Decoy test centres

Decoy test centres early on may have caused community spread

I want to hark back to a recent date when we were yet not visited by blue skies and hawks flying freely. The day was March 19, 2020. I had been feeling feverish for two days with a dryish cough that would not really turn into a proper cough. My first instinct was to ignore it. With the increasing reports of covid 19 cases worldwide and fear of infecting my aging parents I decided to own up to the problem and on the advice of trusted neighbor (also a leading microbiologist in India) I headed of to AIIMS, one of the two listed test centres in Delhi. Deciding on which test centre to go to was a task. AIIMS and NCDC were clearly listed on multiple websites and newspapers. However the microbiologist neighbour insisted that the two available test centres were RML and Safdarjung. To settle the issue he asked the question of a trusted virologist source. The answer came back RML and AIIMS. Since AIIMS showed on both lists that is where I decided to go. I was also advised to take my parents along to get them tested. I resisted this advise knowing how convoluted the processes at AIIMS are.

I had been trying to navigate the maze at AIIMS since January to learn what its like given all the brouhaha about free medical treatment in Delhi. I had learned that the absence of signs or pointers about department locations or the functioning of the system (if you can call it that) is made up for in a big way by the myriad security guards who know everything. All one has to do is ask them. My earlier visits had left me fairly confident about the accuracy of their information. If I had a doubt I asked a second guard and then a third if I needed a majority vote.

Thus on March 19 evening, I asked the security guard at the AIIMS entry to point me to the new Corona virus testing place. He immediately and confidently told me that AIIMS had no testing and that it was all done at Safdarjung (enter from gate 3 he said), which is a stones thrown from AIIMS. So to Safdarjung I went. Gate 3 was not visible. I took a chance and entered the hospital where ever I could. Suspecting that what was true of security guards at AIIMS would be true for Safdarjung, I asked them about Corona virus testing. From head shake to blank look to “I have not heard of that type of testing” were the responses. The security guards here were certainly not the of the same confident metal as AIIMS. Driving around blindly, I asked yet another guard. He replied “ oh yes, most people do not know about it, but this has started only today, go to blah”. So I headed to blah and joined a very short line of people all convinced or at least wanting to know if they were infected with the terrible virus. The guard here was much more haughty and would not answer questions but waved me to the back of the line. Within minutes I was seated about 4 feet away from two astronaut lookalikes. One leaned over and took my temperature and asked about my travels. That was it. I was then instructed to go to the Emergency ward room number 4, located another 300 metres away. I threaded my way through poverty and stench at the maternity ward, with large families camped on the veranda, deeply convinced of impending infection if I was not already down with one.

At the more modern looking Emergency building, I found myself at the end of a snaking line not sure if room 4 stood at the other end. Via the grapevine on the snaking line, I concluded I had landed at the right place. The woman in front of me and the one behind me were also there for covid19 testing. Innocent fools us! Once again the guard to the rescue. “Koi testing toosting nahi hota hai idhar. They are wasting your time. Phir aapko bhagaa dengey. Is say accha aap bhaag jao.” I bypassed glaring people to reach the head of the snake to ask a quick question “Are you testing for Covid19?” “Not here. Not here. Go ask in room 12” was the reply with a dismissive wave of the hand.

Relieved to be relieved of an increased probability of getting covid, I ran to room 12, with the other two women keeping up. Room 12 in Safdarjung seemed to be a sort of a PR room. We waited patiently for the doctor to finish delivering a cadaver (covid infected? ) to his family. His immediate words to us was “go to _____ and ask that lady there, but let me tell you there is no way that we have covid testing here”. So I went to ___ and was reassured that the only place providing testing was RML. I weighed the facts, RML was another 10 km away, and then probably another 50 panicked people in line before me. Suddenly it all seemed rather pointless and dinner at home seemed the surest option. I did notice a certain concern and restlessness in a lot of people at Safdarjung. The parking attendant for one wanted to know if I had been successful. I shared my experience with him in some detail, leaving him feeling sorry enough that he would not accept the parking charge.

The best thing I did that evening was to go home and scrub down with a hot shower. And then I realized I had to quarantine myself and my parents…. Just in case. By the time the lock-down happened our household was well into the rhythm of no help and no social interaction.

As I thought about the mis-information regarding tests, I realized that hundreds of us, people who suspected to have sars-cov2, had put ourselves at risk and possibly spread it around. Why would the government do such a thing. And why would they not list RML the real testing centre when they had taken pains to list AIIMS and NCDC. And then it hit me, RML is where many of the politicians go for treatment. Did they really secure their own testing set up at RML and the others were just decoys?

There is more. For a long time the central government clung to testing information like it did to cash some time back. THEIRS were the only “authorized” test centres. They finally relented and added a whole list of private labs and hospitals that were now “allowed” to share this privilege of testing. And a lot of well fed people I know applauded like we had landed on mars. I decided to call each “private” authorized testing centre. I only got to three on the list. Not Dang’s Lab, not Lal Path Labs and another whose name escapes me, admitted to being set up. This was well into the last week of March 2020. What does the centre think people going to do? jump the testing lines and take more than their fair share of tests? A full two weeks on and stinginess is still the hallmark of this covid19 season.

Fears and Leers

I have concluded that 'Fear' is essential for survival - to exist - so that our genes may multiply and proliferate? It seems to me that 'Fear' has taken a life of its own. Fear is a mainstay of Indian society, personified in the slouch of many men, the faceless quality of females and the desire to be in the shadows while keenly observing all goings on, so that information gleaned may be used to surpass others in various measures of success, or to optimize ones gain.

The Indian face is perhaps more inscrutable than many. Inscrutable not by dint of stoic expression but due to misleading facial expressions. There is one exception to this - the instances of men preying on women. The unmistaken leer delivered directly and openly to the prey, the unclothing of women's bodies with that lascivious gaze and the confidence of doing all this as a matter of right.

Not much discussed is such intrusive gaping, usually done blatantly in the presence of an audience, unquantifiable, but perceivable by the intended prey. The defence of the perpetrator becomes precisely the presence of the audience who would deny noticing anything amiss.

Take the instance of my morning walk two days ago in Richards Park. I did my usual focused, fast paced rounds -2 miles, sans eye-contact, except with an occasional woman, yet observing all and sundry. My peripheral vision in India has been developed to a whole new level. Post walk stretching and exercises as usual at the central rotunda where many others did similarly.

Today I noticed a middle-aged man with his confident checking-me-out glances. As I moved my arms in a circle under his constant gaze, I became acutely self conscious of my chest and involuntarily looked down to see if there was enough flatness. He noticed this. I turned sideways to him and continued. He continued to openly gawk and leer. I felt a burning sensation very real on my side that was towards him. When I stole a glance to see if my discomfort was imaginary he tried to make eye-contact. I was giving him a private audience it seemed. He needed no permissions.

If you are a woman who has spent any time in India you are subjected without fail to repeated sexual harassment which goes by the mild phrase 'eve teasing' , suggesting a spoil sport attitude by women. Thus this was not my first such experience either. I have experienced worse horrors. I willed myself to cast him out of my attention and out of my line of vision. But as is wont to happen, such men sustain their activities unchecked. Having finished my morning routine I walked to the sopu wallah, picked the greens I wanted and walked back across the park to get money and then back again to pick up my greens.

Eyeballs followed me the whole time. His slanted smile hosted a familiarity towards me. Mr Romeo repositioned himself to give his full leering attention to me. His chosen spot was closest to the park gate I was to pass. I was overtaken with wanting to break the passive behaviour that I (and almost all women) adopt,  of ignoring the goon. I was overtaken with abandon, a resolve to not be entrenched in this behaviour. As I passed him, I turned and walk towards him. He momentarily basked in the satisfaction of being approached by the object of his attention. His eyes widened with expectation. Perhaps he was in luck with the Bollywood formula where hero harassing heroine wins her over. I walked straight up to him, full eye-contact. His gaze beckoning.

Me: “ It is rude to stare at women the way you have been staring at me”.

His face shrunk as the words sank in – his eyes fixated stonily at the garden fence. I turned and walked to my car not waiting for any response. I noticed his neck was no longer swivelling, searching for me.

I have not been back to the park since. I know it may be a different experience from the joyful, peaceful times I have had.

UNCLEJI

Uncleji! Uncleji! the voice chanted. Me, hearing but filtering out, continued my walk in the lush environs of the ashram, knowing fully well that I was not the uncleji being beckoned.  My being, absorbed in the myriads of blooms and smells in this garden, I did one more round of my morning ambulation.  The chanting persisted, causing me to casually look in the direction of the voice. Perched on top of the 20 feet high boundary wall that circled the west edge of the ashram, sat a little boy, probably all of 8 years old. My eyes widened as I contemplated the drop he faced on this side of the wall.  Grubby shirt, bare dirty feet and the confidence of a street urchin that you may not want to mess with, he sat astride the divide. I was wont to calls from the orphanage building next door, during my walks. The building rose higher than the high wall - trouncing its efforts to shut out and to shut in.

As I made eye contact with him, I understood that he had persistently been beckoning me. Momentarily stumped, I looked down at my shirt and wondered how I could be an uncleji.  I am barely used to being 'aunty' to all and sundry, to now make this bold transition to being uncle as well. It dawned on me. My silhouette was that of a boy or a man. Long shorts, baggy black t-shirt, short cropped hair and sneakers. Especially to a child closeted within four walls, he was unlikely to have seen women dressed like me.  There have been many occasions in Bangalore where people on the street, unused to women in pants, have wandered loudly whether I was a boy or a girl, their necks straining to view me from different angles.

The kid had lost his ball apparently. He pointed at the ball in the ashram grounds repeatedly and pleaded that I help him retrieve it. The ball that he pointed to was nowhere to be seen.  There was a large area of brush and untidy mounds of earth rendered muddy with the recent rain. No ball in sight. Thoughts of snake in the tall grass. My mind wanted to dispense with the urchin's request. I shook my hands and my head and said that there was no ball there. He pleaded more urgently. His voice could have been louder, should have been louder. He bent forward to use the wall as a shield for his voice, as he pleaded so his voice would not carry to the other side. 

I dithered and then melted. I wove my way up and down the piles of soil, looking for an unsuspecting snake and the ball. There it was, a cream coloured soccer ball that had lost all its oomph. As I picked it up it collapsed, a sack of hexagons sown together. He urged me with some speed, in a whisper, to throw it to him. As I stepped back from the wall to aim, he disappeared but I could still hear his voice guiding me - Uncleji! here, throw here. I tossed the ball as high as its airless mass would go. It flounced precariously on the top edge of the wall on my side and then mysteriously recovered its arc and disappeared to the other side. I heard nothing - not even the ball dropping as I resumed my walk.

'JUST ' ACTION

In this constant me versus you, versus them world, there is no just action. Just action is a self motivated, a self inflicted thing,  from within. It cannot be imposed from the outside. In other words, a self monitoring mechanism is needed for just action. The farming out of monitoring to courts, jury, arbitrators etc, is essentially ineffective. This consensus form of a justice will follow the prevailing fashion and times and has little to do with discerning reality. Reality is not open to interpretation.  Centralising justice results in absolving oneself from following just action.  It throws out reality. The goal becomes to act without getting caught by the conscience (which isn't a conscience) outside of oneself. There is a resulting laziness  in self monitoring, a  "do unless caught attitude". No longer is one in charge of ones actions. The institutions outside of you are in charge of you. This creates conflict in the world.

One needs to look at reality as it is. Each one of us needs to look at the reality within ourselves and not meddle with  the supposed reality of the other.  The other will find their own reality. Only if one sees actually what is going on within oneself can one self monitor.  This implicit 'honor code' resulting from self monitoring does not divide between lies and truth or good and bad . It sees only what is and not what is not. To see what is not is to judge, to create desire, to want, to not accept what is.

To look at reality as it is, one has to know oneself.  Most of us do not know ourselves. To know oneself  is true awareness - to be aware, in the moment, that emotions and events transpire.  We become aware in hindsight sometimes.

Why do we not know ourselves? In this wretched world of money and systems, our time and silence have been hijacked. We are surrounded by noise - the noise of our careers, the noise of socializing with neighbours, the noise of taking care of our children, the noise generated by fear, the noise generated by ever enlarging wants.

If we know ourselves, the necessity to be false, to worry about other's judgement  vanishes. The only thing that survives is reality and acceptance of reality. In such circumstances being subjected to deceit, anger, jealousy etc has no impact. 

To know oneself there has to be a great deal of silence. Silence in surroundings and to be in nature are essential. And finally there has to be silence of the mind. Its only when there is silence of the mind does one see reality as it is.

BELIEF

Belief

The quality of belief is everything. If you have belief, true belief, to the point of conviction, then others will believe you. How do we recognise such a quality of conviction?

Age - for no reason

             I had visited the local branch of Canara bank with a high frequency in the previous month since opening the account for our newly formed apartment association. I was now on first name basis with not one, but several people in the bank. Being the treasurer of the association made these harried visits unavoidable. I rued the day I had boldly volunteered for this post. The risks were similar to placing one's head on the block under a supposedly non-functioning guillotine. In any case I waved cheerfully to all and sundry on every visit. The bank employees helped most of the time - sometimes they passed the buck to have it land back squarely on their desk as I always persisted. I had nothing to lose by not giving up.

             Yesterday I was particularly harried as I tried to multi-task among the cheque deposit desk, the cash deposit and the Internet banking desk. Finally I reached the desk to update the passbook. Mr Raj Shekhar nodded at me but carried on what he was doing. I decided to sit for a bit. He looked up with a broad smile at me and said 'Madame what is your age?" Sensing a compliment coming my way I leaned forward and said "Guess!". I had been through this game many times before and it was a great morale booster to have people underestimate my age by anywhere from 15 to 20 years. After all the vowing etc I would shrug my shoulders and say I cant take credit - its in the gene's. Mr Raj Shekar gave the ambiguous head shake: " Why I am telling madame, there comes a time when we have to slow down. Say 40 or 45 or 50, is time to relax and not run like this. Why you want to be treasurer at this age."

         If my face fell and hit the floor he did not seem to notice. I had never had anyone guess  to within 10 years of  my age. Had I aged so much in India? He took my silence as rapt attention to his sermon: "Myself, everyday I am going home, changing first thing to shorts and T-shirt". With his hands he gestured the dropping of his pants from his waist. " I am putting on comfortable shoes and I am leaving my house. I am roaming around Bangalore. Nowadays Volvo buses are very good. I am going to Marathahalli, to Whitefield - anywhere the bus will take me. I get off the bus and walk around in quiet places. I am taking deep breath and totally relaxing. Then I am returning home completely fresh." He pursed his lips and shook his head in the affirmative self righteously..

      I struggled for words. Words like yoga and meditation hovered somewhere above me but never descended to my lips. I did the ambiguous head shake " Thank you - you are giving me good advise". By this time my work was done. I could not help thinking- "and while you roam around Mr Raj Shekhar, does some kind lady sit at home and prepare dinner for you to come eat having fulling relaxed yourself?" I felt a distinct heaviness in my step as I left the bank. Heaviness for the supposed lady waiting by the hearth with a warm dinner and for my aging self. I could not help examining myself in the rear view mirror closely for grey hair and wrinkles several times that day.

Thou shalt do as you are told - woman!

April 22, 2009

Today I was accused of causing an accident. I was a participant in the sense that I was driving. I was also a participant in the sense that my car was stationary wanting to turn right and an oncoming motor cycle without his lights on, in the rain, in the dark night, driving too fast skidded and fell, sliding on the road. I suppose he tried to stop suddenly seeing my car, not allowing for rain and slippery road. The motor cycle stopped about four feet in front of my car as it skid. I guided my car straight, as oncoming traffic was accumulating behind the motorcyclist, circumvented him and moved on to park.

Several things happened in quick succession. First a passer by, an elderly gentleman with 3 lines of ash across his forehead jumped up and down, before I had even turned away, and accused me of turning without my indicator. I recall I did have my indicator on, which turned off when I rotated my stirring in the opposite direction. And what about the motor cyclists headlights? I was too confused to realize what was going on. And how does one reconstruct the sequence of events? Actually one could reconstruct in a scientific way if one were to examine the skid marks, hence determine the speed of the motorcyclist etc etc. But none of this was even an issue as became clear – they just wanted to pin blame because they wanted money. The motorcyclist and his passenger were up in a trice and running towards me.

This was on the way to my yoga class. After parking the car, I got out and walked to class. As I walked I was screamed at by the man who was saintly (in appearance only). Why was he yelling anyway? I got chased and followed into my class. I did not stop to talk, just kept walking, some instinct inside guiding me. They opened the door after me, interrupting the yoga class, and yelled asking for me to come outside. Not wanting to cause a scene, I went outside and reminded the motorcyclist that he was going too fast and that is why he skidded when he tried to stop. By his logic, whenever breaks are applied suddenly, it’s the other person's fault.  They went at me hammer and tongs, told me the bike was damaged and wanted me to see it. I was not interested I said. I had not caused the fall.

Some of my yoga classmates followed me outside and banded together – one woman in particular aggressively put it across to them to get lost. She pinned them down with a logic that failed me. She told them that she was a lawyer and would be happy to ‘see him’ later. So it went back and forth in kannada with abuses flying in English. The saintly looking man who had no business being there in the first place used ‘shut up’ and other choice phrases liberally. We went back into the yoga class, two male class mates stayed out and finished up on the yelling. I felt deeply grateful for the support. It was clear that the ‘others’ wanted money.

This scenario is perhaps familiar to many. For me it has served as that periodic and not so gentle reminder of my second class status here in India. That’s right, second class in my country of birth and nationality. ‘Thou shalt do as thou are told woman’ must be one of our commandments here.

It has been proven with evidence and statistics that generally women in India are treated poorly. Actually they are treated awfully. Could there be stronger evidence than our skewed female to male population ratios at all age groups except over 65 yrs? By 65 most men have popped it to do any more harm to women hence the proportions shift. When a society kills off one group of people in a systematic way its called genocide. Even if we assume a natural 50:50 population ratio (actually left to nature there would be more women than men) there are anywhere from 19.5 million to 39 million females missing in India’s population today – depending on how you do the calculation. Should’nt this be recognized as a systematic albeit passive genocide from within?

Coming back to the imposed second class status: I live a haloed existence in some eyes – highly educated, well paid by many standards, make my own decisions, no worries about being beaten up by a husband, no female foetuses untimely, being plucked from my womb, and no lack of confidence in my beliefs, my intellect and ability to tackle complex situations. Yet after moving to India, in the middle of my life, marked with various and sundry successes, I have felt shaken to the core. Shaken with the realization that no matter what or who I am, I am accepted only if a man says so. Without that validation my chances are poor for any success.