By Neena Bhandari
It was a meek October morning in 1967, only a month away from my third birthday, I had worn my frilled frock and white laced shoes to go and receive the triple polio vaccine. As I sang and danced along the way, making it difficult for my maternal grandfather to keep pace, little did I know that it was the last time I would be walking by myself.
Later that night, I remember my grandmother cuddling my tiny body burning with high fever as I complained of acute pain in my legs. She had carried me to the bathroom, where my legs collapsed.
In the days that followed, many more children like me began pouring into the Sawai Man Singh (SMS) hospital in Jaipur (Rajasthan). It was two weeks before the outbreak was diagnosed as `Poliomyelitis’. The word didn’t mean much to me then and I certainly didn’t realise the implications it would have for a life just beginning.
