Silent Malaria

Deepa is in hospital. She has cerebral malaria, or what the mashis describe as 'brain' malaria. This explains her reoccurring fevers, when her hands become incredibly hot, and sweat beads accumulate around her hair line.

Two days ago a doctor came to Sishu Bhavan to take blood samples of some of the children. At the time, it seemed almost random that Deepa was selected but again this reflects the limitations of my baby talk Bengali. The two other chosen children were from the active section, so we were able to follow the doctor up to the roof, away from the curious eyes of the other kids. The roof was full of morning action as the mashis scrubbed clean buckets of soggy cotton nappies while others scraped the scales off a tub full of fresh fish.

The first chosen little girl was sat down next to the doctor. Apparently she used to be the daughter of (another?) rich doctor who on account of her disabilities donated her to the orphanage. The doctor extracted his tools from his brown leather satchel. He pulled up her sleeve and tied a black rubber strap around her upper arm. Immediately the little girl began to scream. With severely deformed feet, the task of running offered only a clumsy and most probably partial escape, but the little girl was strong and scared so a second mashi was called over to push her down onto the bench and close to the waiting pointed needle. A sample of blood was successfully extracted, and the tears and struggle for freedom subsided.

Next in line was a toddler who first arrived at the orphanage one year ago. At the time he seemed traumatised from the move away from whatever had been his home before. With Chinese features he appears totally different from the Indian children. Unfortunately, this puzzle has not yet led to his adoption by curious Korean volunteers, who frequently visit just to verify the rumour. He is incredibly short sighted which results in continuous frustration interspersed with moments of extreme happiness such as when he grabs a colourful object and brings it in front of his face so that the details are revealed. The same pattern was repeated with the doctor. The little Chinese Indian orphan obediently sat down wedged between the mashi and the needle. Then the rubber strap was tied tightly around his little arm and the screaming and kicking started. Meanwhile, Deepa stood silently by, listening but not reacting. Her time came to take a seat, and I felt awkward as it almost seemed as if the mashis were enjoying the kids shouts of fear. But I took hold of Deepa's hands and jangled my thin silver bracelet with its one remaining bell. The 'ting ting' was only enough to momentarily distract her senses as soon the rubber strap had been tied and the needle was posed to pierce her skin. As soon as the point punctured her arm she began to shout, crying out a empty threat to the apparent aggressor. She squirmed trying to move away from the syringe but despite having the able feet the first little girl lacked, and despite being double the size of the small Chinese boy her lack of eyes rendered her blind to possible escape routes. The required blood was extracted and Deepa and I were free to explore the sounds and texture of the roof.

The next day Deepa was admitted into the Calcutta Mercy Hospital, which publicizes that it dedicates 40% of its resources to provide free healthcare to poverty-stricken men, women, and children who could not otherwise afford medical treatment. The mashis were particularly cruel in refusing to tell me where she was, but eventually, with the help from a Sister in the baby section, I found out the diagnosis and ward number. I had heard a rumour that the Sister in charge of Deepa's section did not want her to have any visitors, but as it was just a rumour and fortunately the Sister wasn't around to verify, I went anyway.

The hospital is very good for local standards, and exceeded my expectations. It is clean and colourful with a staff of uniformed nurses who actually seemed busy administering medication. Deepa's ward contains rows of beds each with one child and a watchful mother or grandmother by the side. In the far corner Deepa was laying head to toe with an older woman, who is a mashi from Sishu Bahvan. Deepa was flicking the rubber tube of the IV drip which was dropping down into a ring of bandages securely strapped around her wrist. She would systematically lift her hand to her nose. Perhaps trying to smell the bandages or the disinfectant. It was strange to see her in such a relaxed environment and she reflected the atmosphere, looking calm.

The mashi is by Deepa's side twenty four hours a day, and the two share a small bed together. She is receiving anti-malarial treatment and an IV drip of essential nutrients. The inability to verbally communicate is incredibly frustrating. I want to ask her how she feels, I want to tell her she will be ok. But instead all I can do is play the kurimbu to her and sing Indiana Jones followed with some smile bringing tickles.

The nurse assured me that Deepa was responding well to treatment and her fever had subsided. She will need six days of treatment and then should be able to return to Sishu Bahavan. Meanwhile, she is more or less confined to the little bed, and despite having a toilet only a few meters away is still wearing a nappy; only this time a special allowance has been made and the cotton rags have been replaced with huggies disposable nappies. I feel grateful for her treatment but frustrated at the situation. She is around six years old and it is essential that she begins to glean a little independence, and mastering language is an enormous step towards that. By just trying to imagine her confusion - her version of the malaria, fevers and dreams - without explanation and living in a virtual verbal isolation, reminds me once again of why I am here.