A story of friendship and loss.
 | By Basharat Peer |
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Hello, newsletter readers. I am an international opinion editor based in London. I traveled to India in the middle of March to see my family. A few days after my arrival in New Delhi, the magnitude of the threat posed by the coronavirus became clearer. |
On the evening of March 24, Prime Minister Narendra Modi of India addressed the country on television. Like many right-wing populists and authoritarian leaders, Mr. Modi is a brilliant, fluid orator. He spoke in a somber voice, lucidly explaining the gravity of the pandemic and the helplessness of “most advanced countries,” in the face of it, despite “all the preparations and efforts.” |
In his reference to “most advanced countries,” I heard the implicit acknowledgment that hundreds of millions of Indians live in poverty, that India’s health care systems are terribly underfunded and ill-equipped for a pandemic. Mr. Modi patiently explained the necessity of social distancing, slowing down to explain what the unfamiliar phrase meant. And then he made the dramatic announcement: “Midnight onward, the entire country … Please listen carefully … After 12 a.m. tonight, the entire country shall go under complete lockdown.” |
The lockdown was to come into effect in four hours. Nobody in a country of 1.3 billion people would be allowed to step outside his or her home. |
The middle and upper middle classes had already been hoarding food, supplies and medicine, but India’s poor woke up to a loss of work and livelihood. An overwhelming majority of India’s workers earn daily wages, and have no formal contracts, health insurance or paid leave. As the factories and businesses shuttered, the workers — millions of whom had left their impoverished villages for cities — started running out of food and money. |
Mr. Modi had paid no attention to the effect his decisions would have on workers. Instead, his government had wasted several weeks in April blaming a Muslim religious group for spreading the virus. Television networks and social media were flooded with the hashtag, #CoronaJihad. After these vile anti-Muslim campaigns, the utter disregard for the lives of the poor increased the air of despondence. |
Public transport was shut down as part of the lockdown, so throughout April and May, hundreds of thousands of desperate workers left cities and walked or hitched rides to their distant villages. |
One day in the middle of May, I came across a grainy photograph on Twitter of Mohammad Saiyub, a Muslim, and Amrit Kumar, a Hindu, sitting on a burned patch of earth by the side of a highway in the central Indian state of Madhya Pradesh. In the punishing May heat, Saiyub cradled Amrit, his friend, who had collapsed from heatstroke. They were trying to reach their village, which was 920 miles from the city where they worked in textile factories. |
The friendship, the compassion and the trust captured by the photograph moved me immensely. I felt compelled to know more about their lives and journeys. A friend helped me get in touch with Saiyub and I traveled to his village to find out more. I found a story of friendship, dignity and compassion. I hope you will read it. |
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