Medicine Woman––Where There is No Doctor! By Nuzhat Shahzadi

We were back to our grandparents' village homestead––my mom's birth place. Those were the very last days of the war of liberation of Bangladesh (former East Pakistan). We had managed to flee when dogfights between Indian air force jets and Pakistani fighter planes owned the skies of Dhaka. The beautiful city was ready to erupt––bombs and fires were everyday affairs. India was an ally and stood with the Bengalee freedom fighters.

Mom's village was vibrant, close knit, fiercely delightful. The open blue sky, miles and miles of rice fields . . . and the roaring, restless Padma River . . . It was a charming package. We loved the place.

Mom knew everyone. My grandfather was a sort of benefactor-figure (possibly an egoistic––brushed with a paint of some-kindness, blended with soft-degrees of gender biases . . .). He had enough wealth to sponsor poor students, build the local school, donate to charities, help relatives––the list is long. My sisters and I weren't fond of him . . . in his own way he loved my mom, was proud of her––his only daughter.

My baby-sister Runa was at the crawling-standing up-falling-down stage. She frequently suffered from upper respiratory (tract) infections. Those days, penicillin syrup was the magic-medicine for her. Mom administered our medications under my doctor father's instructions. Years of arduous caring for a bunch of us she became quite proficient. She was better than many trained nurses, in fact.

Dad was a POW––imprisoned in Dera Ismail Khan, Pakistan as he was in the Pakistani-military. Bengalee officers were either killed or arrested. Those were troubled times.

After he was arrested, we had no news of him for agonizing months. We had left him in Lahore army cantonment, his last duty station––our last home in Pakistan. We left him behind.

As the final stages of the war raged, we were totally cut off from Dhaka. Mom went about with a brave face. She kept her fears, and tears closeted in her heart.

Children of Runa's age or a bit older (under five) fell sick all the time. There was no clinic, hospital or doctor in the village. Neighbors called mom day and night to check on sick babies. And she kept prescribing penicillin syrup––the magic liquid whenever she suspected the baby's condition was serious––had lung congestion. Over half a century ago, Penicillin was the only answer to many childhood illnesses. It was the pre-polio vaccine era. Pakistan began administering polio vaccines in 1974 and Bangladesh in 1979 (OPV).

Mom saved lives. Children die like flies when they have ARI.

There was no pharmacy in mom's village. The neighboring village, Lesra Gonj was a hub–– sold medicines, batteries, radio sets––all necessary paraphernalia. It was 6-7 miles away. During the monsoon the only way to reach Lesra Gonj was by boat. Most villagers weren't affluent––some were mom's relatives. My grandfather had several row boats, small and large. The farm workers who labored in his agricultural fields were our boatmen. She used to summon one of them to fetch the syrup whenever a baby needed it. Lesra Gobj was famous for the sweets made locally from concentrated cow's milk. Whenever a baby got penicillin, we got varieties of sweets (courtesy, grandfather!).

Sometimes she would pay for the medicines if the parents couldn't . . . people had lost jobs due to the war and were dependent on their meagre farm-lands for survival. It was a hand-to-mouth situation for many. The transaction stayed between mom and those parents. I had seen my dad buying medicines for his poor patients. The two of them were formidable in their kindness to others.

"Apa, come please . . . baby isn't taking the syrup," a mom of a sick baby would sometimes/often call mom from the inner yard. Mom helped, any time of the day or night.

I have often watched mom preparing the syrup for the babies. It came in the form of dry powder in bottles and had to be diluted with measured spoons of water, and shaken gently till it turned into a dark pink treacle.

My mom was also the "Reuter service" for villagers. She informed them about the situation in Dhaka and the war, the international reactions. BBC World Service played a crucial role . . . Even men much older than her respected her, heard her. It was "the worst of times" . . . she listened to the fears and uncertainties:

"Apa, will this war ever end?" There was so much anxiety . . .

"What's going to happen to us!" Desolation was monumental . . .

"What if Pakistani soldiers raid our village?" It was terrifying . . .

She tried to comfort everyone with her wisdom––she was a young woman, confident with courage, carrying her own pain.

When a neighbor's baby had a very high fever, she checked with the thermometer she had for us (only one in her medicine bag). She sponged the baby, fanned her and got the fever down . . . sat with the nervous mother for hours. She had remedies for headaches (paracetamol), tooth aches, cuts (Dettol), burns (Burnol cream) that she generously shared with the sick.

Her village trusted mom––their medicine woman!