'I am going to die'. I heard these words y'day, when I was interviewing an IDU/PLHA called D. He told me that he had been tested for HIV, but was in the clear. (His peers told me about his status, and his attitude of denial). He had a fixed, bright smile on his face when he mentioned this, as if he expected me to challenge him. D is 22, and has been injecting for 4 years, of which 3 years has been with shared needles. He has been through de-addiction twice, with stays over a month. But each time, the relapse has followed shortly. D is stoic when he talks about himself. He describes addiction as a process, which, once started, is impossible to stop or get out of. I asked him how he saw his immediate future, the next 6 months. He said " I am going to die, if I don't stop taking drugs...". He is the only son of poor parents, who work for BBSR Municipality.
D presently works as a sweeper, earning Rs. 1400 a month. He needs about Rs. 100 a day to support his habit, Rs. 70 for the 2 liquid drugs and a syringe/needle, and Rs. 30 for the auto fare to get him through a distance of 3/4 kms from Kharvela Nagar to Sahid Nagar and back. He is unable to walk or travel by public transport, because he is uncertain of his own strength. He takes Rs. 1500 from his parents each month, small amounts every other day or so, by exxagerating his symptoms, until he manages to scare his parents.
He does not apologise for or try to justify his behaviour. He told me that he started taking drugs because he had friends who did so. He grimaces as he talks about these things, and his eyes plead for understanding and forgiveness. I have to struggle to maintain my composure, and my professional distance as a researcher. It is 8.30 in the morning, and we are sitting on a wooden bench outside a tea-stall. The local police station is next door. D is wearing dirty shorts, a T-shirt, his head is shaved. His body language is that of someone who is waiting for something terrible to happen. He is unwilling to look into my face, and when he does, his eyes moisten.
I ask him to talk to me about what the drug does when it enters his body. He is unable to put it into words, but he talks about his 'head spinning'.
He also talks about needing more and more daily, just to get the high that he needs. he talks about withdrawal symptoms, and the many times he has hurt himself. He shows me his lower arm, I am able to trace the track marks that run all over like ridges. His legs have even more. He shows me a huge scar at the back of his head, where he had cracked it open after a bad injecting episode. It was crudely stiched up by a local sweeper called Kalia, since D did not want to spend his drug money on doctors and medicines.
I am drinking my second glass of tea, but D is still holding his first. He says he is never hungry, and the only thing that stays in his stomach is rice. All of a sudden, I am not hungry, either.
I next talk to a counseller called J, who works with D and other IDUs in the locality. J is a touchstone for them, being an IDU who has not just got through recovery but is able to help them to try and do so. J is a cheerfully realistic person, somebody who is naturally empathetic. I ask him how he manages to stay so cheerful, he says - I get love and support from these people.
Every day, when I talk to my research subjects, I experience a churning inside. I see the issues of SRH ( Sexual and Reproductive Health) vulnerability in terms of people's lives and the pressures that drive their behaviour, the pressures of ignorance, acute want, no work and no money, and ultimately, no prospects. When your life is defined by getting through the next day, where is the scope for more aware behaviour ? Why would I bother to use a condom, when sex itself is mechanical, a 10-second process of numbing myself to my painful reality ?
Yet, there are the Js, and the Ds who want to be like J. That is the reason why I go to work every day, and that is the reason why I am telling D's story. Thank you, D.
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