Since the 1980s when the village had a population of one, Bharavandh, named after its first lone inhabitant, has not been this quiet, say its residents. Now, the only sound is that of a distant wail from inside a reed hut, where a group of women huddle around Sona Bai, 30, who lost two sons and her husband to fever in a span of four days.
The fever, which claimed 19 lives in less than two weeks in six villages of Gujarat’s expansive Kutch district, which is close to the Pakistan border, was deemed “mysterious” by the State’s Health Department when it was reported in the first week of September. Six were children, aged between five and 16; and 17 of the total deaths took place between September 3 and 9.
The deceased were from a once-nomadic shepherding Muslim Jat community. They lived in the remote villages of Bekhada, Sanhrovand, Medhivandh, and Morgar in Lakhpat taluka; and Bharavandh and Valavari in Abdasa taluka.
Some of the samples of the victims had been sent to the National Institute of Virology (NIV), Pune. Based on the results, and the symptoms of others, Dr. Ravindra Fulmali, Chief District Health Officer, says, “Of the 19 deaths, 13 were from viral pneumonia, and six were due to other illnesses such as leukaemia and brain stroke.”
Bharavandh village saw six deaths in the first week of September. The families, mostly pastoralists, grieve together. Sona Bai, who sits close to her mother and mother-in-law, says in Kutchi, “I lost three family members to a fever. I have nothing left.”
Surrounded by hills, the villages are 40-50 km from the sea, and have vast expanses of open land. Hundreds of wind turbines proclaiming ‘Adani’ form part of a landscape that has palm trees, cactus, and vilayati (foreign) keekar.
Spread and control
The deaths took place after rain battered the region, leaving the villages knee-deep in water, their narrow roads blocked, and healthcare facilities out of reach for those who fell sick.
When their homes got flooded, people sought shelter in schools and other pukka buildings. Some died here, some on the road to hospitals, and some at home. Officials point out that the areas are remote and do not have easy access to hospitals during the rains.
According to data from the India Meteorological Department, the Kutch and Saurashtra regions received 799 mm of rainfall between June 1 and August 29 this year against the usual 430.6 mm for the same period.
Residents of these villages say they had “never seen so much rain in their lives”. Village heads say the roads were flooded through the first week of September.
Now, there are teams of health officials spread across the area, conducting health check-ups and spreading awareness about water- and vector-borne diseases.
According to District Collector Amit Arora, the deaths were initially clubbed because the victims belonged to the same community. “There were also some common symptoms such as fever, followed by low blood pressure,” he says.
The deaths created panic for locals in nearby communities, for whom the mysterious illness was ‘worse than COVID-19’. Along the coastline, rumours swell that members of the community fell sick because they ‘ate their cattle’. Authorities had this investigated and said this was not true. There are whispers that the deaths took place because the community eats non-vegetarian food, while others say that they live in “unsanitary conditions”.
After tests were conducted across villages, 91 more samples were sent to NIV. Dr. Fulmali says six returned positive for H1N1 (swine flu), three were positive for COVID-19, and three for H3N2 (a type of influenza).
At Dayapar village, a control room has been set up where health officials are monitoring cases and information reports are displayed on a large screen with the names of those who have fallen sick, and their symptoms. Government doctors have been brought in from across the State and deputed in 20 villages. Teams fog, spray, and report cases with similar symptoms.
Disconnected from health services
For Sona Bai, the shock hit in waves. Her youngest son, Latif Alana, 13, was the first to fall sick. “We waited for two days, then people here took him to Nakhantara [village],” she says. By then, her older son, Anwar Alana, 15; and her husband, Alana Mammad Jat, 42, had fallen sick, complaining of similar symptoms of stomach pain and shortness of breath. Their home began to flood and with that came the mosquitoes.
With a population of around 300-400 people, most of whom are shepherds, and some having begun working as labourers over the past few years, there are no doctors. The roads were waterlogged, so movement wasn’t possible.
Jat Ali Mubarak, a neighbour who was helping the families get to the nearest hospital, says, “Latif was having difficulties breathing, and the Nakhantara clinic did not have the facilities to treat him.” They were driving him to Bhuj, he says, but Latif died on the way.
Sona Bai’s other son died soon after. Her husband began recovering, she says, but the shock of losing two children was too much for him.
Her grief is echoed 56 km away, in Bekhada village, about 50 km from the Indo-Pak border, which saw five deaths. Noor Banu Bai, 40, who lost her son and brother; and Ammi Bai, 45, a widow who lost two sons, are seated on a charpai, surrounded by four or five bags of rice. These are given as condolences by people who have come to commiserate.
“My sons were struggling to take care of the herds. They fell sick after they got wet in the rain day after day,” says Ammi Bai, who does not have other children. Both her sons would milk buffaloes and goats, earning about ₹15,000 a month.
The kaccha road leading up to the village is flanked by trees, many of which continue to be submerged in water. The bridges built to cross the rivers have no railings and the river water flows over them, even two weeks after water has receded from homes.
Eventually, neighbours took one of Ammi Bai’s sons to Vermanagar, around 25 km away, which is inhabited by workers from power plants in the area, and has private hospitals. Vermanagar also has the closest chemist. Locals say the doctors did not understand how serious the fever was.
“I have no support. The government must compensate us for our losses,” Ammi Bai says. Her sahara (support) is gone, but some financial help would go a long way, she says.
Ramdhan, sarpanch of Bekhada village, seated on a chair under a tree with other men circling him, wrote to authorities about the blocked roads and lack of healthcare facilities. “A dam nearby was open and river water began to flow over the roads. The rain in the last week of August left the villages flooded through the first week of September, and people could not go out for days at a stretch. The biggest issue is that even the closest healthcare facility was too far and there was no way to get there,” he says.
Ainabai, 5, was the youngest to die. Her father, Nawaz, 28, says, “Three people had already died from fever; that is when we got worried. She was crying, not eating for three or four days, but we did not know what to do.” Her health kept deteriorating and by the time she was taken to Bhuj, four days later, it was too late, he says.
“Our requests for better roads, and healthcare facilities nearby, have been ignored in the past. It is only after the deaths that authorities are paying attention to us,” says Ramdhan as he walks past the ambulances fleeting in and out of Bekhada in quick succession.
Tables with medicines set up by health officials invite the curiosity of residents because this is not a common sight. A woman, who goes to the doctor with cold symptoms, jerks her hand back after her pulse is checked, saying she is afraid of the needle.
A community in transition
The Muslim Jat community — comprising Fakirani Jats, Hajiyani Jats, Daneta Jats, and Garasiya Jats — settled across villages in Kutch around 40-50 years ago, say people who live here.
Legend has it that they were originally from Halab in Iran, and travelled every few months looking for fresh pastures. Villagers in Bharavandh tell a story of how they stumbled upon the village when they were looking for fresh pastures, which at the time had just one man living alone for years.
Surrounded by both vast expanses of salt plains and mangroves, the community continues to transition from its nomadic lifestyle, says Navina Jafa. She has been documenting the lives of the community, particularly of the Fakirani Jats, who breed the ‘swimming camel’, known as Kharai. The Kharai’s main food is the mangrove forest, which has been disappearing over the past few years due to rapid industrialisation. Camel milk was a source of income for them.
“The Jats led a nomadic lifestyle but with land laws, questions of ownership, and sudden borders appearing, they began to settle. Until a few years ago, they were still dependent on herbs to cure illnesses. It was only recently that they started to learn about health centres,” says Jafa.
Now, almost everyone knows which their closest primary health centre is, but only visit during emergencies because the distance is generally about 40 km. Village sarpanches say ambulances refuse to come into the area because of the rugged roads.
Just a few kilometres from a grieving Bharavandh, salt is being harvested from the sea. Over the past few years, mounds of salt have been deposited on the roads. This, locals say, blocks the roads, hence making it difficult for the floodwaters to drain out from the villages.
The women are all dressed almost identically in black tunics, their traditional attire, which feature mirror and cross-stitch work.
Modernity has crept in though: the odd car and a village school teaching Hindi and English along with Kutchi. “Climate change, along with salt farming in the area, has led the communities into a transition phase. Movement has been restricted in the area, and many no longer keep camels,” says Jafa.
The people in Bharavandh say they no longer breed Kharai in their village because of changes in their lifestyle and the environment.
Last week, State Health Minister Rushikesh Patel visited the villages. He told journalists that the people had received treatment late, leading to internal body damage.
Ramdhan says people barely ate anything once it began raining as they were unable to function normally. “We are such a close-knit community that the village had almost stopped eating for two or three days after the deaths, because we are all still in mourning,” he says. He hopes for better infrastructure and a better understanding of the community and its needs.
Published - September 20, 2024 07:31 pm IST