Two abortions in a year. She is feeling her stomach now and sat contemplating on the choice between abortion and maternal death.
She kept wondering. Gathering her thoughts and actions. What should she do if she discovers herself to be pregnant again.. Should she take a pill and cause foeticide.. Should she lay as one of the random cases audited under maternal deaths.. Should she let go off all the passion in her..
She pondered on and on about the idea of Passion. And it occurred to her that it was her existence. It was not mere duty but a higher moral ground. The earth under her feet suddenly started to shake. And she started to move out of the Mahal.
The Mahal mandated that maternal deaths are counted, audited and reviewed every calendar year. Some are counted. Most of the counted are Customarily audited. And those counted and customarily audited, are ticked as audited during reviews.
Sympathies seemed silly to her. Sympathies reverberated songs of unworthy happiness and reminded her of hollow men and shallow hearts. For she once wrote, "Minds of men peak highs, yet, remain mere caves"
She was flooded with thoughts. For she is not married. She wanted to be a surrogate mother. It was not her choice to be a surrogate mother either.
She remained tight-lipped with utmost courtesy when one of the doctors inquired if she recognized and remembered the specialist surgeon who succeeded in inseminating XY chromosomes when she went for dressing of a bruised right elbow few weeks back. And when she returned, she went through the second abortion.
She recalled that the first one was planted by an ordinary doctor not so willingly when she had problems of indigestion owing to sleeplessness half a year back.
To her utter astonishment, she recalled a striking similarity with the foetuses. She saw both. Those striking images. Of Blood and Bad Water. And, they possessed Big Black Bindis on the foreheads. Her womb passed it on to them. Yes, she possessed what her mentor called as the 'inner eye'. She possessed from her mother's womb and father's water. It was a dark dot of heritage. It was the 'third eye'!
Oh! An eye. An eye now filled with water. And water trickled down. Till it figuratively moisted the earth and recharged her. This technically ended the dearth of water. Poor Shahs in the Mahal exchanged passion for deceit.
All this was a secret. And everyone knew it. She knew it too. And yet existed. With passion. And hope!
