Many a poet and theorists have spent reams on the meaning of life and the inevitability of death for man – I, of course, understand that 'man' is a general humanist term that in its generous munificence stands for all mankind. But women too must face certain death... and their ovaries.

Getting to Know the Drill

There comes a special moment in every girl's life when she becomes a woman. When she is ready to be fertilised and pay her debt to the society that let her live.

Over time we develop ingenious ways of masking our menstrual cycle with a certain look and tone. It is another matter that our corner stores and pharmacies have demonstrated unflinching loyalty to the revolutionary technology of black plastic bags but that's for some other time.

We emerge from the clutches of gut throttling cramps and the flood of (simply put, sans metaphor) blood, only just shy of the Whisper models in white pants in terms of having it all – you know, equal pay, freedom from mansplainers, the glass ceiling, Vice-Chancellors that listen to female students' complaint against sexual harassment, etc.

Also Read: Dear Gynaecologist, Are You Ready to Probe Your Way to the Money?

Period or No Period?

So I turned to what any sensible, well-educated modern woman would in the circumstances – Google.

I used various combinations of key words until the interwebs threw up the term 'spotting.' It had the effect of making me mortally petrified.

In any case, it was something. Now, I am a chaste maiden and my virtuosity would protect me from such baseless fears of the most widespread STD. Except, not. There was no way I could beat the odds of HPV.

Also Read: Break the Stigma: Protect the Sexual Rights of Unmarried Women

Be Rational & Visit a Gynaecologist

I told myself to be rational and get a gynaecological check-up, perhaps a long due one since my mother died of ovarian cancer so genetically I am a bit on the red zone.

It was, however, thrilling to be able to take a cab to a hospital close by for a walk-in consultation, easy-peasy like a grocery run, and it made me conscious of the privileges I had to be able to even imagine going to a private hospital.

Once I arrived at the hospital though the women's empowerment high quickly wore off. There were queues of all shapes that frustrating landed up at the same counter which by the time you got to had rich South Delhi brats refusing to fill up a registration form by insisting that there must be a record of their medical history, entire databases can go to hell.

As a single woman dreading a gynaecological cancer diagnosis, it had precisely the opposite effect on me. The aesthetic is such that as soon as you walk in you are confronted with a smiling photo of a hugely pregnant lady.

Perhaps that's quite subtle according to the hospital's standards because just as you turn towards the other wall to gag, you are faced with exactly the same framed photograph!

I felt like an imposter coming in for a mere medical check-up when I could be creating life inside my ready womb with *cough* a husband by my side like the nice lady in the photos.

‘You Are Pregnant!’

Things didn't improve much when I was finally summoned in to see the doctor.

She was quite efficient, so much so that she didn't waste time checking for a family history or the last time I got a routine check-up. Instead, it was symptom(s) and bam! straight to the heart of the matter: the burning question of whether I was sexually active.

I barely began mumbling my protests than she immediately wrote down a pregnancy test on her prescription pad.

It was like sitting down your partner for a conversation you have been practicing for a very long time in your head and when you finally manage to get them round to it, their refusal to communicate frustratingly invalidates any arguments and explanations you might have had. I pursued nevertheless.

It's just not fair, I screamed internally, that those pregnant women before me with the husbands were with the doctor for ages while she wouldn't even indulge me with five minutes of her time. It was now a pathetic attempt at paisa vasool.

She eventually turned out to be the stronger player as she flat out refused to investigate or even discuss what could be wrong with my body until I got a pregnancy test.

As things stand, she was following due process.

She is not a witch-doctor, after all, but a highly trained specialist professional, a real doctor. A real doctor in a real society that does not think women's bodies are of worth much importance, unless of course they are carrying life forms to carry on patriarchal blood lines.

Here's a suggestion to the expensive private clinic, how about mixing up the decor with maybe some info about breast cancer or some such? Our bodies are capable of turning on us, you know, including in pregnancy.

(Sneha Khaund works in a publishing house in New Delhi and has degrees in literature from St. Stephen's College and SOAS. She tweets at @Pakhee )

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