The second Covid wave

As I received information via my Whatsapp group about the death of a classmate due to Covid, and my best friend told me today that she was hospitalized due to falling oxygen levels, I realized that this wave was hitting close to home.  Of course we knew, last year too, that the person dying was someone's sister, mother, beloved but it was not personal.  This year it has become personal.  Every other person dying is someone you know.  Every other person getting infected is some one you know.  At this point, three of my students have the infection and I worry about them every day.  

And to think this was all avoidable.  Complacency never pays off.  As the number of cases decreased, schools/colleges/universities partially reopened, life returned back to normal.  Lavish weddings became the norm.  Festivals were celebrated.  On the campus, we had to keep reminding students to wear masks but all our admonishments fell on deaf ears.

This year, sometime late February/early March, I made my way to one of the main markets to get my curtains repaired. I was appalled.  A loudspeaker was blaring message about social distancing, people were milling about, jostling each other, masks were either not being worn or were dangling around the chin, shopkeepers were helpless and it was a mayhem.  It was almost as if people had forgotten about the pandemic.

Then came the state elections and rallies were held with no social distancing, no masks, no precautions.  None of the political leaders walked the talk about social distancing and masking.  Finally,  the Kumbh Mela was held in Haridwar.  It was only when a Mahant died that the politicians thought it prudent to shut it down.

Even if the government (Central as well as State) had strengthened the hospitals, oxygen supply, testing...things could have been done in the past one year.  It is the callousness of it all that hurts and angers.

Chinatown family- Lin Yutang

 A dear friend asked me few days back about my favourite books based on India.  As I mused, my mind went into a tangent.  My favourite books of all time.   Today as I was talking to my brother, he reminded me of Chinatown family by Lin Yutang.

Of course!  That has to be  one of my favourite books.

My father had purchased a copy of this book possibly for Rs 1/- in the old days.  My mother, whose job was to pack and move, kept all the books in a Aluminum box ready to be moved as and when required.  On hot summer days, I would poke and pull out books out of the box.  Invariably I would pull out Chinatown family at least once every summer.

The book was hardbound in red colour.  It was simply a fascinating book not because of the story but because the beginning, the middle and the end was missing.  Later, the pages began to crumble so one had to be careful while reading.  

In a way, it was my introduction to immigrant America.  A very different America that was described in Little Women, another favourite of mine.

This was the America of an immigrated Chinese family.

Poring over the pages, I would re-construct the missing bits. 

The book possibly starts with the matriarch of the family recently arrived in New York with her two younger children-a son and a daughter.  The eldest son runs a laundromat with his father.  Later, he marries an Italian girl, Flora.  The middle son was no-good, the black sheep of the family.   The younger son, Tom, and his sister, Eva, start school.  Somewhere in the middle, the father dies.  The elder son and the mother take over the running of the laundromat.  The book ends with celebration of Chinese New Year and acknowledgement that Tom is going out with Elsa.  Or at least that is what I think the end was because the pages after the Chinese New year celebration were missing.

Chinatown Family remained with us for a long time.  Finally, just few years back, I regretfully had to throw it out.  All the pages had crumbled and one could no longer even read one page completely.   My brother reminded me that  it is available once more on Amazon.  But the charm of the red hard bound book with missing and crumbling pages is something that cannot be ever replaced.