She taught me how to wear a sari. A few weeks ago, she died of COVID

We are paying the price for having behaved like white Australians for so long, our whole lives really. So think many of my friends who, like me, are of Indian origin. Nobody has reached out. Nobody has offered their condolences. Nobody worries that maybe our families are not OK while this incalculable human disaster makes its way across India, leaving hundreds of thousands of mourning families in its wake.

At its recent peak, India was reporting more than 400,000 cases of COVID-19 daily. That’s more than the population of Canberra. Serological studies from last year’s first wave, however, have estimated there were actually between 26 and 32 infections for every reported case of the virus. Deaths were similarly misreported. Complacency and overconfidence about India’s initial relative success during the first surge, left the country exposed to the catastrophe that followed.

Just three months ago, the governing political party was holding rallies in the streets, where thousands gathered to hail their achievements. “[India] has saved humanity from a big disaster by containing corona effectively,” claimed PM Narendra Modi in January.

India is home to 1.4 billion people, a sixth of the world’s population. Many are dying at home without access to healthcare. Funeral pyres fill car parks in New Delhi, with crematoriums unable to handle the number of bodies. Some jurisdictions have authorised the cutting down of trees on public land because families have run out of firewood to burn their dead.

My cousins and I, scattered safely across the developed world, send messages to one another on Facebook. Emojis offered as weak substitutes for the depth and complexity of our real feelings. We speak about how to raise money and where best to donate it. We share snippets of information about family in India. We message updates about who is sick with COVID, who has been sick with COVID, and who will likely die from this insidious virus.

I didn’t visit Muami, which is what we called my great-aunt, when I was last in India. My husband and I were there as part of an aid trip where we rushed from place to place, leaving little time for loved ones. I feel all the more ashamed now that we did not make the extra effort and get to Lucknow to see my family.

When my dad introduced us, Muami and I were immediately taken with one another, despite the generation gap. At a personal level, she showed such care and tactile love towards me, a near stranger from the other side of the world. She was always holding my hand and touching my hair. She taught me how to wear a sari, badly. But that was the fault of the student not the master.

Muami fought COVID for three weeks before she died in early May 2021.