Another visit to the hospital

‘Do you need any help?’ I called out to Tabassum – not an unusual question for me to ask when someone else is preparing a meal. What was unusual about it this time was the fact that I had to crane my head over the edge of a bed to ask Tabassum, who was sitting underneath the bed chopping away at some onions, with a pot of rice boiling away by her side. Under the bed was the only available space in their tiny shack to cook – the whole width of the shack was taken up by their bed, and outside was a narrow alleyway; no space there either.

Such cooking conditions are fairly unusual in themselves. But Tabassum is also blind. She cooks by feeling and hearing. She feels whether the pot is in the correct position above the stove: how she does this without burning her hands is beyond me. She must hear when the water is boiling and it is time to add the rice, and feel how to take the lid off the saucepan. To witness such triumph over adversity; seeing how she continues to live her life even in the most difficult circumstances was emotional enough. But following from the day we had had it was almost too much.

I had met Tarranum, Tabassum’s sister earlier in the morning, and she walked back with me to their home. She introduced me to her five year old daughter, who was a cute little bundle of energy, and who hardly stayed still long enough for me to take a photo.

Tarranum is just nineteen years old. She lives with her husband’s family outside of Kolkata. Each morning at seven o’clock she leaves her house with her daughter and catches a train into the city. She drops off her daughter at nursery, and then makes her way to her family home where she helps Tabassum with household chores; this is necessary as her father and brother are also visually impaired. Her mother is currently visiting another married sister in Jaipur, whose newly born daughter is very ill. At ten o’clock every day Tarranum leads Tabassum out of their home and into the narrow streets, visiting other disabled girls in the area, helping them attend medical appointments and leading self help groups. It must be exhausting work, doing so much walking in the blistering heat, and with frequent power cuts. Work often doesn’t stop until 6 o’clock, when both girls return to their home and continue with household chores. Tarranum and her daughter do not reach their home until 10 o’clock at night.

When I arrived at their place on this particular morning Tabassum was sitting under the bed, eating her breakfast of rice. Breakfast over, our first stop was the home of a seven year old disabled girl. She is unable to sit or to stand, and is deaf and dumb. When we arrived she was lying on a piece of material on a cement floor. Her grandmother sat her up and supported her head, giving her a cuddle. Then she looked at me and said ‘what to do?’ I was utterly powerless to do anything to help or to say anything that would provide any comfort.

Our next stop was even worse. We walked into a tiny room, and at first I saw only two elderly people lying asleep on a bed. But then I noticed a teenager sitting on the floor, staring vacantly out into space, sweat standing out on her forehead, and dribbling. She clearly looked ill, and from what I gathered from the conversation she had been ill for some time. My limited Hindi was really a problem, as I could not understand why she was not in hospital. I think they said that it was expensive and that the government hospital was too far away. At this point the girl stretched out her hand to me, she seemed distantly aware that a stranger was in her home. She then put her head on Tabassum’s lap and started crying, clearly in a lot of distress. I rang up the Director, to see what she advised, and she said that we should go to hospital. Nighat could hardly walk, and in the blistering sun trying to get to a taxi was just awful.

I don’t really want to think about the emergency department at the government hospital, it makes me feel sick. There were crowds of people outside jostling with one another to get a ticket in order to be seen. When we did get a ticket we went into the emergency room where there were three beds. Well, not really beds, they were wooden planks with a rusty gas cylinder at one end. I tried not to look. We then jostled with crowds of other people to talk to a doctor. The doctor gave a cursory glance over the papers we had brought, took a look at Nighat, and said that she could not help. We should have brought her in 15 minutes earlier, as the correct department closed at two o’clock. It wasn't an acute case, so there was nothing I could say that would be any help. We had to bring her back the next day before 2 o’clock. Tarranum said ‘government hospital is a name only, no treatment, no nothing. We always go and are told to come back.’ So all we could do was to struggle with Nighat back out of the hospital; we decided to see if a private doctor could help. He referred us to another doctor, so with a girl who was in a lot of pain, we caught a bicycle rickshaw. This private doctor saw her fairly quickly and prescribed some medicine, but I didn’t really know whether this would help at all since it was clear she should be in hospital. When we came out of the private doctor Nighat could not walk – she had to be carried into the taxi. By this time I was feeling terrible, angry at the hospital for not being able to help, and at the same time feeling so guilty that I had dragged this sick girl out of her home on what turned out to be a wild goose chase. We got Nighat back home, and I just wanted to sit down and cry.

Although it was after 4.30 Tabassum still wanted to cook me lunch, so we made our way back to her home, where she sat under the bed and started chopping away. Although I was really not hungry after the terrible day, it was one of the most delicious meals I have ever had. She cooked rice with lady’s fingers, and a meat curry.

I heard a couple of days later that the family had taken Nighat back to the hospital, and she was going to be seen by a senior surgeon, so hopefully the visit to the hospital wasn’t such a wasted effort after all.