India coronavirus: The tragedy of the tuk-tuk driver who fled Covid
Rajan Yadav is one of millions of migrant workers whose lives were destroyed by India's lockdown.
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When Rajan Yadav heard Indian Prime Minister Narendra Modi announce a nationwide lockdown on 24 March to halt the spread of Covid-19, little did he know that his life was about to change forever.
He was in India's financial capital, Mumbai, where thousands arrive every day from all parts of the country to realise their dreams.
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His story is no different.
Rajan came to Mumbai more than a decade ago with his wife, Sanju. He worked in factories while she took care of their 11-year-old son, Nitin, and six-year-old daughter, Nandini.
They took a gamble in 2017 when they bought a tuk-tuk with a bank loan. The vehicle-for-hire brought more money for the couple and they were able to put their children in an English-medium school, which many Indian parents consider necessary for a bright future.
But just two years later, Rajan was staring at the same auto with his wife and daughter's bodies lying next to it.
Rajan blames the tragedy on his decision to leave the city in May. But he really didn't have much of a choice.
The family had used up most of its savings to pay rent, repay the loan and buy groceries in March and April. They were hoping that the city would reopen in May, but the lockdown was extended again.
Out of money and options, they decided to go back to their village in Jaunpur district in Uttar Pradesh state. They applied for tickets on the special trains that were being run for migrants, but had no luck for a week.
Desperate and exhausted, they decided to undertake the 1,500-km long journey in their tuk-tuk. The family of four left Mumbai on 9 May.
Three days later, just 300km (124 miles) before their destination, a truck rammed into the tuk-tuk from behind, killing Sanju and Nandini on the spot.
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Rajan's is not an isolated story - dozens of migrant workers died while trying to flee the very cities they had helped build and run during India's unprecedented and grinding lockdown.
Migrant workers had little choice after the restrictions cut off their income and ate into their savings. In the absence of transport, men, women and children were forced to begin arduous journeys back to their villages - walking, cycling or hitching rides on tuk-tuks, lorries, water tankers and even milk vans.
While doctors were fighting against Covid-19 inside hospitals, another battle for survival was being fought on the streets and highways of India.
Images of families, some with toddlers and pregnant women in tow, trying to flee cities are hard to forget.
During a reporting assignment,
I met a family of five, including three children, leaving Delhi. They had a rickety bicycle for transport and the children were visibly struggling to bear the punishing May heat.
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Rajan's decision to leave Mumbai was also rooted in his fears that his family might go hungry. They had packed enough food when they left Mumbai. He remembers that his wife had told the children that they were taking a road trip.
He would drive from 05:00 to 11:00. He would then rest during the day, and at 18:00 the family would be back on the road until 23:00. It was a hard journey but the prospect of being in the safety of their village kept the family going.
But only Rajan and his son, Nitin, reached the village. The next few days were spent in a daze.
"I kept thinking that all this was a bad dream," he recalls, adding that his son would often jolt him back to reality.
Nitin would not stop asking for his sister and mother but Rajan had no answers. He couldn't tell his son that the life they had built for themselves in Mumbai no longer existed.
Rajan started spending his days in the fields - sometimes he would help his brothers, but he mostly sat under a tree staring at the sky.
He hardly spoke to anybody, not even to Nitin, who was being looked after by his grandparents.
"I kept questioning my decision to flee the city. Did I hurry? Did I try hard enough to make some money during the lockdown? My mind was full of questions but I had no answers," he says.
Three months passed like this and his parents began to worry about his mental health. Then an innocent question from Nitin punctured from his relentless grief.
"Papa, mama wanted me to become a doctor, do you think it's still possible. Are you going to leave me in the village?" Nitin asked.
