Last week, I came down with a raging fever, indubitably caused by Covid’s “milder” cousin. Many will agree that mildness is an experience, and, like all experiences, this, too, is subjective. Omicron is not killing as many people. Perhaps we think so because we don’t know the meaning of a Covid death.

When you rush to the hospital in the wake of a medical emergency that’s not Covid, but you’re denied a bed. That’s a Covid death.

When the streetside dhaba closes down, unable to feed its beloved stray dogs, that’s a Covid death.

When the girl at the traffic signal doesn’t sell a single toy because all the schoolgoing children are at home. That’s a Covid death.

The neighbourhood market that brims with the likes of Fabindia and Good Earth is visited by a wandering seller of agarbattis whose wares are beautifully perched on his bicycle. His store lacks a name and a number; it is neither odd nor even. Fabindia lowers its shutters, we stop going to the market, and what is remembered is a forgotten man from whom no one bought anything. That’s a Covid death.

Sure, Omicron isn’t killing too many people. But, is it not?

Back in March 2021, I had written about how the virus will mutate to the point of immune escape if we start to flout norms before at least 70 percent of the population is fully vaccinated. That’s what happened.

And that may happen again. And there’s only so many times that one can die of Covid.