Drive-through vaccination: A four-hour journey to the Covid-19 jab

A free, drive-through vaccination programme sounds incredibly sophisticated and global. But the first one in Gurugram (I prefer its earlier name, Gurgaon), held Friday, May 14, was a textbook example of a great idea, well-meaning in intent but poorly executed. The drive-through, broadcast by the Residents’ Welfare Organisations the day before, was to start at 10 am on a “first-come, first-served basis” and “till stocks last” for those in the 45-plus age group due for a second jab but only if six weeks had elapsed (the 12- to 16-week restriction had not come into force).

Traumatised by the inability to book a slot on CoWin — even the paid slots are full for weeks — the drive-through sounds like a plan. But what did “till stocks last” mean? 200 doses, the newspapers clarify. Assuming there are two people per car, that would mean the drive would be over after 50 cars. An early start was vital and I arrive, chauffeured by my sister, bright eyed and bushy-tailed at 8.30 am, at the DLF City Centre Mall, one of many along the famous (and notorious) mall strip. There’s a huge queue already — people have lined up as early as 6.30 on the service road that fronts these malls. The GPS informs me I am 550 metres from my destination and there are way more than 50 cars ahead. Should I stay or should I go?

I’m expecting the experience to be like filling gas at a petrol pump. Drive up, get jabbed, drive out. No getting out of the car. Surely someone would check our documents ahead. But there’s no sign of officialdom as we watch the line lengthen in the rear-view mirror. And so the ordeal begins.

9.30 am: The sun is growing unpleasantly hot. Now I thank Manmohan Singh for the economic liberalisation that allowed India to produce more sophisticated cars that can run the air-conditioning with the engine idling. The prospect of being stuck thus in an Ambassador or Premier Padmini in such weather doesn’t bear thinking. Sandwiched between a Baleno in front and a tank-like SUV behind, I distract myself by reading The Powerful and the Damned: Private Diaries in Turbulent Times by Lionel Barber, Financial Times editor between 2005 and 2020. Bad choice of book. Diaries, even the best of them, don’t lend themselves to concentrated reading. This one is entertaining but there’s only that much celebrity and tony restaurant name-dropping I can take. I wish I had brought some Asterix comics instead.

10 am: I compose myself for a power nap, when the line lurches forward a couple of metres. The exercise had begun — on time, too.

11 am: After more lurching, we’re 350 metres away, staring at rows of echoing empty malls. My anxiety is off the charts; will stocks last till I get to the top of the line? Whether or not I get the vaccine, I’ll be taking an extra BP tablet for sure. Cars with TV cameras range up and down, filming. At least this drive-through means we won’t be afflicted by that chronic Indian disease of queue-jumping.

12.15 pm: Suddenly, the line moves forward at pace and we’re at the edge of the basement parking where the vaccination station is located. We’re there! But no, the barrier drops in front of the Baleno. The irate driver emerges, a burly man in a singlet and displaying an impressive array of tattoos. He demands the same explanation that we want. 

A cop offers some reassurance. There are 15 or 20 doses left, he tells me.

12.35 pm: The barrier lifts. Somebody checks my temperature, documents and thrusts a consent form at me. More panic as a rummage through handbags yields no pen. We’re waved into the parking lot where we ask an official for a pen. He says many people have used it. I slather it and my hands with sanitiser and fill out the form seconds before we reach another barrier. Documents are displayed again, some numbers keyed in and I get a message congratulating me for being vaccinated — though that’s yet to happen.

12.43 pm: Finally — the vaccination station. The reason for the tortoise pace is clear: there are just two people administering jabs. A masked young lady asks: “Covishield second dose?” I nod. She plunges the needle into my arm and intones: “Take paracetamol, wait 30 minutes in car park.”

In that nano-second, as the relief courses through, I reflect that the contrast with the experience of the first jab, also free, couldn’t have been greater. That took under an hour (including the post-vaccination wait). This time it’s taken upwards of four hours — on a working day. It’s a good reflection of the productivity losses that accrue in a shortage economy, one that’s entirely of the Government of India’s making.

The upside is that I am only half-paranoid now: instead of two masks, I’ll wear one when I’m outdoors.