Chapter 1: Egg Retrieval and Accusations

Not long after the procedure began, the doctor rushed out of the OT and confronted me. Her voice was sharp but low, glancing around to make sure no one else was listening: “You knew today was her procedure—how could you let this happen last night?”

Her words slammed into me, and for a second, all I could do was stare at the hospital’s wall clock, the second hand ticking away as if time itself was judging me. I fumbled in my pocket for my handkerchief, wiping my forehead as the faint smell of Dettol mingled with the distant aroma of samosas from the canteen. My shirt’s collar still held the lingering scent of last evening’s talcum. The background hum of the hospital—nurses in crisp uniforms, a monitor’s beep—faded into silence. My heart thudded. Amma’s voice echoed in my mind, “Beta, keep your head when trouble comes.”

I was stunned, rooted to the spot as the seconds dragged by, the doctor’s accusation echoing in my head. My eyes flickered to the wall clock again, feeling as if even the painted numbers were pointing at me.

Because my wife was undergoing IVF, we hadn’t been intimate for over five months. The restraint was its own kind of ache. In an Indian marriage, where so much is unsaid, distance grows quietly—simmering under the morning poha or when watching the news with my father-in-law. Every morning, as she handed me my tiffin, her fingers brushed mine—just for a second, but it was enough to remind me of all we were missing. We’d become experts at silent apologies and stolen glances instead of touches.

It was like a bolt from the blue. My thoughts tangled like a Mumbai traffic jam. My legs weakened, as if I’d sprinted up the stairs to catch a Western Express local. My mouth went dry, and even the sounds of bustling ayahs and distant wails from paediatric OPD faded. Was I really being accused of risking my wife’s health for a night of pleasure—today, of all days?

The doctor was about to head back to the OT, but I couldn’t let it go. “I didn’t…” I called after her, my voice cracking.

She stopped, irritation flashing in her eyes. “Arre, just because you say you didn’t, does that make it true?” Her tone was like a strict school principal—one who’d made you stand outside for talking too much. I felt smaller, defensive, as if she’d already decided I was just another careless husband.

She continued, voice lower, “Day before yesterday, a patient hid her fever. On the OT table, she had breathing trouble and landed in the ICU. She’s still there, yaar.”

The word ICU made my chest clench. In India, everyone knows how heavy that word is. I pictured families clutching their faith, waiting outside frosted glass doors, the world turned upside down by a single mistake.

“We go by facts, beta. I’ve seen too many families hiding things.”

She was a woman, this OT doctor. Maybe she’d seen too many men vanish when things got tough, turning up only to sign forms, never understanding what their wives endured. Maybe she thought I was the same—shrugging off responsibility, leaving my wife to face it alone.

I swallowed, forcing myself to stand tall. “I’m a doctor too. During ovarian stimulation for IVF, women are strictly told to avoid intercourse. I do know that much.”

My voice softened, almost pleading for professional courtesy. In India, even among doctors, you have to state your credentials twice—once for respect, and again so they take you seriously. I hoped she’d listen now.

“Can you tell me, how did you determine my wife had sex last night?”

She looked at me, tone gentler. “During today’s ultrasound-guided egg retrieval, we found all the patient’s follicles had already ovulated prematurely.”

Seeing my confusion, she lowered her voice, the way you do in a Mumbai hospital when explaining something difficult—still tense, but not so sharp. “Yes, not a single one could be retrieved.”

A couple going through IVF faces five hurdles, slays six demons—tests, injections, retrieval, transfer, waiting… Each setback is a private wound, suffered behind closed doors, with even friends kept at arm’s length. We’d done it all: lighting agarbattis, following every doctor’s note. I never thought we’d fail at this stage.

But even as a doctor, regret hit me hard. I knew there were other reasons for premature ovulation—exercise, a bumpy rickshaw ride, stress. In India, everyone has an opinion: “Don’t lift heavy, don’t eat papaya, avoid stairs.” There were so many possibilities. I clung to the hope it was anything but what the doctor suspected.

I voiced my doubts, quietly.

The doctor looked at me, her sympathy obvious. “Then let me be direct, beta—your wife’s vaginal wall and cervix were swollen and congested, with minor bleeding and some epithelial shedding. She received the trigger injection at the right time, so that shouldn’t have caused premature ovulation. Taking all this into account, we suspect she didn’t follow medical advice.”

Her eyes softened. “Of course, it’s just a suspicion. For specifics, you’ll have to ask your wife.” She hesitated before leaving, as if she didn’t want to sow more doubt, but had no choice. The moment lingered, heavy as monsoon clouds.