My Uterus is Not Mine

“MY UTERUS IS MINE! MY UTERUS IS MINE!” A woman charged around campus in a summer skirt and blouse, her excitement more than a match for the cold November night. President Barack Obama had just won his second term in office and the campus had erupted. Although my tropical origins thwarted me from following in her exultant footsteps, I could feel my relief settle the thumping of my heart.

No matter that I wasn’t American and had vague plans to leave the country soon anyway. As a brown woman who lived in the US, I had to care about the election. One of the biggest battles fought on the political floor was (and is) whether I should be able to make decisions about my own body. Whether I could be trusted to do so. Whether I deserved to do so.

And for now at least, the country had elected a president who believed I did. For four years, the country would have a president who believed that my uterus was indeed mine.

Three years later, after having witnessed draconian attempts by American lawmakers to restrict women’s reproductive rights, I moved to India. Unsurprisingly, abortion is not one of the major political issues in India. Not because we believe women have a right to their own bodies, oh no. A quick journey in crowded public transport should assure you of that fact. Indian women’s right to abortion is (relatively) protected because of our society’s obsession with male children, and of “preserving the family honour” in cases of unmarried pregnancies.     

However, even in a political climate that isn’t fixated on my bodily autonomy, the contents of my uterus are open to public discussion. Religion is woven into every aspect of my family life, and the menstrual taboo means that every time I get my period, the entire family comes to know about it. The minute I don’t partake in the aarti or the prasad or refuse to fetch prayer accoutrements for my grandparents, the status of my uterine lining is broadcast to my entire family. Any time there’s a religious gathering that I’m unable to attend because of the taboo, my conspicuous absence is easily explained to distant relatives with news about my period. If there’s an especially important function, we will debate whether I will be sufficiently pure after the express three, or regular five days.

When I moved from the United States to India, I was worried that everything would be different. Silly me. If you’ve the audacity to be born as/identify as a woman, the patriarchy is your constant, cross-cultural companion. In America, someone else’s religious views (in a country that proclaims a separation of church and state) affected what medical decisions I could legally make. In India, my own participation in religious and familial life broadcast the status of my uterine lining to my relatives. Regardless of whether it is my country or not, my religion or someone else’s, my uterus remains public property, to be lorded over and discussed at will. And so, it’s with great regret that I tell that exuberant woman from so many years ago, “I’m sorry, my uterus is not mine, and never will be. And neither will yours.”