I entered the hospital with my older man walking behind me, ignored my nerves, and approached the reception. “Pregnancy test ke liye kahan jau?” (Where do I go for a pregnancy test?), I asked the man at the desk in a very non-dramatic, casual way. He looked like he’d seen the devil -shocked and horrified. I ignored him, as he called over a female nurse.  She walked me to a lab, and what a walk it was! A true walk of shame.  Think Cersei in Game of Thrones, on her walk of atonement. It felt that demeaning.

I am a strong, independent, educated, liberated woman in my late twenties. I moved to a new city a while ago, in search of better opportunities, like countless others. This shift was much more than a geographical shift: it was a social shift, a shift to a place where thoughts and values were different from mine. I love that places, people and cultures have their own set of values and identities. I believe differences are beautiful, and they need to exist for life to thrive. But differences that make me question my set of deeply cherished principles can cause a rude awakening. And this new city – beautiful as it is – never failed to miss an opportunity to drive home just how stark the differences between us were.

Within a month of moving to this place that I now call home, I met someone. Someone who didn’t fit the societal description of a perfect match. Far from it, in fact. The biggest issue: our age difference. As my friends put it “Bro, so what do we do? Touch his feet to seek his blessings, or do a pranam (respectful hello reserved for elders)?” While hilarious, it depicts a certain sort of discomfort with the idea of an older man and a younger woman being involved romantically. But, despite everything, what he and I shared was nothing short of perfect to me. His charm, his personality, his voice, and just his sense of being, was all so sexy. Our age difference, in all honesty, is something we seldom discussed. We actually had a very ‘normal’ relationship. We met like normal couples, spent time like normal couples, had sex…lots of sex…and assigned each other corny as hell nicknames, like normal couples.

Three months into our relationship, an incident occurred. An incident that changed not only the dynamics of our relationship, but also the nature of my relationship with society at large. I missed a period. Like any other couple, we decided to check using an ‘at home’ pregnancy kit. Positive. We repeated the test to rule out any chance of a mistake – positive yet again. I was pregnant.

So I went to the hospital.

For reasons deeply rooted in patriarchy and misogynistic beliefs, the question “married or single?” is the deciding factor in matters of pregnancy. It decides how the woman (the patient) will be treated – mentally, emotionally, and socially. Trust me, if the hospital folks found out that not only was I single, but also that the ‘older guy’ waiting outside is the father of the foetus, all hell would have broken loose! The scene would have been a marriage between an Anurag Kashyap movie and Kya Kehna! (Remember that Priety Zinta movie from back in the day?) Anyway, later in the evening, the test results came back via email…positive. The biggest question then, was whether to get it ‘taken care of’  locally, or to go to a city better equipped to cope with our unconventional situation (read: where no one knew us). We settled on a local hospital, as this procedure was sure to be  both physically and mentally exhausting. Plus we both had to work. It didn’t make sense to uproot our lives just because of a hostile environment.

Having identified as a feminist for years now, I have a belief system characterised by the right to choose, the right to decide. Including, and especially, what I do with my body. I come from a family where I’ve been taught to question things and make my own decisions, but also to face consequences and take responsibility for my actions. My parents may have had their own set of ‘Conditions Apply’ to this belief system, but I took liberties and interpreted it the way I wanted to. Sex before marriage is my choice and I made it. An abortion as a consequence of having sex was something I had to make peace with. It wasn’t an easy choice to make. In fact, it was one of the hardest decisions I have ever had to make: no exaggerations. But the abortion was my choice and I made it. I was prepared. What transpired after that day’s visit to the nursing home is something that I am definitely never going to forget.

I walked into the nursing home to have my abortion, a strong, independent woman…with a hint nervousness. Honestly, the nerves weren’t related to the morality or otherwise of the abortion itself. I was anxious about what this could do to my body, the physical toll it might take. I was made to sit near the reception, and was asked softly, “Kya problem hai?” (What is the problem?) “Pregnant hoo, doctor se milna hai” (I’m pregnant, I need to meet the doctor). She pointed me in the direction. I entered the gynaecologist’s office, my heart feeling a little weak, I must confess. I knew that while my partner was there for me figuratively, he couldn’t literally be there. Not in that office.

To re-confirm the lab tests results visually, I was taken for an ultrasound. I took my pants off, and then my underwear, laying bare my vulva towards the nurse who was prepping me. But I didn’t feel naked and stripped until the doctor said, “there are people who come to us who can’t bear children…and then there are people like you”. Those words hurt. They hurt so badly.  Those words made me feel betrayed by the person I needed the most at that point. I knew that from that point on, I was in for a tense, strained doctor-patient relationship.

After the ultrasound, I was taken back to the reception to have my pregnancy ‘enlisted’ so that it could be performed lawfully. To ensure safe and legal abortions, they are registered (enlisted) at whatever hospital, nursing home or clinic you go to. A Central Medical Office monitors these cases, and does not allow multiple medical institutions to deal with the same abortion. One is allowed to only consult with other gynaecologists – but not get treated by them. Though abortions are legal in India up to twenty weeks, the medical fraternity lets their views and opinions be driven by societal norms. What I went to seek was a right: a right to a safe abortion, a right that I am granted by the law of the land. But I was made to feel like I was asking for something completely irrational.

As my pregnancy was detected early enough, I decided to use the “abortion pill”, instead of opting for an in-hospital procedure. The pill method – beginning with the pill-insertion, followed by an agonizing wait – lasted for almost 15 days. These nurses who inserted the pill took on the role of unsolicited sex-life counsellors for me. What they said made sense (have safe sex, use condoms), but their tone, the innuendos and occasional snarky remarks were just so judgmental. I tried to joke when one of them asked me whether the ‘uncle’ sitting outside was the father. Now, I am pretty sure that she did not mean the foetus’s father, but my father, and so I replied, “Mine or the baby’s?”

My ordeal with the nursing home went on for a while. There  were times when I wanted desperately to go to a new doctor,  someone not judgmental, someone who didn’t make me feel like shit. So many times I regretted my decision of not going to a place where no one knew us. I felt like uprooting my life was a small price to pay for my dignity. But as I was already registered with that hospital, I was stuck with them. After that, when I would reflect upon things, I felt nothing but sympathy for the millions of other girls and women who aren’t privileged enough to have access to safe abortions, to non-judgmental medical care. Even for someone like me, who could economically afford the procedure, I never felt ‘safe’. My questions were evaded, and my doubts were hardly addressed.  The gynaecologist was reluctant to talk about safe sex, or really any sex at all…especially if it was pre-marital.

Another incident comes to mind which showcases how ill-equipped our medical fraternity is to handle anything sex-related. I remember a few years ago, my 21-year old friend was having extremely heavy discharge of white fluid from her vagina. She went to a gynaecologist to find out what to do.

Gynaecologist (after listening to her problem): Once you get married beta, everything will be ok.

Friend (confused and thinking to herself): What the hell does marriage have to do with this?

Gynaecologist (maintaining her stance): Once you get married, it will all be ok.

Friend (in her head) – Oh she means sex! But why is she assuming that I haven’t had sex yet? Why isn’t she saying “sex”?

Both stare at each other, friend leaves her clinic never to return to again.

If this patriarchal, heteronormative society is ok with the fact that men have sex before marriage, then who the hell do they think these straight men are having sex with in the first place? The ordeal for our friends from the LGBTQI community is worse. Why does the medical community – who have pledged to treat and look after people – let patriarchy-induced, gendered perceptions cloud their behaviour towards their patients?  Regardless of what needs treating – sometimes a flu, sometimes an unplanned pregnancy – surely requiring doctors to do their job without making the patient feel like a criminal isn’t too much to ask for. Judgmental statements were tossed at me too easily. Statements that were meant to scare me.  “When you get married, this abortion will not help. This will create complications for when you want to have your own kid.” But I wasn’t asked if I wanted to have kids. I wasn’t asked if I wanted to get married. But marriage is the only thing that allows you to have sex and bear children, so all conversations about sex and babies are conducted only in connection with marriage. My disregard for these norms made my personal life everyone’s business.

This experience was a journey of many realisations. My academic qualifications, individual beliefs, sense of affirmation, and my identity as a feminist…none of these mattered. None of these pushed me enough to have a conversation with my gynaecologist, which might have helped at least initiate the process of her rethinking her values. I feel for all the other women who will be subjected to the same ignominy as I was. Shamed for exercising their right to choose. A year down the line, I feel more confident to take small steps, and make one tiny change at a time. But I still have to cope.

This piece was not aimed to target the entire medical fraternity. I have the utmost respect for them. But dear sex-loving, sex-having comrades, if the state of affairs is such that a gynecologist herself finds it difficult to utter the word ‘SEX’, then the world is doomed.