The Dark Nights

“Elsa has a fever and needs me” I muttered under a controlled but angry breath to my impatient father.

Dad had not had a good day. I didn’t understand why. He had slept all evening and all night. Selfishly, I was the 1 who needed the respite. A foolish question earlier in the day was how come I didn’t enjoy my hospital visit. Who would imagine that 5 days in the hospital, post-surgery, lying in a 1-dimensional position, staring at 4 very close walls (2 being curtains) and yo-yoing between earth shattering silence and absolute mayhem was “pleasant”. I let it go. Just like I was letting go of a deep breath, which had borne too much in the last 2 weeks. Dad had completely lost it in the lobby of the hospital, thus leaving the cash and insurance counters begging me to control him and hearing them out. I was wheelchair bound, drained and expected to solve everyone’s problems. Problems of people who had gotten my bill wrong the 4^th time and had tested the last ounce of my old dad’s patience. I did the needful. Quietly. Sorted the mess and left.

I was an emotional and psychological wreck. Actually, I controlled myself and made it somehow so ‘wreck’ doesn’t count. I did manage some composure with the help of very vocal and strong friends who didn’t give up. And even though I had the parents (all 3) it seemed like a burden to them or a liability. I was polite to the point of asking them to leave me some nights alone. Nurses would wonder why I didn’t have a relative when others had overbearing 1s around them. My parents weren’t bad. They just didn’t cope well with my injury and silence. I thrived in the chaos of the present.

Yes, I had injured myself. This wasn’t deliberate. Or like Abeer had threatened to leave if I limped. Today anything is possible so I will just keep his words at bay. I was angry with him as well. I injured myself doing something I loved. In pleasing the system and the people in my life, I had what the docs described as – burned myself out. I had it all. Capoeira. The boyfriend. The friend. The freedom blah blah. But sometimes to those who have it all, it’s a burnout to manage it all. With the job and classes and keeping pace with Abeer, I had forgotten that my supposedly tiny frame couldn’t support all the madness. I waited for the break from work to lower my pressures so I can give quality time to few things and people that mattered. Before that transition – along came the big full-stop.

At 1^st I felt comforted and sorted, thinking I have the handholding I need. I have the right people and the right support to get me through smiling like nothing really happened. It wasn’t long before the hand had left mine and I crashed into a wall. After the crash it was the “you can do it” – an effective way to say “clean up the mess you thought wasn’t coming your way.” I didn’t want to do it alone. That wasn’t my plan and not even my contingency. A fight with the boyfriend started the mayhem rollercoaster through hell. Unresolved. Unspoken. Unheard. Unsupported. The office added to my woes as if I didn’t have enough – you see as per ‘tradition’ they punish and effectively nightmarize those who resign. “Terminate her and let the insurance go to hell”. Thanks but what now…

The comfort of picking up the phone and dialling a number seemed like a tedious task with a question mark. Am I calling the love or a former some1? Is the mother gonna descend on me or comfort me? Will the father give answers or let me know for the 10000^th time how I disappointed him? In that state (now in retrospect) even I couldn’t believe how beaten I felt. Tears came naturally while a morsel of food lodged itself in the mouth and refused to go down. With this in tow n refusing to stop, I got admitted, surgery-ed and in what was supposedly recovery. The doc lived up to his promise. Pain management was a breeze what with 2 beeping machine pumps attached to me. It was the mental status that didn’t cooperate with the meds. Terminally ill patients with a plethora of diseases and mentally affected relatives thronged me. I wanted desperately to heal and get out – but their sounds and stories and anguish didn’t let me be. Needed Abeer desperately here. As inappropriate as it was, he balanced me when it came to finding humor in the madness.

But he was far. Disconnected. By choice. His instagram kept me posted of the colors that adorned him but evaded me. I wished to be there with him rather than have him here. It didn’t help soothe my anger. I had nearly given up. Until I got a Are-U-Dead-Or-Alive like message. Like a lost friend who occasionally connects with u. I didn’t know what to make of it. I needed more solutions – not more questions, doubts and fears that I had not tackled before. It had been 3yrs since my last relationship. This was different and I was glad. But not in times like these. Every bone in my body said ask him to come back and be there cuz u want him. Not need him. But want him. I managed to evade that as well. Y ask when u know it aint gonna happen.

In the interim my grief was interrupted by a fedup parent, few well-meaning friends, doctor visits, constantly interrupting aunties and nurses abruptly waking or shaking u up for meds, IV, sponge etc. I kept everything at bay by depending on my dear phone – ONLY window to the outside world. Waiting for a beep, vibrate or a flash. The food I just had to send back untouched unless the parent did the courtesy of finishing it for me. I thought lying quietly and surviving on tea for 4 days will get me through. But the resultant punishment was an extra day+night due to my vitals dipping – stupid girl. I managed to bring them up with liquid diet and begged to be discharged. The excruciating pain whilst taking my 1^st steps and doing all the exercises will be an ever-reminder of how I managed to let them know I can do this effortlessly so let me go. And go they did. The panel was young and understood my plight as well.

I packed up and washed my face and brushed – 1^st time in 4 days. The headless horseman from SleepyHollow wore a far more charming look than me. 2 wks had robbed me of any charm, glow or life. Changing into MY clothes felt a bit weird. The nurses who refused to let me go thought otherwise. They made me smile and the whole staff came up and asked a whole bunch of questions. Thought I was pretty but v quiet. Marriage, boyfriend, work, martial arts, age, etc. A pic of Abeer brought about a gang of giggles. Hugs and funny requests followed my wheelchair ride down to sunlight.

The whole ride home was a quite 1. I felt like I had lost a decade in coma. I waited to see Elsa. He saw me. Ran away and then stuck to dad. It was natural. His nurturer demanded his full attn. But then he came around and snuck up to me. Purred like there was nothing wrong. Until he sneezed and felt warm. Thereafter what I assumed would be a restful welcome home, turned into a calling frenzy, ambulance chasing and vet visiting evening. I had forgotten my pain meds and the leg reminded me of that well. I just wanted Elsa to be ok. Dad went berserk again – why the cat and my leg. Just why? I had brought the cat. I loved him. He was my responsibility. When you love someone you don’t just hold a few select fingers – you hold their hand and never let go. So leg, injury, surgery or whatever the hell… Elsa needed me. I couldn’t ignore that. It cost me deep pockets but I was ready to move anything including forgetting my crutches to have him ok. The vet saw him and gave the meds. I was relieved. I had made it through another slap from Karma. Broken leg in tow.



Now I NEEDED the healing and some love. I needed the care and holding. Right now he purrs in my lap. Occasionally suckling on my fingers and also sneezing on my napkin. Scratches and holds on to me. His way of showing me love I guess. Big eyes and an occasionally paw to me. I accept. Now I just wait with bated breath for the 1 I love and wish to show love in my way. In that corner in his shoulders where I found love 1^st. 

From Tigress to Amoeba

An amoeba is a single cell organism that has featured in the 1st chapter of nearly all life science and basic biology books since high school. I don’t feel nearly as powerful and significant as the amoeba but I do feel like its size, shape and visibility aka all 0. To the mother and father I am the single cell organism that changed their lives and appeared as the 1st chapter of their progeny life. So I’m toggling multiple identities here.

I would like to think of myself as the tigress given how moments ago, whilst checking if Abeer had made some connection on his phone, I stumbled upon his instagram comments. Well I was looking for comfort in his pics and comments, but couldn’t help noticing that while his feline love was battling emotions and upcoming significant pain, 95% of the comments, praises and batting eyelids on his instagram account were ladies (in the appropriate words of Abeer – Skanks). But even that tigress retreated into an emotional black hole when an attending came in to draw blood from her arm. I can never get used to needles and neither do I want to. The blood didn’t make me queasy as much as the size of the needle did.

Present moment: 9pm in room # 85 of the 11th floor of KDA Hospital. I checked in today as an inpatient for my knee surgery. I expected the ‘general’ ward to remind me of all Indian general wards. However, I was in for a pleasant surprise. Clean, air-conditioned, private, a cosy nook and cupboard equipped with a digitized safe and straight out of A class design. Mrs. Tina Anil Ambani sure watches Grey’s Anatomy cuz it was a replica of their rooms. I was instantly relieved as I had just spent an hour at the insurance help desk. It was all touch and go. They admit you and then work on costs. It’s like they feed you and then force you into anorexia cuz you couldn’t afford them. This was top class at a (need to add) very reasonable cost. I was quiet and didn’t wanna talk. Was a tad bit rude to mum whom I had vehemently asked not to accompany me. Truth is without her I wouldn’t have made it to my bed even after 2hrs. But the abandoned girl in me craved for her boy.

Once on my bed, the nurses and on-call staff poured in on me. Height, weight, x-ray and basic blood work were in order. But all it took was step 1 to reduce me to tears – the patient tag on my wrist. Reality and nostalgia hit so hard. Mum didn’t ask or cajole me. Just held me and asked me not to be scared. I was scared shitless. How could this happen to me? How did 2013 turn into a year of hospital visits, needles, meds and large medical bills? How did my health plunge and then come back up and then show me it could dive deeper? I needed Abeer. He has the answers in his madness. Not the real ones. Just answers I would like to hear.

The nurse kept checking my BP and insisted I eat cuz it kept dropping. The last weight recorded showed a shocking 4.5kgs lower (in a month’s time). There was a sadistic unhealthy smile in my mind – at least I wasn’t fattening up and my customized workout had done its work. An unhealthy celebration. I surveyed my room. Curious patients and their relatives all examined me from a distance or whenever the curtains parted. Mum made conversation with them – like all Indian mothers do. 5 different women in 3hrs had lectured me about Capoeira vs doing dance and yoga and what not. I desperately needed some quiet and I needed to meet my friends rather than adults. Yes, a few laughs and familiar faces would have done me good but the ‘visitor pass’ system made it not so possible for them to come. My head ached but my heart ached more. I knew Abeer couldn’t reach me but I was hoping somehow, somewhere, another stray phone on the road – another message. Love.

The doc made a round and stared at me for 5mins to gauge how much of the fear and anguish had set in before he proceeded to comfort me and go over the details and instructions. 2.5+hrs of surgery starting 8am next morning. I ordered the parents home and said I didn’t want anyone for the night. It was them or Abeer. Since Abeer wasn’t around, I was settling for no one. I imagined if he was here he could sleep on the make shift bed and we could chat all night and giggle. He would probably steal some Wi-Fi from somewhere and then show me more apps. We would kiss and be a tad bit inappropriate – without breaking any rules. Instead its sickeningly quiet with the periodic coughs and sounds from other patients in my ward. All terminal, old and very severe in their health. Heart patient with a doting and beautiful wife to a multi-organ failing stubborn fella who was earlier scolded by docs to live up to his med cycle. Collapsed lung is what I heard last. Tomorrow I would be in an intense state as them. But hopefully recovering faster.

How am I to sleep? My insurance partially cleared thus giving me some peace. But what about everything else. I missed Elsa. Imagined him trying to purr like a baby and tug at a cold quilt instead of a warm me who held him and cradled him to sleep every night.  All that I loved had left the area. It’s just me and my thoughts now. Sleep evades me. But tomorrow I will be asleep for 10+hrs before consciousness to a repaired me who will have to start putting herself back altogether – for Elsa and Abeer.

Love the Unexpected or the Unexpected love

“Baby I got you something.” “Really??” *Standing amidst greenery on a rainwashed Sunday morning*

*Frumpy look on her face* *He gives her a beautiful lil elephant keychain*

“I got this from Pune for you” *She smiles*

“You like?” “I love it baby” *They seal the moment with a kiss*

Hours later, in an unfortunate spell, that lil elephant was lost to nature at Chinchoti trail. It may sound small and insignificant but to her it meant all (I still remember losing that elephant. I had carefully clipped it to my backpack and then it was there no more).

It symbolized 1 of many unexpected moments of love shared with Abeer. We didn’t elaborate on us, not yet. I was Miss PDA and he was the actual shy 1 who only boasted of his openness and escapades from the past. When in India, I was the bold 1 and he the domesticated NRI (I’m smirking at NRI). With him I started with not wanting to feel anything, to feeling something and yet keeping my head on my shoulders, to losing my head from my shoulders but quickly screwing it back up and finally losing it all together. I guess the last stage marks the completion of the 100% absolute-in-love and this-time 4-real stage.

But through the last 7 months of togetherness there has been stark likeness and absolute opposite mayhem. The mere 3 days between our bdays would make me think we could be the twin Pisces fishes but our personalities speak otherwise. You see the love is there but the magnitude and the expression is different. It’s like we are reading the same script but in different dialects. Occasionally, the phonetics of that dialect connects us and love is requited. Other times, a simple mistranslation or miscommunication is enough to loosen both our screws. Hence, the twin fishes are upside down and opp. facing.

I think that people need the opportunity of expression too. Without a fight there is no opportunity for attention. Without a dialogue there is no openness. Without disagreement there is no chance to learn the differences. Without disengagement there is no moment for melting into each other. Without issues there is no extension of our personalities to explore the warrior and protector within us. Without sickness and bad times, there is no proof of our loyalty. Without distance there is no realization of the value. Without boredom and mundane-ness there is no creativity. Without the real deal there is nothing left fighting for; no refreshment of our expression of love. And we have done pretty much all of it.

When you look at your object of affection, you adore them. Your pride yourself in your choices; that you got lucky. In their absence there is a natural need to feel a rare sense of why can’t he/she be so or behave or have so… Then they appear in front of you and you realize, you have something that no one else has. And for some inexplicable reason you are unable to relinquish THIS one. Like the Great Gatsby. Rich, powerful, intelligent, ambitious, handsome, blessed yet haunted by a green light that ultimately destroyed him. We can have it all – or so appears to the world. But that 1 soul is all it takes to bring us to our knees. There is a sense of question as to whether we ever deserved them and all of their personality showered on us. That when they did, we partially acknowledged the love to satisfy our personal friend – Ego; but Ego was sacrificed when love turned its back on us.

There are these moments of tight knots. They squeeze and burn within. Makes you choke up and struggle to breathe. Face flushes and emotions refute control. But the moment love turns a kind eye toward us, the tremendous feeling of 360° relief and humility is like a pressurized aircraft cabin with emergency exits opened at 37000ft. I felt that recently and am going through it. The distance separating us is 1 I have miserably failed to cope with. His absence reduced me and I found myself being a teenage love-fool. An eg. would be my buying Starbucks coffee with his name on the styrofoam as a momento to the weekends he spends waiting patiently for me at the neighbouring Starbucks. That they know him there and occasionally prepare free samples and Americanos, are testament to how long I make him wait. Something I wouldn’t have done at all this weekend in order to spend every breathing second available. No, he did not go to the moon. Just Manali and Spiti and Kasol. They make me forget my leg and want to join him there.  

Then again I think of the times I said something I shouldn’t have or did something I could’ve reversed. There are moments I don’t wanna take back and stay mad at him. Exactly what good comes of it – nothing. This relationship although far more volatile with the good and bad remind me of others as well. Parents and siblings. In the ‘Pursuit of Happyness’, Chris Gardner while going through the worst moments of his life, still maintains aggression, softness, and borderline sanity. The 1^st few times I saw the movie I loved him and felt that it was about his journey to stockbroker-stardom. Truth is it was all about Chris Jr. (his son). He struggled to live, eat, breathe and survive only for his son. His pursuit for stardom was more in his son’s eyes and future than in the multimillion dollar corporation he dreamt of. His humiliation and struggles reducing him often were reversed only when he ensured the safety and sanctity of his love – his son.

Love, when given and received unexpectedly is the most cherished. Love, when asked and coerced, rarely feel authentic. When in love with love, it remains a dream. When in love with reality, it feels authentic. When in love with the idea of love, it just fails. Been there, done that. Now I just love him and wait for his return. Hoping to feel something: expectedly unexpected. <3 

Spiral Cycle

…or so I am avoiding. Poorly.

Last week was a difficult 1 for me. Maybe 1 of my worst. Nearly all of Eid was spent in hospital and doctor visits. This accounted for the commute, the wait and the final darshan of the doc almighty so to speak. The end was fruitful or so I am made to think of the visit but not of the circumstances overall.

A week ago during a rehearsal for a TV show, my left leg decided to do a horrible remake of my right leg’s episode. The remake was much like Bollywood movies, a crass copy that did not do justice to the original piece. The scene involved me tackling 4 ‘ruffians’ (read my fellow capoeirista boys) with Capoeira manoeuvres: throws and takedowns. It was conceived by my teacher in a matter of minutes as we practiced. At 1^st I thought I wouldn’t be able to make it look authentic enough. But after a bunch of takes I liked being the kick-ass gal. I enjoyed it and loved that THIS would mark my spot. Was gonna bring Abeer to the show. So I savoured the moves and practiced. It was late but we had the studio so we just jumped about and practiced set after set. The last and final take I gave it a lil more than just a practice run and there is where the dislodge and familiar sound defined the next 6 months for me.

I teared up and tried to fight the panic that caught my windpipe almost not letting me breathe. Batizado. Instructorship. Rehab. Restart. Rewind. At the time only 1 thought ran through my mind – I need Abeer. He was in Pune and potentially in a bar or a party. I too was ironically headed to F-Bar post this practice. But the ‘pop’ changed everything. I held up my signature thumbs up (a habit I am trying to break) to my teacher and assured him it was just a sprain and I would be back next day full form for the show. We all left to go home. I got off my station and as an afterthought, headed to the ER of Ambani hospital. Not the wisest thing to do alone but panic wouldn’t let me sleep. I was dismissed with a “The ortho won’t be available today” while another cited a long wait. Exactly how that ER and trauma works, I don’t know.

I didn’t sleep a wink. I was desperate to call Abeer. But I knew that I didn’t wanna trouble him mid-night. It was 1am and yet I contemplated if I should call my boyfriend. The next morning thankfully he contacted me with the best news ever – he was already home and back in town contrary to the earlier planned late evening. He came with me to the ER and the multiple visits after an X-ray and MRI scan. Who better than him to understand me – a sportsman himself and having injured himself. He pushed me around in a wheelchair and played in the hospital. Eased my nerves and was the ultimate of what I expected of him. I was safe.

Nothing prepared me for Dr. Dinshaw Pardiwala’s appointment (reknowned sports medicine and Ortho surgeon). Mum stubbornly refused any other surgeon to work on me. I say power of the mother as she managed to slide me into Dr. P’s schedule and get him to look at me. The consultancy was an eye opener. Mum went into her barrage of bad diet, stress, being a woman, age and that subtle way in which she wanted to blame Capoeira. I picked up on the cue and asked the doc when will I be back in full form. 6 months. Pat came the reply. I sunk in my chair. Same ol’ answer. Surgery was the only option for me given the extent of damage. Then he went on to bust certain practices of women athletes practicing during their menstrual cycle. The surging hormones, which wreck havoc on not just the tear-tap but the muscles making us sore and painful to touch. The muscles are vulnerable to wear and tear at a higher risk and intensity. Hence, thinking you are a tough cookie and working out against the pain is not the wisest habit to keep. Another one was about the structure of the bone base. A narrow base is usually seen in women and high impact workouts or movement cause the narrowness to wear out the ligament or a new graft. Hence, a reconstruction of the bone base was in order. Manufacturing defect is what I thought.

We left and I was tired. The leg hurt and the 4hr wait didn’t help. I wanted a hug. From Abeer. That place in his shoulder where I would bury my anger, anguish and had even celebrated some good moments. I missed meeting his mum for Eid; something I really wanted to prioritize that day and it not happening added to my list of upsets. I only called and messaged him. Updated him on every detail. Even though I was with family, I behaved like I was with guardians and was contacting my real family. He promised to return the next day and that eased me. The surgery date was fixed and costs were worked out. Mum and dad were quiet almost afraid that anything they would say wouldn’t sit well with me. I hadn’t said much all day and they wished I made some sound. I signed the OR like 1 books a hall for a wedding. The costs made a tight knot in my stomach. I had just quit and had no income. I had so many plans and surprises lined up. Now I couldn’t consider them. I had plans with Abeer too. And some would have to wait.

But above all concerns was the fear the surgery had set in my head. I remember the cold OR last time and the strangers around me and the needles and the scalpels. I remember the fear and last ounce of consciousness before they sliced into me. Fix me. Nothing could fix the fear Round II. And nothing prepares you for the post-operative pain. I can’t forget even though I try to. It was terrifying and excruciating. Abeer could get me through it. He had a knack for making a joke out of everything (some of those times were NOT funny). I knew hospitals made him queasy and brought back some haunting memories. So I figured that as I parallelly lay in the comfort of knowing he would be there, I was also contemplating sending him off for the duration of this hospital stint. I guess THIS was the way my mother would get to meet him. I just had the work week left to look forward to.

We will get through it. He said. I believed. He made me feel it. I felt it. What was constant pain suddenly turned into pulses of pain; like he had let in a saline of painkiller. Then it eased as I spent a lazy afternoon in his arms, in my favourite place. 

Fac alteri ut tibi vis

"We're meant to serve. We're NOT their servants!" Says Bob Hoskins character to JLo's character from the movie "Maid in Manhattan". 

People often forget the difference between an occupation and a character. They are blinded by money, power and society-defined status to clearly see that those defined as ‘lesser or ‘lower’ than them are but mere humans going about their roles and occupations.

I have seen my share of injustice and really inhumane behaviour to downright bullying. But some recent stints at my company where I work triggered me to pen down a few thoughts. It really irks me when people are rude for no apparent reason especially to those who don't have a voice or haven’t found their’s yet. Yes, I have been rude and angry: with family, boyfriend, friends etc. But I have consciously watched my tone with a maid, security guards, servers and those who do service, beggars and urchins, rickwalas and cabbies. They live with injustice and uncouth behaviour and attitude thrown all day save for when they are asleep. No one seems to see eye to eye with them. That’s why I am surprised at them expressing surprise at my very polite behaviour to them (Mental note: If only I made the same effort with near and dear ones when I am about to lose the string on temper).

If 1 were subjected to negative attitude and beaten down mentally and emotionally all day long, they will appear regressive or aggressive – both in the extremes. Take for example the employees at my place of occupation. Although my organization boasts 1 of the top places to work professionally, as a brand, in experience; it also takes pride in exercising their upkeep of women and their superior role, housekeeping, FnB and other tertiary domains. Yet, I find it absolutely blasphemous that housekeeping staff has to clean the corners and curves with bare hands. It includes large corridors, restrooms and kitchen and service areas. I have watched and wondered if a pair of gloves and hygiene equipment really creates a hole in their multi-billion dollar kitty.

Employees yell at FnB staff and order food like a warden ordering a miscreant prisoner from the yard to his holding cell. It’s not like anyone made a mistake. It appears like they think it’s a natural and acceptable manner of communication. Rickwalas are treated like scum – plausible excuse being that they are ‘Northies’. Why the typecast? Another very mundane e.g. would be: Recently I was getting into a rick with a Muslim driver. I particularly find them to be very polite with more than immaculate Hindi diction. And they mind their own business. A few classmates 1^st discouraged me saying it was late and they didn’t trust ‘these’ drivers. I shrugged it off and got in. At the end of my ride the driver asked me to place the money on the meter and not in his hands. I asked him repeatedly why this odd exchange. He said they don’t touch unmarried ladies or women that are not their immediate family. I wasn’t offended. I was smiling and complied. It was the month of Ramadan. I only wished that my disapproving friends who were looking out for my safety had seen this driver’s attitude. Maybe they wouldn’t then be quick to typecast and judge.

I know good and bad people and they don’t come from a particular background. The divide is just cuz of society. They are quick to blame a religion or a state or a country or a socio-economic background. 1 forgets our birth, upbringing and circumstances also define us. Not just define us. There are those who rise out of the muck so clean and polished, 1 would never believe they once existed on the other side of the fence. They have class, dreams, desires, ideas and survival skills that even adrenaline rush wouldn't pop in our cosily raised minds.

So while we are comfortable hailing a rick and speeding off to wherever we wanna go, don’t forget the endless lines of people waiting in the rain and grime for that 1 bus, BEST drivers, conductors and railway employees who works holidays and long hours to shuttle us thankless passengers who trample, beat and abuse them, the driver who sleeps in his vehicle, eats measly meals and drives and drives even taking bathroom breaks mid-commute. There are countless we don’t see and hear. Like I said earlier, “People who don’t have a voice or haven’t found their’s yet.” They will find a voice. Someday. Somehow.

Do unto others as you would have them do unto you!

The Birth of an Abortion!

“Can you share this video with me?” Nyah asked Clyde, her colleague at work. It was a 4:08min video on ‘Ambition vs Abortion’. Aimed at the unnecessary loss of life. As Nyah saved the video carefully in her phone, it occurred to her that she could use it as a learning tool for young girls and women who were seemingly uneducated in the ways and means of life and incidentally fell under the umbrella of activities that Nyah and her friends covered.

Weeks went by and life seemed uneventful. She had her share of PMS and didn’t hesitate to use the accompanying wrath on her boyfriend. He was, fortunately, a bemused yet considerate soul who knew better than to tick her off. Still something didn’t sit right with her. She had her share of health related concerns in the past: signature issues with women and the plethora of hazards their body must suffer in this 1 delicate precious lifetime. Nyah was active and on her toes. She had a high pain threshold and never fussed even in the most crucial situations… except if she knew she had indeed pushed it 1 too far. But this time around something didn’t feel right.

She tried to ignore a possibility. Her body began showing some changes but nothing so drastic that it stared her point blank. “There wasn’t any abdominal pain or morning sickness. Then what?” “Nah… can’t be.“ “I’m not that stupid!” took laps in her agitated mind. She couldn’t sleep and she couldn’t function. A simple test kit could make it all go away. But the sheer thought of buying that kit frightened her no end. She had never even bought contraceptive on her own except for an iPill. That too recently and very hesitantly.She knew that the efficacy of the pill was as predictable as the sweetness of the coconut water which was about to be hacked.

5 weeks late and unable to bear the suspense, she bought the kit and stared and fidgeted with it all night. She didn’t want to look at the device and yet she was as fascinated with it as the kids today are with the ipad. She drank water and then subsequently stayed up all night visiting the washroom. Idiot! Morning came and her bladder just ceased. As if her body knew that she was about to test herself. She locked herself inside and ensured her family didn’t intrude. How ironic as they gave her the widest berth of space and privacy anyone could ever ask for. 2 drops of urine in the ‘well’ and 5mins waiting. The instructions elaborately displayed in diagram and words and translated as well. Carried out with the kind of finesse she should have shown in her Chemistry board finals. This was different. THIS chemistry had possibly altered her biology or as she was about to confirm in 5mins.

She didn’t have to wait 5mins. 2 drops and 5secs later the stick arrogantly displayed 2 perfectly dark purple lines. The words wouldn’t come out and the thought wouldn’t calm itself. She had her phone. Called the boyfriend and wailed out an asthmatic “I’m pregnant.” He was calm or as later she would know… he tried to be calm for her. She paced her bathroom and every available corner of it to let the thought escape. She tried to breathe and scream that she could not be the unmarried pregnant gal who was smart and responsible and had barely decided if she wanted to settled down and bear his kin. Something immoral and humiliating struck her. This despite the fact that NO ONE knew she was pregnant and no one was about to know. Yet for that moment on the dark bathroom tiles, she could see her tainted reflection and self-imposed shame on being ‘that girl’. The girl Nyah had often read about in papers or listened to on the phone or gotten to know and just looked away. Now she was THAT girl and it didn’t bode well with her.

She cried and she felt palpitations of euphoria vs panic. She knew it was fixable and she had the financial and supporting resources. She knew she had the correct requisites to fix this. Or maybe this was a false positive. Either way the very calm boyfriend was agitating her. She immediately contacted a doctor friend and consulted her. Fortunately her friend was supportive and mentioned the obvious – If you are active it was bound to happen. Accidents happen. There was nothing judgemental about what she was making out to be. A quick chat and a reference for a renowned Ob-gyn, Nyah set about her day. With a knot tighter than anything she had ever known before in her stomach. 

At work, she perspired despite the central cooling which usually made her a snowgirl. She started walking and moving carefully. How ironic as she planned to eventually get rid of it. A close friend, she had confided in, waited with bated breath to know what was the result. Nyah gave her a blank stare. That was the answer. There was still no panic but definitely overwhelming emotions. She wanted to cry every second. Not sure why or which emotion was tugging at the lacrimation and yet she wanted a release. For distraction she again read up on pregnancy and termination. She tried to accurately calculate how far along she could be and then discreetly spoke to the doctor for an appointment. The doc had to leave early but given the situation decided to wait for Nyah at the hospital.

It was a Monday and Nyah didn’t know what a week was about to hit her. She entered the hospital, scared yet determined; with a composure that could cut glass. The doctor just like many others ahead was about to ask her only 2 questions: “Are you married?” and “How old are you?” That’s it. The doctor rutted out the termination routine like a prayer she could recite even in an inebriated state. It sounded cold, mundane. Nyah felt like her emotions and state wasn’t given enough sensitivity. Then yet again, how many cases had this Ob-gyn seen possibly in just a week. She was asked to get a sonography done to confirm and see how far along she was. The next morning Nyah went back to the hospital. She had to fill forms and answer questions related to age, marital status, name and status of the husband etc. Again obnoxious and insensitive questioning starting with when was her last period date which even the front entrance guard heard. What was worse was that the hospital was a spiritual hospital that did not believe in taking life or determining the gender of the unborn fetus in a country ready to get rid of life like it was a rotten potato. She had to lie that she was married only a few months back and her husband was out of the country. At each step she tried not to showcase her vulnerability which was blaring from her pale face, malnourished and sleep deprived eyes and a tremor she hid – poorly.

Sonography took about 5mins. The doctors (both elderly males) made her comfortable with routine questions. At each step every attending and nurse asked “Are you 1^st time mother?” or “Is this your 1^st baby?” This was just torture. Couldn’t they call it pregnancy! Terms like ‘baby’ and ‘mother’ softened her heart and made her feel like a murderer. She was almost afraid at 1 point that she would (in an act of momentary stupidity) decide to keep the baby. She waited, dehydrated. Dehydrated in mind, body and soul. Dehydrated from the thoughts and fear running through her mind. The sonography screen wasn’t shown to her and nor was it directly discussed. When asked to dress up and leave, she stared at the screen. Distinctly marked with a red arrow was a 5 week fetus at the base. A hazy greyish lump. It wasn’t big or distinct like the movies. But for her it was everything and her throat choked up. She called him. He was worried sick all throughout. He hadn’t left her side nor stopped being on the phone with her. She was afraid that she would feel different or react different if he were physically there. He asked her if she wanted to keep it. She thought he was being an idiot. But then really how many men would ask such a question or consider the option at all?

She stepped outside the hospital to get more money for the bills that were about to pile up. She used her moment in the ATM to ball out and just cry. ‘No one’s watching me here’ or so she thought forgetting the camera. Face wet, red and swollen she made her way to the 2^nd floor to the Ob-gyn. The doc waited patiently for Nyah to completely exhale the overwhelming emotion that had swept over her from the moment she muttered ‘5 weeks’. That’s how old her fetus/baby was. She felt connected. How ridiculous and yet how this explained all the changes and modifications her body had thrown at her under the garb of PMS. There were legal papers to sign, declarations to sign and a long set of instructions. This termination was gonna be done by 2 powerful drugs. From the second that the 1^st drug would be taken, there was no turning back. This was repeated at periodic intervals in the short time that Nyah had spent with the doc. I guess this was especially for women who yo-yoed between keeping and terminating. Nyah was clear 99.99% that she wanted to close this chapter of her life. The doc as a last resort offered her a piece of advice, 1 that can only be termed as a prematurely stupid: to leave the boy as he was a bad influence and would only lure her to bed again. Another abortion and she would be mentally and physically scarred again. Nyah left in a huff; fighting back tears which streamed for no fault of hers.

The drugs were costly and the purchase was a mildly overwhelming 1 as well. Pharmacies needed name, proof of address, prescription, signed documentation etc. The whole ordeal from the hospital, diagnosis, doc and meds made her feel like she was about to bomb the city. Pale, lifelessness, perspiration and tears defined her appearance. She was tired and just wanted to sleep through it all. She went to work instead. After her lunch was the 1^st dose. Popping a pill had never been more nerve-wracking. She popped the 1^st 1. Closed her eyes and pretended like it never happened. T’was a normal day. Till the TV ads and wall posters along the road and people around her all screamed mother, child, pregnancy, baby, the joys, the cuddly-wuddly moments. Could karma be THAT cruel! A few hours and she popped and wouldn’t stop bleeding. It was painful and felt like any ‘that time of the month’ except a lil worse. The process had begun… to end a life.

2 days later and wee bit calmer came time to take the 2^nd and more powerful pill. This was the 1 the doc had warned her about. Stay home. Stay in bed. But Nyah was at work. Post lunch she popped the pill. 5mins in and she was perspiring like she was placed in a blast furnace. The cramping and pain was crippling and the blood drained faster from her brain than she could comprehend. She could only best describe it as ‘labor pains’. Well plainly put the 2^nd drug is actually used to induce labor in women who haven’t delivered even after many hours (scientifically they haven’t dilated far along for the baby to come out). In termination, the uterus is forced to contract as much and as powerfully as possible to expel the fetus and all the nutrient and blood supply that was otherwise a cushiony womb for the lil 1.

The pain made her buckle and she couldn’t stand. From her rib-cage below she could only feel numb with pain. Sitting standing bending curling – nothing helped. The medic center was prepared for her. An on-call doctor examined her and couldn’t understand the nature or origin of such gruesome pain. Nyah kept sobbing and wished for it to go away. When the room had cleared and no one was around and before the doc could write a potentially counteracting prescription, she took a deep breath and informed him the drug she took. A sudden wave of change came over his face. It was deep concern and worry mixed with a relief of the knowledge of her pain and ordeal. He advised her to sleep in a fetal position with a pillow and blanket to comfort her. The next 6-7 hours was nothing but excruciating pain, heavy bleeding like a tap and nauseous oblivion. A friend was kind enough to drop her home. People at work assumed it was anemia or low pulse or general bad health. At least no one except her best friend knew the real deal.

She didn’t go to work or anywhere the following day. She spent the next few just curled up, unable to walk or remain comfortable. 14 days of non-stop bleeding and discomfort lay ahead. The human body is a wondrous machine. It can treat you well and badly – both in extremes. She was miserable and cried and bled – from the heart. She felt violated and foolish and had only him to blame. But her rationale mind occasionally made an appearance to remind her that she too was equally responsible and a consenting adult. No doubt this was an unexpected and unwelcome shock. And yet nothing felt right. The next few days her emotions played paddle and ball with her heart and mind. She spent time with a very nervous and overtly caring boyfriend who behaved like he had imported rare fine China. He was sensitive to her mind and needs yet even though he tread carefully, she found ways to beat him to a pulp. She needed a wall to pound against and since he had no way to help her; being that wall seemed the only way he could help.

The process drained her of energy and nutrients. Her body started to feel like it was crumbling. That’s an extreme depiction of the truth but mental anguish made it feel so. At an age where most women would have had babies, a husband and a future, she was busy terminating a part of it. Worse was that she NEVER wanted to be the terminator. Guess Arnold must be feeling proud about now. Her physical activities were limited and periodically she kept feeling her belly. There wasn’t anything there as of Wednesday. Yet her hands travelled to probably feel what could’ve been. The irony gnawed at her. She was in love and wondered if it had a foreseeable future. Now it was marred by something that left a distinct scar and it was getting emotionally tougher to get past it.

Fear had gone. Anguish was diminishing but the memory would not take a cue and hike off. TV adverts, posters, friends discussing babies, and the myriad of heavily pregnant women suddenly disturbed here everywhere. Why was a 5-week terminated fetus such a bane to her existence? Why didn’t love flow naturally towards the overtly supportive boyfriend? It all heckled her and being left alone seemed to work wonders for her. Solitary confinement was her best friend that had bailed her out of many an anguish and situations.

After 16 days of what seemed to last a year, she was done. Nyah was required to take another USG to confirm the pregnancy had ‘cleared’ (almost sounding like an infection) and that no contingency was needed. The relief she expected didn’t sweep over. Rewind. Replay. No relief. And neither did she do the USG. The thought of a glance at the now empty womb didn’t do her right and she felt like there wasn’t anything to confirm. There was nothing to choke or be overwhelmed over. Talk of pregnancy and babies didn’t hold her fancy. When he held her on her waist or her stomach she felt conscious. Void. Indifferent.

Empty space. Closed chapter. Back to normal… or what she assumed to be normal!

www.youtube.com/watch?v=XE0Mym7IIp8 Ambition vs Abortion Video

Long walk home...

“Beta sab theek hai. Khana khayega” That’s the signature statement my dad always seems to clarify or make irrespective of whether I was within city limits, out of the country or possibly another galaxy. I heard this statement again and pondered through my long and lonely walk from the domestic airport to the rick stand as I had just flown in from Bangalore to Mumbai on a warm humid night.

A harsh reality hit me. In the recent past, none of the times was I dropped or picked up from the train station or the airport. It’s another thing that I expressed chivalry and wanted to be the ‘I-can-do-it-myself gal’. But it would be a welcome change to see a surprise pick-up or drop once in a while. To be fair I couldn’t expect friends or family members to chauffeur me especially when I was notorious for taking all odd hour journey options. It just had to be late evening or midnight – anything before complete sunrise.

And yet I time traveled back to the ye ol’ days when the whole family would pile up in cabs and ricks to see us off. Tear-jerkers and handkerchief exchanges were a common sight – I even dreaded it sometimes especially when dad would leave us to go to Nigeria or later, and most commonly, when mum would send me back to boarding school at the start of the school year. Most of the times they were midnight flights. Somehow late evening and night journeys add that extra bit of moroseness to the whole farewell scene. One goes home to cry into their blankets or aircraft pillows.

I wished for someone to pick me up. I wished to be swept away in arms and hugs and covered in appropriate kisses followed by an inappropriate number. Be it the brother, the friend or the boyfriend. I craved to know that someone somewhere waited so long to see me and couldn't wait no more and made the journey to see me arrive. Instead I walked bags on both shoulders, waving off eager rickwalas and cabwalas with the ease of a billionaire heiress waving of paparazzi. Walked as far as my jetlagged feet could take me and nearly threatened a rick guy to take me home ON METER only. I didn't even realize that the poor fellow intended to just charge me meter (assumed that they were all automatically out to fleece me).

I looked forward to getting home and getting dad’s home cooked meal. Even if his intent was just to feed me and probably pick another fight (his version of an ongoing conversation), I still looked forward to it. He called and stressed and waited for the return of Tom and Jerry. Just like the ever quarreling duo who would kill each other and yet reach a slump if 1 was absent. The alternate and more eagerly awaited plan was to meet the boyfriend. However, he unleashed a volley of his own anger on me when (and get this) I had just been airborne during take-off. Maybe it was an ‘off’ evening for me. The farewell was bittersweet from my beloveds, the arrival a tad bit too hot and humid from the cold and rain-washed Bangalore and the walk home a long, lonely and miserable 1.

I do often look outside the glass panes just before exiting the airport or train station to see if someone indeed did show up… just like the old days!