Vax, & wow!

A casual inquiry leads to an instant jab; an unprepared couple gets vaccinated
Looking frantically to get vaccinated? Try what Marjina Bibi did. Her story has left this Andheri domestic worker’s neighbours and employers green with envy.
The 55-year-old’s hit-and-miss tryst with vaccination began in June when one of her employers gave her Rs 850 to register for the vaccination camp in his society.
Bibi quietly took the money but returned it the next morning. Her husband had refused.
When her employer called up Jahur Molla, the 60-year-old construction worker shouted, “We don’t want the injection. Let everyone take it. Humko Allah bachayega.
(Allah will save us.)’’
Nobody in her neighbourhood was bothered about vaccination, said Bibi. She hoped her husband would fall in line when his contractor made it compulsory for his workers, or when the BMC came to their area.
In July, Molla went to his village. Would Bibi take the vaccine in his absence? her employer hesitantly asked.
During the nightly video call from her husband, Bibi broached the topic. “You go only to your construction site, but I travel to so many buildings. The roads are crowded with people without masks. I need the injection,’’ she argued. To her surprise, her husband agreed.
The next morning, Bibi told her employer she was ready. But how would she register? Reading an OTP was out of the question. Nor could she leave her mobile with her employer; her children in the village could call anytime.
Giving her the name of a nearby BMC centre, her employer told her to check if they would register her. By then, her employer had started wondering if Bibi getting vaccinated alone was such a good idea.
The next day, Bibi was late for work. Her first words were: “Injection ho gaya. Donon ka. (Both of us got vaccinated.)’’
Bibi’s account was unbelievable.
The previous day, on her way to her next place of work, Bibi stopped to check whether the queue she witnessed every day at a municipal stadium was for vaccination.
“You want the vaccine? Go right in with your Aadhaar card,’’ the watchmen told her.
Bibi rushed home. “What’s the point of my getting vaccinated if you don’t?’’ she asked Molla, who was resting, having arrived that morning. “Sooner or later, they are going to make vaccination compulsory for travel. Will I go alone to our village?’’
Invoking their shared dream of stepping into a plane at least once, she asked how he’d like it if she flew alone. Finally the clincher: Were he to get vaccinated with her immediately, he wouldn’t have to take a day off, for anyway after the long train journey from Murshidabad, he always rested for two days.
Without a murmur, Molla took out his Aadhaar card from his travel bag. At the centre, they discovered they’d forgotten her card. One more trip back and forth later, they were inside the vaccination hall. By then it was lunchtime for the staff.
Finally, after a wait of three-and-a-half hours, Marjina Bibi and Jahur Molla got their vaccine. The stonehearted became such a softie,’’ Bibi laughed.
But there were more miracles in store. Molla’s flawed mobile never received the vaccine certificate. Six days later, Bibi was back at the centre. Having been let in by a kind watchman during lunch break, she got the staff to send her certificate to her employer’s phone. Then she made a video call to the latter. The staff gave the
employer a thumbs up, shouting “Done!”
Her husband’s certificate is still to come. Given Bibi’s luck, that won’t be a problem.