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“I have never seen anything on this scale of pandemic pain,” says Shah Alam Khan, an orthopedic oncologist and professor at the Indian Institute of Medical Sciences in Delhi. “Before, you saw the number of dead people hiding. Now, there are the names. Each of us knows someone who has been carried away by a hideout. I don’t know anyone who doesn’t know someone who’s dead. “
Alone in Khan’s hospital, the doctor sees them overwhelmed with grief as they fall apart. Recently, after an unsuccessful eighth resuscitation attempt, a colleague killed himself in his office. It’s a death that Khan speaks quietly about: he admits he hasn’t surrounded his head yet.
“When death occurs in our deep religious society, pain becomes part of the tradition more than anything else,” he says. “I’m an atheist, but in this country, death and grief are easier if you’re a spiritual person.”
Seema Hari has been one of the many people using Instagram’s Stories feature to find out where they can find oxygen tanks such as Google Docs, focusing on her hometown of Mumbai. But as her family members have fallen ill in secret, she has fallen for grief, except for her Instagram page.
“I spent most of my days worried and trying to share resources with people, and checking the nights via WhatsApp – not only with my family but with other friends in India, I was terrified to ask if all of them were okay and if they needed help,” the post said. electronically.
Hari said he doesn’t feel the capacity to grieve properly and doesn’t see himself: “There’s so much collective and personal grief to process, but it’s almost like they haven’t even given us the privilege of grief. It’s a relentless loss and many things require our action and attention.” .
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