Aunty jee, please stay out of my reproductive system. It isn’t a HUM TV drama that you can discuss and analyze and evaluate day in and day out. They’re called the ‘privates’ for a reason, aunty jee, don’t you see?
You might not agree because you feel that your years of experience in child birth and child rearing give you some level of authority on every woman’s ovaries, but just look at how ridiculous you’re being. Yes, you may have given birth to five healthy (read: obese) children, but that doesn’t mean the purpose of my existence is to do the same. You may think you’ve done God’s great work by reproducing like no tomorrow, but really, a rabbit does that, too.
There can be more than just one type of ‘good news,’ aunty jee. Like, getting promoted, or receiving an award or Kiran slapping Sikandar full in the face. Every time I crave something khatta isn’t cause for suspicion. And the few pounds I’ve packed over the past two weeks shouldn’t make you think it’s anything but subterraneous fat.
And please stop calling my career a baby killer. My career isn’t spermicide. Do you think that my computer is emitting rays that are slowly frying my eggs into mush? Or do you really believe that sitting on a desk 40 hours a week is inflicting irreparable damage to my uterus? Or, perhaps, you labour under the impression that using my brain in a productive way will cause my ovaries to shrivel and die? Contrary to your opinion, aunty jee, my career has no bearing on my ability to have children.
The funda of the ‘unda’ is simple, aunty jee. The more you poke, probe and pry, the more stressed out my unda will be. And stress is no good for the unda, you see?