Dear affluent voters of the Prime Minister, We sincerely hope this letter finds you all safe. After all, we are all still mourning the dec...
Dear affluent voters of the Prime Minister,
We sincerely hope this letter finds you all safe. After all, we are all still mourning the deceased. But we were not actually supposed to be in the house of the dead. We were, after all, living our great dream, sequestered in the designer isolation of our cozy apartments. Through the last year, for most of us, the impact of the pandemic was muted. We worked from home, watched Netflix, shopped online, worried about putting on weight and expressed distant sorrow at the plight of migrant workers who lost their work because of a hastily imposed lockdown.
Then, came the great leveller of the pandemic in its second bullying avatar – one that crashed through fences and class barriers. Covid-19 claimed hundreds of thousands of lives in India. But with the vast suppression of numbers, we will probably never know the exact toll.
How did India become such a cradle of disaster? How did the the virus breach the cocoon of our mollycoddled lives, nullify our privileges and prompt the supreme leader to disappear? How did we come to queue helplessly with poor fellow citizens, pining for oxygen and hospital beds, making a dash for medicines and vaccines?
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