8:00 a.m.: The start of a not-so-perfect morning
I wake up, already running a bit behind. I toss last night’s leftovers into a lunchbox while thinking, Will this meet my nutrition for the day? Maybe tomorrow I’ll pack something better. Morning routine kicks in: shower, brush, poop, pack bag, grab tea. No time to sit and sip, I carry it with me.
8:45 a.m.: Wheels on the ground
I hop into my WHO-assigned vehicle and greet my driver with a cheerful, “Good morning, dada!” He smiles back. I’ve learned over time a happy driver makes for a smoother day on the field.
Today’s task is critical and we have a long day ahead. We’re heading to a remote village to investigate a case of sudden-onset paralysis, possibly acute flaccid paralysis (AFP). It means digging into the child’s health history, checking the environment, and making sure it gets reported to the surveillance system without delay.
9:10 a.m.: Calls begin rolling in
As we drive, the phone buzzes. The District Immunization Officer wants to finalize the review meeting schedule. Some facilities still haven’t submitted their routine immunization microplans. I tell him, “We’ll have to wait until they’re done.”
Just as I end that call, my external monitors ring in to update me on upcoming ASHA meetings across different blocks. We have a short, productive chat. I take some notes and finally set the phone aside.
9:45 a.m.: A moment of silence
I look outside. The beauty of Meghalaya never gets old—the misty hills, deep green valleys, and quiet roads winding through forests. Coming from a city, this landscape feels like another world. In these moments, I feel grateful. The mountains make me feel small in the best way possible. There’s a quiet sense of purpose that settles in. Maybe I was meant to serve here.
10:15 a.m.: A seatbelt lesson
We’re flagged down at a police checkpoint. “Why isn’t your driver wearing a seatbelt?” the officer asks. No excuse—it’s our fault. Hilly roads or not, safety rules still apply. We get a mild scolding and carry on.
11:00 a.m.: The last stretch
Signal’s fading fast as we near the village. I try calling the ANMs but no luck. We pull over and I ask for directions in a jumbled mix of Hindi, Khasi, and English. The villagers are kind and try to help, though language makes it a bit tricky.
Following their instructions, we spot a small tea shop where two women are waiting—one in a blue uniform. That must be the ASHA (Accredited Social Health Activist) and ANM (Auxiliary Nurse Midwife). We park, exchange greetings, and they graciously offer me red tea and a soft rice cake. We sit briefly, discuss the case, and map the way to the child’s home.
11:30 a.m.: On foot to the family’s house
We set out together walking through narrow paths, past quiet homes, chickens clucking, villagers out in the sun. The air is clean. The path is uneven, but we walk with purpose because the mission is important.
What happened next … well, that’s a story for another day.
Life on the field
Public health on the ground isn’t glamorous. It’s not all data sheets and dashboards. It’s messy, unpredictable, and often exhausting. But it’s real. It’s human. It’s full of broken phone signals, chai breaks, small talk in mixed languages, and the unpredictable pace of village life. But somewhere between the checklists and the chaos, you find something deeper—purpose, connection, and a reminder that change starts with showing up.
Poulami Mazumder is a World Health Organization consultant.
