In the second week of July, a 22-year-old woman from Sidhi district in Madhya Pradesh captured national attention through social media. Leela Sahu, nine months pregnant, had done this before. The local influencer with over 2 million followers has created content since 2022, some of it addressing local issues. This time, her message carried urgency: access to healthcare.
The nearest hospital sits 30 km from her village, connected by what can barely be called a road. Past childbirth deaths haunt Khaddi Khurd village, and fearing for her life, Sahu turned to her platform to demand a functional route. Instead of support, ruling party leaders dismissed her with sexist remarks, some of them accusing her of exploiting her pregnancy for online fame.
All problems in Sahu’s village trace back to one broken, impassable road. During monsoon, cars overturn, ambulances retreat, and villagers wade through knee-deep mud during emergencies. In summer, the route becomes a dust trail. “This isn’t just about pregnant women—no patient can leave the village,” Sahu said. “In the name of progress, nothing happens.”
The road was excavated last year for a pipeline to the nearby Gulab Sagar dam, but never restored. Now routine checkups cause Sahu days of pain. The hospital, eight km away, has no doctor—only a nurse. ASHA workers operate five kilometres away, and patients must be carried to the nearest paved road where ambulances can reach.
When Sahu became pregnant last year, she and other women wrote to their Member of Parliament. They received assurances that roadwork would begin in November. Nothing changed. “No official came. No MP came. That’s when I decided to make a video—maybe someone in the media will see it and act,” she said.
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The video went viral, prompting BJP MP Rajesh Mishra to respond: “We have ambulances. Tell us your expected delivery date, and we’ll pick you up a week before. Using this issue to gain social media fame isn’t acceptable.” He added, “I don’t build roads. Engineers and contractors do. It takes time. What did Congress do when they were in power? Now they’re using this woman as a pawn to attack me.”
Public Works Department Minister Rakesh Singh claimed his department lacked the budget to build roads “wherever there is demand”.
Sahu clarified that she has made YouTube videos about her life for three years and has 1.13 million followers on that platform. “I’m already famous. I don’t need this kind of video for fame. We filed complaints, and no one listened. Now that I’ve shown the world, they’re offended? Even if they arrange a hospital bed, I still have to cross that road.” She added, “We pay taxes on everything—from salt to petrol. Where does that money go? They build highways and bridges, but not ten kilometres of road here?”
Sahu pointed out the hypocrisy of political leaders. “During elections, they’ll go anywhere—no matter the road—to ask for votes. But once elected, they vanish. I don’t know what kind of arrogance they have. We voted for them, and now they act like kings. They forget they were once ordinary citizens.” She believes social media helps people voice their rights. “You should file formal complaints. But in today’s world, showing your problem matters too.”
“For those in cities, our problems are invisible. Come live here for a few days—you’ll understand why we need a road,” Sahu said.
Not just Leela’s story
Sociologists and public health experts say Sahu’s case is yet another example of how rural women’s demands—especially from marginalised communities—face mockery or dismissal, while systemic failures that endanger lives remain ignored. In rural India, according to experts, access to basic healthcare separates communities not just by distance, but by terrain, infrastructure, and political will. For pregnant women like Sahu needing urgent care, the road often doesn’t exist—turning routine childbirth into life-threatening emergency. Despite decades of policy promises and rising health budgets, motorable roads and functioning primary health centres remain out of reach for many villages. Women give birth on roadsides, in autorickshaws, or inside homes without trained medical support. These aren’t statistics, but stories of systemic neglect and routine state failure, public healthcare observers say.
Leela Sahu’s case lays bare how crumbling rural infrastructure turns pregnancy into a deadly risk in India’s poorest districts. (Representational Image)
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THE HINDU
Dr Vandana Prasad, a community paediatrician with the Public Health Resource Network, calls it a clear state failure. “Maternal mortality is almost wholly avoidable. If these deaths happen, the system has failed,” she said. “The entire process—antenatal care, delivery, postnatal care—requires a robust, responsive system. That’s why institutional deliveries were prioritised. If that infrastructure still doesn’t function, it reflects abject planning failure. The state bears responsibility not only for health services but supporting infrastructure.”
Referring to cases like Sahu’s, she noted that basic access to doctors often remains out of reach. “This isn’t just a women’s issue—it affects entire communities. I’ve worked in many such areas, and I believe it’s primarily marginalisation—both geographic and social. These communities are isolated, their language and culture considered inferior, and they often lack voice.”
Prasad noted that programmes like ASHA and anganwadi workers were created to bridge such gaps. “But these systems are severely under-supported. Even ASHA workers struggle to reach women during emergencies—how can they respond if there’s no road or transport?”
According to the latest Sample Registration System report, Madhya Pradesh has India’s highest maternal mortality rate—159 deaths per one lakh live births, compared to the national figure of 88. Its infant mortality rate is 40 per 1,000 live births—60 per cent higher than the national average.
“This isn’t isolated,” Prasad said. “In tribal and remote areas of States like Odisha, Chhattisgarh, and Jharkhand, it’s the same story. Maternal deaths aren’t happening in Delhi or Mumbai. They happen on the margins.”
Recently, a pregnant woman in Rewa district, only 70 kilometres from Sidhi, died when flooding on a bridge prevented hospital access. Her body required a 40-kilometre detour for return. In May, a tribal woman in Maharashtra gave birth on the road after failing to receive timely care. These deaths disproportionately affect rural and tribal communities.
Maternal death audits analyse delays: in identifying problems, reaching facilities, and receiving care. “A functioning system addresses all three. After 30 years in the field, I can say this concern is real. It’s life and death.”
Regarding reactions to Sahu’s complaint, Dr Prasad was direct: “Dismissing women’s concerns is deeply rooted in our patriarchal system—it’s routine, and it’s wrong. Accusing a woman of using her pregnancy for fame is unethical. Social media is legitimate space to raise genuine issues. If it reveals lack of healthcare access, good.”
Feminist activist and writer Kavita Krishnan echoed this sentiment. “Even where healthcare centres exist, the absence of trained staff or emergency support means preventable deaths still occur. Timely, prepared care—especially during childbirth—is critical. But in most rural areas, that care simply doesn’t exist. Leela is pointing to that vacuum.”
This vacuum was starkly revealed during COVID-19. Families spent enormous sums or begged and borrowed to hire private vehicles to reach hospitals. Even when roads existed, transport was unaffordable or unavailable. The pandemic revealed not just gaps, but total breakdown of rural healthcare infrastructure.
She noted that rural health networks have long raised red flags. “ASHA workers have repeatedly demanded transport support, asking how they’re expected to reach pregnant women in remote areas at night. These aren’t new demands—they’ve been consistently voiced by unions.”
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Krishnan criticised the Ministers’ response as reductive. Offering hospital transport, she said, is damage control, not solution. “This isn’t just a right to health issue—it’s about the right to life.” MPs, she argued, should know what their constituencies lack and act before crises arise. Instead, citizens are treated like troublemakers for demanding what they’re owed. “True accountability means engaging regularly with constituents—especially women—and creating systems to share progress.”
She warned that women asserting rights often face accusations of political motives. “We should watch for that in this case, too. Is she being dismissed as someone with an agenda, rather than a citizen asking for what she’s owed?” Dismissing such demands trivialises fundamental rights. “We’re talking about whether a woman in labour lives or dies. By dismissing it so lightly, the state fails to uphold her right to life.”
Krishnan called out a growing trend of dismissing citizen demands as political disruptions. “There’s been steady erosion of the idea that citizens have rights regardless of political affiliation. Access to basic services is now treated as reward for loyalty. That’s dangerous.”
For Sahu, it’s no longer just about a road. It’s about holding elected representatives accountable. She dismisses claims of political ambitions. “I don’t think it’s because I’m a woman—it’s because we’re ordinary people. They think, ‘What can they do?’ But now that the video is viral, they’re facing reality.” In demanding safe passage to a hospital, Sahu demands a government that sees, hears, and serves its people. In doing so, she stands for many more women who may never go viral but face the same impossible roads every day.