The Yale Journal for Humanities in Medicine

The Tiger Lady

Laurel Roberts
laurelr@stanfordalumni.org

            Just as promised, Hira picks me up Monday morning in a dusty white Jeep.  Not the kind that suburban moms drive to ballet lessons, but the real kind – big and boxy, without seatbelts or windows or a muffler, sporting rusty battle wounds left by decades of unpaved roads, rockslides, and monsoons.  I climb in the back seat and position myself between a plump nurse in traditional dress and an oversized fishing tackle box crammed with gauze and Tylenol.  Hira turns around to give my cheek a good-morning pinch before she begins the obstacle course that will take us from Kathmandu to a secluded countryside Leprosy Clinic.

Thamel is a circus today, teeming with a menagerie of slaughtered animals, scurrying women in bright red and yellow saris, and lazy men with loud voices. Car horns vie for attention with hawkers and the latest Bollywood soundtracks, while heavy incense mask the stink of morning dal and last week’s garbage.  The overall effect is intoxicating, nauseating almost, and I shrink back in my seat and close my eyes.  I hold my breath and say a silent prayer that we don’t run over an aggressive merchant, loose rickshaw or confused goat.

As we leave the city, Hira and the nurse begin to chat in Nepali.  They are discussing something amusing, me perhaps.  In between their chuckles, the nurse gives me an occasional toothless smile.  She unsuccessfully attempts some broken English, but Hira soon takes over, asking me about California and college, interjecting with anecdotes about her daughter living in Houston.  Her English is remarkable, but I’m not surprised.  Hira is a bit of an anomaly in Nepal.  She is trained as a dermatologist, but practices every kind of medicine under the sun now.  Though she would never admit it, her stylishly short hair and linen pants suit give her away as very Westernized and very wealthy.  She operates several medical facilities for the poor (a woman’s clinic, an old age home, two leprosy clinics, and a rural clinic), all paid for out of her own pocket.  She is that rare breed that works because she loves her job, and would never dream of charging for her services.  All this plus the fact that she is a she I find rather revolutionary.

Hira asks me what I know about leprosy.  I, like so many others, suffer from the anxiety that comes with getting all my medical information from “Ben Hur”.  Surely I will catch it and my skin will fall off, I think, though I try to play it cool in front of her.  But nothing escapes a good doctor, and Hira immediately senses my nervousness.

"The only reason leprosy is such a problem in this country is the age-old myth that it's incurable and that lepers are somehow inherently evil and highly contagious,” she quips.  “Not true, of course!  It's nothing more than an easily treatable bacterial infection.  In fact, 98% of people are naturally immune.  But by the time most people come to the clinic they've had leprosy for years and are covered in ulcers or missing digits.  They've been banished by their families and turn to begging…"

With this, we pull into the clinic and are quickly greeted by a porch full of smiling patients.  Hira wastes no time, and after an obligatory round of "Namastes" goes right to work, pointing to the toll such a simple bacterial infection can take on its victims.  She gently pinches the heavily wrinkled skin, elongated ear lobes and missing eyebrows.  I scurry to take notes as she describes the more serious side effects: changes in skin pigmentation, collapsed nose, huge ulcers, numbness in the limbs, loss of fingers and toes, blindness.

The patients are all smiles, happily posing for my pictures.  Most have been rejected by their families and taken in off the streets.  Hira explains that they enjoy belonging to the community and interacting with people who aren't repulsed by their appearance.  She leads me through the clinics' different rooms -- a lounge, men's and women’s sleeping rooms, the kitchen, an infirmary, a few offices, and a small library.  We stop in the lounge and Hira begins questioning the patients.

"The Tiger Lady wouldn't eat her breakfast again!" a man with his leg in a sling slurs while smoking a dangerously short cigarette stub.

"And yesterday she wouldn't drink her tea!" adds a tiny woman with no legs at all.

Hira laughs with that ringing chuckle that only the most patient of nurses, high school teachers and saints-in-training have, and replies, "Why don't the lot of you stop worrying about the Tiger Lady and start worrying about yourselves?  If you don't watch it, you're going burn yourself, Vinod."

The man looks down, and sure enough, his skin is beginning to sizzle.  He has a host of other burns on his hands, all the results of forgetful smoking.  He sheepishly smiles and puts the cigarette out.  Hira winks at me as we continue on our tour.

"Tiger Lady?" I ask.

"One of the patients that doesn't quite fit in with the others," she answers.  I'm about to inquire further when we step into the library.  It is completely vacated save a figure hunched in a folding chair in the far corner.  Only her back is visible -- long, knotted black hair and dark rags wrapped in various creative patterns to cover every inch of her slender body.  The midday light pours over her from the room’s only window, casting a thick shadow onto a wall of old magazines and children’s books.  It doesn't take long for me to figure out who she is.

Before Hira can start with her usual scan of symptoms, she is interrupted by the the nurse who announces an important phone call.  Hira points me to another folding chair, excuses herself to take the call, and asks the nurse to fix me some milk tea.  I am well-accustomed to milk tea, in all respects the sweetest of Nepalese formalities.  I am also well-accustomed with the ages it takes to make, and realize that Hira's phone call will be more than a quick chat.

As the two women leave the room, I find myself alone with the hunched figure, feeling nervous and frightened, though I’m not really sure of what.  She is gazing out the window and hasn't moved since we entered the room.  I clear my throat in a vain attempt to capture her attention.  She doesn't move.

"Namaste!" I say with hesitant cheer.  Still, nothing.  This is going to be more difficult than I thought.

"Do you speak English?" I gently ask.

Slowly the figure turns.  Her face is different than I expected.  It isn't wild or savage or scarred any more than the others.  But her skin is older and thicker, her wrinkles like deep black cuts across a leathered face.  Her lids droop listlessly over sad eyes, and I think it must have been years since those thin lips cracked a smile.  She hides, I suspect, the wisdom of ages behind such eyes, and I feel very young.

In a rusty voice she squeaks, "Yes."

I am surprised, and my face shows it.  I've met very few patients who speak English, and certainly didn't expect it from an elderly leper.  She sees my shocked expression and her lips quiver; I think she is attempting a laugh.

"You are surprised, no?"

"Well, I… ummm, I guess… yes, a little," I admit sheepishly.  A long pause follows.  The onus is on me to make conversation, but I've completely forgotten my usual stockpile of introductory questions.

Uncomfortable by the silence, I blurt out, "So why do people call you the Tiger Lady?"  I instantly regret it.

Her lips again quiver and after a few moments she replies, "It is a very long story, didi, and not one fit for young ears."

I glance quickly at the door, and she reads my mind. "I suppose we have a long time, though, don't we?" she says, and this time I think I see one side of her lip curl.

I return the smile.

***

            Neru was engaged at six, married at sixteen, and a proud mother of three boys at twenty-six.  Her mother always said six was her lucky number, and Neru believed it.  In the morning she swept her porch six times and offered six prasad to the gods.  She was not surprised when she was pregnant with her fourth child in her twenty-sixth year.  The baby would make six in the family, and Neru knew that this was a good thing.

She didn’t have to tell her husband she was pregnant; he already knew.  He knew by the way she smiled coyly to herself when she cooked dal and whispered in the kitchen with her sister-in-law.  Neru had a good feeling about her baby.  This one felt different than her sons, and she knew it was a girl.

As the months passed, Neru’s stomach grew and grew, and her boys became suspicious.  “What is growing in your belly, mother?” they asked.

“I ate a mango pit,” she teased.  “And now a mango tree grows in my belly.”  Her sons were scared, but also excited, for they loved mangos.  But her oldest son was eight years old and very clever.  One day he approached Neru and said, “Mother, why do you lie to your sons?  I know that it is not a mango tree that grows in your belly.”

“And how do you know that, bunti?” she replied.

“Because, mother, the mangos have already ripened and fallen to the ground, but your belly grows bigger everyday.”

“Ah, that is true,” Neru said. “But the mango tree that grows in my belly is special.  It is not like other mango trees.  Instead of growing lots of small mangos, it grows one big one.  One day you shall see this big mango and understand.”

“Perhaps when I am nine I will understand, mother?”

“Perhaps,” she answered.  And indeed, six days after her eldest son’s ninth birthday, Neru gave birth to a squirming baby girl.  She knew her baby was the most beautiful in the village, and she was very happy.  Neru took great care of her little mango, bathing her in cow’s milk and applying the red tika and charcoal eye makeup.  Her eldest son agreed that she was indeed a very special mango, and should be taken good care of.

But soon after her baby was born, funny things began to happen to Neru.  Sometimes when she made baskets her fingers would go numb.  One day while stirring the dal, she smelled something bad.  She looked down to find that she was smelling her own flesh burning against the pot!

Soon Neru couldn’t feel her hands or feet at all.  The iciness slowly inched up her arms and legs and she became very worried.  White blotches appeared all over her skin, and her sister-in-law chided her for being messy with the chalk.  But neighbors began to whisper.  The whole village knew about Neru’s funniness, and they said it was punishment from the gods.  They had seen it before, and knew she must leave so that she would not infect the whole village with her evil.
Neru protested, for surely she had done nothing to displease the gods.  But soon sores began appearing on her arms and she could no longer hide the fact that something was wrong.  Her sister-in-law would not let her touch the mango baby, and her husband told her boys to stay away from their mother.

She wept bitterly, and decided to ask the Medicine Man what to do.  When the old yogi saw her discolored skin and pussy sores, he told her the truth.  She had not fulfilled her role as dutiful wife and mother.  She was vain and thought her children were more beautiful than other children.  For this the gods punished her.  Her punishment was to become the ugliest woman in the world and to be hated forever by her family and village.

Neru was stunned and upset, for she loved her family and had tried her hardest to please them.  When she returned home, her sister-in-law was standing at the door.  “You must leave and never come back,” she said.  “You have been a bad wife and mother, and now you will infect your family and the whole village with your wickedness.  Go away!”

Neru became very scared, and ran to the garden to find her children.  The eldest son stood holding her mango, and for a moment she was relieved to see them.  But then the boy screamed, “Go away mother!  Go away!”

“But why do you say such things, bunti?”

“You are evil and now the gods have made you sick.  Father says you will make my brothers and the baby mango sick too if you stay.  Go away woman, and never come back!”

Her son’s words stung like a snakebite, and she slowly backed away in tears.  Neru ran to her neighbors’ house, hoping they could tell her family that this was all a big mistake.  She noticed her friend in the garden and said, “Didi, didi, please help me!  My family tells me I am sick and must leave the village forever.”

Her friend, who was usually all smiles and helpfulness, crossed her arms and looked sternly at Neru.  “Go away, woman,” she said.  “You have cursed your family, and now you wish to curse the entire village.  Leave this place and never come back!”

Neru knew now that her life was over.  She slowly backed away and trudged toward the main road.  As she passed her friends along the way, they covered the young ones’ eyes and hissed at her.  She felt very lonely and scared, and did not know where to go.

Finally she walked to the very edge of the village, where the Medicine Man lived.  She timidly approached the old man and asked, “Father of Health, what am I to do now?  My family tells me I must leave, but I do not know where to go.  Perhaps I can go to my sister’s farm, though it is a long way away, and it will take several days to walk there.”
The Medicine Man glared at her without mercy and replied, “No, no, no!  You mustn’t ever live among people again.  Everywhere you go you will infect those around you with evil and bring shame to your family.  You are destined to live in the jungle, among wild things like yourself.”

Neru stared at him with wide, terrified eyes.  “The jungle?  But no one can live there, Father!  It is impossible!”

“It is up to you to find out for yourself.  Perhaps the gods will be merciful.  Now leave me.”  With that, the Medicine Man sucked a deep breath from his hookah and closed his eyes.

For the first time in her life, Neru walked beyond the Medicine Man’s house into the unknown place.  She had always warned her boys to never enter this forest because she knew that mean spirits lived here.  But she could not return to her family, for it would cause them great shame.  So Neru walked into the jungle and never looked back.

At first the jungle wasn’t as scary as she thought.  It was green and lovely, and the ground was soft like clay.  “Perhaps I could live here on the forests’ edge,” she thought, “and then sneak to my house to see my children when no one is looking.”

But then she remembered what the Medicine Man had said.  She didn’t want to curse her children, and thought it would be best to go as far away as possible from them, just in case.  So with a heavy heart, Neru lumbered on.  She walked for three days into the thick of the forest, trying to ignore the sounds of the evil spirits whispering in her ear.  She didn’t stop to eat or sleep.  She could not feel her feet though, so she was not in pain.

Finally, on the evening of the third day, she came upon a muddy stream and sat down beside it.  She found a sturdy leaf, and scooped water out of the stream to drink.  The water was disgusting, but she didn’t mind too much.  One by one she picked off the leeches that had burrowed into her open sores.  She was surprised to find new sores, bigger than ever, on the bottoms of her feet.  They were caked with pus juice and mud, and she knew this was dangerous.  She rinsed off her feet in the stream and wrapped them in palm strips, just has her mother had taught her.  She was worried though, because she could not wash some of the blackness off her toes.  Neru felt very tired all of the sudden, and lay down by the stream and fell asleep.

When she awoke, she did not feel okay.  Her belly screamed and her face ached, and she could see the leeches chomping away at her sores again.  She tried to pick them off, but this was useless.  She knew she must find food, but she did not know how.  “How I wish I had my lentils and rice and pots over the fire!” she lamented.

But Neru was a smart woman, and knew that wishing did little and acting did much.  She hunted around until she had collected many of the red berries that were safe to eat, and even some of the oily nuts her husband liked.  But chewing hurt, for her mouth was tight and swollen.  She could feel that her face was puffy with blisters, and she was glad that her children had not seen her like this.

Neru thought about her young ones.  She wondered if they missed her, and if the mango child cried for her breast.  She wept hopelessly that day, and fell into a fitful sleep.

Later she awoke to a strange sensation on her arm.  It felt wet and soft.  She tried to open her eyes to see what was happening, but they were swollen shut.  Neru reached out her hand and felt hot breath and smooth fur.  At first she was frightened by the beast, but then she felt a warm tongue licking her sores.  Neru knew this creature must be a mother too.

She lay with the beast for a while.  Sometimes it would lick her wounds, and sometimes she would stroke its soft fur.  She knew that this animal was probably a human like her in another life.  “Maybe all people that are banished to the jungle turn into these creatures,” she thought.  “This beast is my sister, and I love her.  One day I will turn into a beast too.”  Neru’s eyes cracked open, and she was delighted to see the beast had a brilliant orange coat.

“Why, you’re a tiger!” she exclaimed out loud with a laugh.  “Hello sister tiger, I’m Neru, and I am a mother too.”  Neru could tell that the tiger understood and accepted her as a friend.  She spoke gently to her new sister, and the tiger purred in response.  Soon Neru could see that the tiger missed her cub, and said goodbye.  The tiger bade Neru goodbye too, and promised to return.

Neru waited by the stream for two days.  Finally, on the third day her sister returned with a baby tiger cub.  She was delighted to meet the cub, who had fur yellow-orange like a mango.  The three drank water from the stream, and Neru was happy.  Her sister invited Neru to live with the tiger family in a near-by cave.  Neru did not like sleeping on the sticky mud, and so she agreed.

The tiger lair was comfortable, and Neru liked living with her new family.  They gave her pieces of meat to eat and licked her sores.  But Neru could tell that her body was changing.  Her face was full of blisters, and her fingers and toes were black.  Her sores were very bad, and she wondered if she would die soon.  She thought that maybe she wouldn’t mind dying though, for then she could be reborn as a great tiger just like her sister.

But the gods would not let Neru die.  She continued to live in the jungle with her tiger family for many years.  Twenty, maybe thirty, no one knows for sure.  Her fingers and toes fell off, but Neru saw that this was just the gods’ way of giving her tiger paws.  When her puffy face drained, she was left with deep wrinkles, just like the black lines of the tiger.

Neru missed her human family a lot, but knew that she could never return to them.  Her children were probably all married by now with little ones of their own.  When the tiger family went about their business, sometimes Neru sat curled up in the lair and daydreamed about her mango daughter.  She must be the loveliest girl in the whole village, the old woman thought.  She imagined how beautiful her daughter must have looked on her wedding day, draped in rich red sari, her soft hands decorated with delicate mendhi.

Neru was imagining the long strands of marigolds she would make and the feast of spicy dishes she would cook, when suddenly she heard a very odd noise.  It was not like the roar of the tiger or the chirp of the jungle bird.  This noise was familiar, but harsh and clicky, and it hurt Neru’s ears.  She peered out of her cave and was shocked to see two men.  Real men, with chopped hair and trousers and thick boots and hunters’ hats.  They saw her too and one screamed. 
Neru retreated back into her cave, but it was too late.  The men followed her in and stared.  Then the tall one spoke to Neru: “Who are you old woman?  What are you doing here, and why do you look so strange?”

It had been so long since she had heard a human voice that Neru didn’t remember how to respond.  The men stared in awe at her naked, dirty body, covered in ulcers.  Then they looked at her matted hair and paws, and guessed the answer for themselves.

“Don’t worry,” said the tall one, “We will get you out of here.  Come with us.  We will take you to a hospital where you will be safe.”

But Neru knew that she could not go back to the human world.  She screamed and howled, and begged the tigers to come back and save her from these men.  But the tigers were far away and did not hear.  The men were strong, and she was old and weak.  She could not run away with her stubby paws, and the men soon got hold of her.  They wrapped her in an itchy blanket and the tall one threw her over his shoulder.

That was the last time the Tiger Lady saw her jungle.

***

“Hullo, here we are!” chimes the chubby nurse.  She comes in with a tray of tea, fragrant with warm milk and spice.  Hira darts in after her.

“And how have you two been carrying on, then?” the gracious doctor asks with a broad smile.

She turns to me and chuckles.  “I dare say you didn’t get much out of her, hmm?  She never speaks to anyone.  But not to worry, I’ve brought her some mangos.  It’s the only thing she’ll eat, God knows why.  Once she nearly died trying to swallow the pit!  Imagine that!”

With a chuckle Hira hands six mangos to the old woman.  She gingerly takes them and cradles the bunch in her arms.

As I turn to leave, she clutches a mango between her paws and stretches it toward me with a shy nod of her head.

I understand what she means, and take the fruit.

Published: June 21, 2007