‘He hasn’t asked.’ The thought of a proposal sends an icy feeling down my spine, almost welcome in the humidity. The rains we encountered in Kerala have finally reached this region, turning the landscape darker and, well, junglier. But the downpours never provide much respite from the stickiness.

‘Maybe he doesn’t think you want to marry him. Maybe he’ll find someone else. A doctor has value, and he is quite handsome.’

I smile. Does she fancy Tim? I picture him in full Indian wedding regalia, trying to follow a complicated dance routine and messing it up . . .

Except Tim can dance. Remembering this gives me a jolt far more unsettling than the potholes on the track. What else have I forgotten about this man I love? I’ve been in a funk for months and none of it is his fault.

We enter the first village and I stay in the truck as Siya goes in to chat with the women and their babies. The scene is charming, with chickens and pigs and cows wandering at will. But what I know from Tim’s work in the research office has made it clear the reality is the opposite of idyllic.

Ten million people here go without basic primary care, and while the villages seem safe during the day, at night it’s rebel country. Most ordinary people try to straddle a line between the state and the Communist Maoists, but when violence erupts, it’s bloody, with mass killings by both the rebels and the police.

After forty minutes, I’m allowed into the garden of a bungalow, where the mobile medics set up scales and vaccination supplies in the shade.

‘This is the home of the local health worker,’ Siya tells me. ‘You can only watch, OK? Do not touch.’

So I do watch, as the babies are weighed, their chests listened to. They are chubby and sweet – I’m not broody, but even so, part of me would like to reach for one of the infants, feel the solid warmth in my lap.

Siya comes back over to me. ‘You know, we used to have babies die every year from exposure. Mum and baby were made by the elders to sleep open to the elements, till the village could afford to buy food for the baby’s naming ceremony.’

Tim’s told me about the other dangers the women face. Many suffer domestic violence or sexually transmitted diseases passed on by their husbands. Even ‘everyday’ problems like TB or snake bites can be fatal.

It makes my own lack of career direction seem so self-indulgent.

On the way to the next place, Siya asks about me. I tell her about taking calls in the underground control room we call the pit, and explain the technology that lets me track an ambulance as it heads towards a caller’s address, knowing that occasionally it’s only my voice keeping someone alive.