Red Rainbow & Sunflowers (Part 3)

A Tale of Navigating Queerness and Neurodivergence in Indian Reproductive Healthcare

As the painful cycles continued, somewhere down the line, it hit me: periods were avoidable. No pills, no periods. My uterus was a rebel, and so was I. Gender dysphoria hacked!

Fast forward to age 25, I was hacking gender like a pro. I was still skipping the pills for months, only taking them once every few months. Over the years, the price of the pills had skyrocketed, the pills got harder to procure, and some brands banned. Now, the available alternative- Yamini cost a whopping Rs. 725. Seven hundred and twenty-five for a month?! And they expect us to chug these every month of our pre-menopausal lifetime!

By then, I had realized these pills were also contraceptives. As I had just ventured into sexual exploration, a non-intrusive and relatively pain-free option was that awfully expensive strip of pimple-causing pills. Of course, the onus of birth control was on the uterus bearers. Our strong and mighty cis-het men were too fragile to handle all that responsibility on their poor shoulders– too occupied holding up their sweet privileges of patriarchy! So, of course, the rebellious, woke, gender-friendly, and pocket-friendly solution was to skip the pills, perform extreme caution and pray vigorously.

I took them just often enough to appease doctors. Whenever I did visit a doctor, I could casually say, "Oh, I had my last period just three months ago," which wasn't bad by PCOS standards. This tactic usually diverted the conversation to the predictable spiel about losing weight. They’d point at my BMI chart, and my inner monologue would scream, “You know the BMI calculation wasn't designed with Black and Brown bodies in mind, right?” Meanwhile, my outer self would be tongue-tied, nodding along, and rushing back home as quickly as possible.

By then, I had also come to understand and embrace my identity as nonbinary, demi-sexual pansexual and AuDHD. Moving to Bangalore for a new job brought newfound financial independence and the freedom to explore my sexuality and seek meaningful connections. Living away from my family, I finally had the space to be myself, unrestricted and unapologetic.

Navigating my newfound freedom in the bustling new city was liberating, yet it brought with it the inevitable reality of healthcare responsibilities. Surprisingly, I had a period without the pills. But it would not stop! A week passed and then two weeks. I kept bleeding. I kept cramping. As much as I wanted to avoid it, the need for a gynaecologist visit loomed large. This time, I had money. I felt almost empowered, thinking I could choose the best gynaecologist in the city. Surely, the best wouldn’t give me an awful time because they’re the best. Would they?

So I turned into Feluda, on a mission to find The One. Not a soulmate—been there, done that—but a gynaecologist. I interrogated everyone I could—my HR manager to my ex’s ex’s Kannadiga aunt to my landlord’s chatty parrot. If they had a pulse (or a wagging tail or squawks), they were on my list of potential informants in the great hunt for The One. I scoured Google and WhatsApp groups and cross-referenced all the recommendations, compiling a shortlist of the most promising doctors. Finally, I zeroed in on one name: Dr. Rajni Reddy. She had it all—Experience? Check. Seniority? Check. Rave reviews on Google and Practo? Double-check. She was the crème de la crème, the MVP of gynecology. I mean, if finding a good gynaecologist was like searching for the perfect dress for your sister’s bachelorette, Dr Rajni Reddy would be that cute little black dress– with pockets!

She would be great, right? She was the best. This had to be fine.

On the day of the appointment, I had taken the second half of the day off for the clinic visit. When I told the HR manager I needed the day off to go to the doctor for PCOS symptoms, the nice-meaning lady told me all I needed was Yoga and added me to a WhatsApp group named Sanatana Ladies Yoga. As I booked a Rapido bike to the clinic, Bangalore's Outer Ring Road dust clung to me like an old, unwelcome friend, coating my skin and clothes as I navigated the god-awful traffic. The cacophony of car horns and street vendors faded into the background, replaced by the sterile silence of the waiting room.

I walked into the clinic with a mix of apprehension and determination—I was finally taking my health matters into my own hands. This time, I wouldn’t run away.

The waiting room was a patchwork quilt of life stages and decisions. There were the ones proudly cradling their baby bumps. The wannabe-parents, clutching fertility brochures like lottery tickets. The not-so-ready ones, tapping their feet nervously, headphones in to drown out the relentless march of societal expectations.

In one corner, seasoned pros shared war stories of labour and delivery, while a couple nodded sympathetically, silently vowing never to go through that again. A young couple sat wide-eyed, still processing how ‘Netflix and chill’ turned into an expensive lifelong subscription to parenthood.

And then there was me, charting a course through a sea of unruly hormones. I was the square peg in this round-holed room, trying to fit into a conversation that wasn’t designed for someone like me. I sat there, flipping through a magazine from three years ago, wondering if the article on ‘10 Ways to Please Your Man’ had become any less irrelevant with age.

My fingers fidgeted with the edge of my phone case, a stimming behaviour I couldn't shake. My mind kept drifting back to the clock; I had been counting down the minutes all morning, unable to focus on work.

“Ai-in...” the receptionist stammered as she struggled to pronounce my name, her voice piercing my anxious reverie. “Aindriya? Yes, that's me,” I replied, my voice steadier than I felt. I took a deep breath and followed her into the consultation room, where Dr. Rajini greeted me with a perfunctory nod.

My heart raced as I sat down, my palms slick with sweat. The clinical smell of antiseptic and the hum of the air conditioner only heightened my anxiety. I clasped my hands together to keep them from shaking, reminding myself that I was here to take control, to face this head-on.

"Please, have a seat," she said, her tone professional but detached. I settled into the chair, my mind already racing with possible questions and responses. cq

"Are you married?" she asked, pen poised over her clipboard.

“No,” I replied, confused as to why my doctor would need that piece of information.

"Do you have a boyfriend?" she probed further, her eyes flicking up to gauge my reaction.

"No," I said again, feeling the familiar tension coil in my chest. My autistic brain, ever literal, demanded clarification: Why did that matter biologically? Did my diagnosis and treatment change based on my having a boyfriend? “Let me just mask my confusion and move on. But what if I just say "no" or answer incorrectly, and get the wrong treatment?” I decided to persist and make sure.

“Oh wait, is this about sex? Why can’t she just ask that? She is a professional after all! Does being married accurately correlate with having sex? What if I was just hooking up? This question implied that sex was only had after marriage or with an ‘official’ partner of the opposite gender. Where do we the polyamorous queer people even fit in this strict and narrow equation?”

My mind spun, struggling to navigate the social nuances that others seemed to handle with ease. The questions felt like a test with no clear answers, each one a trapdoor that could lead to misunderstanding or inadequate care. My autistic brain craved precision and clarity, yet here I was, grappling with ambiguity in a space that should be safe and clear, a space the Google reviews promised would be great with these matters.

"Do you mean if I'm sexually active?" I asked, hoping to cut through the confusion.

Her relief was palpable. "Yes!" she exclaimed, smiling awkwardly as if a puzzle piece had clicked into place.

But I was still confused. Did that refer to penetrative sex? What if it was homosexual? I was pansexual and demisexual, and I was a slut for holding hands and cuddling and sharing books with notes written on my favourite pages– sex that often didn’t have to be penetrative. Was only heterosexual penetrative sex considered sex? What if I used a nice and sparkly rainbow-coloured strap-on? Was it only penetration if the tool was made of flesh and blood? The best gynaecologist and sexologist in the city, Dr Rajini, didn’t seem to count my kind of sex as sex at all. My thumb rubbed the edge of my phone case repeatedly under the table.

“Are you referring to heterosexual penetrative sex?" I ventured, my voice tinged with hesitation but also retort, exhausted with my expectations being broken by oh-so-perfect, the best Dr Rajini.

She paused, her pen frozen mid-air. "Yes," she stuttered, but the hesitation was mutual, and for a moment, I saw a flicker of realization cross her face. It was a small victory, but a victory nonetheless. I had challenged the norm and asserted my identity in a space that often felt unwelcoming.

“Yes, yes, that is a part of it.” I replied, half awkward, half relieved.

She prescribed some supplements, asked for some tests, and of course referred me to a dietician– the best in the city.

The sun dipped low, painting the sky in shades of pink, purple, and blue borrowed from the bi-flag as I stepped out of the clinic. I decided to walk up to the bus stop. The streets of Bangalore were alive with the hum of the evening rush, the air thick with the scent of street food and exhaust fumes. I walked, the weight of the day heavy on my shoulders, the encounter with Dr. Rajini replaying in my mind.

It was supposed to be just a simple check-up visit. But nothing is ever simple when you don't fit the mold. The questions started off innocuously enough, but with each one, I felt more like an exhibit than a patient. Married? Boyfriend? The words hung in the air, unspoken assumptions about who I should be, what my life should look like.

I wanted to scream that there's more to me than a checkbox on a form. I'm queer and neurodivergent—labels that don't fit neatly into her world of wives and husbands and girlfriends and boyfriends. But I didn’t hold my tongue to give the answers that would get me through the appointment with the least amount of friction like I always did. That day, I had mustered the courage to ask questions. The questions were personal, yes, but they were also a gateway to understanding, breaking down assumptions, to making my presence known.

As I walked, the city's cacophony faded into the background, replaced by a quieter, more insistent voice—that of my own conscience. This wasn't about just me. It was about all of us who've ever felt out of place in a doctor's office, who've ever been reduced to a stereotype– whose bodies betrayed them as much as society did.

The clinic visit was a microcosm of a larger issue, a reflection of the barriers faced by marginalized communities in accessing healthcare. It was a reminder that empathy and understanding are not just niceties, but necessities.

The encounter made me reflect on the complexities and challenges faced by people like us within medical settings, where our identities are invisibilised and stripped of intersectional nuances. Where accessing reproductive healthcare for even cishet women is shrouded in taboo to an extent that even gynaecologists who are supposed professionals can't ask a simple medically necessary fact, what does the experience for a nonbinary AFAB demi-sexual pansexual person with autism and ADHD look like?

On my way home, I stopped at a street vendor selling fresh flowers. I chose a bunch of sunflowers, their stems wrapped in brown crinkling paper. As I continued my walk, the vibrant yellow flowers in my hand, I felt lighter. With each step, I felt a resolve forming.

As the last light of day gave way to the twinkling of street lamps, I reached home and arranged the sunflowers in a vase in front of my mirror. As I stood in front of the mirror, the reflection of the sunflowers mingled with mine and a gentle smile laced my lips. Our stories, our experiences—they have power. They could challenge perceptions, spark conversations, and maybe even inspire change.

So I sat down at my desk to write my story, to use that power. The soft glow of my lamp illuminated the blank page before me. I found myself swaying back and forth on my chair, an autistic act of comfort and focus. I imagined a world where healthcare was truly inclusive, where every person was seen and heard for who they were. A world where questions were asked with empathy and with a true desire to understand. A world where people like me could walk into a doctor's office without fear. I hold on to that glimmer of hope for a world like this, and maybe, just maybe, that world isn’t so far away.