BENGALURU: It happened finally. After almost two years of playing cat-and-mouse and putting up a brave front, it caught me unawares, possibly in a moment of weakness, with my mask down. And so I joined the vast sickly multitude who had tested Covid-positive. With a cough and a sneeze, I lost my covirginity.
Over the months, I had acquired a sniggering overconfidence. Thrice, the virus had come dangerously close, within breathing distance, actually. During the fag end of the first wave, the better half tested positive and as the lone caretaker, I was in and out of the isolation room, even sharing lunch, dinner and movies, thumbing my nose at the virus.
Then came a cluster outbreak at the workplace during the second wave, and as I staved off the overtures of the deadly Delta, I realised that it had entered my home again, through the backdoor. Again I fought it, in mask, gloves and PPE kit, and slipped out of the clutches of corona, which sadly was potent enough to snuff out a life.
But this time, just like that, it happened. I didn’t ‘take to Twitter’ to announce my new status (not much following there) or shout from the Facebook rooftops - though it’s supposed to be the newest and most accepted thing to do. Post a contemplative picture of oneself, with some artfully arranged cerebral book titles, a half-eaten bowl of fruits, steaming soup and closed door, symbolic of being in splendid isolation, and punch in the three words: ‘I am positive’. And lo! The outpouring of heartfelt sympathy and wishes all but floods the post.
That’s also the difference between the first, second and third Covid waves. A shroud of secrecy and shame marked the first wave: an infected person became a pariah and the authorities rushed in to board up homes with ugly metal sheets. There was fear and rumour in the still, silent, lockdown air, so any positive status was best kept under wraps. The second wave was worse - keep your status hidden and you could need a blaring ambulance. There was ready help too, in the form of wholesome food, groceries at the doorstep, oxygen cylinders and even biers.
The third wave is all about flaunting your positivity. Omicron is proving to be corona-lite, a social virus, and is visiting every home, camouflaged as the flu. I felt shortchanged, there was nothing special about my sniffling. Neither was anyone worried if my oxymeter reading was going up or down. Covid-fatigue, I guess. I stayed in my home ward, catching up on some reading, but by the end of the second day, I was done with isolation. I threw open the door and strode out. Pumped up with antibodies and a husky Rani Mukherjee tone, I was all ready to get on with life.