Shah Alam Khan, an orthopedic oncologist and professor at the All India Institute of Medical Sciences in Delhi, said: “I have never seen such a large-scale pandemic grief.” “Before, you would see many people die from the new crown virus. Now, , Has a name. Each of us knows someone who was taken away by the new coronavirus. I don’t know anyone who doesn’t know the deceased.
Only in the hospital where Khan was, the doctors he saw were so distraught that they all collapsed. Just recently, after the eighth recovery failed, a colleague committed suicide in his office. Khan talked about death quietly: he admitted that he hadn’t fully understood it yet.
“When death occurs in our pious religious society, grief becomes more of a tradition than anything else,” he said. “I am an atheist, but in this country, if you are a spiritual person, death and grief will be easier.”
Seema Hari is one of countless people who use the Stories feature to share resources (such as Google Docs) on Instagram, which contains information on where to find oxygen tanks, with a focus on her hometown of Mumbai. But because her own family was infected with the new crown virus, she fell into grief, except for her Instagram page, she was cut off from the world.
“I was worried most of the time and tried to share resources with people. I checked in through WhatsApp at night-not only my family, but other friends across India, and asked them a terrible question, whether everyone around them is still there. Good? If they need any help,” she said via email.
Hari said that she did not have the ability to feel appropriate grief, nor did she see herself doing it: “There are too many collective and personal griefs to deal with, but it’s almost like we don’t even get the privilege of grief because the loss is so merciless. So many things require our actions and attention.”