Kavita – barely 16 yrs though she said she was 20 – a primi – had come with her husband who was barely 25 himself. At most he was 25 that is. She wore a brown coloured salwar, kameez and a cheap yellow dupatta. Had waist-length hair, mangled and dry and evidently without any washing for several days over. Not even 5” in height. Doctor said she might need c-section, her pelvis was not big enough. She was not an unregistered patient though. She came in around 12pm -- I had been standing at a corner of the Labour Ward since 11am...doing non-participant ethnography of the ward...Had strict instructions from the Project protocol -- Never to interact with any patient. This 'story' is of my second failure...The doctor said she had only 2 finger dilation. At 1 pm the hospital lunch came. The husband came in tiptoeing from the corridor outside and tried to mingle with the crowd in the coporation hospital ward...feeding her with his own hands – the maushis who spotted him scolded them both for the pampering. They however did not tell anything to the relatively better off woman who was being hand fed by her sister on the next bed. The husband said in their defence – ‘main nahin khilaya toh who nahin khayegi.’
At 3 pm the doctor came in to do her NST – he also called me to show me how the foetal beats were recorded – my first interaction with Kavita's child was thus through the digital machine. I was told that 110–160 is the desired range. Kavita suddenly clasped my hand and said ‘didi, aap pakdo issko, mujhse nahin hota’, referring to the scope that the doctor asked her to hold in posiion over her distended abdomen. She diligently handed me the scope and freed her right hand. She did not seem apologetic that she did not know me and that I was not "one from her class". I held the scope. She was wriggling – didi, bahut dard ho raha hai…..didi, aap mere paas hi rehna….didi, mera koi nahin hai, aap idhar hi rehna.’ I assured her I would, I put my hand on her forehead. She was saying repeatedly, ‘didi, mera koi nahin hai.’ I had already broken the rule....
I asked her: ‘kyun aisa kahen rahe ho? ‘Woh hai na bahar?’
‘Kaun?’ she asked, ‘mera aadmi?’
‘Hain’, I said. And stopped; i might have added other things, like – Kavita, as far as we are concerned, we believe that men of your class desert their pregnant wives in an almost regular manner; that, we do not expect him to forego a day’s work and thus a day's income and come to get you admitted, and then feed you and then not have lunch himself and then wait the whole day out in the corridor…we do not expect these of your class. In many better off cases, as I saw around me, the husbands had not come at all, during or after delivery. I did not say, ‘Kavita, you are more fortunate than many of our class…tumhara koi hai.’ I kept silent .... I had broken one rule...I did not want to break others...
Her NST showed 2 peaks in 20 minutes. The doctor did a finger test – meconium stain. She asked for water – I noticed that her husband had bought and kept a bottle of mineral water – the cheap, adulterated variety. It was cold. Perspiring bottle. I poured 2 small gulps into her mouth. Dr said foetal distress – they wanted a section immediately. A maushi came with the hospital gown – and called ‘arre, isske sath kaun hai?’ The husband materialized from nowhere and said, ‘Main’.
‘Nahin, aurat kaun hai?’
‘Koi nahin’ – he sounded guilty. The frustrated maushi looked at me.
I said, ‘Layiye, main karti hoon.’
Maushi was relieved. The husband looked burdened with gratitude. I was guilty by his guilt. Kavita would not let go off my hand – I lightly hugged her and asked to be freed so that I could put the gown on her.
Now this was a problem for me – I had never before undressed a lady in public view. Yet no one around me seemed bothered. I tried to pull the mobile screen closer, but it was not of much help. Kavita was in no position to either acquiesce or refuse. I decided on the commonest strategy – I would hold the gown around her neck, loosely, and she could take off the kameeez from within and then I would lower the gown and tie the lace in front. However, that too was problematic since she would not do anything – but go on saying ‘didi, mere pet mein bahut dard ho raha hai, aap idhar hi rehna .... Didi... mera koi nahin hai.’
I explained to her that she was expected to change her dress so that she would be taken in and her ‘dard’ would soon vanish. But it was of no use. And I, could not do much – holding the gown, also taking off her kameez and then not letting the gown drop – else all the strategy would go in vain. I was not doing all this as ‘strategy’ though – this all is retrospective descriptions; at that moment it was spontaneous – some 3 male doctors (very young, barely 28 years of age each) were standing just at the other end of the bed and all this came naturally to me. A harried maushi suddenly came up and said ‘arre, kya kar rahi ho? Woh kholo pehle’ referring to the kameez, ‘idhar koi nahin hai.’ ‘Kholo!’ Indicating that she first take off her kameez and then put on the gown -- somehow not realising (as it seemed to me) that in the brief few seconds between these two procedures, Kavita would be bare and without any cover on the upper part of her body for awhile....The maushi's assurance seemed to lay in 'idhar koi nahin hai'
Idhar koi nahin hai.
I vaguely tried to turn my head towards the doctors – ‘arre, woh toh doctors hai!’ I was supposed to understand that ‘doctors’, esp. obstetricians and gynaecs are beyond the male-female divide and that a woman could unabashedly stand naked in front of him. Well, women surely would need to as much 'unashamed' with their 'private parts' with obsetricians and gynaecs as they are expected to be with their husbands....but for me all this was not automatically making sense at that moment...maybe my modern education came in the way?
I tried my best to cover her up as soon as the kameez was out -- reducing the gap between the twp procedures... I am partly sure I could do it successfully – also that the doctors present there – upper-middle class young men who had passed their DGOs from a private college and who practiced in other private more elite hospitals, got to see fuller, riper and whiter breasts. They would definitely not be interested in this pavement-dweller’s anatomy beyond the medical.
The Dr asked me to check if Kavita had been shaved – as I hesitated again to lift a woman’s gown and confirm it, an intern relieved me of this responsibility. She checked and then put in the catheter tube.
When she was taken in to the OT, she was holding onto my arm, asking me to go into the OT with her; the doctor separated us. The maushi took her and her husband’s thumb impression on a blank sheet. Later I asked the doctor and found out that it was consent for a high risk case. They were anticipating some morbidity (if not mortality) but none were explained what they thumb-ed for. I assured her I would wait there till she came out. She had explicitly asked for it -- Tum idhar hi rehna Didi...
Mera koi nahin hai.
Idhar koi nahin hai.
The husband stood guiltily at a corner – I went to him and asked him to wait outside, said I would call him when needed. He looked down and asked, ‘behenji, Kavita ko kuch nahin hoga, ha? Usse kidhar le gaye?’ I was struck. Man, you are so sorrily below the poverty line, you live on the pavement, you don’t have a roof over your head, you are not supposed to have such love and concern for women! You are supposed to beat your wife. That’s what we expect from you. Else, how would we measure our civilized stature, our developed-ness? You should be the demon and thus we be gods! I said yes with my eyes – fearing my voice would be different and he would misread it as foreboding.
I sat there till the section was over; in the interim he tip-toed in twice and each time I gestured with my hand that all was going on fine – of course I was not sure if it was! Finally when the pediatrician left the room, I got to know that the baby was fine, 2.5kgs. I went with the sister to the baby room – a tiny whitish baby was wriggling, mewing under the oxygen cap. She was cleaned with paraffin. Her foot impression taken on the form. The sister asked me to call Kavita’s ‘aadmi’; I went out to the corridor. I called him and he ran to me – again, ‘Behenji, Kavita ko kuch ho gaya?’ I smiled this time, said ‘Woh thhik hai, aap aiye.’ He followed me into the ward and the maushi waited with a bundle – she unwrapped it like a surprise gift until the one part of the little body that mattered was unwrapped – he looked at ‘it’ and said ‘chalega.’
Kya hai? The maushi asked
He sounded nervous – thhik hai
Nahin, kya hai, bolo!
He had to be prompted -- mulgi.
Aur Kavita? He asked the maushi.
She indicated the form. ‘Idhar sign karo.’ He thumb-ed on the form. I again explained that Kavita had been taken for an operation, that it would take some time before she would come out, that she would lie on that bed, that I would again call him.
When she did come out after another half hour and finally was put on the PNC bed, I called him. He came and baffled by everything, stood there, placing a hand on her forehead. I asked the maushi to give them the baby – which had again been taken to the baby room. I carried the baby. It seemed to be looking at me with all its annoyance. When I placed her on the bed, the husband looked at Kavita and they smiled at each other – that poverty stricken subaltern love did not escape my eyes…
He tentatively touched his daughter – ‘woh itni nazuk hai…darr lagta hai’ his voice trailed off. We – the sister, myself and the husband – tried feeding the baby, but neither would the mother stop shivering nor would the baby suck. It seemed to be really annoyed with everything! He suggested he run home and get another bedsheet – tu kaanp rahin hain, tujhe ek aur chaddar oudh dete hai. But she would not leave his hand. This time she was holding onto his hand – I stood beside her on the other side. My hands free. Nahin, tu nahin jana. Tu idhar hi rahena. Mere paas. I was redundant now....
When I left some time later – promising them I would come back before she was discharged – I had seen a new meaning of love …
Mera koi nahin hain…
At 3 pm the doctor came in to do her NST – he also called me to show me how the foetal beats were recorded – my first interaction with Kavita's child was thus through the digital machine. I was told that 110–160 is the desired range. Kavita suddenly clasped my hand and said ‘didi, aap pakdo issko, mujhse nahin hota’, referring to the scope that the doctor asked her to hold in posiion over her distended abdomen. She diligently handed me the scope and freed her right hand. She did not seem apologetic that she did not know me and that I was not "one from her class". I held the scope. She was wriggling – didi, bahut dard ho raha hai…..didi, aap mere paas hi rehna….didi, mera koi nahin hai, aap idhar hi rehna.’ I assured her I would, I put my hand on her forehead. She was saying repeatedly, ‘didi, mera koi nahin hai.’ I had already broken the rule....
I asked her: ‘kyun aisa kahen rahe ho? ‘Woh hai na bahar?’
‘Kaun?’ she asked, ‘mera aadmi?’
‘Hain’, I said. And stopped; i might have added other things, like – Kavita, as far as we are concerned, we believe that men of your class desert their pregnant wives in an almost regular manner; that, we do not expect him to forego a day’s work and thus a day's income and come to get you admitted, and then feed you and then not have lunch himself and then wait the whole day out in the corridor…we do not expect these of your class. In many better off cases, as I saw around me, the husbands had not come at all, during or after delivery. I did not say, ‘Kavita, you are more fortunate than many of our class…tumhara koi hai.’ I kept silent .... I had broken one rule...I did not want to break others...
Her NST showed 2 peaks in 20 minutes. The doctor did a finger test – meconium stain. She asked for water – I noticed that her husband had bought and kept a bottle of mineral water – the cheap, adulterated variety. It was cold. Perspiring bottle. I poured 2 small gulps into her mouth. Dr said foetal distress – they wanted a section immediately. A maushi came with the hospital gown – and called ‘arre, isske sath kaun hai?’ The husband materialized from nowhere and said, ‘Main’.
‘Nahin, aurat kaun hai?’
‘Koi nahin’ – he sounded guilty. The frustrated maushi looked at me.
I said, ‘Layiye, main karti hoon.’
Maushi was relieved. The husband looked burdened with gratitude. I was guilty by his guilt. Kavita would not let go off my hand – I lightly hugged her and asked to be freed so that I could put the gown on her.
Now this was a problem for me – I had never before undressed a lady in public view. Yet no one around me seemed bothered. I tried to pull the mobile screen closer, but it was not of much help. Kavita was in no position to either acquiesce or refuse. I decided on the commonest strategy – I would hold the gown around her neck, loosely, and she could take off the kameeez from within and then I would lower the gown and tie the lace in front. However, that too was problematic since she would not do anything – but go on saying ‘didi, mere pet mein bahut dard ho raha hai, aap idhar hi rehna .... Didi... mera koi nahin hai.’
I explained to her that she was expected to change her dress so that she would be taken in and her ‘dard’ would soon vanish. But it was of no use. And I, could not do much – holding the gown, also taking off her kameez and then not letting the gown drop – else all the strategy would go in vain. I was not doing all this as ‘strategy’ though – this all is retrospective descriptions; at that moment it was spontaneous – some 3 male doctors (very young, barely 28 years of age each) were standing just at the other end of the bed and all this came naturally to me. A harried maushi suddenly came up and said ‘arre, kya kar rahi ho? Woh kholo pehle’ referring to the kameez, ‘idhar koi nahin hai.’ ‘Kholo!’ Indicating that she first take off her kameez and then put on the gown -- somehow not realising (as it seemed to me) that in the brief few seconds between these two procedures, Kavita would be bare and without any cover on the upper part of her body for awhile....The maushi's assurance seemed to lay in 'idhar koi nahin hai'
Idhar koi nahin hai.
I vaguely tried to turn my head towards the doctors – ‘arre, woh toh doctors hai!’ I was supposed to understand that ‘doctors’, esp. obstetricians and gynaecs are beyond the male-female divide and that a woman could unabashedly stand naked in front of him. Well, women surely would need to as much 'unashamed' with their 'private parts' with obsetricians and gynaecs as they are expected to be with their husbands....but for me all this was not automatically making sense at that moment...maybe my modern education came in the way?
I tried my best to cover her up as soon as the kameez was out -- reducing the gap between the twp procedures... I am partly sure I could do it successfully – also that the doctors present there – upper-middle class young men who had passed their DGOs from a private college and who practiced in other private more elite hospitals, got to see fuller, riper and whiter breasts. They would definitely not be interested in this pavement-dweller’s anatomy beyond the medical.
The Dr asked me to check if Kavita had been shaved – as I hesitated again to lift a woman’s gown and confirm it, an intern relieved me of this responsibility. She checked and then put in the catheter tube.
When she was taken in to the OT, she was holding onto my arm, asking me to go into the OT with her; the doctor separated us. The maushi took her and her husband’s thumb impression on a blank sheet. Later I asked the doctor and found out that it was consent for a high risk case. They were anticipating some morbidity (if not mortality) but none were explained what they thumb-ed for. I assured her I would wait there till she came out. She had explicitly asked for it -- Tum idhar hi rehna Didi...
Mera koi nahin hai.
Idhar koi nahin hai.
The husband stood guiltily at a corner – I went to him and asked him to wait outside, said I would call him when needed. He looked down and asked, ‘behenji, Kavita ko kuch nahin hoga, ha? Usse kidhar le gaye?’ I was struck. Man, you are so sorrily below the poverty line, you live on the pavement, you don’t have a roof over your head, you are not supposed to have such love and concern for women! You are supposed to beat your wife. That’s what we expect from you. Else, how would we measure our civilized stature, our developed-ness? You should be the demon and thus we be gods! I said yes with my eyes – fearing my voice would be different and he would misread it as foreboding.
I sat there till the section was over; in the interim he tip-toed in twice and each time I gestured with my hand that all was going on fine – of course I was not sure if it was! Finally when the pediatrician left the room, I got to know that the baby was fine, 2.5kgs. I went with the sister to the baby room – a tiny whitish baby was wriggling, mewing under the oxygen cap. She was cleaned with paraffin. Her foot impression taken on the form. The sister asked me to call Kavita’s ‘aadmi’; I went out to the corridor. I called him and he ran to me – again, ‘Behenji, Kavita ko kuch ho gaya?’ I smiled this time, said ‘Woh thhik hai, aap aiye.’ He followed me into the ward and the maushi waited with a bundle – she unwrapped it like a surprise gift until the one part of the little body that mattered was unwrapped – he looked at ‘it’ and said ‘chalega.’
Kya hai? The maushi asked
He sounded nervous – thhik hai
Nahin, kya hai, bolo!
He had to be prompted -- mulgi.
Aur Kavita? He asked the maushi.
She indicated the form. ‘Idhar sign karo.’ He thumb-ed on the form. I again explained that Kavita had been taken for an operation, that it would take some time before she would come out, that she would lie on that bed, that I would again call him.
When she did come out after another half hour and finally was put on the PNC bed, I called him. He came and baffled by everything, stood there, placing a hand on her forehead. I asked the maushi to give them the baby – which had again been taken to the baby room. I carried the baby. It seemed to be looking at me with all its annoyance. When I placed her on the bed, the husband looked at Kavita and they smiled at each other – that poverty stricken subaltern love did not escape my eyes…
He tentatively touched his daughter – ‘woh itni nazuk hai…darr lagta hai’ his voice trailed off. We – the sister, myself and the husband – tried feeding the baby, but neither would the mother stop shivering nor would the baby suck. It seemed to be really annoyed with everything! He suggested he run home and get another bedsheet – tu kaanp rahin hain, tujhe ek aur chaddar oudh dete hai. But she would not leave his hand. This time she was holding onto his hand – I stood beside her on the other side. My hands free. Nahin, tu nahin jana. Tu idhar hi rahena. Mere paas. I was redundant now....
When I left some time later – promising them I would come back before she was discharged – I had seen a new meaning of love …
Mera koi nahin hain…
