Gentsh or ladiesh?

Sakamma’s tumultuous sojourn from her village had tempered her hoarsening screams to ominous silence and wild-eyed terror. Passed on from the traditional birth attendant….to village health-worker…to primary health centre…she now lay beneath the menacing lights of the hospital’s operating theatre.

“She needs an emergency operation.” That admission had invited commotion and belligerent voices from her kin who had brought her.

“Dakter saar! Don’t do this to us poor people!  We have no money for aaplesan. Can’t you do something cheaper?”

“Aaplesan-Uh?!! …No one ever had that in our family. Her mother, mother-in-law, aunts had over five to seven children each…all delivered easily, when on their way out for open air defecation!”

“They told us she needs care in big hospital. But aaplesan?! Mercy, God!”

 “She has been laboring for three days! I’m sorry we have no options now. The money part-I am sure the hospital will do something about it.” Were there a possible next stop, they surely would have scooted, in the hope of avoiding a surgery. Consent still pending, the bargaining continued.

“Can she bear a child again, later?” Eternal brave hearts, to be thinking about the next pregnancy when this one was battling a critical phase.

“Of course.” I was hoping for that outcome too, if the intervention turned out to be timely.

“Can she do all household chores?”  

“Yes.”

“Outside work also? In fields or as coolie? Lift weights?”

“After several weeks, yes.”

“Ok, dakter. Do aaplesan.” A grudging consent.

“She needs at least four bottles blood.” They were back in huddle, darting suspicious glances at me as if I was a human-organ racketeer. The older ones returned as others sauntered away, hoping to be out of my line of vision. They knew I would corner at least a couple of them to donate blood.

“Why she needs bled dakter? Had she really lacked it, how could she have grown a baby?” The skepticism returned.

“Listen. Sakamma is battling for life and she needs blood for the surgery.” My gaze settled on her husband. “You….You could donate a pint.” I said, incurring their wrath instantly.

“No, he will not!”

“Look at her! She asks for his bled!”

“Oh poor son! He toils in fields. How can he spare bled?” A human fence materialized around the robust fellow, daring me.

“Why not?  Blood gets replenished.”

 “Dakter, if I give bled…if I share my bled with her…won’t my wife become my sister?” The denial made its indelible mark.

“Ok.” I decided to request blood from the emergency blood bank with an undertaking to motivate some other voluntary donors. “Sister, get the consent forms please.” Left thumbprints were taken at the bottom of the legal-jargon-laden consent sheet. It would be an insult to their illiteracy if I were to ask them to read it. ‘Husband’, ‘Mother-in-law’ the nurse wrote beneath each imprint, with a cross mark preceding. Sakamma’s thumb was already on it.

We pulled no stops on heroics that night. Tense hours later, Sakamma was wheeled out of OR-2, her uterus saved and her long dead baby finally separated from its suffering host.

“Madammu, can we take her home in the morning? It’s harvest time now….”

“No.”

“The baby?” It was the first time anyone had mentioned the wretched thing since the drama began.

“Yes?”

“Yesterday they had told us that the baby was dead. Could you do something about it?”

“No. The baby remains dead. We could save the mother.”

“Dakter! The baby…was it gentsh or ladiesh?”

“I didn’t notice,” I lied.

 It’s a routine in my country- Life matters to some but living as males matters to most.