I live in a country where a woman’s value is often measured by motherhood, but for me and many others fulfilment simply looks different
I
booked an online appointment with a gynaecologist in Karachi during the pandemic. I had a severe urinary tract infection and needed immediate relief. Everything felt routine at first: the doctor joined the video call late, held her phone awkwardly and asked about my symptoms. I explained, she prescribed medication, and then came the expected questions: Was I married? For how long? Any children? When I said “no,” her tone shifted as she asked, “Bachay tou chaihiye na aap ko?” (You do want children, right?). It felt subtly menacing – the assumption was clear: not wanting kids meant something was wrong.
What shocked me more was my own response. “Ji, ji, bilkul,” (Yes, yes, of course) I mumbled. Later, I was furious with myself for crumbling under pressure – for not being honest.
I live in a country where a woman’s value is often measured by her ability and willingness to become a mother. People casually throw around words like baanjh (infertile) even when a woman is simply choosing to wait. And when she openly says she doesn’t want kids at all? That’s seen as selfish, even threatening.
