Mina

We walked through the dimly lit corridors of one of Dehradun's finest charitable hospitals, peeking in doors of ward after ward, beds full of sick and poor people from all over Uttarakhand. After asking several nurses we, Kunwar and I finally located Mina's ward. We almost didn't see her, but there she was at the end of a row of ten beds, curled on her side, her beautiful waist long hair gone, her head shaven to reveal newly sprouted black fuzz. She jumped when she saw us and struggled to pull herself up. "No," we said, "Take rest, don't exert yourself." But to no avail. Mina pulled herself upright. I could see she was in pain. A long thin scar  traveled from the middle of her hairline at the top of her forehead to just behind her right ear. "Are you in pain?" I asked. "Yes, I have so much pain in my head," was her answer as her hand shook and touched the area behind her right eye. We had learned that the doctors were able to remove only part of Mina's tumour. If they were to remove all of it, they would have had to remove her eye as well, and possibly would have sent her into a coma. "Well," I wondered, "why didn't they remove her eye then?" At least they would have gotten all the cancer. "Because," Kunwar answered me, "her family would not have understood. They sent her to the hospital with a pain in her head to be fixed, and had they removed her eye, the family would have questioned, 'Why when we sent her  with two good eyes to these doctors is she now coming home with only one?"  Yes, I know this does not make sense -- for someone who is educated. But these things must all be considered from the perspective of an uneducated person. Another scenario is going on right now as I type. A man in another village has cancer of the throat. The doctors say they can remove the tumor  but it would mean the man can never speak again. Kunwar met the man's son two days ago, and the son said, "Not be able to speak? What kind of doctors are these? No, my father will not have that operation. These doctors are fools!" 

I took Mina's hand. We learned that she would be going for chemotherapy in another hospital in another city far from Sainji. Her husband was at home trying to raise funds to make this happen. Chemotherapy, the remedy for so many cancer sufferers. But in my mind I was thinking, 'chemotherapy kills the body's immune system. A person going through chemo has to manage a good diet, and good hygiene and protect themselves from germs.' I pictured Mina's house, the rough boards and the open fire pit in the corner of the room, the mattress she and her family slept on -- infested with bed bugs. Every summer Mina would bring her children to me, covered in bites and always it was the same instructions; 'Pull the mattress and all of your blankets out into the sun,  and boil all of your clothes and sheets. Bath the children every day with soap Mina, and I will provide the medicine to take care of their bites.'  So now Mina will return to her home after each session of chemo, feeling the nausea, feeling like she will die, with no comforts, no nutritious diet so necessary for a good recovery.  How will she manage? How can I help? Before we said goodbye to Mina I tried to offer her some hope, "You will get better Mina. You are strong, and you can fight this disease."  Yes, she said as she looked away and laid her head back on the pillow. A tear slid down her cheek. 

Mina and My Relationship

When I married Kunwar we moved into his grandfather's house, and I quickly became acquainted with our neighbours. They were a joint family composed of four brothers, their two wives (one brother was not married, and the older brother lived up the mountain in a cow shed), and their children. In the first week that we had settled into the house I heard a tap tap at the door. There stood Sagar, five years of age, holding a dirty bottle filled with water. "Auntie, my mother wants you to put this in your refrigerator please," he asked politely, his big brown eyes looking up at me. "Ok," I said. It was no problem I thought. I put the bottle in the fridge and went about my business, and then ten minutes later there was another tap tap at the door. There stood Sagar once again, "Auntie, can you please give me that bottle of water now," Sagar implored. "Ok," I answered, confused as to why they now wanted the bottle back. I handed Sagar the bottle, and then a few minutes later Mina was at my door, "Auntie, why didn't you put this in your refrigerator?  "But I did!" I replied. "No, it is still warm." "But Mina, it doesn't get cold instantly. You have to leave it for some time." Oh, well put it back in then. I will come back later," she answered and turned and left. I told this story to Kunwar later that day, and he laughed, "Oh if you start doing these things for these people, then the whole village will be asking to use our refrigerator. Don't do this. They can get cold water from the spring." 

A few days later, Sagar was at my door again. "Auntie my mother wants some tomatoes." "Oh, ok, and I gave four or five tomatoes to Sagar. 'Just being neighbourly,' I thought. But soon a pattern began. One day it was onions, another day it was potatoes, and then it was requested that I give some vegetables so they could have that with their lunch. 'Wait a minute!' I thought. 'Enough is enough!' Then one day Mina asked me to start giving breakfast and lunch to her children because, 'we made such nice things to eat'. At the same time I took care of numerous cuts and burns, infections, and gave out medicine for skin infections, fever and intestinal disorders. We even drove Mina and her children to the hospital a few times and paid the bill to boot! Finally one day I put my foot down when once again Sagar came to my door asking for some eggs. "Mina, I am not a FREE shop!" I called over to her. "Oh ho," she laughed. "Ok Auntie."  And that was the end of it, or so I thought. Rather there was a cooling off period and slowly the requests started to come again. I soon learned to give what was reasonable (medicine for fever, bandages for cuts, and the odd onion or potato here and there). 

One day Mina came with her youngest son, Abu. He was running a high fever. I gave him paracetamol and told Mina that he should see the doctor. She left without comment. A few hours later her sister-in-law was banging at my door. "Auntie, come quick! Abu is dead!" I raced into the house only to see Abu laying on the floor, Mina wailing, and a group of women huddled on the bed looking terrified. I felt for a pulse on Abu and found it. He had passed out. His temperature was high. I immediately asked for a basin of water and a cloth and began bathing him down. Abu rallied around and began to cry. I began to strip the layers of clothing which village people pile on a child whenever they have a fever and immersed him in the tepid water. "The child is dying and she is giving him a bath!" said one of the women, "Westerners have strange ways." "Now let's get him to the hospital Mina." I said.  Abu was treated at the hospital by a lovely and compassionate doctor who explained to Mina and I that Abu had a brain seizure due to his high fever. When a child's fever is quickly on the rise paracetamol  often has no effect, instead the body's defense mechanism kicks into gear and shuts the brain down, causing the child to pass out. It is the body's natural way of dealing with infection and fever. the doctor went on to tell Mina that I had done the right thing in cooling Abu down with a cool sponge bath. So Mina and I both learned something that day. A few weeks later when I was about to turn in for the night I heard Abu crying, and the splashing of water. "Mina" I called out, "Does Abu have a fever?" "Yes, Auntie," came her reply, "But I have medicine for him and I am giving him a bath." I smiled to know that Mina was putting into practice a new method she had learned to care for her child. There were many times after this that Mina's children became ill for one reason or another, and many times that I helped her. 

As much as Mina cared for her children however, she had an angry streak in her. On many occasions I witnessed her beating the children. One day I watched horrified from my window as she boxed Sagar's ears with her shoes, first one ear and then the other. Sagar's head bounced back and forth with the force of the blows. I called out, "Mina!" She stopped, "Oh children Auntie, they can be very naughty." One morning four year old Saniya was pushed down the cement stairs by an angry Mina. This time Mina's husband witnessed the abuse, "If you ever do that to one of my children again woman, I will push you down the stairs." I tended to Soniya's cuts and bruises that time. The little girl sobbed silently. And then there are the burn scars on Soniyas neck. The children in the village tell me those were inflicted by Mina with a hot poker from the fire. So many times I heard Mina raging at the children, hitting, kicking, punching. The wails that came from that house sent shivers up my spine. Yet there was little to be done. The whole village was aware of her anger, but few could do much -- "You can't interfere in these matters", Kunwar would say to me. "This is for their family to handle." And so it went, but there were also times when I saw Mina playing with her children, having so much fun, real belly laughs. One day I poked my head out the window to see what all the laughing was about, only to see Mina and the children having a water fight. I laughed too, because I couldn't tell who was having more fun, Mina or the children. 

One day Mina came to me with Abu. "Auntie he is having these big soars all over his body." I pulled up Abu's shirt to see an ugly boil festering on his stomach, another on his back and two more emerging on his legs. "Oh Mina, these are boils and they are caused by an infection in his body. He needs to see a doctor right away." I gave him medicine for the fever and showed Mina how to use hot compresses for the boils. "Will you take him to the doctor now?" I asked. "Yes, we will go when my husband comes home." After two days passed I thought I had not heard from Mina. We were living in a different house now, and I couldn't stop thinking of Abu. I was in the middle of making dinner, and for some reason I felt compelled to drop what I was doing and go check on Abu. I found him and his mother in their kitchen. Abu was lying curled in the corner, and Mina was hunched over the kitchen chulla (stove). Mina looked up at me when I came in. "He is sleeping." I went to Abu and laid my hand on his head. He was burning up. I had brought my thermometer with me. I guess I had a premonition that he would not be well. His temperature was 105.5 F. I began pulling his clothes off and asked for a basin of water. Mina began bathing him while I ran home for some medicine. I gave Abu the fever medication and I said to Mina, "Mina has he been to see the doctor?" She began to cry, "No, my husband said it was not necessary. I know he needs to see the doctor, but I can't take him alone." Well, we need to go now," I replied. I called Kunwar and he arranged for our nephew to come with the van to take us to Mussoorie, the closest hospital an hour's drive away. Mina called her husband and he said he would meet us on the road. "Oh, well if your husband is going Mina, then I don't need to go," I reasoned. But Mina was adamant. "Oh yes, you need to come. My husband will not listen to me. But he will listen to you. You have to come. I need you there."  I looked at Mina and her face was intent. "Ok Mina, but you know I can't pay the hospital bill this time. I have no money." She shook her head, "No Auntie, I have money. Look $1,000 rupees. My sister-in-law has given me this. And we are to take her son, Aman too, because he also has fever." So off we went, Mina, myself, Abu, and Aman along with our nephew, Sunil and Mina's husband. And all along the way, I listened to Mina's husband scold me, saying 'I was wasting his time, that Abu was fine now (the fever medicine doing its work), and I was just wasting his money. On the way to the hospital the lights died on the van. We had to hold torches out the window to see, and the fog was thick. In the back seat of the van, Mina and I held hands -- both so frightened of what could happen on the way to the hospital. But we arrived and the doctor confirmed what I was trying to convey to Mina's husband, that the fever is only a symptom of the infection that was wracking Abu's little body. Abu was hospitalized that evening, and he is better today. What I learned that night, the insight I gained into Mina's life, her situation shed so much light on the lives of most women living in these villages. Uneducated, powerless, yet intelligent women trying with all their might to raise children, to survive, to hang on to their sanity, in a world where womens' only value seems to be in producing and rearing children and working the land. On that day I saw a different Mina. I saw a scared and helpless girl just trying to manage her life to the best of her ability, and yet I also saw a strong, tough woman who would walk through fire for her children. I liked and appreciated Mina more than ever that day. 

And now, today she comes home a sick woman, a broken person. Does she have a thread of hope? I don't know. This story is not finished. I will keep you posted.