End of a Teacher
Obituary on The Health of Health Services
12th
January: 2007. It was the most glorious
day for Tapati. God called her back to shelter her in a world not ravaged by
discrimination against the rural born by the urban rulers while eating on the
hands of their rural prey. It was the saddest day for Jhantu, her husband, and her daughters.
She left the
world unknown, unnoticed although she made every effort to make the world
little more beautiful than she inherited. What a paradox! India is surging forward with annual growth rate touching 9% and above, claiming to be the one
of the world leaders in the coming days. Hardly at stone's throw -- 55
kilometers from Kolkata, the ‘cultural
capital’ of India, a beloved school
teacher died without medical care.
Tapati
died, probably out of brain stroke, whatever that be, in the afternoon around four o'clock
when her husband had gone to the
nearest block head quarter for some petty household work; their nephew and
his wife were busy in their own
household chores. Tapati had gone to her
room to rest, sleep if possible.
There comes
Tapati’s help, an old Muslim lady. She tries to wake her up to find out what are the works for
her. Tapati doesn't respond even after
several calls and pushes. The maid gets
panicky; starts shouting and
calling everybody around. In a few
moments, the nephew rushes in. He too
stands completely shocked; fails to make out whether she was really sleeping,
or she has slept forever. He calls all possible people. But who are available?
There is no
doctor in the surroundings even to examine and declare whether she is dead or
alive! The only good Samaritans are the quacks and a few compounders or medicine vendors in the local village shops. They rushed to the spot; many of them
had learnt to feel the pulse in the olden days from some doctor in the nearby villages. The locals nodded their heads hopelessly; her
nephew, another medicine vendor in the block headquarter rushed back home to
confirm which he never wanted. For, he too lost her affectionate ‘home’ in her.
The only
doctor, the qualified one, technically stays
in the village; he works
outside, comes to the village for the night halt. Only after five
hours, he was available only
to confirm the inevitable and console.
One,
nonetheless, wonders, even if she would have had life for another few
hours, where could she be taken? Nearest
primary health centres are at a distance about 6 km on either side. But to organise a vehicle and to reach there
would have taken at least one or two hours, if not more. But what
if she was taken to the PHC.
Health of the health centres are in precarious condition, suffering from
terminal cancer without doctors and medicines for deserving people. And, to take to Kolkata? It is a matter of couple of hours. Roads are lesser
said the better; brick laid uneven bumpy village roads often serve as the
labour room; young mothers welcome their babies, future of India, on the
man-pulled trolleys. No hope for the
villagers.
How does it
matter how hoarse the honest scholars cry with
data – per capita government expenses on an urban Indian is thirteen
times more than that of his rural brethren; and that luxury of the urban Indian
is paid for by the rural deprived. Indeed, what surging India has been able to
build is urban castle on rural grave, no matter whether left or right or
centrists are in power.
The tragedy
is that Tapati’s husband, and his elder
brother, took initiative to provide some health checkup and services
at their own personal initiatives and costs. They organised mother and child
camps, eye-testing camps, blood
group checkup camps, blood donation
camps for the thalassaemia patients and so on. One of the camps that her
husband organised was an ECG camp. The doctors identified eight potential cases, and Tapati was one of them;
and the first to have a heart attack. She survived with some paralytic effect that was restored over a period of
time. This one, she could not survive. Her husband saved many eyes and hearts,
and many lives of the thalassemia patients. He helplessly watched his
‘home’ departing him.
What a
pity! After 60 years of independence,
there is so much claim about
developments and hospitals all around and
medical tourism attracting people from the western world. Rural Indians
are condemned to chance, luck and God’s grace for survival in the resurgent India. It is indeed
a sad day not only for her husband and the daughters, but also for the entire
village that turned up to pay their homage to this committed village school
teacher.
She was
born in a Mukhopadhyay family and married to yet another Mukhopadhyay. She used to claim herself to be ‘double Mukhopadhyay’. In fact, she was a very conservative and
staunch Brahmin. But, there was an
unusual fragrance of her ‘Brahmanism’.
Tapati’s old help was a Muslim lady, Chachu. Nobody
seems to know her actual name; every one affectionately calls her Chachu. As she
comes in the morning, she will
not be allowed to work unless she has taken a cup of hot tea and a few
chapattis which Chachu loved in
preference over biscuits. She was fed by
Tapati with utmost care and affection, and then allowed to work.
There is a
large Muslim community living just behind the school for decades, and now
centuries. None, none of them, ever
turned up for schooling. It was this lady teacher, Tapatidi, who took on herself to walk into their homes
through utterly dirty narrow roads strewn on both sides with human excreta
of the children. She walked through that every day. She advocated, she counseled, she cajoled them, and brought them to school. Today, in
the same school, children from the Muslim
minority community are in majority. No wonder, news of her death spread like
wild fire. Entire Muslim community, literally in hundreds, turned up to
her small village home that failed to accommodate them physically; there
was no space. Probably her astral home
had enough space for all of them. On the day of final rites according to Hindu
tradition, special food-packs were
made and distributed at their
own homes under the leadership of
Chachu.
Knowing her
popularity among the Muslims, her colleagues
used make fun of her to contest for Panchayat elections. Had she taken
to electoral politics, ‘they will get
divided into parties. Divided we fall, United, we stand’. Her mission was
uniting them for education. She couldn’t afford to divide them lest they may
leave learning.
“Such
things happen” is the political statement on horrific Nithari killings.
Tapati’s departure too shall be
trivialized. For masters, she was one of the billion Indians, and one of lakhs
of voters. How would they ever understand the pain of losing the one and only
one – the wife, the mother and the only Tapatidi who brought the
underprivileged children from the minority community from darkness to light!!
Politicians
and ministers have major things to
attend; how can they afford to attend to such minor matters?
Tapati
served for 35 years to retire with service benefit that fetched her a paltry sum
of Rs. 2200 per month. Imagine, she contributed all that she had to the country,
to the society, to the community to be treated with contempt of poverty and lack
of care.
Undaunted
by the social and economic deprivation, her stubborn daughters decided that they will not allow their mother to remain unknown. Two daughters, Parnashree and
Tanushree, were the nominees to her small
savings. They decided not to use
the money their mother saved for
them. They decided to contribute the entire amount to the village girls’
primary school that Tapati served till a few years ago. This amount will be used to develop a science
lab for the primary school children; Tapati loved children, so does her
husband. He is working to survive her memory with a children’s park.
The
powerful governments could not take care
of basic needs of its citizens, save their
lives or create opportunities to
save the lives in the villages. Poor
husband and daughters could not save her either; they have dedicated all they
have to save her name from fading out.
