#chws

There are no bells, no embellishments attached to your disgraced exit on the Nones of September— you are dismissed from the royal court, sent away with what little things you possessed. The title of Lady was a formality anyway, and you knew the assorted nobles of Gothym’s inner court thought of you as the very opposite, if not less. You hold your head high, nose almost to the heavens as you leave the Great Hall.

Of the few words your uncle spares, you learn of the stipulations surrounding your exile:

One– that there would be a watchman guarding you, misbehaved child, on the risk you posed to yourself upon banishment. A second sin, the clergyman had whispered to your uncle after the commotion had settled, we need not a second sin to offend our Lord. 

Two– that you regrettably, could not die, nor run. This you found bewildering. You were already marked as an adulteress, so what concern was it to the court if you disappeared, permanently?

Lastly, three– that a knight would be your keeper. A mercenary, more like. His moniker sounded familiar when uttered, one that escaped from the pursed lips of God-fearing midwives and into the ear of naive children. You feared what this man, cruel in reputation, would inflict upon you once learned of your lechery.

You’re given little time to pack, and depart shortly with your escorts on some unremarkable foggy morn. Only the kindly cook sees you off, kissing your reddened cheeks while sneaking armfuls of warm bread into your luggage.

“Fear not, my lady,” she whispers as the stable boy readies your horse, “You’re better off by your lonesome now.”

Alone. Yes, you would be alone, save for your knight. This thought becomes increasingly uncomfortable the closer you’re brought to the edge of Gothym. With each quiet meadow you pass, the unbearable truth of your predicament grows heavier, more real. You would likely never see a familiar face again, save for your uncle if he were cruel enough to haunt you. As for the matter of your social life, no person, for all the riches in the land, would even think of desiring you, much less call you friend. 

The court spared you the fate of death, but you felt the pressed confinement of the coffin and the bitter taste of dirt in your mouth all the same.

___________

By the time you and your escorts arrive, your breath is visible in the chilled air. Finding the hold itself was easy, as the mere silhouette of it looked like an interruption in the otherwise uniform forest skyline. Before, you hoped for a dwelling that at least had a fireplace, but what you stood before now imposed a cutting contrast: dark towers that spiraled toward an even darker sky, walls of storm-colored stone that engulfed an ornately engraved entrance, and underpinnings of a greater, ancient power dwelling beneath the structure. You inch closer, trying to make out the detailing of the entryway– above the head of the door is fittingly, the gates of hell. Two angels fly a banner above the actual doorway that reads:

‘Ad Montes Oculos Levavi.’

The phrase sounded vaguely familiar to you– a line from the Old Testament. You don’t have much time to ponder it, as a sudden push of the night wind reminds you of your long journey. The small group of sentinels that arrived with you shift uneasily atop their mounts, still peering at the structure above. Their commanding, Ser Jaime, only eyes you with measured disdain before flicking his reins, signaling their retreat. He had taught you how to hold a bow once, in your youth.

You watch their backs as they leave, forcing down choice words of spite you know you aren’t at liberty to say. Instead you coo at Sorel, and tie your mare to the modest stables left of the manor. Perhaps in the morning you would explore your new living quarters. In the meantime, lugging your bag through the formidable oaken doors and up the cobbled stairwell was your sole focus. 

A conversation with an old friend replays itself as you settle into the first bedroom you stumble upon. The details of it are soft, frayed, like a childhood blanket worn from use. You remember poorly disguised whispers and deep belly laughter underneath a tapestry. You remember the closeness of it, the warmth of it. If you closed your eyes now you could still feel the press of her palm into yours and the weight of her innermost fears bore to you. 

She asks you, twiddling your fingers together, of your dreams for the future; where you’d be, what you’d be like. You tell her hopefully sequestered away in a home of your own, far away from the uncle that taunted you so. 

“But that’s so lonesome!” She squeaks, hands splaying across your arm. She never could sit still. “To be isolated, and by choice!”

“Well, what would you have instead?”

She pauses at this, admits in a small voice, “I dream I will have a place of my own. Perhaps a garden to tend, and midnight trysts with a handsome blacksmith.” 

Both giggling at this future, you feel only gratitude toward your friend. Though prone to silly flights and fancies, her mere admittance of such fantasy gave you hope for a chance at happiness– for the both of you. Your friend grasps your hands in hers once more, staring at you intently, “And you? Surely you wish for a beau of your own to hold in that lonesome cottage of yours.”

“I’m not opposed,” you counter, a grin blossoming on your face, “Even witches want for companions during the long winter, I suppose.” She snorts, and swats your shoulder in return. 

It was odd, revisiting a memory that seemed a lifetime ago— a memory where you were tucked next to a person you cared for without a fear in the world, bravely admitting the depths of your want without shame. Looking around the dark expanse of your new bedroom, you’re not sure what you want anymore. The feelings you’ve endeavored to banish mix in you like turned milk– from now on, only memories from a past life would keep you warm. The scratchy fabric of your bedding crinkles with age in your clenched fist. Your very soul boils to think that your uncle believed himself fair for conjuring up your punishment.

Fair? What was fair? Nothing about being condemned to a stone hold, away from friends, away from everything you knew, all without having the reprieve of killing yourself was fair. 

You could do it now, you wager. Your keeper had yet to arrive. It would only take a quick, sure motion across your throat with the dagger concealed in your sleeve.

The weapon is in your hand, pressed quick to skin before you can even finish the thought. You prickle with excitement at imagining the scene your knight would stumble upon come morning. Would he vomit? Scream? Piss himself? Or perhaps he would be relieved at the sight of your cold body,  knowing that he wouldn't have to nanny an entitled whore. 

You close your eyes. Still your breathing. The handle of your dagger feels like everything you have ever held in your palm– the door handle of your chambers, a well-loved manuscript, the reins of your horse, a blade of grass, and your best friend’s hand on the last night you ever saw her. Her hands were always softer than yours. You open your eyes. 

It is your reflection, tired, dirty, and alone, that snaps you out of your stupor, and instead into the rage you felt too uncomely to express all those weeks ago. It comes out of you in waves and spurts that sound not too much unlike a wild animal’s dying scream. The blade once against your own neck instead goes into the faded fabrics that adorn the room. You rip through curtains, blankets, and tapestries– the wood of your vanity suffers splinters and chipped varnish. Everything once mounted, beautiful, and untouchable is thrown to the floor, either trampled or shattered from the fall. You fall asleep in a pile of your own destruction and tears.

That night, you dream. You dream of a life that could save you from your bleak future. You dream of a warm home and freshly cooked meals. You dream of manuscripts to peruse at your will. You dream of good company and the kind of laughter that spreads through your limbs like a well-aged mead.

You dream and dream, knowing it is all you will have for the rest of your wicked life.

___________

The homily, much to his horror, is like nothing Jason has heard before; graphic denouncement of desire, temptation, and the sins of flesh. He knows the oath, knows it like the brand seared into his face, knows it like the rejection of a father afraid of his prodigal son. He knows not to break it. Yet the description of such lecherous acts that were meant to sicken him, draw him in. Placidly, he thinks of you during the priest's fiery sermon— you who did nothing but infuriate and annoy, you who somehow, enticed him in another language that transcended the physical.  Something precious as a knight’s chastity seemed to dull in face of what he could desire, possess, own— if he finally submitted to you.

The thoughts linger with him, long after mass ends, long after entering the forge— as he flattens his armor, each strike of the white-hot steel brings to mind images of warm, giving skin; each chime of metal reminiscent of muffled sighs, quiet gasps. 

Even in preparation for violence, his longing follows him. When Jason wearily lifts the chest plate to his body, his first thought upon the cold suggestion of his armor is hot hands, gliding down his stomach. When Jason hooks all of his gear into the right corners, all the belts, buckles, and screws that slide against each other without resistance, he guiltily imagines damp limbs, bumping into one another in uniform ecstasy. 

Like a man possessed, he grasps the hilt of his sword, and imagines his thumb pressing your pulse point; the soft juncture between your neck and collarbone. Slowly, almost as if in a trance, he slides the pad of his digit up, up, up; past the hilt, the crooked cross-guard, through your clothing, and into the cool steel of your skin. 

What words could he elicit with a press of his finger? What carefully guarded secrets could he uncover? He forces his thumb down, harder, and imagines your bright grin, and hands that guide his clumsy, fumbling ones down. Harder, and you shower him with praise, words that make his ears flush with embarrassment. Even harder, and he may as well be lost to the grain of your voice forever. 

Jason is brought out of his reverie by the sting of broken skin. He watches as his blood, ruby red, spreads and stains the base of his blade. 

  It’s vaccination day, and there’s a great turnout, thanks to the persistence of accredited social health activists (ASHAs) like Maheshwari (far left). She shared Vaccination Day information with families over the phone.

She regularly makes phone calls to clients under her care to tell them about vaccination campaigns. She also accompanies them to the health center on important days like this.

Moms and babies wait to see a health worker. Suman Aswal (right) is accompanied by her mother-in-law Sheela Devi as she brings her twin baby girls Anshika and Vanshika for their vaccinations. 

Sunita Devi holds her three-month old baby boy. All the children who came to the health center had their weight measured and received DPT vaccinations against three infectious diseases: diphtheria, pertussis (whooping cough), and tetanus.

To keep track of vaccinations and other health data, ASHAs in Uttarakhand regularly use mSakhi, a job aid tool designed by IntraHealth International. mSakhi helps them organize their duties into calendars and reminders— including for important events like vaccination day—and more.

Suman, her mother-in-law, and Sunita leave the Pharsula health sub-centre with their babies. Commuting in the Himalayan state of Uttarakhand means walking up and down hills and mountains. 

With the babies cradled in their arms, some of these families have to walk up to two hours to and from the health center on winding mountain paths.

Photos by Rahul Kumar for IntraHealth International

His birth on a cold December night became a significant event in her village when Bachan rushed her daughter-in-law to the nearest sub-centre for delivery.

Bachan was determined to set an example and show her neighbors how health workers at health facilities, as part of the larger health system, help women give birth safely.

Bachan is an accredited social health activist (or ASHA for short), a type of community health worker in India. Frontline health workers like her make up the backbone of the rural health system. They not only provide health and nutrition information to community members, they also help them access government health services.

In July, IntraHealth International trained Bachan to use the mSakhi mobile app. In Jharkhand and nearby Uttar Pradesh, ASHAs like her have been using mSakhi to update their skills, stay in touch with their supervisors, and track and report crucial data about health services in their communities—from maternal and child health to noncommunicable diseases.

Read how frontline health workers in Jharkhand are using mSakhi to screen for noncommunicable diseases:  mSakhi App Adapted for Noncommunicable Diseases in Jharkhand, India