BBCMidwife Siro Devi is clinging to Monica Thatte, sobbing. In her later 20s, Monica has returned to her birthplace, the American city where Siro has delivered thousands of children.
But this is no easy reunion. There is a terrible story behind Siro’s weeping. Immediately before Monica was born, Siro and several other American caregivers like her were frequently pressured to kill young women.
Monica, data suggests, is one they saved.
Since I interviewed her and four additional rural midwives in India’s Bihar position in 1996, I have followed Siro’s account for 30 times.
A non-governmental organization had identified them as the perpetrators of the murder of baby girls in the area of Katihar, where they were allegedly killing them by feeding them with chemicals or just wringing their necks under the influence of their parents.
Hakiya Devi, the eldest of the caregivers I interviewed, told me at the time she had killed 12 or 13 children. Another nurse, Dharmi Devi, admitted to killing more- at least 15-20.
Given the method used to gather the data, it’s impossible to say how many children they may have killed.
But they featured in a review published in 1995 by an NGO, based on interviews with them and 30 different caregivers. If the study’s projections are accurate, more than 1, 000 child girls were being murdered every year in one city, by only 35 caregivers. According to the review, Bihar at the time had more than half a million caregivers. Additionally, rape did not only affect Bihar.
Refusing purchases, Hakiya said, was nearly always an opportunity for a pediatrician.
According to Hakiya Devi,” the family may lock the room and stick sticks in our direction.” ” They’d say: ‘ We now have four-five girls. This may clean out our success. When we give money for our women, we may starve to death. Then, another child has been born. Remove her.’
Who had we talk to? We were scared. If we went to the police, we’d getting into difficulty. If we spoke up, individuals may threaten us.”
The harsh realities of caste and hunger burden the part of a nurse in remote India, while remaining true to its roots, traditional practices. The lower castes in India’s class order were represented by the midwives I spoke with. Mothers and grandmothers passed on the job to them as wives. They lived in a world where refusing commands of strong, upper-caste people was unthinkable.
For killing a child, the nurse may receive a sari, a bag of corn, or a small sum of money. Even that was occasionally never paid. The beginning of a child earned them about 1, 000 rupees. They were made third by a girl’s baby.
The reason for this imbalance was steeped in India’s custom of giving a dowry, they explained. Though the custom was outlawed in 1961, it still held strong in the 90s – and indeed continues into the present day.
A marriage can be anything- funds, jewellery, utensils. But for many individuals, rich or poor, it is the issue of a marriage. And this is what some still consider the beginning of a child to be a celebration and the birth of a daughter to be financially burdensome.
The only nurse who is still alive among the interviewed, Siro Devi, vividly depicted this position gap in an abstract image.
” A teenager is above the floor- higher. A child is below- lower. They all want a child, regardless of whether a child feeds or cares for his kids or not.
The desire for children can be seen in India’s national-level files. Its most recent survey, in 2011, recorded a percentage of 943 girls to every 1, 000 people. This is unfortunately an enhancement on the 1990s- in the 1991 survey, the percentage was 927/1, 000.
By the time I finished filming the midwifery ‘ stories in 1996, a little, silent shift had begun. The caregivers who had previously given these directions had begun to vehemently object.
Anila Kumari, a cultural worker who supported people in the settlements around Katihar, spearheaded this change and was dedicated to addressing the root causes of these deaths.
Anila’s view was easy. She asked the midwifery”, Would you do this to your own child?”
Her inquiry, it seems, pierced decades of rejection and rationalization. Through community organizations, the caregivers received financial support, and over time, the crime started to break out.
Siro, speaking to me in 2007, explained the shift.
” Today, whoever asks me to remove, I tell them:’ Appearance, give me the child, and I’ll get her to Anila Madam.’ “
At least five kitten women were saved by the midwives from people who wanted them murdered or had already given up.
One baby died, but Anila arranged for the other four to be sent to Bihar’s cash, Patna, to an NGO which organised their implementation.
The history may have ended it. But I was curious to know where those ladies had gone and what had become of those who had been adopted.
Anila’s documents were thorough but they had some information about post-adoption.
When the children Anila and the midwives started arriving at her NGO while working with a BBC World Service group, I spoke with a woman by the name of Medha Shekar, who was researching murder in Bihar at the time. Incredibly, Medha was still in contact with a young lady who, she believed, was one of these rescued children.
Anila informed me that, in a remembrance of the Kosi valley in Bihar, she had prefixed all the ladies saved by the caregivers with the prefix” Kosi” before their names. Before her adoption, Medha remembered that Monica had been given the” Kosi” prefix.
The adoption agency would not let us glance at Monica’s information, so we can not be confident. But her roots in Patna, her exact date of birth and the adjective” Kosi” all level to the same conclusion: Monica is, in all probability, one of the five children rescued by Anila and the caregivers.
When I went to meet her at her parents ‘ home some 2, 000km ( 1, 242 miles ) away in Pune, she said she felt lucky to have been adopted by a loving family.
She said,” I am living a normal happy living, and this is what I want to live.”
Monica was aware that she had been adopted from Bihar. However, we were able to provide her with more information about the situation surrounding her implementation.
Monica and Siro met in Bihar earlier this year.
Monica saw herself as the pinnacle of Anila and the caregivers ‘ years of dedication.
People “prepares a lot” to perform properly on an exam. I feel like that. They did the hard labor and then they’re so interested to meet the result … So certainly, I would like to join them.”
When she met Monica, Anila wept tears of joy. But Siro’s comment felt unique.
She splobbled heavily, combing through her tresses, and holding Monica shut.
” I took you]to the orphanage ] to save your life … My soul is at peace now,” she told her.
But when, a couple of days afterwards, I attempted to push Siro about her emotion, she resisted more attention.
” What happened in the past is in the history,” she said.
However, the bigotry some still hold against baby girls is not in the history.
Although sex-selective pregnancy has been prohibited since 1994, murder reports are now comparatively uncommon.
If one listens to the standard folk music sung during pregnancy, known as Sohar, in parts of northern India, happiness is reserved for the beginning of a male infant. Yet in 2024, it is a campaign to find local singers to alter the lyrics so that the music honors a girl’s delivery.
While we were filming our video, two child women were discovered abandoned in Katihar- one in trees, another at the wayside, just a few hours older. One eventually died. The other was put up for adoption.
Before Monica left Bihar, she visited this baby in the Special Adoption Centre in Katihar.
She claims that she was haunted by the realization that, despite having been reduced, baby women continue to be abandoned.
” This is a routine … I can see myself there a few years back, and then suddenly there’s some lady related to me.”
However, there were also happier parallels.
The pair in the state of Assam, which has adopted the girl, has now done so. They have named her Edha, which means pleasure.
” We saw her photo, and we were obvious- a baby after abandoned never been abandoned thrice,” says her adoptive father Gaurav, an officer in the Indian air force.
Gaurav occasionally sends me a video of Edha’s most recent antics. I occasionally give them to Monica.
Looking back, the 30 years spent telling this story were never just about the past. It was about coming out with uncomfortable truths. The past cannot be undone, but it can be transformed.
And in that transformation, there is hope.