I never thought there could be a comparison until I was rushed to a hospital recently for a “ladies’ problem”. Who better to solve a ladies’ problem than a lady doctor? Such conclusions drawn, I was rushed to a hospital run by one of these veritable lady doctors. I have never understood what is exactly implied by this term: the sex of the doctor or that she’s a specialist in “ladies’ problems”? Anyway, I was promised an appointment with a doctor with both these much-desired virtues — female and a qualified gynecologist.
On reaching the hospital, I had to first go through a process: this involved giving all my details to the nurse at the counter, who fed it into a computer. These details included my name, age, my marital status and finally complaint. Now apparently, the last two answers I gave didn’t match.”Unmarried” and “missed period” couldn’t be attributed to one person. The nurse raised her eyebrow. One of the first of the many raised eyebrows that day.
The second step of the process involved repeating my details and the exact nature of my complaint to a lady doctor. I did. She wrote it all down. If I had failed to make the connection when the nurse raised her eyebrow, this doctor made sure I didn’t miss the point. There was much mulling over dates, my missed period and my current condition of excessive bleeding and cramping. And she repeating, “But you’re unmarried?” She disappeared and I went back to the waiting room. The process being completed, I was informed that I was now ready to meet the “Doctor Amma.” The maternal label, a tribute to her seniority.
Doctor Amma turned out to be not one doctor. There was one bespectacled lady, and a whole panel of other women. Five well dressed gynecologists poring over my file. They gave me knowing looks. Doctor Amma repeated all my details back to me, I nodded back at her in confirmation and finally, she looked over her glasses, and the same refrain, “But you’re unmarried.” It wasn’t a question or a statement anymore, it was a judgment. The sound of the gavel was missing. She told one of the panel members to take me into another room where an examination table lay waiting for me.
I lay down on the table, waiting for some fingers to come prodding. None came. More questions, “What does your father do?” “What are you doing in Hyderabad?” “Why did you quit your job to become a student again?” “Why Hyderabad?” “Why so far away from home?” “But your father’s a doctor, why do you want to study Humanities?” Finally, “I know your father. He was an ENT professor.”
I covered my exposed stomach, now recovering from the cramps which had gone completely unaddressed, and went back to the panel. There was one more question to be asked. It was obvious what it would be. Her Highness Doctor Amma finally said it. “Do you think you are pregnant?” I had been bleeding for four days, a fact I’d repeated over and over again. My aunt, who had accompanied me, was asked to come to the room, and the question was asked. I replied “No.”
Sigh of relief from the panel.
The doctor who’d asked me questions. “I know her father. She can’t be like that.” “See, nowadays, girls don’t wait until they’re married.” “I knew I didn’t have to ask you, but we have to ask as a matter of routine.” More muttering from the panel.
Pen scribbling on a pad. A prescription for painkillers. Thank god there was no other word starting from “P” involved. A last retort, “We won’t conduct a physical on her because she’s unmarried.”
I returned home a virgin.
Dini in a bottle 