A thought experiment
Try to think about this woman—poor, illiterate, beaten by her drunkard husband, stranded by her family in the last month of her pregnancy. Delivering a Babyboy at a hospital in Sabarmati at 10 in the night, taking a Rikshaw (*Alone*) to take him to CHA because he didn't cry after birth. Her only ray of hope in this whole wide world is battling between injections, and Intracaths, and oxygen hose, and Ryle’s tubes, and ventilators and sensors and tangles of lines of iv fluids. Struggling to stretch every ounce of its existence to keep the tiny heart beating. Against failing kidneys and seizuring brains. And loads of ischemic insult, The tiny creature labours to breath. She—tired and sore—both from the unfairness of the world and the pricking episiotomy stitches. Broken by the toughest of contractions, lays awake, on the stony cold bench outside the nursery, not able to get up and quench her thirst without the pain ripping her apart into bits and pieces. Bright light,