The below took place ~2005.
Seema came to see me a few days before I was to return to the U.S. from my recent visit to Mumbai. I knew her fleetingly as the young woman who took care of my nephew when he was a baby. Her mother, Tarabai, is my family’s “servant”—she washes the clothes and dishes, dusts the furniture, and mops the floors. On each of my previous visits to Mumbai, Tarabai had updated me on Seema—that she had gotten married, that her husband had found a good factory job, and that she was expecting their first child.
Seema came to see me because she thought I might be able to help her. She was worried about her toddler’s persistent skin rash. She tried to describe the rash to me, and I listened sympathetically. Not being a doctor, there wasn’t much that I could personally do. She told me of visiting several doctors, paying them princely sums for treatment, and trying different creams and ointments—all to no avail. Clearly, she was at her wits’ end and desperate for someone to take a personal interest in her situation.
I called my sister-in-law who is a physician in Mumbai. She suggested that I call a dermatologist friend. I immediately dialed Dr. Shah’s number and was relieved when he answered the phone. I would not have to go through a gatekeeper.
I described the situation to him, and he agreed to talk to Seema directly. Dr. Dhingra speaks Hindi and English, not Marathi, which is Seema’s language. Seema described the problem to him in her broken Hindi. After listening to her, he suggested that I ask Seema that she visit him at a city hospital where he offers pro bono consultation on specific days.
After I had written down all the information, Seema and I chatted about other matters.
“I have a bank account for my baby,” she said. “I put Rs. 10 (~20 cents) in it each week for him. I want him to get educated.” I commended her on her resolve. “My husband has a good factory job. The baby’s delivery was fully paid for by the company’s insurance,” she continued. Not being familiar with her particulars, I asked her about her and her husband’s level of education. “Ninth standard (grade)—both of us,” she said.
She seemed to be in her early twenties. Clearly, things were going well for her given her station in life. Thanks to her husband’s job, she had moved up in life. Instead of the laborious work that was her mother’s lot, Seema supplemented her family’s income by cooking for just two families. Although she lived with her in-laws, everybody seemed to be getting along well.
“Next week is my son’s birthday,” she said. “We will have cake and the whole family will get together.” Being all out of novelties brought from America, I put some money in an envelope as a gift for her and the baby. Even as she accepted the money, she said, “I will put all of this in his bank account.”
“No, no,” I found myself saying, “you are saving enough. Use this money to buy something special for your baby and for yourself.” This was not a person who needed to be reminded of the virtues of delayed gratification. I wanted Seema to enjoy this unexpected gift forthwith. She nodded with a smile.
Because of the problem of overpopulation, civic dialogue in India is filled with exhortations to limit family size. Roadside billboards and television commercials announce, “A small family is a happy family.” In the same spirit, and encouraged by her mindfulness about her toddler, I said to Seema, “Make sure you don’t have too many children. Then you will be able to do more for the ones that you do have.”
“I wanted to get my tubes tied right after the baby was born. But my mother-in-law wouldn’t let me. I am going to wait a few years and then get it done. I don’t want any more children,” she responded. I was impressed by her determination and lack of bashfulness.
I returned to the U.S. a few days after this meeting. I thought of Seema occasionally in the following months, wondering if she had managed to see the dermatologist. I hoped that the baby’s skin condition had cleared.
Then one day I received an e-mail message with the news that Seema’s toddler had passed away after a brief hospitalization. Considering that he needed intravenous glucose till the very end, my guess is that he died from ingesting contaminated food or unsafe water.
My first reaction was fairly low-key. But as the days have gone on, I find myself more and more distraught. Seema’s slight frame shimmers in front of my teary eyes. I want to express my condolences to her. I want to let her know there is someone who lives half a world away who has not forgotten her. But her life is far from any superhighway—internet or telephone.
I am mindful too of the possibility that my unexpected interest in her affairs might raise hopes and expectations of largesse from abroad. What if I end up being not an agent of goodwill, but one of further disappointment? Would I be opening a channel of communication only to assuage my guilt? Would my motivation be a desire to establish my generosity? Can there be a true relationship among “unequals”? And so, I hold myself back even as I want to let her know I care, that I am sorry.
Yes, more than anything else, I am deeply embarrassed. I want to apologize to her for presuming to know what it is like to live her life. Even though I was encouraging her in her dream for herself, was I right to tell her to limit the size of her family? I thought I knew, but in truth I was totally unaware of the risks inherent to her life.
Maybe Seema’s mother-in-law had it right after all. She was more aware of the risks and the mortality rate for their ilk. Although there may have been some superstition and ignorance in her mother-in-law’s insistence, maybe she was also trying to protect Seema and her husband from the unthinkable.
I shudder to think of what might have happened now if Seema had had her way then. It is not impossible to imagine that her husband might have divorced Seema and married another woman in the hope of having children. Clearly the superstitions persist because they continue to be strengthened by such setbacks—by life as it is, and not as those of us who are far removed imagine it ought to be.
A few years of education and a minimal level of literacy have given Seema the ability to consider her own dreams, and the courage and imagination to stand up to her mother-in-law. But Seema’s dreams can be fully realized (and her mother-in-law’s superstitions properly overcome) only if the circumstances of their life change in a more basic way, starting with access to clean air and water and affordable medical care.
Even as I realize this, I realize that I am clueless about how to make that happen.
As I root around in search of a way to help Seema, I am mortified to note that I did not even ask Seema her baby’s name.
Postscript: Seema came to see me the next time I visited Mumbai. It was my privilege to meet her toddler daughter and to know that Seema and her little family were doing well.
Photo by AMIT RANJAN on Unsplash
I’d love to read your thoughts after the second meeting with Seema!
What a moving story--a glimpse into a culture many of us may not know--and a lesson in the complications and unexpected consequences involved when we genuinely want to "help" other people. I appreciate your thoughtfulness and humility. Pls share more of these wonderful experiences. Thank you.