The smell of urine and antiseptic lingered on the walls of VS Hospital, one of two government hospitals in Ahmedabad. While I was waiting in line to check-in, I was jostled from behind by a troupe of nurses in pale blue salwaars and white coats, pushing a rusty metal table on wheels that was meant to serve as a stretcher. On it, an old woman was curled in a ball, wailing, as they wheeled her into an operation theater.
Jagruti, the young girl I was accompanying to the hospital that day, looked at me wide-eyed and with a smile that is always plastered to her face and whispered, Didi, I’m scared.
Jagruti comes the street school I run at Sabarmati. She is one of the few children who has consistently attended the class over the past five months. My first memory of “Jagu” is during a lesson in September where I was lecturing the children about the importance of hygiene. When I asked the group to fess up if they had not brushed their teeth that morning, Jagu thrust her finger in the air proudly, wearing the same ear-to-ear smile she sported at the hospital. It’s her signature look – a tooth-bearing grin and no shame.
I remember explaining to Jagu that if she didn’t start brushing her teach regularly, her teeth would fall out and all she would be able to eat is khichdi (a liquidy blend of rice and lentils I was well acquainted with when my wisdom teeth were pulled). She just blinked at me and promised to brush that night. That promise has yet to be fulfilled…
My first impression of Jagruti was that she was not very clever. Her perpetual smile suggested that she was always in her own world, oblivious to what everyone around her was up to. But over the next few months, I fell in love with her. Always the first one to arrive to the lesson, we would send her to collect her tardy classmates from their homes. Despite not being able to read at all, or recite a single multiplication table, Jagu proved to be a diligent student. Any assignment we gave her would be completed in full the next day. Within two weeks, she knew her times tables better than half the other students.
On Thursday, when I learned that she had been bitten by a dog at school, she affirmed the fact with her signature smile. I explained that I would have to take her to the hospital the following afternoon for her shots, and her smile wilted a little bit.
The line for getting the injections was 50-people long when we arrived. Ramanbhai, the MS staff member who had accompanied us, explained that this is a season for dog bites. I don’t quite understand the logic, but the motley crew waiting to be given their shots seemed to support his claim. The man in front of us wore a fancy fitted suit, with a gaping hole down the back of his pant leg where a dog had jumped at him. A few people ahead of him, a two-year old boy was crying in his mother’s arms as blood soaked through his shirt-sleeve.
Jagruti gripped my arm tightly as we entered the injection room. A dozen nurses in training were administering the shots systematically, not stopping to even look the patients in the eyes.
I tried to comfort Jagu as she received three shots in her arm, telling her it was almost over. Then the nurse instructed her to lower her pants and turn over for a final injection in her bottom, at which point I shut my eyes and squealed. A moment later, I realized the shot was not meant for me and I reached to hold Jagu’s hand for comfort, but she was already pulling her pants up and ready to walk away.
I looked at her in amazement. “Did it hurt?” She just flashed her unbrushed teeth at me, and shook her head no.
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