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Correspondent

23 August 2024 at 9:59:04 pm

Fatal Negligence

Newborns dying in a fire inside a government hospital is a devastating indictment of a system that is supposed to protect its most vulnerable patients. The Amravati District Women’s Hospital tragedy, where a blaze killed three infants, joins a long list of preventable institutional failures. Thirty-nine babies were inside the three-compartment facility when the fire erupted after a ventilator in the neonatal unit caught fire. Thirty-six were eventually rescued. Parents and eyewitnesses have...

Fatal Negligence

Newborns dying in a fire inside a government hospital is a devastating indictment of a system that is supposed to protect its most vulnerable patients. The Amravati District Women’s Hospital tragedy, where a blaze killed three infants, joins a long list of preventable institutional failures. Thirty-nine babies were inside the three-compartment facility when the fire erupted after a ventilator in the neonatal unit caught fire. Thirty-six were eventually rescued. Parents and eyewitnesses have alleged that the fire alarms did not sound and the automatic sprinklers failed to activate even as the district administration has said the hospital underwent regular fire audits and had applied for this year’s audit. An audit is meaningful only if it establishes that equipment works when lives depend on it. Maharashtra has already witnessed the deadly consequences of fire-safety failures in public hospitals. In 2021, eleven Covid-19 patients died in a fire at the Ahmednagar district hospital even though a fire audit conducted months earlier had recommended a firefighting system. The Amravati tragedy demands more than the familiar ritual of a high-level inquiry, compensation and promises of “strictest action”. The announcement of ex gratia payments cannot compensate parents who have lost a child they had barely begun to know. The investigation must establish not merely what ignited the fire, but why it was allowed to become fatal. Was the ventilator properly maintained? Were electrical and medical devices routinely inspected? Did alarms function? Were sprinklers operational? Was the NICU appropriately located and equipped for evacuation? Were staff trained and drills conducted? And most importantly, who was responsible for ensuring that every safeguard worked? There is another troubling detail: the neonatal unit was reportedly housed on the third floor, rather than at ground level, and questions have arisen over whether the unit was part of the building’s original plan. The state has built an elaborate architecture of laws and child-protection standards which seldom matches the situation on ground. Whether in government hospitals, schools or anganwadis, safety has become a box to be ticked rather than a responsibility to be lived. The most vulnerable children are consequently left dependent not on systems, but on the vigilance and heroism of individual staff members. That is an appalling way to run the childcare infrastructure of one India’s most developed states. A NICU is perhaps the worst possible place for institutional complacency: its patients are immobile, medically dependent and extraordinarily vulnerable to smoke, heat and even brief disruption of life-support equipment. The government must ensure that the Amravati deaths do not become another entry in the grim ledger of hospital tragedies followed by inquiries, outrage and forgetting. The real test will be whether the state can prevent the next newborn from dying in a hospital that was supposed to save him.

A Thirsty Nation Beneath A Monsoon Sky

India's relationship with water is marked by a striking contradiction. A few summers ago, while travelling through rural Rajasthan, I witnessed an elderly woman struggling to draw water from a hand pump beneath a neem tree. After several attempts, a faint trickle finally emerged, and her face lit up with relief. At that very moment, dark monsoon clouds were gathering on the horizon, preparing to bring torrential rains across the country.


The scene captured a paradox that defines much of India's water story: a nation blessed with abundant rainfall yet repeatedly confronted by scarcity. Every year, the monsoon arrives like a promise fulfilled, filling rivers, reservoirs, lakes, and fields with renewed life. For a brief period, abundance appears limitless. Yet as the rains retreat, groundwater levels decline, reservoirs shrink, rivers narrow, and communities once again worry about access to water. Villages wait for tankers, farmers scan the skies for signs of rain, and cities prepare for shortages. The challenge, therefore, is not simply the amount of water India receives, but the way it is managed, stored, and valued after it reaches the ground.


For centuries, Indian communities understood this reality and developed systems that worked in harmony with nature. Across the country, stepwells, tanks, village ponds, and johadscaptured and conserved rainwater while replenishing local ecosystems. Water was not treated merely as a resource; it was woven into culture, tradition, and community life. Rivers inspired festivals, wells became gathering places, and ponds served as centres of social interaction and recreation.


Water occupied a respected place in both memory and daily life. In contrast, modern society often approaches water as an unlimited commodity. Groundwater is extracted faster than it can be replenished, wetlands are replaced by concrete structures, and rivers are expected to sustain growing demands without receiving adequate care. As a result, flood and drought increasingly coexist within the same national landscape. One region struggles with overflowing rivers while another faces dry wells. Some cities experience devastating floods during intense rainfall, while others confront severe shortages only months later. Nature provides the water, but human choices frequently determine whether it becomes a source of security or crisis.


Statistics and infrastructure plans alone cannot fully explain the importance of water because water is deeply personal. It is present in everyday experiences: the bucket carried before sunrise, the farmer anxiously watching the horizon, the tea prepared for a guest, or the childhood river remembered long after one has moved away.


Water connects people across regions, languages, and social backgrounds because it remains essential to every aspect of life. No technological innovation can replace it, and no economy can function without it. Certainly, future solutions will require better infrastructure, smarter irrigation systems, advanced conservation technologies, and more efficient resource management.


However, these measures alone cannot solve the problem if society continues to forget its fundamental relationship with water. The water crisis is not merely an engineering challenge; it is also a crisis of memory and responsibility. Every river begins as a drop of rain, every reservoir depends on careful stewardship, and every shortage often begins with neglect. Rivers themselves offer a powerful lesson. They remember the mountains, forests, and civilizations that shaped them, carrying those histories forward even as landscapes and societies change.


Reflecting on that woman beneath the neem tree, I realise that her smile was not an expression of abundance but of gratitude. She understood a truth that modern societies often overlook: the value of water becomes most apparent in its absence. India's future lies between two realities—extraordinary abundance during the monsoon and profound scarcity during the dry months.


The challenge is not simply to build more dams, drill deeper wells, or create new policies, although all of these may be necessary. It is to recover a sense of respect for the natural systems that sustain life. The story of water is ultimately a story about memory, wisdom, and responsibility. It asks whether a civilisation can continue to progress without losing sight of the gifts that support its existence. Long after debates end and projects are completed, rivers will continue their ancient journey to the sea, flowing past villages, cities, temples, and factories alike. The enduring question is not whether rivers can survive without us, but whether we can thrive after forgetting the lessons they have quietly taught for generations.


(The writer is a bilingual author with five published titles to his credit. Views personal.)

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