In January 2015, over 100 Swaagat Kits were compiled in Prince George and Vancouver, British Columbia, Canada. Overwhelmed by the positive response, we noted that many of the contents were hand crafted, letters shared messages from entire families and words of encouragement and hope from one mother/woman to another, and some items represented both the joy and pain associated with an individuals own struggles with child birth right here in Canada.

In the middle of February 2015, Our Satya accomplished the task of carrying (thanks to West Jets baggage allowance for waiving excess baggage intended for humanitarian relief/Japan Airlines staff for their kind attention to our goal) over 100 Kits over to India, and then gathering a team of volunteers to help distribute the Swaagat Kits to the recipients. The 7 volunteers selected were educators and mothers who understood the complex social issues of the Mewar region. After careful research and attention, Our Satya, selected the largest government hospital in Udaipur, Rajasthan as the beneficiary of the Kits. (Since women of lower caste and a lower poverty bracket can not afford treatment within private facilities, this government hospital treats the rural population travelling from as far as 500kms away)

We were informed that in one day we would meet 50 women coming into the hospital for delivery. So on March 12, 2015, the Volunteers carried the Swaagat Kits to the maternity ward of the Government Hospital of Udaipur, Rajasthan. We were shocked to discover over 100 women who had laboured within the last 48 hrs. As we walked from ward to ward, we found new mothers in the corridors of the hospital, either awaiting the recovery of their infants in ICU, or recovering from their own complications due to childbirth. For just over 6 hours, our team of volunteers, walked from bed to bed, recipient to recipient, listening to stories of joy and pain.

Over two years ago, during the filming of our documentary entitled ‘Her’ Voice, Our Satya explored the reality of early marriage, gender inequality, caste discrimination, poverty and unequal access through the eyes of women in rural India. One of the most devastating moments of capturing this reality was during an interview of women recalling their experiences as child brides. During this interview our village intermediary, a child bride herself named Tulsi, shared that she had just recently lost her baby. Tulsi explained that she was in an emotionally abusive marriage, and returned to the village to carry out her pregnancy with the support of her family. Tragically, during the final trimester, her baby died in her womb.

One year later our team learned that Tulsi had remarried and was happily settling into a new community. So three months ago when I visited Tulsi’s parents home I was surprised to find Tulsi there. Broken hearted and weak, Tulsi was once again recovering from an intra-uterine fetal death.
Devastated, Tulsi was unaware of the reason for the death of her baby. She explained that she had taken precautions to ensure that she could carry a healthy baby to full term. She travelled twice a month (sometimes weekly) to a medical clinic paying for private consultation (Although government hospitals provide free medical care for pregnant women of marginalized populations they are also known for providing below quality health care) so that her pregnancy could be monitored effectively. With pride she explained how her husband brought her filtered water and foods not available in the village. When Tulsi mentioned that she had Typhoid Fever during her initial trimester, I went to this private clinic to speak to her health care provider regarding causes of death and future health implications.
What I learned shocked Tulsi. The doctor explained that there are additional tests to help screen and prevent higher risk pregnancies. Claiming that these tests are very “hi-fi and expensive”, the doctor assured me that all measures would now be taken for Tulsi’s 3rd pregnancy. Exasperated, Tulsi exclaimed that the doctor had never mentioned additional tests nor should she have assumed that she would or could not pay the necessary expense when she was paying the doctor for each and every one of their visits.
There are infinite gaps between health practitioners and marginalized communities in India. These gaps are most often than not exasperated by stereotypes and prejudice carried by health practitioners towards those of different socio-economic classes. Increased health education is crucial so that rural communities can question and demand effective health care. And raising awareness and compassion amongst medical practitioners is imperative for the overall health and wellness of whole communities.

I first met Meena, when she was completing 10th standard in her high school village in India. This is a remarkable accomplishment, for a boy or girl in any community. Inspired by her educators, Meena dreamed of continuing her education and becoming a teacher. However, as per the traditional role of a young woman in rural India, Meena was soon engaged to be married. The marriage took place under the auspicious gaze of the stars, and the next day Meena was given away with a traditional dowry. Drums of wheat flour, corn flour, a bed and mattress, armoire, and suitcases of clothing, were attractively placed on the land where her family’s cattle normally grazed. Historically, a dowry was given in exchange for lifting ‘the burden of a girl child’. Today, a dowry is given in exchange for a girl’s ‘freedom’, and the grand gesture made by parents is a plea for their daughter to be honored, protected, and loved.

After a year of marriage, Meena had yet to conceive a child. Both her parents and her in-laws urged me to take Meena and her husband for medical advice. We learned that at a young age, Meena suffered from tuberculosis, which as a result of poor primary health-care was left untreated. (In rural India alone, 42% of patients infected are not diagnosed, leading to a daily death toll of over 750 casualties.) In Meena’s case, her tuberculosis spread to her genital tract…causing infertility.
In silence we made the return back to their village. Meena’s traditional role as a wife and daughter-in-law was breaking my heart. The dream of being able to start their own family…was breaking theirs.

Four and a half years ago, I visited a government hospital in Udaipur, Rajasthan. I was there in search of a maternity ward, which I found in the midst of a vast hall of beds and patients. My close friend Kalpana and her baby were resting on a hospital bed in a small two patient room. In the adjacent bed was an Adivasi woman, recognizable by the clothing and jewelry she adorned. (The term ‘Adivasi’ refers to an indigenous person originating from India, categorized by the Indian government as sub-caste or most commonly referred to as belonging to the ‘backwards’ class). As the doctor on duty made his rounds, he walked into our small room where both women were recovering from C-section surgeries. With embellished regard, the doctor greeted Kalpana, who is a local chartered accountant belonging to a privileged family. The doctor assured Kalpana that she would soon be sent to a private cabin. I wasn’t prepared for what I would see next as never before had I witnessed such a blatant contrast in social behavior towards lower caste and upper caste. The doctor walked towards the Adivasi woman lying on her side with her face buried in the hospital bed. In a swift and aggressive motion, the doctor threw up her lengha (a long skirt worn from the mid drift to the ankles) to examine the woman’s catheter. She shuddered as her bare legs and dignity were exposed. The doctor asked a few questions but without waiting for a response scribbled down a prescription and threw the note at the woman. The Adivasi woman was helplessly alone, so I hurried over to drape the lengha back over her naked body while Kalpana’s mother picked up the prescription to fill it. As I recoiled from witnessing such horrid humanity, a nurse appeared. She placed a baby outfit on my friend’s bed and mimicking the doctor, threw the second outfit onto the bed of the Adivasi woman, who was now clearly distressed. In the midst of what we were seeing, I realized that I had not seen the Adivasi woman’s baby. As I looked closer, I saw protected beneath her mother’s chest a beautiful baby girl, shielded from a world plagued with disparities, injustice and cruelty.

On my most recent trip to Rajasthan, I listened to stories of both joy and hardship amongst new mothers.
I met Sona, in a hospital corridor of the maternity ward, where patients were sent when the hospital was over capacity. Being the largest government hospital in Udaipur, catering to both urban and rural women of the surrounding districts, this was a common occurrence. Overwhelmed with great anticipation for any news regarding the well being of her new born baby, Sona anxiously grabbed my hands and shared her story….
Recovering from a c-section, Sona, had been in the hospital for over four days now. This was her third delivery, and in her two previous pregnancies, she had suffered seizures. Both of her children died in her womb. On this day, while she too was obviously enduring her own physical recovery, her third child was in ICU and she had yet to see him (she had given birth to a baby boy) even once since giving birth four days ago. Terrified that his life may end as soon as his siblings, Sona shared tears of grief and fear.
Intimately aware of the impact of seizures and blood clots in the brain, I was baffled as to how her two subsequent pregnancies after an initial high risk case, were left unmonitored. And given the complexity of her medical history, how lucky Sona was to be alive at all.