Haroon Bijli

The story so far: the scene is 2023. The Covid-19 lockdown has continued for three years. It ends abruptly. Read the first part here: http://bij.li/fiction/the-end-of-the-lockdown

Dhak dhak dhak dhak dhak.

We were swerving. The car behind us sped past, missing us by a couple of inches. I had snoozed off for a few seconds.

The wife stopped her banging on the dashboard. Visibly upset, she rotated her hand, pointing upwards. I nodded and eased the car towards the edge of the highway and stopped.

We put on our masks and exchanged our seats. She pointed to the fuel meter – it was half empty. Made sense, since we were carrying petrol in a few 20 litre cans and the less we carried, the better. I stepped out, got a can from the boot, and poured it in.

I took in the scene outside. We were a few kilometres away from the ghat section of the expressway to Pune. Cars were parked here and there, and a bus, nearly half a kilometre behind. The closest vehicle was a SUV parked about a hundred meters ahead. On the road, other vehicles were whizzing past.

The wife was knocking on the car window, gesturing at me to get back in. I ignored her. The SUV was too far to be of any danger, though we were not sure what we could call danger in this situation.

There were two men on the ground, leaning against the back of the SUV. Another man was squatting a little away from them with his back turned. It looked as if he was vomiting, almost on his knees. I waved.

One of the men waved back. He seemed young. I took out a bottle of water from the car and pointed at it, and then at the squatting man who seemed to be in bad shape. The young man picked up his own bottle and gestured with two palms: “It’s okay”.

I signalled thumbs up. My wife kept honking, but I ignored her again. The young man showed the steering-wheel motion and gestured what seemed to mean, “Where to?” I pointed straight ahead.

He clutched his neck and jerked his head forward in a puking motion, perhaps to say that there were more sick people up ahead. He then touched his nose and made a gesture to show “big”. Big stench. People sick.

I held up my hand to my forehead, patted it a few times. He nodded no. He pointed to his throat. No fever. Just nausea and vomiting. Perhaps dehydration.

I shrugged and made a thumbs up sign. He returned the gesture. Good luck.

I got back into the car to furious gestures from my wife. She accelerated rapidly and I had to hold on to the door railing to keep myself from falling. The kids were awake now.

All along the way, there were vehicles parked on the kerb and service roads. Some had people loitering around them, others had people inside, and others, abandoned. So far, I had not seen a single dead body. But it was little relief: many seemed sick and dazed.

The news apps said that a nationwide emergency had been declared and the Prime Minister had assured the nation about various measures. The armed forces were being pushed into relief work, medicines were being distributed, and the power and water situation was under control.

WhatsApp messages had stopped coming since daybreak a few hours ago. There was no way of knowing if the stench had affected other countries since international news updates were at least three days old. 

The government advisory asked people to stay put, not to travel and to use masks, either perfumed or with a strong disinfectant. Treatment to be symptomatic and in cases of extreme vomiting, citizens were advised rehydration with ORS, and to download an app.

There was little else: nothing about what caused the stench or what the government was doing to figure it out. “Stay put” didn’t seem like good advice. People were not listening either.

We were almost at the tunnel at Khandala, the halfway point on the expressway. The traffic had slowed down. Too many vehicles were parked on the side making it practically a two-lane road. When we reached the head of the traffic, we saw almost everyone taking a U-turn. A policeman in PPE and a gas mask was holding a computer-printed sheet.

It said, “Advisory: Enter Tunnel at Your Risk.” In the space underneath, a handwritten line in English and Marathi: “go fast thru tunnel, do not stop.” I gestured U-turn to the wife. She nodded and turned around through the broken median.

We were now heading towards Mumbai. We had no clue what else to do.