The most famous lines in English literature come to mind oftener these days of pandemic uncertainty, forced isolation and lack of anything better to do. Looming before us are four letters of utmost importance today. B-B-M-P, that magical acronym that conjures visions of curfew at nights and men in uniforms raiding houses to check temperatures, take throat swabs and mark a corona warning sign on doors. Reminds us of the Great Plague of London in the 16th century.
But, this is 21st century India, where politicians display their prowess in massive roadshows; where unmasked chief ministers tell others to wear masks; where the rich still celebrate gala weddings... Only you and I wear masks, stay indoors, don’t socialise and get vaccinated. We don’t appear on TV taking a jab; we don’t question what vaccine they give us; we queue obediently and follow the rules. If the virus gets us, we will quarantine ourselves, or go to the nearest hospital and die without a murmur if there is no oxygen. So, here comes Shakespeare to our aid.
“To jab, or not to jab,” that is the question:
Whether ‘tis wiser in the mind to suffer
The pain and gasps of Covid-19,
Or, to take arms against this sea of viruses
And by jabbing, kill them.
To mask— to jab, no more;
And by a jab to say we end this plague
With the thousand other ailments that flesh is heir to: ‘Tis a consummation devoutly to be wish’d.
To jab, to jab again— perchance to get clots! Ay, there’s the rub: For in that clotted brain what ills may come
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil, must give us pause.
There’s the respect that makes corona a better choice;
For who would bear the tittle-tattle
of neighbours,
The politician’s chicanery, the rich man’s insolence,
The pangs of separated families, the postal delays,
The corruption of office, and
the spurns
that patient merit of the citizen takes,
When he himself might his
quietus make
with a mere vaccine? Who would fardels bear,
to grunt and sweat in a pot-holed life,
But that the dread of something
after elections,
The undiscover’d government, in whose clutches
no citizen survives, puzzles the will
And makes us rather bear those
woes we have
Than fly to others that we know
not of?
Thus, corona doth make cowards of us all,
And thus, the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o’er with the BBMP’s shot,
And activities of great import
With this regard, their direction turn awry
And lose the name of action.
With apologies to the Bard of Avon.