The granny dentist of Tilonia

Whenever I used to think of dentists, tall males with impressive degrees, grimly doing their worst, oblivious to one's screams of agony, would come to mind. That was before I met Bhanwari Devi, the dentist at Tilonia's Barefoot College. Portly and ghagra-clad, she was chatting with some students about dental hygiene. The kids were saying they didn't have time for it since they spent their day grazing animals. "Oh ho, just scrub your teeth with twigs of babool or neem wherever you are! Our desi toothbrushes are our best friends," she laughed. Impressed by her grandmotherly wisdom as much as her well-stocked clinic, I stopped for a chat.
 

Belonging to Beawar, Devi was brought up behind the veil, amid the belief that education was unnecessary for women. Then, she met activists from Barefoot College. "They said the veil wasn't a symbol of modesty - it suffocated women like me, restricting us from realising our true potential," she said. Feisty Devi threw off her veil and shifted en famille to work in Tilonia.

A health survey revealed that dental problems were rampant in the villages nearby. Since it wasn't easy to find good dentists in the village, Barefoot College decided to train volunteers in dentistry skills. An Italian doctor offered to help with training. "But we were so scared of blood and gore. I used to even fear injections!" she laughed. "Finally, I enrolled in 2009... I'd faith in god and in my abilities."

The initial years were hard but interesting. "I'd call the instruments 'kanta', 'aina' and 'cheemta' instead of probe, mirror and forceps! Soon, I learnt their names and how to use them," said Devi. For the next six months, this illiterate lady learnt to fill cavities, clean plaque, extract rotting teeth and repair broken ones. "We had to refer only two procedures to bigger hospitals - root-canal surgeries and extraction of healthy wisdom teeth. Otherwise, in six months, I learnt to do everything else."

One of her favourite tasks is giving students of the college's four night schools dental check-ups. "I tell them what I tell my own grandchild - don't eat too many sweets and when you do, wash your mouth thoroughly afterwards!" she said. For her own grandchild, she has brought a small toothbrush instead of a toy.

The training and subsequent practice taught Devi to repair more than broken teeth - it repaired her self-confidence. "By god's grace, I've treated thousands of patients and not one of my procedures has gone awry. I've no doubts about my skill or competence," she said. Once she successfully treated a visiting Australian pilot's toothache. Impressed with her skill and life story, he wanted to give her a gift. "I refused to accept anything since I'd only done my duty." So he took her for a helicopter spin instead. "What an experience that was. I was flying free like a bird, and our village was a mere speck on the earth's surface. I was scared but didn't want the flight to end." I then asked her which epithet did she prefer - dentist or granny? "I'm proud of both, but becoming a dentist has changed my life in ways I'd never imagined."

The idea that technology can be demystified so that even illiterate grannies can practice it, is strange to people like us with formal degrees. However, the imagined image of a ghagra-clad Devi flying high over her village makes me think that not only is the Barefoot approach doable - but maybe it's the better way forward than the present trickle-down approach to development.