I was 23 when I realised that I could be almost pregnant. I was unmarried at the time, (I still am) lived away from home and worked in a strictly corporate and stifling environment. I found a job in the city I studied in and shared a house with another girl, whose husband travelled a lot. During the weekends, I’d go over to my boyfriend’s and spend the days there — in a city with very few friends, it was the only way I’d spend my time.
During one such month, on an extended weekend, I found myself with a delayed menstrual cycle — and I promptly trawled through websites on medical to fashion and religious to culture to clear the obvious doubts.
But the most obvious one remained looming.
I quickly got dressed and rushed to a nearby hospital. It was 8 a.m. on a state public holiday and the hospital looked forlorn: there was one nurse who was so bored by people asking her questions that she abruptly left only to never return for the entire day. The hospital attendant soon followed suit.
To make matters worse, the gynaecologist hadn’t arrived yet. And so I waited uncomfortably with a bunch of pregnant women, menopausal women and children jumping around. During the wait, I could feel everyone’s eyes on me looking for signs of wedlock and after a thorough once-over, most of them seemed disappointed — I was quite dishevelled as I didn’t bother dressing up; there was no thaali , ring or metti (toe ring); I wasn’t accompanied by my significant other or parents or even a friend. In short, I was projecting all signs of that independent, is-in-a-live-in-relationship woman that they would’ve read about and frowned upon.
Since the wait seemed like it would be a long one, I decided to get myself a cup of coffee and call my frantic (I hoped) boyfriend to tell him what happened. After five successive calls and no response, I hung up. Finally, my mind dwelled on the possibility of me being pregnant.
At 23, with no definitive career prospects in sight, no savings and definitely no support from parents, what was my option here? Abortion was certainly not. Neither was raising a child all by myself nor marriage to a guy I didn’t love. Helpless and in tears, I tried calling my boyfriend again. There was no response. Dazed, I stood on the pavement weeping. Some passers-by walked ahead eyeing me shiftily, some smiled at me hoping to cheer me up, while most others ignored me.
At around 10.30 a.m., I went back to the hospital to check on the doctor’s status. After a 30-minute wait, a couple of tests, a lecture on the importance of marriage, and a longer wait, I was handed an envelope with the results: I wasn’t pregnant. The doctor called me to inform that the pill I was taking was giving me side-effects. I think, that day, I might have hugged a stranger on the road.
As for the boyfriend who remembered to eventually call back, he received a earful and was disappointed that the result wasn’t positive. It took me a moment to realise that I was celebrating the absence of a life. Instead it felt like I had dodged a bullet…
