On September 25 2007 Sneh, Sam, Dr Patil and I – together with cameraman Boaz Eshtai and other members of the crew – set off from Patna, the state capital of Bihar, for the distant town of Arraria, near where Lakshmi lived. On leaving the city we were faced by an almost apocalyptic scene. It had been raining for weeks and on either side of the road flooded fields stretched as far as the eye could see – at times, only an isolated tree or gaunt electricity pylon broke up what otherwise might have seemed open ocean. The road was at often rough with flooded potholes so deep that our convoy of SUVs barely made it through. Secretly, I began to worry I’d made a mistake – news from rural Bihar is so unreliable that we’d had no idea that conditions would be as bad as this, and we had no idea if somewhere up ahead the road would be blocked or a bridge washed away. But we couldn’t turn back. The area we were driving through was notorious for the communist terrorists and we had to do everything we could to make it to Arraria before nightfall, when car-jacking or worse became a distinct possibility. So we pushed on – for 14 bone-jarring hours – through stifling heat and rain brought on, we discovered, by a tropical cyclone.

As night fell we approached Arraria, a one-strip ‘Wild West’ town famous for weapon and drug-smuggling from over the border with nearby Nepal. The land here was rising gently toward the Himalayas, so that although flat and damp, to my enormous relief it was no longer flooded. The rain that had engulfed us all the way from Patna had also eased. But as we drove into the Government Guesthouse it seemed they were not expecting us. After an exhausting drive, we all had to sleep in an open hall in 104 degree heat and rampant humidity, harassed by mosquitoes. I have to say it’s to Dr Patil’s credit that he seemed totally unfazed… and to Sneh’s that by the following night she’d sorted out the confusion and got us into the guest-rooms, and even arranged for diesel for the generator to power a little electric light and mercifully cooling fan.

We were there – and we were ready to meet Lakshmi. The following day we went with Dr Patil to see her. The villagers had never seen anything like this – several told us that the last time white people had been there had been during the days of the British Empire – they watched our every move from the rooftops. Lakshmi’s parents, Shambu and Poonam, were courteous but wary… not quite believing that Dr Patil had actually come to help their daughter, rather than try to kidnap her and sell her to a circus (an ever-present danger for them in this lawless and brutal part of the world).

Over the next few days we all got to know each other and built up mutual trust – visiting local events such as a fair where Lakshmi was widely hailed as a Goddess. What wasn’t in doubt was Dr Patil’s conviction that he could help Lakshmi, and that he wanted her to travel to Bangalore for tests. He left the parents with this offer – and we remained to document their struggle with their consciences, as they debated with themselves whether to trust Dr Patil and leave their village for a faraway city they knew nothing about. We knew we had their trust – but as documentary makers, it was a fine line to tread between not influencing their decision and making sure they understood that we would be there to protect them and that our belief was that medical science could help Lakshmi. In the end the parents had no doubts. They had to make the leap into the unknown. It was the parent’s journey – but our responsibility to make sure they got to Bangalore safely…

People are poor and rarely travel far in India and are easy targets for harassment and exploitation. At least once we delivered them into the hospital in Bangalore we knew they were safe. From a film-making perspective it was easier too… ready electrical power, and air-conditioning that rescued our cameras from malfunctioning from the humidity. It was the doctors’ job now to prepare for the operation – conducting the detailed scans and tests to establish Lakshmi’s internal structures, and also to ensure she was fit and healthy enough to withstand what was going to be a massive procedure. Coming from such a poor family in such a poor area, she was physically malnourished and infected with worms and other parasites. Under the guidance of Chief Paediatric Surgeon Dr Ashley D’Cruz, the doctors decided she needed over a month to be ready for the operation.

I remember on the day and night of the operation (it started at 8am on November 6th and didn’t finish until 4am the next day) that only myself and the cameraman were allowed into the operating room alongside the medical team. It was extraordinary to be in there – overnight Lakshmi’s story had gripped the world and all the Indian news channels were running continuous updates – watching these surgeons taking on the biggest challenge of their careers. Mostly they were calm – only just before the parasitic twin was removed did one of them confess to me that he feared that the blood loss was too rapid and that Lakshmi would not sustain it – but as the night wore on and success seemed more certain the more elated they became (I remember they had an Ipod playing a selection of eighties British rock music, which struck me as mildly bizarre). When Lakshmi left the theatre just before 4am I remember seeing Sneh catching sight of Lakshmi with two legs for the first time and bursting into uncontrollable tears – and for me this summed up the whole experience, and how we had all become emotionally dragged into the fight for life of this one-in-a-million baby girl.