Column | An accidental cruelty

Why healing others can come at a personal price, and words of comfort can cause more harm than good

A woman named Masarat lived in Phuphee’s village. She wasn’t originally from there, but had married the local school master. I must have been around nine or 10 when she came to the village as a young bride. I remember she gave me a handful of nuts when I went to see her with all the other children.

Every year from then on, we would hear how Masarat hadn’t been able to bear a child. Every year, someone would say she had lost another baby. Initially, people were kind and expressed the grief they felt at her misfortunes, but slowly that turned into opinions and gossip.

Over the years, you could see Masarat walk down the dusty paths of the village and the effort she put into trying to make herself smaller, so that the world might forget that she existed and offer respite in anonymity. But the world had other plans. Masarat didn’t just lose a baby year after year, she ultimately lost her name.

You see, there was another Masarat who lived in the village and whenever a question was raised about a Masarat, the next question was ‘which one?’ People would clarify with ‘yemis ne bachae chu daraan (the woman whose womb refuses to hold on to a baby)’. The other Masarat was blessed with children.

And so it was that even on the days when Masarat wasn’t grieving, a casual but telling glance from one of the villagers would remind her of everything she wished to forget.

Early one afternoon in October, Masarat was carried in by her family into Phuphee’s house. She was miscarrying again, but she refused to be taken to the hospital. Phuphee brought Masarat into her room, ordered water to be boiled, and asked for towels and sheets to be sterilised. One of the helpers was sent off to get maetonji (the local English missionary nurse) and another was ordered to make nun chai (salt tea) for Masarat’s family.

I didn’t see Phuphee come out of her room for a long time. Maetonji arrived and kept bustling in and out of the room, but said nothing. A few hours later, Phuphee and matetonji came out together, and Phuphee walked her to the door. When she came back, Phuphee sat on the floor and said to Masarat’s mother, ‘Asyi karae waariyah koshish magar… (we tried a lot but…),’ and her voice trailed off. On hearing this, Masarat’s mother started wailing and beating her chest and pulling her hair.