DHANJURI LEPROSY CENTRE, DINAJPUR
Dhanjuri Leprosy Centre, known as DLC, operates in the Dinajpur district in northern Bangladesh. DLC identifies and treats leprosy in 13 clinics across the region, provies treatment for local villages and carries out a range of outreach work to detect new cases of leprosy. St Francis Leprosy Guild is a longstanding partner.
Prodip aged 21: A young farmer rebuilding his life
Prodip was just 11 when he first developed red, itchy patches on his skin. “We went to the clinic and I was given MDT for a year,” he recalls. He completed treatment in 2014, but soon after began experiencing painful ENL reactions. He was referred to Dhanjuri, where the reactions were finally brought under control.
The disease left him with anaesthetic feet. “I can’t feel half my left foot, or any of my right,” he says. Ulcers developed on both feet, and he now visits Dhanjuri regularly for care. Despite this, he continues to work as a farmer in Rameshpur, 35km away. “I can run a power tiller and plant paddy,” he says. “The doctor told me not to, but I have to work for food.”
Prodip remembers the fear and stigma he faced as a child. “I was told not to mix or eat with people affected by leprosy,” he says. “So when I got it, I was very sad. I thought I would lose my relationships.” But the staff at Dhanjuri changed everything. “Now I don’t feel sad. I’m happy. They take care of me so nicely.”
The centre also helped educate his village, reducing superstition and fear. “People are understanding now that it’s curable,” he says. Prodip dreams of marriage and a family of his own. “I had to stop studying to help my father,” he says. “But now I’m working, and I feel hopeful.”
Prodip was just 11 when he first developed red, itchy patches on his skin. “We went to the clinic and I was given MDT for a year,” he recalls. He completed treatment in 2014, but soon after began experiencing painful ENL reactions. He was referred to Dhanjuri, where the reactions were finally brought under control.
The disease left him with anaesthetic feet. “I can’t feel half my left foot, or any of my right,” he says. Ulcers developed on both feet, and he now visits Dhanjuri regularly for care. Despite this, he continues to work as a farmer in Rameshpur, 35km away. “I can run a power tiller and plant paddy,” he says. “The doctor told me not to, but I have to work for food.”
Prodip remembers the fear and stigma he faced as a child. “I was told not to mix or eat with people affected by leprosy,” he says. “So when I got it, I was very sad. I thought I would lose my relationships.” But the staff at Dhanjuri changed everything. “Now I don’t feel sad. I’m happy. They take care of me so nicely.”
The centre also helped educate his village, reducing superstition and fear. “People are understanding now that it’s curable,” he says. Prodip dreams of marriage and a family of his own. “I had to stop studying to help my father,” he says. “But now I’m working, and I feel hopeful.”
Prodeep
Janoki aged 47: Strength after years of hardship
Janoki lives nearly 100km from Dhanjuri, on a small piece of land where she hires labourers to farm while she manages the home. Her husband died ten years ago, and her daughter is married and living away; her son is in school.
Janoki first became ill when she was young. “It felt like mosquito bites,” she says. “My legs used to knock against each other each other and I would get headaches.” She was diagnosed with leprosy in 1996, shortly after her marriage.
Her right foot became anaesthetic, her toes stiffened and her condition worsened despite treatment in Takogaon. “I stopped visiting doctors,” she says. “It was expensive and my foot was getting worse.”
Life at home was painful in more ways than one. “Before marriage I was ok,” she says. “But after, my in‑laws treated me badly. They persecuted me. ‘What kind of woman has this curse?’ they said.” Her husband, once a kind man, became less so under family pressure. “He later died,” she says quietly.
When she was referred to Dhanjuri, everything changed. Her foot was treated, her ulcers managed, and she found a place where she was no longer judged. The staff offered care, dignity, and understanding, things she had been denied for years.
Today, Janoki manages her land, supports her son’s education, and lives with renewed confidence. “I was in a bad way. But now I feel stronger.”
Janoki lives nearly 100km from Dhanjuri, on a small piece of land where she hires labourers to farm while she manages the home. Her husband died ten years ago, and her daughter is married and living away; her son is in school.
Janoki first became ill when she was young. “It felt like mosquito bites,” she says. “My legs used to knock against each other each other and I would get headaches.” She was diagnosed with leprosy in 1996, shortly after her marriage.
Her right foot became anaesthetic, her toes stiffened and her condition worsened despite treatment in Takogaon. “I stopped visiting doctors,” she says. “It was expensive and my foot was getting worse.”
Life at home was painful in more ways than one. “Before marriage I was ok,” she says. “But after, my in‑laws treated me badly. They persecuted me. ‘What kind of woman has this curse?’ they said.” Her husband, once a kind man, became less so under family pressure. “He later died,” she says quietly.
When she was referred to Dhanjuri, everything changed. Her foot was treated, her ulcers managed, and she found a place where she was no longer judged. The staff offered care, dignity, and understanding, things she had been denied for years.
Today, Janoki manages her land, supports her son’s education, and lives with renewed confidence. “I was in a bad way. But now I feel stronger.”
Janoki, second to left with her friends
Martha Murmu: A nurse who has given hope to patients for 15 years
For 15 years, Junior Staff Nurse Martha Murmu has been a steady presence at Dhanjuri Leprosy Centre.
Her three daughters and husband live in Dhaka, but she chose to build her life near the hospital. “We bought land here,” she says. “It’s close to my job, and my children all live around here.”
Her work is both demanding and deeply meaningful. “It’s a pleasure working with the patients,” she says. “They can get quite depressed, so we encourage them and give them hope.” She remembers her early days vividly. “When I first came in, I was shocked at maggots in people’s wounds. I was angry at them for not taking care of themselves. But now I understand their mental states. They come for company and conversation.”
Martha has seen the long shadow of stigma. “When they first got leprosy, many were isolated and hated,” she says. “No one was taking care of them. But when they understand it’s curable, it becomes like a normal disease. There should be no stigma.”
She takes pride in the centre’s approach. “Here it’s different from other hospitals. We make sure they rest and keep things very clean. Outside clinics just give medicine, no dressing, no rest, no education.”
“I’ll stay here; I get great joy with these patients. I’m happy to be here as a nurse.”
For 15 years, Junior Staff Nurse Martha Murmu has been a steady presence at Dhanjuri Leprosy Centre.
Her three daughters and husband live in Dhaka, but she chose to build her life near the hospital. “We bought land here,” she says. “It’s close to my job, and my children all live around here.”
Her work is both demanding and deeply meaningful. “It’s a pleasure working with the patients,” she says. “They can get quite depressed, so we encourage them and give them hope.” She remembers her early days vividly. “When I first came in, I was shocked at maggots in people’s wounds. I was angry at them for not taking care of themselves. But now I understand their mental states. They come for company and conversation.”
Martha has seen the long shadow of stigma. “When they first got leprosy, many were isolated and hated,” she says. “No one was taking care of them. But when they understand it’s curable, it becomes like a normal disease. There should be no stigma.”
She takes pride in the centre’s approach. “Here it’s different from other hospitals. We make sure they rest and keep things very clean. Outside clinics just give medicine, no dressing, no rest, no education.”
“I’ll stay here; I get great joy with these patients. I’m happy to be here as a nurse.”
Martha at work
Sr Sujatha Kattula: A nurse who found her calling far from home
When Sr Sujatha Kattula left India three years ago, she carried with her a firm determination to serve those most in need. A member of the Pimé Sisters, she had been inspired at 16 by a visiting nun who spoke about a life of service. She joined in 2002, became a sister in 2011 and trained as a nurse.
After arriving in Bangladesh, she spent a year in a small dispensary, learning the language and the rhythms of local life. Two years ago, she joined Dhanjuri Leprosy Centre. “I knew about leprosy, but I hadn’t worked with it before,” she explains. “So, I did 10 days of training at the Nilphamari leprosy hospital. I learned how to do dressings and treat the patients.”
Her early days were filled with uncertainty, but everything changed once she could speak with patients directly. “Now I feel joyful,” she says. “These people aren’t accepted. Even though they’re of different religions, I feel they’re my own people, my family people. I want to take care of them.”
Each month, she and the team run health‑education sessions. “They go happily after we’ve looked after them. We feel like it’s one family.”
When Sr Sujatha Kattula left India three years ago, she carried with her a firm determination to serve those most in need. A member of the Pimé Sisters, she had been inspired at 16 by a visiting nun who spoke about a life of service. She joined in 2002, became a sister in 2011 and trained as a nurse.
After arriving in Bangladesh, she spent a year in a small dispensary, learning the language and the rhythms of local life. Two years ago, she joined Dhanjuri Leprosy Centre. “I knew about leprosy, but I hadn’t worked with it before,” she explains. “So, I did 10 days of training at the Nilphamari leprosy hospital. I learned how to do dressings and treat the patients.”
Her early days were filled with uncertainty, but everything changed once she could speak with patients directly. “Now I feel joyful,” she says. “These people aren’t accepted. Even though they’re of different religions, I feel they’re my own people, my family people. I want to take care of them.”
Each month, she and the team run health‑education sessions. “They go happily after we’ve looked after them. We feel like it’s one family.”
Sister Sujatha Kattula
