She bled the aborted foetus eight weeks after it was conceived.
“Ball of tissue discharged after third round”, she texts her gynaecologist immediately after the portentous bleeding.
“Ok. Keep me updated”, is what she receives.
She lies down on her mother’s bed, adjusting her tender body to the old mattress. Nigella’s Christmas Kitchen plays on the television. And, she earnestly listens to the cabaret of ingredients participating in the luscious dessert that is being prepared. She realises her desire to eat for pleasure is returning.
Butter, 150 gm
Sugar, 150 gm
Almonds, Crushed, 50 gm
Late in the afternoon, she discharges the unexpended foetal tissue that had developed around the eight-week old foetus. Clumps really, deep red and then blood. Fertile, undisputed fertile blood that would have nurtured promise in her womb.
“Tissue discharged”, she informs this time.
“Ok. Good. It is over.”
It is over.
The calamitous rupturing of her life is over.
She eats her supper, some cultural concoction served with rice. Her stomach is strong again after eight weeks.
She takes her last course. Four drugs separated by intervals of two hours for a period of twelve hours – unwanted foetus, indigestion, heart burn, acidity, nausea – for everything.
Only the void that was created will not go away.