The Foreign Service Journal, March 2009

“tins” — as they were called in Indian English — and buy them back. Can-Do Spirit So the innocent newcomer went down to the bazaar and came back with a carload of tins, which she scrubbed carefully. She proudly brought them along to the clinic the following week. We handed one filled with powdered milk and tightly cap- ped to each of the patients, instruct- ing them to be sure to bring back the tins next week. Judging from the smiles on their faces, we concluded that would not be a problem. But the next week, only a few pa- tients showed up with Dalda tins. I was annoyed — our new volunteer had worked so hard securing all those tins, cleaning them and making sure that the lids fit securely. Desikan took a different view. “Just fill the tins that have come back, and we can sort out the rest later,” he said. We followed his instructions, and had the good sense to turn a blind eye to the little charade that went on. The first filled tin was accepted gratefully and the recipient moved away from the table, with his sulfa pill swallowed and his Dalda tin filled with pow- dered milk. He went back toward the end of the line, opened the tin and dumped the milk powder into the corner of his kurta, and handed the empty tin to the patient in front of him. This went on until everyone had received his medication and also had received a tin filled with powdered milk. In the car on the ride home, De- sikan told us what had happened to the patients the week before. Dalda tins serve many purposes, including as a means of transport for the locally made toddy, a powerful alcoholic drink commonly consumed by the poor. When the patients walked home to their villages with the tins, the local police, who are merciless to- ward the poor, accosted them. The patients surrendered the tins and fled for their lives. So our new assistant went back to the bazaar yet again. This time she painted the cleaned cans a lovely blue. Desikan informed the police that these tins came from the leprosy clinic and were for the exclusive use of the patients; in short, they should leave them be. That worked. Foreign and Local Visitors Visitors showed up periodically at the clinic, and some were more help- ful than others. One day an Ameri- can missionary, an old man whose name was not given to me, stepped forward when we opened the clinic, insisting that we begin the afternoon’s work with a prayer. Desikan came out and joined the patients, who formed a rough circle around the speaker. The old man began a long personal prayer, asking God to look with favor on the patients and the workers. He carried on for quite some time, get- ting more and more emotional. “And God,” he commanded at one point, “Go out to these people’s homes, fol- low them home, and protect and care for them!” He was looking up to heaven and shaking his fist at God. The patients probably couldn’t un- derstand much of what he said, but they were with him in spirit, and nod- ded and looked up with him. As the only other Christian present for this performance, I was struck by how unperturbed Desikan was at the intrusion. He stood quietly, letting it all wash over him. A Brahmin — an Ayer Brahmin, his religion had been around centuries before Christ and the missionaries. Yet he was content to let them sound off. On another occasion, a local city official came to visit the clinic. He gave a rousing speech to a crowd of people who showed up to hear him. It was in Tamil, and I could not un- derstand a word of it; but evidently he told them that I was a complete out- sider and a foreigner, and if I could show up at the clinic, certainly the In- dians could, too. There is a photo of all of us — the assembled patients, Desikan, the politician and me. I look just like everyone else in the picture. We were getting more patients, and the station wagon with the solid ivory top attracted more volunteers. One happy day as I drove the car filled with young college kids back from the clinic, they burst into song, and we had a marvelous chorus all the way home. Coda Years later, in 1988, I got a report. Desikan’s drug had been declared ef- fective and was accepted as a cure for leprosy. The clinic was still in opera- tion, and the milk powder continued to arrive at the American compound. Each new arrival at that house on San Thome High Road had become the titular head of the clinic and, although none of the succeeding memsahibs actually went out to the clinic, the milk powder was still housed in the shed, and Ragavelu managed its dis- tribution each week. Today, more than a half-century later, the house no longer belongs to the U.S. government and may not exist at all. I don’t know what became of the clinic, but tremendous gains have been made in India and world- wide toward eliminating leprosy. 46 F O R E I G N S E R V I C E J O U R N A L / M A R C H 2 0 0 9 We were getting more patients, and the station wagon with the solid ivory top attracted more volunteers.