ON 14 NOVEMBER, my sister Baran messaged me from Delhi. “Bhai not well. Panicky situation here. Fever not subsiding though it is below 100F and oxygen level slightly reduced.” My heart sank. My father was scheduled to leave for Allahabad the next day. It took a lot of persuasion from Baran to make him change his plans. Ultimately, he agreed to stay.
The doctor who saw his X-ray pronounced that Father’s lungs were hazy. We reassured ourselves that this was because he had been a heavy smoker. We communicated on WhatsApp through voice notes as our hands shook and we couldn’t type. We tried to convince ourselves that it could not be COVID-19, although ugly doubts were beginning to surface.
The next day, I received a stark, single-line message on my phone, which had been delivered at 3 am: “Bhai is Covid positive.”
There was a funny taste in my mouth as I gulped tea and frantically searched the internet for coronavirus-testing centres in Charlottesville. Through the intervention of doctor friends, I was able to get swabbed the same day. My sister told me over a message that my father had been admitted into the Covid ward at Fortis Escorts, his room number was 301. I replied that I was booked on the Air India direct flight for 18 November, the following Wednesday.