Dying, He says he is lucky

Niram Sharma is 28, jobless and dying. He says he is lucky.

For, unlike Niram, most of the new friends he has made at HIV/AIDS support groups in this bustling Indian trading town can't afford the medicine that could give them 10 to 15 more years of life.

The cost? Just 1,300 rupees ($29.85) a month - less than one cup of coffee every two days in London or New York.

"I come from a good family, so I can afford this medicine, but my heart cries for the other people," he says, speaking rapidly in his passion. "Many are dying because they are too poor. Poverty is a big problem up here."

With India's five-million-plus HIV/AIDS patients rivalling the world's AIDS capital, South Africa, its cheap drug industry has pioneered low-cost treatment, bringing the price down from $200-$300 a month a decade ago.

But it is still too much for many sufferers here, some living on less than a dollar a day - if they are lucky and their employer has not found out they are infected and thrown them out.

The official infection rate in the world's second most populous country is less than 0.1 percent, compared with 30 percent in some African countries.

VICTIMS BLACKMAILED

But India's poor healthcare and rampant disease mean many die of other causes without them or anyone else ever knowing they are infected.

Many shy away from government hospitals, where reporting new infections is compulsory. But then that leaves them prey to blackmail, with many clinics faking results or demanding money not to mention real positive results.

It has been two years since Niram found out he was HIV-positive during a routine physical for a job at a hotel in Dubai. He most likely got the virus from homosexual sex a decade ago.

"I had gone with a dream to make my fortune," he says. "When I found out, I felt I would die the next day."

Now he spends his time supporting other sufferers and trying to make people listen to their plight.

"We have been asking for help from the government, but our voice does not carry," he says. "We are doing a lot of the work ourselves."

Two of those he helps are "Rupak" and "Rupa" who don't want their real names used because they don't want neighbours in their small rice-growing village to find out what is really wrong with them.

Even their four children, aged 11 to 22, don't know.

"It's a very social thing," says Rupak. "You never know how they would react, what they would think of us.

"The disease is there, but the problem is when someone knows, then their behaviour is quite bad. What have we done? Don't we deserve a normal life as well?"