Sometimes I wonder,
when I go back to my field site in rural Uttar Pradesh
how the hell am I supposed to tell the women
their health rests in the hands
of the smartest and most cushioned people on the planet
who can’t agree on how best to ameliorate their suffering;
and how best to make them count
within the calculus that makes important people so happy.
But don’t worry. I don’t think about it a lot.
They are quite aware about how things work.
Why the village microfinance projects go belly up,
What to say when white donors visit,
When to fish out that old skill development certificate,
and where to serve refusal and disinterest.
They understand. Living as they do
at the mercy of God and low data plans,
Silenced, and at the mercy of the silencer,
who smiles at their babies
and writes things like “those voiceless women needed me to speak on their behalf.”
They might also sympathize with the researcher
at the mercy of peer-review processes,
article processing charges,
and the fact that the ideal job-market candidate “must have experience writing grant applications.”
Besides, they don’t want to waste time. People are dying.
There are crucial research questions at hand.
E.g., How do we agree upon the optimal duration that a person should suffer the consequences of an unwanted pregnancy? six weeks, twenty weeks, or the rest of their life.
The dying at the mercy of evidence-based policy;
The dying at the mercy of the experts and disciplinary boundaries;
The dying at the mercy of the willfully ignorant;
The dying at the mercy of the resolutely silent;
The dying at the mercy of the living;
The dying.
The dying.
The dying.
21.12.2024/VDS
Vyoma 