A BRITISH-ASIAN man recovering from Covid-19 has said he has been “given a second chance in life”, after spending more than 20 days in an induced coma.
Sohail Anjum, 47, was diagnosed with coronavirus in March. He was later told he only had a 50 per cent chance of survival, and spent 23 days in an induced coma in an intensive care unit (ICU).
Sadly, his mother Rashida died from the disease while Anjum was in ICU. Now recovering at home in Croydon, Anjum has reflected on his near-death experience.
“At one point, I was told it was touch and go,” he told Eastern Eye last week. “(Doctors) didn’t know which way it would end up. I was very fortunate to pull through. I most definitely think I’ve been given a second chance in life.”
Anjum, a professional photographer, believes he caught the virus while travelling to work on public transport during rush hour. His symptoms began at the beginning of March – he started having migraines and had an itchy throat.
“I thought it was strange as I have never suffered from migraines before, but coronavirus was still in its early stages. There wasn’t a lockdown at that point,” he explained.
However, his condition worsened and eventually he was sent home from work. Although Anjum said he contacted his GP and the 111 service several times, they dismissed his concerns.
“I was told it sounded like a nasal viral infection or a flu-like virus,” he recalled. “My GP told me to rest and I would be fine.
“But the weekend came and my symptoms began getting worse. My fever went up and I developed a cough.”
On March 20, he started having shortness of breath. His GP advised him to wait a few more days before going to hospital, but Anjum was so worried by his symptoms that he decided to go straight to A&E in Croydon University Hospital. Once there, things moved fast. He was sent to a ward with other patients who were battling the virus.
Two people succumbed to Covid-19 during his time on the ward. At one point, a man in the bed beside Anjum became frantic and told nurses he didn’t want to die.
“Later, the nurse came in to take his observations, and all I could hear was, ‘oh Jesus, oh no’, and one of the other nurses said he had no pulse,” he said. “There was nothing they could do.”
Within days of being admitted to hospital, Anjum was told he needed to be put into an induced sleep. “I don’t remember a thing after that,” he said. “It is like going into an operation when they put you to sleep and they wake you up after a few hours. Only in my case, I woke up a month later.”
When he came out from his coma, he received devastating news – his elderly mother had passed away from Covid-19.
“A few days after I had been admitted and put been into inducted sleep, she had been admitted into hospital,” he said. “She passed away, two days after being admitted. Afterwards, I found out that she passed away worrying about me as well, as she knew I was sick.”
When he was on a ventilator, the outlook looked bleak. Anjum’s oxygen requirements were at 80 per cent and he contracted septicaemia, but then his vitals started improving.
“That was when the doctors had a bit of hope and that’s when they decided to take me off the ventilator,” he said. According to Anjum, “it was my mum’s prayers that pulled me through”.
He added: “Even the doctors and nurses were surprised and they said how lucky I was. A lot of people who go into ICU don’t make it out.”
Data has shown that coronavirus has had a disproportionate impact on the BAME community. Research by the Intensive Care National Audit & Research Centre (ICNARC) in May found that black and Asian patients are up to 17 per cent more likely to die in intensive care than white patients.
Despite the increased risk, Anjum believes that many in the BAME community do not fully comprehend the threat of Covid-19. He blames this on the lack of clear messaging from authorities. He also thinks the government should have implemented the lockdown earlier than they did.
“It was too late,” he said. “An earlier lockdown could have prevented hundreds of fatalities.”
Now recovering at home with his wife and father, Anjum admitted his progress has been “slow”. He lost 11.5 kg while in hospital and is focusing on building up his weight.
His muscles were dormant during his time in ICU, which means he needs to build up strength in them again. As he is unable to squat or bend down, the NHS has installed a specialist chair in his bath and facilities to help him walk up the stairs.
“It’s going to take a bit of time before I am fully recovered,” he said.
Although he has been retested and confirmed negative for the virus, Anjum is still cautious about how much contact he has with his 85 year-old father. “I’m still very weak and vulnerable, so I do have to make sure that I stay away from him,” he said.
Anjum is also still processing the death of his mother. “I have to get used to not seeing my mum or hearing her voice,” he said. “I think I will only be at peace once I visit her grave."
Jay's grandma’s popcorn from Gujarat is now selling out everywhere.
Ditched the influencer route and began posting hilarious videos online.
Available in Sweet Chai and Spicy Masala, all vegan and gluten-free
Jayspent 18 months on a list. Thousands of names. Influencers with follower counts that looked like phone numbers. He was going to launch his grandmother's popcorn the right way: send free bags, wait for posts, pray for traction. That's the playbook, right? That's what you do when you're a nobody selling something nobody asked for.
Then one interaction made him snap. The entitlement. The self-importance. The way some food blogger treated his family's recipe like a favour they were doing him. He looked at his spreadsheet. Closed it. Picked up his phone and decided to burn it all down.
Now he makes videos mocking the same people he was going to beg for help. Influencers weeping over the wrong luxury car. Creators demanding payment for chewing food on camera. Someone having a breakdown about ice cubes. And guess what? The internet ate it up. His popcorn keeps selling out. And from Gujarat, his grandmother's 60-year-old recipe is now moving units because her grandson got mad enough to be funny about it.
Jay’s grandma’s popcorn from Gujarat is now selling out everywhere Instagram/daadisnacks
The kitchen story
Daadi means grandmother in Hindi. Jay's daadi came to America from Gujarat decades ago. Every weekend, she made popcorn with the spices she grew up with, including cardamom, cinnamon, and chilli mixes. It was her way of keeping home close while living somewhere that didn't taste like it.
Jay wanted that in stores. Wanted brown faces in the snack aisle. It didn’t happen overnight. It took a couple of years to get from a family recipe to something they could actually sell. Everyone pitched in, including his grandmom, uncle, mum. The spices come from small local farmers. There are just two flavours for now, Sweet Chai and Spicy Masala. It’s all vegan and gluten-free, packed in bright bags that instantly feel South Asian.
The videos don't look like marketing. They look like someone venting at 11 PM after scrolling too long. He nails the nasal influencer voice. The fake sympathy. “I can’t believe this,” he says in that exaggerated influencer tone, “they gave me the cheaper car, only eighty grand instead of one-twenty.” That clip alone blew up, pulling in close to nine million views.
Most people don't know they're watching a snack brand. They think it's social commentary. Jay never calls himself an influencer. He says he’s a creator, period. There’s a difference, and he makes sure people know it. His TikTok has around three hundred thousand followers, Instagram about half that. The comments read like a sigh of relief, people fed up with fake polish, finally hearing someone say what everyone else was thinking.
This fits into something called deinfluencing; people pushing back against the buy-everything-trust-nobody cycle. But Jay's version has teeth. He's naming names, calling out the economics. Big venture money flows to chains with good lighting. Family businesses with actual stories get ignored because their content isn't slick enough.
Jay watched his New York neighbourhood change. Chains moved in. Influencers posted about places that had funding and were aesthetic. The old spots, the family ones, got left behind. His videos are about that gap. The erosion of local culture by money and aesthetics.
"Big chains and VC-funded businesses are promoted at the expense of local ones," he said. His content doesn't just roast influencers. It promotes other small food makers who can't afford to play the game. He positions Daadi as a defender of something real against something plastic.
And it's working. Not just philosophically. Financially. The videos drive traffic. People click through, try the popcorn, come back. The company can't keep stock. That's the proof.
Daadi popcorn features authentic Gujarat flavours like Sweet Chai and Spicy Masala, all vegan and gluten-free Daadi Snacks
The blowback
People unfollow because they think he's too harsh. Jay's take: "I would argue I need to be meaner."
In May, he posted that he's not chasing content creation money like most people at his follower count. "I post to speak my mind and help my family's snack biz." That's a different model. Most brands pay influencers to make everything look perfect. They chase viral polish, and Jay does the opposite. In fact, he weaponises rawness and treats criticism like a product feature.
The internet mostly backs him. Reddit threads light up with support. One commenter was "toxic influencers choking on their matcha lattes searching their Balenciaga bags." Another: "Influencers are boring and unoriginal and can get bent." The anger is shared. Jay simply gave it a microphone and a snack to buy.
Jay's success says something about where things are going. People are done with curated perfection. They can smell the artificiality now. They respond to brands that feel like humans rather than committees. Daadi doesn't sell aspiration. Doesn't sell a lifestyle. Sells popcorn and a point of view.
The quality matters, including the spices, the sourcing, and the family behind it. But the edge matters too. He’s not afraid to say what most brands tiptoe around. “We just show who we are,” Jay says. “No pretending, no gloss. People can feel that and that’s when they reach for the popcorn.”
Most small businesses can't afford to play the traditional game. Can't pay influencers. Can't hire agencies. Can't fake their way into feeds. Maybe they don't need to. Maybe honesty and humour can cut through if they're sharp enough. If the product backs it up. If the story is real and the person telling it isn't trying to sound like a PR script.
This started with a list Jay didn't use. The business took off the moment he stopped trying to play by the usual rules and started speaking his mind. Turns out, honesty sells. And yes, the popcorn really does taste good.
Daadi Snacks merch dropInstagram/daadisnacks
The question is whether this scales. Whether other small businesses watch this and realise they don't need to beg for attention from people who don't care. Right now, Daadi keeps selling out. People keep watching. The grandmother's recipe that was supposed to need influencer approval is doing fine without it. Better than fine. Turns out the most effective marketing strategy might just be giving a damn and not being afraid to show it.
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