Pro-life or Capital Punishment?

5.00 pm Escorted back from the dispensary by Super Smiley Vincent. With one arm around my shoulders he lurches forward into the oncoming traffic of pedestrians. Stop to by fruit. Super Smiley Vincent carefully places the bananas and tangerines into the indestructible black plastic bag and on we go until we arrive at his home – a ledge by the side of the bus stop. Super Smiley Vincent grins at his neighbours as he makes sounds of super excitement and proudly points at me. We wave goodbye and try to continue along the road home despite Super Smiley Vincent's reluctance to leave my side.

5.10 Notice that the police cadets seem to have taken over the city's traffic control. Young boys in uniform frantically wave their arms, and indeed entire bodies, at the oncoming onslaught of vechiles. Dodging countless unstoppable bus, swerving auto-rickshaws, brooming beeping ambassador taxis, charging human rickshaws, motorbikes, hand-cart pullers and antique bicycles. They mentors are all squeezed into the periodic pavement booths, laughing.

5.20 pm Stop outside of Sishu Bhavan orphanage and see a group of young girls with a tiny baby. The baby is still, with its eyes closed. I walk forward and the 'mother' grins at the attention. Her friends signal that the baby is sick. Its little fingers don't grasp around mine, as I feel its tiny cold hand. They say it is three months old, but it looks more like three weeks. Born on the streets. 'Pa Pa no'. We take the baby inside and I go upstairs to find the Sister in charge of the babies nursery. The Sister accompanies me downstairs, briefly glances at the tiny still baby and declares there is nothing she can do. “Take it to the government hospital. It needs oxygen” is all the advice she can muster as twirls her white sari around and disappears back into the darkness. Many other Sisters walk by. We argue for attention. It is minimal. One Sister generously offers to pray for it. A Missionaries of Charity ambulance begins to rev its engine. We quickly run over and ask if they can take us to the nearest hospital. The driver looks at us in total incomprehension as his passengers of nuns daintily step inside.

5.35 With little alternatives left, we decide to 'walk' the baby, young mother and young mothers friend to the 'Mercy Hospital'; it isn't the god forsaken government hospital but it is used by the Missionaries of Charity. It advertises on its website “Since our inauguration in 1977 we have dedicated at least 40% of our resources to provide free healthcare to poverty-stricken men, women, and children who could not otherwise afford medical treatment.”

5.40 pm Stop to give the Mother with the Incredible Green Eyes the vitamins she wanted to stop her spinning. I hand one of her boys the bag of fruit. He grins widely through the dirt which streaks down the soft flesh of his smiling face. My recent experience has totally nullified any doubt I had about the families sincerity.

6.00 pm Arrive at the Mercy Hospital and take the tiny baby to the Emergency room. A huge oxygen mask covers her little face as life moves back into her body. The little fingers begin to twitch. Suspected pneumonia. The mother distractedly looks on.

6.10 pm We try to register the baby and are asked for 5,000 rupees for advanced fees. Between us we have 400 rupees. “Who will pay?” We are asked. False claims of charity echo off every wall.

6.20 pm Two Sister from the Missionaries of Charity walk in to visit a sick volunteer. We appeal to them to help. They listen and nod and listen and nod and say “later” and go to visit the sick volunteer.

6.40 pm Two doctors burst in “Who will sign for the baby” one asks. “The mothers signature will not to. You can't trust the mother. Who will take responsibility. The baby is in a very bad way. If it goes the wrong way [dies] what will you do then?” Money is no longer the major problem. The doctors are trying to tell us the mother might try and sue the hospital or us. The 'mother' is perhaps fourteen, lives on the streets, and all the possessions she has are in the woven bag tucked under her arm. We bravely say “The Missionaries of Charity”. “You need a letter” the doctor replies “I want the letter by 8.pm or I'll put them back on the street”.

6.45 pm We go in search of the Sisters. They seem to have been struck by a semblance of compassion and say they will try to help. They return to the Mother House for what I hope is a 'letter' to save a life.

7.00 pm I am sitting with the mother and her baby in a children's ward. The other women and children look on. “How did you find the baby” one lady asks as she cradles a baby with a cleft palate. “Why did you bring it? Will you take it home with you?” Her questions are unbelievable and unstoppable. Rationality bursts from my mouth as I reply “What would you do if you saw a dying baby on the street? You would take it to a hospital wouldn't you?”

7.15 pm The little baby is no longer blue and her little brown eyes have opened into round circles trying to fight the flow of oxygen. Dinner is served; all the other women are given rice with their curry apart from the little babies mother. We complain and the interfering lady offers her own:“Rice is hot food, chapati is better, it is cold. Hot food is no good for breast feeding.” The interfering lady is referring to ayurvedic nutrition. After seeing the mother and child for only a couple of hours it is obvious that there is no 'breast feeding' implications to be concerned about. “She doesn't know how to look after her child” the interfering woman argues as the other mothers 'tut tut'.

7.35 pm I play the kurimbu to the other children. I make one burst into tears and one hide under the covers. Another woman comes up to me and introduces me to her daughter. She stands behind her sick child and motions for me to take her.

7.45 pm A nurse comes to remind us we need the letter by 8 pm or they will throw 'them' out. I go to look for white saris coming down the road. I take the opportunity to explain that the mother isn't breast feeding her baby. “Don't worry we will give the mother some health education” she (un) helpfully replies. “What about some food for the baby” rebounded my answer.

8.pm The Sisters arrive. The 'mother' needs to sign the consent form; they will cover the bills. The 'mother' doesn't understand and says she needs to ask her old god-father who lives outside of Sishu Bhavan in his three wheeled disabled buggy. The mother's friend is sent with a Bengali speaking nun and a volunteer to pay the taxi with a mission to seek the old god-fathers consent. A Sister pulls a plastic bottle of Holy Water out of her navy bag and flicks it over the child before mumbling a string of prays into her rosary beads.

8.30 pm The mission returns with a message from the old god-father: “It is in God's hands” he replies and relays a message for the 'mother to sign'. The Sisters and mother go downstairs to find the doctor and sign the papers.

8.45 pm I play peek a boo with the child who is still hiding under the covers.

9.15 pm With still no sign of the Sister and Mother we have go home. Visiting hours were over. We are tired. I don't want to think about the dying baby. But I can't. She stays in my head.

9. 30 pm The doctor refuses to let the 'mother' sign a legal disclaimer and tells her to leave the hospital. The tiny baby is removed from the oxygen, and Sisters, Mother, Mothers young friend, and one volunteer go to the nearby government hospital.

10. pm The still breathing baby has no address. She was born on the street, she lives on the platform at the train station. Registration is extremely difficult and a reminder of the battle that each homeless person has to fight in order to find treatment at the government hospitals. Eventually the little not-so-blue baby is admitted and the Sisters sit around a metal cot, which the mother and child share, and pray. The hospital is filthy, with needles scattering the floor, patient beds lining the corridor and used plastic gloves discarded along the staircase. No sheets, medicines or care is provided. A doctor visits and nurses (hopefully) administer medicine which the patients have to find someone to buy from the outside pharmacy.

The Next day....

3 pm A crowd of mothers continue to circle our young mother as they stare at the foreigners and point at the one with the bright red and shiny nose The baby has since had a chest x-ray which showed a hugely enlarged heart. Money from the Missionaries of Charity was used to by the required medicines for the chest infection, but it sits in a plastic bag along with a box of powered baby milk. We go outside to ask for some boiling water from the chai wallah and make a bottle of baby milk. The bottle buckles as the intense heat begins to melt the plastic. With a little ingenuity we manage to successfully create the artificial imitation and the baby is fed for the first time since her silent fight through illness, poverty and legality. She is a fighter and despite the false promises and the betrayal of her species, she is still alive.

What now? Operations? Medication? Health education? Back to her home of the train station with a family of street girls. Living without clean water, without the promise of daily food. With a mother too young to learn; to detached to feel like a mother. Is the baby meant to live? What repercussions will our desperate interventions have? What is her future? The future of her motherless mother? Every action has a reaction. Life. Pro-Life or Capital Punishment?

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.