At the mercy of the republic...

 During a routine area domination in my AOR, I traverse into a settlement of about five huts. Puppies and ruminating goats lay scattered like fallen leaves beside their settlers. A few old men sit on their haunches while a young man leans against a tree. Women…young and old, too immersed in their daily chore of pumping water from the hand-pump.

The first sighting of armed forces in their eyes, from our POV, is a very interesting phenomenon. They ignore us the way eyes ignore a packet of warm dusty wind on a hot afternoon. They seem affected by our presence, but they try not to care. Generally, they seem unbothered. At other times, they seem withdrawn, even intimidated.

I enter the settlement with about thirty personnel. My personal guard takes position in a different direction, just in case. This village has an ill reputation of being a Naxal-supporter village. The grinding of villagers between the government machinery and the ANE has seen eternity. So when they see me, they try hard to go about their business.

I greet them with the warmest hello and go near them and crouch on my haunches at a level where I can meet the eyes of the eldest member. I am now in a position where I have to raise my eyes to talk to the others who are standing. After exchanging initial pleasantries, I ask them if the water gushing from the hand-pump is potable.

A frail-looking, wasted man in his sixties replies, “It could be. But we choose not to.”

I wait for each word from his mouth like one waits for a pager that prints a message. Slow. Orchestrated. Yet somehow clear.

“Toh phir kaha se paani laatein ho?” (Then where do you fetch the water from?) I ask, wiping the sweat off my brow.

He mechanically, with some effort, raises his frail hand and points in a faraway direction.

“One borewell there is better.”

His sentence ends, but his old shivering hand remains suspended in the air for a while. I turn my neck in response and cast my eyes in that general direction.

The women still going about their washing business still seem not to care.

By now they trust me. Somewhat.

“We used this hand-pump for drinking water for some time after it was installed. But we started noticing health issues after a while.”

The boy leaning against the tree in withered slippers finally spurts out words. He is only the second man who has spoken to me after almost five minutes into our conversation.

“What health issues?” I ask.

“Our teeth started decaying and hurting. Bones have become fragile. Look at this old man’s eyes. He doesn’t eat. Even if he does, he doesn’t poop. Even if he does, it is once a week. Sometimes not even that. He complains of stomach ache whenever he eats.”

I look into the man’s eyes. They are devoid of moisture. And emotion. Perhaps the blankest eyes I have seen in all my life. He keeps listening to his own ordeal while his eyes remain fixated on me. He has a faint trace of a smirk on his lips. One that appears when a host introduces a guest.

“Kabz hai?” I use a fairly common Hindi word for constipation.

Their tribal repository of words does not acknowledge it. My eyes jump from one face to another, seeking confirmation if any of them followed it. Negative.

I turn to my men. They just smile back.

“Does it hurt now? Your stomach? Does it hurt?”

I somehow presume he is hard of hearing.

It somehow turns out to be true. A person sitting beside him asks him in an even louder pitch if his stomach still hurts.

The old man responds with a nod while still maintaining that smirk. He nods like a tree branch swaying in the wind.

I summon my pharmacist on the radio set. He quickly responds and reaches us from wherever he was positioned. Our pharmacist is the only definition of a doctor we have in our wilderness. He was the one who saved me when I was bitten by a venomous snake during an operation. He has brought people back from the final stage of dehydration where people begin hallucinating. He carries out all the blood tests. He is our best chance of survival.

He proudly writes his username on WhatsApp as Dr Nabab. He is not, in fact. He is just a head constable who once underwent a first-aid course. When? He does not remember.

He approaches us and waits patiently. His drill makes him speak only when asked to. I raise my head and explain the case to him. Dr Nabab carries the largest rucksack. He has an inventory of almost every medicine one could need in contingencies. He rests his bag on the ground and begins diagnosing the ailing old man.

Although no alternative to a medical check-up or a real doctor, his questionnaire itself makes the old man feel better. By now all the stakeholders, standing and crouching, are glued to the conversation.

Dr Nabab reaches into his inventory and takes out some medicines, including electrolyte powder and a few generic tablets. The man, who had thus far been leaning against the tree, now stands erect and extends his hand to receive the medicines. Dr Nabab tries his best to make him remember which medicine is to be given when. He too tries hard to understand.

At the end I ask him, “Did you understand?”

“No,” he says with a sheepish grin.

I tell Dr Nabab to make him remember them by the shape of the tablets.

I again ask him, “Yaad ho jayega?”

(“Will you remember?”)

This time he says yes. Although not with conviction.

By now they have dropped their guard. Women sneak peeks once in a while, still engaged in hush-hush conversations.

“Will you treat my brother too? He has been ill for a year.”

His docility suddenly transforms into agility, as if he would miss the chance if he did not hurry. He spits the tobacco out and haughtily waits for a response.

I look at Dr Nabab.

“We could have a look,” we say.

We are brought into the parchment of a hut just a few metres away. It is a simple house with rough earth-coloured walls and a blue wooden door. His brother, perhaps a teenage boy, sits on a blanket, shirtless, with his head slightly bowed and his posture slumped.

The mid-day winter sun has by now heated the thin cloth beneath him. It emanates heat as if the mud itself is breathing against his bony remains. He does not move. His head remains tucked even after we come and stand beside him. It seems like a costly task for him to lift his head and look at his armed visitors.

His body is wasted. His stomach has settled into that hollow quiet. The earth on his skin is not new. It has been gathering for days, perhaps longer.

“Shehar gaya tha. Jabse wapas aaya hai, aisa ho gaya hai,” his elder brother explains in broken Hindi. 

“Khata nahi hai. Bukhar rehta hai.” (He went to the city. He has been ill since then. He doesn't eat much. He is feverish on most days.)

His naked back is full of scales. Like the ones a snake has.

“Why did he go to the city?”

“We all go there once a year to work in the electricity board department laying electricity wires. Then we come back. This one has been like this since he returned.”

“Why haven’t you shown him to the government doctor?”

“We did once. He gave medicines but he never got any better.”

“Why did you not take him again?”

“We do not have a vehicle here. How do we go? We do not have electricity.”

“Then how come you got a mobile phone?”

He laughs.

“I go and charge it once a week in the nearby village.”

“Which card do you use? Jio?”

He laughs embarrassingly.

“I got no money to recharge it. Whom will I talk to? All the people I know live here.”

He swings his hand around his head as if indicating the extent of his world.

“Do you play songs on it?”

“No. This is not the song-type phone. It is a simple one,” he says.

Our conversation hits a dead end. I sigh and look at his brother again.

“You should somehow take him to a doctor. We are not medical experts to diagnose him. He really seems to be suffering from some serious medical condition.”

“But you should give him some medicine at least.”

I look at Dr Nabab. Dr Nabab questions him further. The ailing boy’s Hindi seems much clearer, but he speaks with effort. He tells us he suddenly got ill after returning to the village. He feels cold most of the time. The sun comforts him. He has fever on most days.

“Aurat ke paas gaya tha kya shehar mein?” asks Dr Nabab.

(Did you visit a woman in the city?)

His question goes unanswered. We all greet the question with awkward silence.

Nabab then hands over the usual medicines. His brother now seems even more confused. We tell him to segregate the medicines we gave his father from the ones meant for his brother.

I look at my watch and grow restless, for I too am a servant of a time-bound task. I nod towards my men, indicating directions with my eyes. They pick the cue for a march-off.

I turn my head once more towards the ailing patient, who still has his head hanging between his thighs.

My heart sinks at the thought of him being left in this condition perpetually.

I know, for a reason, that he will not receive any medical care even if he wants to. Most people here leave the ailing at the mercy of time, god, or the unknown.

I reiterate with stress,

“Please take him to the nearest government hospital. He could get well.”

The elder brother nods indifferently again. I step out of the wooden compound and scramble my men.

I look at the women huddled in the corner. Men, however feeble and powerless, even in this remote settlement can still speak. What do the women do? They nest their aches inside their hearts. Perhaps they wanted our magic medicines too. They remain mute and look away whenever I look at them.

This settlement suddenly feels familiar to me in those rough forty minutes, and deserting it feels like I am committing a crime. I let my eyes loiter around once more and then finally at the ailing boy beyond those wooden blocks.

My heart sinks, yet I accelerate my steps while we leave another second-class citizen at the peril of the republic.