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“This is a disaster.” The disease is everywhere in India.

NEW DELHI – The corpses are so full of bodies that it looks like a war has broken out. Fires burn around the clock. Many places are being cremated, dozens at a time, and at night, in some parts of New Delhi, the sky is shining. Sickness and death are everywhere. Subscribe to The Morning News in The New York Times. Dozens of homes in my neighborhood have sick people. One of my colleagues is sick. One of my son’s teachers is sick. Harjan under two doors, to our right. He is sick. Two doors on the left, sick. “I have no idea how I got it,” said a good friend who is now in the hospital. “You’re just holding a choke on all this… …”, և then his voice receded, too sick to finish. He barely got a bed. And according to his doctors, the drug can not be found anywhere in India. I am sitting in my apartment, waiting to catch the disease. This is what it feels like in New Delhi now, when we are experiencing the worst coronavirus crisis in the world. It’s there, I’m here, I feel it’s a matter of time before I get sick too. India now has more infections per day – about 350,000 – than any other country since the outbreak, which is just the official figure, which most experts say is a huge understatement. New Delhi, the capital of India with a population of 20 million, is experiencing a catastrophic wave. A few days ago, the positivity rate reached a staggering 36%, meaning that more than one in three people surveyed were infected. A month ago it was less than 3%. The infections spread so fast that the hospitals were completely swamped. Thousands flock to it. The medicine is over. The same goes for rescue oxygen. Patients were left in irreparable rows at the hospital gates or in the house, literally breathing air. Although New Delhi is closed, the disease is still severe. Doctors in the city որոշ Some of Delhi’s top politicians are desperately calling SOS Indian Prime Minister Narendra Modi via social media և TV for help with oxygen, medicine:. Experts have always warned that COVID-19 could wreak havoc in India. This country is huge – 1.4 billion people. And densely populated. And in many places, very poor. What we are witnessing is so different during the first wave of India last year. Then there was the fear of the unknown. Now we know. We know the completeness, the scale, the speed of the disease. We know the terrible power of this second wave, hitting everyone at the same time. What we feared during the first wave of last year, which never really happened, is now happening right before our eyes. Collapse, collapse, realize that so many people will die. For nearly 20 years as a foreign correspondent, I covered war zones, was abducted in Iraq, and was imprisoned in more than a few places. This worries in another way. There is no way to know if my two children, my wife or I, will be among those who have received a lenient job, then return to health, or we will be really sick. And if we do get sick, where are we going? ICUs are full. The gates of many hospitals have been closed. The new version, known here as the “double mutant”, can do a lot of damage. Science is still early, but what we do know is that there is one mutation that can make a virus more contagious, and another that makes it partially resistant to vaccines. The doctors are quite scared. Some of the people we spoke to said they had been vaccinated twice and were still seriously ill, which is a very bad sign. So what can you do? I try to stay positive, believing that it is one of the best stimulants of immunity, but I find myself stuck in the rooms of our apartment, opening countless jars of food and cooking for my children, as if my mind and body are becoming mush. I’m afraid to check my phone and get another message about a bad friend. Or worse. I’m sure millions of people have felt that way, but I’ve started to imagine symptoms. My throat hurts: What about that background headache? Is it worse today? My part of the city, South Delhi, is now dilapidated. Like many other places, we had a severe block last year. But now the doctors here are warning us that the virus is more contagious, հավանական the chances of getting help are much worse than during the first wave. So many of us are afraid to go out, as if there is a poisonous gas that we are all afraid to breathe. India is a history of scale, it crosses two paths. It has many people, many needs և many sufferings. But it also has a lot of technology, industrial capacity, resources, both human and material. I was almost torn last night when news broke that an Indian Air Force plane was full of oxygen tanks from Singapore to bring supplies to needy parts of the country. The government was, in fact, raising the air. No matter how difficult and dangerous it feels for all of us in Delhi, it will be worse. Epidemiologists say the numbers will continue to rise, with 500,000 cases registered in the country so far, and 1 million Indians have died since COVID-19 in August. It did not have to be this way. India was recovering until a few weeks ago, at least on the surface. It locked, absorbed the first wave, then opened. It maintained a low mortality rate (at least according to official statistics). In winter, life returned to normal in many ways. In January-February, I was giving a report on cities in central India. No one, I mean anyone, including the police, was wearing a mask. It was as if the country had told itself while the second wave was shaking. Do not worry, we have achieved this. Few feel that way now. Modi continues to be popular in his base, but more and more people are blaming him for India’s unpreparedness for this wave; “The norms of social exclusion will be completely abolished,” one of the Delhi presenters recently said during a broadcast of one of Modi’s rallies. In India, as elsewhere, the rich can withstand the blows of many crises. But this time it is different. A well-connected friend activated his entire network to help a loved one, a young man with a bad case at AYA. My friend’s friend died. No fuss could take him to the hospital. There were just so many other sick people. “I tried my best to make this boy a bed, but we couldn’t,” said my friend. “It is chaos.” His feelings were raw. “It is a disaster. This is a murder. ” I take a few risks, except for food that my family can’t afford. I wear two masks and cut as many wide benches as I can. But most of the days are spent with the four of us. We try to play games, we try not to talk about who is sick or who is competing in this besieged city, they are looking for help that they probably will not find. Sometimes we just sit quietly in the living room looking at the ficus palms. Through the open window, on long, motionless, hot days, we can hear two things: ambulances. And the song of the birds. This article originally appeared in The New York Times. © 2021 New York Times Company:

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