1770 words today.

I spent some time this morning in sending money to a family in India. The mother is my house cleaner. The father migrated from Uttar Pradesh to the wealthier Punjab to work as a farm labourer. He lived in our field hut and spent his days helping my brother-in-law. He married a girl from his home village and brought her to live in the cabin. When his family grew, my brother-in-law gave him his tractor shed to live in. Thirty years later he is still there with three sons, two daughters-in-law and five grandchildren under-aged eight. The elder daughter-in-law has a skin disorder which looks to me like shingles gone awry. It’s scaly now, and I think it’s on the mend, but she has had it for three months, and it’s all over her even on her hands. The medics in Chandigarh say she’ll need a series of injections and treatment at the cost of over £600 which this family don’t have. They’ve sold all they could for the (not so helpful) treatment so far. And, with Covid-19 work is scarce and no furlough system. We are not the same religion, but they are like family. Of course, I sent them more than medical fees.