Chapter 1

On a sweltering summer evening of 1982, Dr. Anwar rode his Rajdoot motorcycle around the minor by-lanes of a small town called Bahraich, an hour south of India’s border with Nepal. With him was his wife, Nasreen, and two daughters.

The younger one, Insia, was only a few months old, and was swaddled in his wife’s arms. The older, Tabish, was perched in the front, happily chirping about the sights. As they drove aimlessly over cobbled streets lined on both sides with open water drainage streams, he had only one goal: to distract Insia, who would cry inconsolably every evening just as the sun got ready to set.

It worked every time. He couldn’t understand why she cried so heart-wrenchingly each night, and why the motorcycle ride soothed her. His soft heart couldn’t really handle it, so despite the fact that he was tired after long hours of treating patients at the local primary health clinic, and Nasreen felt it was a bad omen to be roaming about just before maghrib, and Tabish was effectively escaping homework, they all invariably gave-in to anything that would soothe the infant.

Nasreen was convinced it had something to do with the low light at home. Even with Indira Gandhi’s “ghareebi hatao” campaign, and the intense push for electrification of India’s villages, the number of homes that had consistent power supply with a strong enough voltage to light a 60W bulb was low — with Uttar Pradesh trailing behind other states. And Bahraich was only a little better than a village when compared to the sprawling metropolis of Lucknow where Nasreen grew up. Of course it was depressing for the little one!

These thoughts made Dr. Anwar think hard about his life’s choices. The motorcycle rides turned into a time of reflection. The other doctors had big houses and chauffeur driver Ambassador cars— signs that they were extorting government subsidized supplies for undue profits. Would Dr. Anwar sell his soul to secure comfort for his family? This was not a once in a lifetime decision. This was a choice he had to make every day and it was beginning to strain him. Afterall, the season of Indira Gandhi’s nasbandi wasn’t over. The doctors were complicit in an underground racket to sterilize patients without their permission, earn commissions from the government — and share the profits. How could he survive in this environment with any sense of integrity?

The weight of these thoughts were sitting heavy with him over dinner one day when he read the news of a demand for primary health doctors in Saudi Arabia. Despite being a wealthy nation, nearly 72% of its population was rural, 56% was below age 15, and infectious diseases were abound. There was to be a drive to hire nearly 250 doctors in the next 6 months. But this was not a lottery, and this was certainly not a merit-based selection where his specialization in tuberculosis would win him any points: this was an auction for the highest bidder.

And who better to make that bid on his behalf than Nasreen’s mother?