It takes a village to care for the elderly

Duleswari Saren’s ration card mentions her date of birth as January 1, 1963. But the frail and aging Santal tribal is decades older. “She must be almost 100,” says Pramila Kisku, her great-granddaughter who is around 16 years old.

We are seated outside the nonagenarian’s home in Baganpara, a neighbourhood in Santiniketan, West Bengal. Here, in the winding lanes, stray dogs and domesticated poultry jostle for space – the former lazing around, the latter busy pecking at the ground.

“Santiniketan…amar naatnir naam [Santiniketan…that’s my grand daughter’s name],” Duleswari’s voice trails off. And she smiles as she runs her fingers through her white hair, cut short.

“Ukun hoyechhilo [I had lice],” she tells us. “Who has the time to sit and pick them out? So, she chopped off my hair,” Duleswari, still smiling, points to Pramila, sitting next to her. “She [Pramila] makes me a cup of tea every day and cuts my nails,” Duleswari adds indulgently.

Pramila, a Class 11 student, is quick to fill in the gaps of Duleswari’s memory and gently correct her when required. Duleswari lives with Pramila and her great granddaughter-in-law Jaba, who has a baby of her own to look after. They are her primary carers.

From Pramila, we get to know that Duleswari and her husband used to work at a rice mill, while the elderly lady sits listening to someone else narrating her past. “We used to live in Bolpur,” she chimes in. The rest of that life comes to her in fragments – the memory of paddy, of labour. “They gave us wages.” Duleswari says, but cannot recall how much, or if those increased over the years.

Today Duleswari must rely on her carers to help with some of her daily activities, like taking a bath or going to the fields to relieve herself. She bathes at a community tap around 300 metres away. Duleswari claims she goes there on her own, but Pramila quickly contradicts her and adds that she has not taken a bath since the onset of winter, a few months ago.

Duleswari’s situation is not unusual. Around 70 per cent of the elderly in India are dependent on others for their daily living, with the situation being far worse for females, says the National Sample Survey (NSS) for 2017-2018.

“Sometimes, she goes off on her own when she sees we are not around,” says Pramila. “Then we have to go and look for her and bring her back,” the teenager continues, “she says she is going to her daughter’s house.”

At other times, Duleswari will wander off barefoot, saying she wants to collect branches of the neem tree. But she forgets her way back home, says Pramila.

The neighbourhood comprises mostly Santal households, the tribal community to which Duleswari also belongs. Located in the heart of Santiniketan, Baganpara remains out of sight of the huge numbers of tourists who flock here every year from different parts of the state. Sandwiched between kuccha (raw or unfinished) houses, a few pucca (solid or permanent) ones, most of which belong to higher castes and classes, have reared their heads here in recent times. Many Santal women are domestic workers in such households. Men, young and old, work as gardeners or errand runners.

“There used to be a huge garden here,” says Ruby Murmu, Duleswari’s daughter. Her memory serves as an explanation for the name of the neighbourhood, bagan in Bangla means garden. Over the years, the garden has shrunk and the town has expanded.

“Maa received some money when the Left Front was in power,” Ruby, a domestic worker, says. But it wasn’t enough to build a toilet or apply a coat of paint. The kuccha house belongs to Duleswari’s son Bharat Saren and his family. Bharat Saren has not been able to work since he lost movement in the upper left side of his body after an accident. His wife Laxmi and their daughter are domestic workers, who earn Rs. 1,000 each from the house they work in. Laxmi receives an additional 1,500 from the government scheme for women with which she shares her name – Laxmir Bhandar.

“We just give her two meals a day,” Laxmi says, trying to pin down her baby grandson for a bath.

Duleswari has a fondness for leafy greens and vegetables. Sometimes, her daughter brings a special dish she has cooked. “I visit her often, because I work near that house,” says Ruby, who is in her sixties. “Of course, I worry about her,” she adds, “Maa [mother] is old now; she needs to be looked after.”

But hiring a caregiver is not an option. Ruby earns just 1,500 rupees as a domestic worker. And her mother receives the state’s widow pension – another 1,000 rupees – an expense and paperwork that Ruby manages. With no access to external care, the responsibility falls disproportionately on the women in the family.

“Nojor kome gechhe [My eyesight is failing],” Duleswari says, “I need an operation.” She is probably referring to a cataract, but no one in the family is sure.

“Raat e bhalo ghumate pari na [I can’t sleep well at night],” she continues. A common complaint among elderly people. So she ends up spending most of her time in bed during the day, often sleeping in until noon.

In the congested neighbourhood of Baganpara, the once forest-dwelling Santals have no access to jal, jangal, jamin. In the small compounds where they live, there is not enough space to celebrate a festival, nor even to gather and dance. “This has led to a loss of the traditional and cultural way of life of the community,” adds Boro Baski, a Santal activist and educationist.

If it takes a village to raise a child, it might take one to care for the elderly too. Women like Duleswari in Baganpara often have to accept this lack in their urban dwelling. “Nijer kaaj korbe, na amake dekhbe? [Will they look after me or do their own work],” Duleswari, still smiling, asks.

The reporter would like to thank Pralay Manna for his help with the story.