary medical care from the get-go.
Because there was no ventilator at the first hospital.
Because eventually arranging a ventilator bed took up precious time, which in the end cost her life.
It is these thoughts that rest heavy on my psyche, which don't let me rest in peace.
More than two weeks later, the guilt associated with all the above reasons keeps compounding.
All she needed was the right medical care provided on time and she would have sailed through.
Married in her teens, my Mausi's entire life had been a paean of love, devotion and humaneness; always concerned about others, seldom about herself.
Family, friends, strangers -- she had only warmth and kindness for anyone she ever met.
After her husband's death, she finally had time for herself and used it to work on her spiritual journey.
I would stay with her sometimes and she would give me valuable lessons in the school of life.
Apart from many other vignettes, I will always remember her telling me one sunny winter's morning on her balcony, "Dhoop hamesha peeth par senkni chahiya aur aag hamesha saamne se." (You should always get the warmth of the sun on your back and face the fire from the front.)
I shall remember how her pantry would always be well-stocked (even during lean times), especially for guests and visitors.
Her chai masala, which she made herself, added that extra burst of flavour to tea at her home.
I shall remember how hard she worked, even at that age, keeping her house pristine and Zen-like (including the meticulously-arranged store room, which was not visible to anyone and so, did not ideally need such care).
I will recall the calmness she exuded and how her presence had a peaceful effect on her surroundings.
I rarely ever saw her get angry or heard her call anyone names -- apart from using the word 'idiot' for intrusive men who acted weird around women.
There are so many things, events and occasions that will remind me of her.
I only wish we had been able to save her life, extend it, prolong it a bit more.
A stellar human being and a great soul like her deserved a better end.
And that is something that will rankle me till the end of my days.
