Along came the RTI

27 October 2007

Boru is a small village in Kalol taluka, Gujarat. It is home to approximately 2,500 people belonging to Hindu, Muslim, adivasi and other communities. Like most other villages, Boru has its own problems.

The roads are in bad shape, electricity is scarce, and healthcare non-existent. The road to the taluka headquarters at Kalol, around 5 km away, has long ago had the metalling washed away; perhaps it was never there at all. Built under the prime minister�s village road construction scheme, only the first kilometre of the road is properly tarred, the rest resembles a dust bowl.

There is no primary health centre (PHC) in the village. Government policies allow one PHC for a population of every 30,000 people. It is usually placed in the largest village in the cluster. Boru�s inhabitants can only avail of free medical services at the designated centre 8 km away, rather than in Kalol which is closer.

If the road to Kalol is a dubious �facility�, the 8 km road to Jantral is a figment of someone�s imagination. When ill, the villagers have little option but to pay Rs 15 to get to Jantral by public transport and be treated for minor ailments.

There is absolutely no provision for more serious, sudden and life-threatening emergencies, and none for childbirth. Most deliveries are done at home by local midwives.

Women have been known to deliver and die on the way to the healthcare centre, and it is not unusual to see four or five men carrying a woman in labour on foot all the way to the centre.

In these circumstances, the government-provided health worker becomes vital. She is supposed to visit the village three times a week, provide immunisation and supplements, and look after the needs of TB patients, children and pregnant women.

Boru is lucky if the health worker visits three times a month. When she does make an appearance, she sits in one place. If people approach her, well and good; if no one comes, she leaves in around an hour.

The villagers have been complaining about lack of medical facilities for the past four years. At the very least they want a sub-centre that will make childbirth less risky. Complaints to the PHC, to the MLA and several other authorities elicited the standard response: �We will try our level best to do something and find a solution.�

But nothing changed.

Then along came the Right to Information (RTI).

Gulambhai, a concerned citizen of Boru, decided he had had enough. It was time to ask a few questions and at least find out what the healthcare provisions for his village were.

He applied to the local health centre doctor who doubles as its public information officer (PIO), asking specifically what assistance could be provided to patients and what facilities were available for pregnant women; the number of health workers assigned to Boru, how often they were required to visit, and what their responsibilities were.

Under the Right to Information Act, this information must be routinely provided by government departments to the public without specific requests being made. But since the information was nowhere to be found, Gulambhai submitted his �request in writing�.

Almost immediately - and certainly before any response was forthcoming - things on the ground began to change. The villagers were pleasantly surprised and pleased at the makeover of the health worker. She started visiting regularly (almost everyday), provided basic healthcare, and made sure to visit every mohalla. The visits had an immediate impact on general health in the village.

Pleased with the outcome of their small foray, many villagers didn�t seem to care much that the information asked for was still not forthcoming.

But Gulambhai and a few others were convinced it was just as important to get the information. The sudden change in behaviour of the health worker could be temporary. To ensure its permanence it was necessary to make norms related to the provision of healthcare visible and widely known to all.

He sent the doctor a reminder asking about the status of his application. Three days later, the PHC doctor landed up on Gulambhai�s doorstep. (Some villagers joked that he must have lost his way; a home visit by a government doctor was unheard of!)

The doctor asked where Gulambhai had he learnt about the RTI Act, and how he was going to use the information. Gulambhai explained that a lot of people like him in the village had attended trainings and were well aware of the new law.

The doctor, surprised, assured Gulambhai that he would personally ensure that the health worker came regularly. He also suggested that Gulambhai or any other villager visit him at the PHC and draw his attention to any problems they had.

A week after the doctor�s visit, Gulambhai received the information by post. The villagers were thrilled. The replies were by no means as detailed as had been asked for, and it had taken almost twice as long to get them as is required by statute.

Logical pursuit of the inquiry would have thrown up questions about events of the previous years: Where had the medicines to be distributed gone? What were the finances allocated to healthcare in the villages, and how had they been spent? Who was supervising the errant health worker? How was their performance assessed? But for now these lines of inquiry were not going to be pursued.

The villagers believed that the provision of regular services and the personal visit by the doctor were in themselves a huge success that more than made up for any technical lapses in the provision of information.

This is what the right to information is. It is power, it is democracy in action. It is development you can see. It is participation you can hold in your hand. It is accountability that comes to your house.

Source: Infochange

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