In the middle of winter, on a veranda looking into expansive fields from the edge of a north Indian village, a woman I know as Rambal’s Wife talks about the death of her son.1 A sister-in-law begins the story; Rambal’s Wife, in her effusive manner, cuts in with details. “In about his third year, when he was this high, he became ill. His face and back went stiff like this.” She contorts her mouth into a grimace and arches her back into the telltale sign of tetanus. “Poor thing, he was only this big. He got completely hard, and after only a few days he died. Around here people call it jamooga, a spirit that grabs you and causes this illness. In cities they call it tetanus. You can call it jamooga, you can call it tetanus, now they give an injection for it. But none of my children have had injections, not a single one.” With a measure of pride in her voice, Rambal’s Wife, who is from a community locally designated “untouchable,” tells me that injections do not “suit” her or her children, but denies that they are inherently harmful. She tells me that in this region, with its high rates of infant mortality, grief is a central part of a woman’s life, a defining condition of motherhood. She will grieve the loss of her daughters to their marital villages and will mourn the death of her son forever.
