Gears on the Fritz

So, the nurse had been looking for a telltale sign of marriage, I realized. Upon finding no wedding ring, no toe ring, no bangles, no vermillion and no black-and-gold beaded necklace on my person, she had raised an eyebrow and tch’d, before she had proceeded to fill out the form.

Except, she still put ‘Mrs’ before the name.

I walked up to the nurse’s station and pointed at the form. “You’ve mistyped here,” I said, my forefinger lingering at the discrepancy.

“Oh?” she mouthed, uninterested.

“I’m not married,” I explained with patience. “I’m not a ‘Mrs’.”

“Oh?” She looked up, surprised. A moment too long it took for her to comprehend the concept before she received the extended sheet of paper and coloured out the mistake with a pen. “I’m sorry about that. I assumed you were because, you know…” She shrugged and gestured with her chin around the room.

I pursed my lips, said my thanks and returned to my seat in the waiting area. Beside me sat three women, each in different trimesters and each of their hospital folders varying in sizes, their husbands either beside them or standing at the other end of the room, reacting only when someone new—me, for instance—approached their spouses. In front of and behind me were women with families with at least one kid in tow.

I shifted in my seat, my ears burning up. I, a woman, was somehow a misfit in an OB-GYN waiting room.

The feeling did not wash away when the doctor furrowed her brows the moment she saw the struck-out letters in the form. A second later, her forehead cleared and she hmm’d as if a new realization dawned on her.

This was my fourth time in a gynaec clinic. The previous experiences had not been, to my memory, this disparaging. Maybe I had not paid attention then, or perhaps I did not have many different things weighing on my mind.

Either way.

The doctor asked for details, and I showed her scans and test results which indicated I had polycystic ovarian syndrome. She nodded and nodded and nodded some more before asking, “So, are you planning to get married soon?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Well, if you’re not, there’s no immediate need to deal with the issue, is there? You’re not planning for pregnancy, so there’s nothing to worry about,” she replied coolly, picking up a pen. She underlined my weight. “Just get to losing some kilos, your cycles will fall into place,” she added with an indulging smile. “It’s nothing serious. I’ll write down some meds. Usually, we’d ask patients to take them for six months or we’d give them a more aggressive course, but we do it only when they are trying, you know. You don’t need to worry about it.”

She continued, “Plus, you clearly have had PCOS so this might be recurring now. You can get your thyroid checked and show me the reports. The previous one seems normal, still we should get it checked again. Other than that, just concentrate on losing weight. You’ll be fine.”

By the time I was out of her office and sitting at the lab to have my blood sample taken, my thoughts were in a frustrated bundle.

She had not said anything different from what the other doctors had on the issue, but somehow this time it bothered me more than usual. It was as if things had tingled and scratched under the surface in the back of my mind all this time, producing little to no spark but gathering firewood for the purpose. Now a small matchstick walked to the ensemble and struck it ablaze.

A couple days ago, my parents had summoned me to discuss my future. I naturally assumed that meant my career would be included as well, among other things. They, however, had only one concept in mind for that horrendous F-word.

As a kid, and even as a teenager, the idea of a ‘happily ever after’ was an enticing thought, an intricate snowflake plastered across the window. But I grew up and out of it. Bruised by life, I learned to tend to my own wounds. I learned to be my own person. All those childhood dictums of becoming independent finally made sense.

The lab assistant stretched out his own hand and made a fist with the thumb tucked between the fingers. I followed suit.

“Good. Stiffen your arm some more.”

The discussion that day began quite abruptly. My father simply declared, “It’s time to think about your marriage.” My expression must have been one to behold. Regardless, he continued, “The older you get, the harder it will be to find a groom. So think about it carefully before you refuse. It’s better to get married early.”

He let that sink in. Words bubbled in the pit of my gut but none found a way out. You were not suppposed to be insolent around your elders.

“Look, we”—his forefinger waggled between my mother and hisself—“we don’t want to force you to go along with it. But you too have to be practical with your life. You need the stability and security of marriage in this world.”

The lab assistant swiped a cotton ball dipped in spirit on a spot right below the fold of my arm. Cool to the touch, its scent easily overwhelmed that of his cologne. He stretched the skin and peered closer. He swiped the transparent liquid over the spot once more, increasing its radius.

Satisfied, he turned away and prepped the needle.

“The fact remains that you live in a society and you are thus bound by its rules and regulations and traditions. We all are.” My father had that look on his face which he always did when he slipped into a philosophical belief of his, as though he were negotiating things more with himself than with others in the room. “And a young woman should not walk through life alone. Husband, kids, you need them around so that you do not feel lonely in the future.”

I stared at my mother at that point. She caught my eyes and said firmly, “What your father told is true.”

The pierce of the needle was swift. As he pulled at the plunger, dark red liquid rushed to fill up the space emptied within the barrel.

“I understand that you’ve switched careers recently and you’re still finding a footing in it. And I’m willing to support you financially until you’ve established yourself. You don’t have to worry about a thing. But—”

When I was a kid, our English teacher had taught about the usage of but and how it tended to negate everything that was said right before.

Thank you, but…

I really need that, but…

You don’t have to worry about a thing, but…

I had to urge my mind to pay attention.

“…a family is the answer. A job can only satisfy you so much. Without a family around, it would feel empty.”

I had pressed my lips together and nodded. “I understand what you mean.” But.

My blood sample was transferred into a test tube and sealed away. The old cotton swab and the used injection were discarded while I was handed a fresh bit of cotton.

“Press it against the injection spot and fold your arm like this,” the lab assistant instructed, bending his own arm towards his shoulder. He uncapped a marker pen and scribbled my patient number on a small white paper. Soon as he stuck it on the thin container, the overhead light reflecting in white streaks across the crimson liquid, he turned to me and smiled. “Reports will be done by evening, if you want to collect it then, or you can come by tomorrow at this time too.”

“Okay, thanks,” I murmured and stepped out of the room, my right arm folded towards my shoulder.

I could not help but wonder what I was even getting treated for. I had read about the problems PCOS could lead to, and I would have liked to believe I was seeking the doctor’s counsel for the sake of my own body. I did not want the condition to heal so I could conceive a baby someday. I wanted it fixed because it concerned an organ in my body and I would not like to have it malfunctioning. But.

But.

Maybe I was psyching myself out for no reason. The future talk had thrown me off course more than I cared to admit. A seed of panic had taken roots.

Observing the marriages in my family, observing the subdued and limiting roles women had had to undertake, my insides lurched at the thought of my days turning into the same. It was easy to fool oneself that their case might be different. Chances were that the ones already hitched might have assumed the same for their unions.

I found it really foolish to dream or believe in exceptions. The so-called roles and their respective rules defined by others were like those water-filled sacs celebrating homecoming with my ovaries; I might have won one round by choosing an unconventional career, but there they were once again gnawing at me.

Outside the hospital, I stopped and unfolded my arm. The cotton had a spot of blood on it. I pressed it one final time on the invisible wound and tossed it into the disposal bin.

When I was younger, when asked to state who I was, I would say my name, my age, my gender and that would be enough. Now those three parameters weighed like boulders on my shoulders.

My name was not just my name; it stated my ethnicity, where I came from, what community I belonged to, what family I belonged to, what my religion, caste and mother tongue were. It stated my marital status too. It was imperative now to add an indicator in the forms.

My age was no longer a thing that changed every year; it became more of a burden with each passing birthday. A glaring declaration of my dissipating youth, my progressing age also meant my baby-clock was on a countdown as well. It did not matter whether or not I wanted a kid.

My gender had rules; rules that members of my own gender enforced more than the others. I could not do this; I should not do that; my laugh could not be loud; I ought not to go there; I must adhere to a when; I had to learn this, forget that. I was obligated, as a woman, to marry and produce heirs.

I took out the helmet from under the seat of my two-wheeler, replacing its empty space with the patient’s file, and clipped it on. Climbing on the vehicle, I put the key into the ignition and started the engine.

I had a long way to go, and my gears were on the fritz.

The two-wheeler snorted and came alive. Backing out of the jam-packed parking lot, I turned my ride around and joined the moving traffic. The way home was always the same, but where did I want to go?