The call on the abortionist’s new cell had come today at a most inappropriate time—right in the middle of her granddaughter's puberty function. To hear that particular ringtone go off during such an auspicious event was nothing short of embarrassing.
But she had to admit that the contraption itself was useful. It made her more accessible and brought in business she would have otherwise missed while away on assignments. She was still grappling with all the cell's functions, but at least she knew how to answer calls and how to keep the phone charged. All that remained was to learn to use the radio. And learn to change the ringtone. Her grandson would have a lot to answer for when she returned home from work that evening.
She hoped that, just like the cell, the arrival of an apprentice would also usher in more business. Just yesterday, her niece from the city had expressed a keenness to earn a living in the business of taking lives. The abortionist had been surprised that, in this day and age, somebody actually wanted to learn this skill. It was also news to her that there was demand for people like her in the city. It would be a whole new market. She could send supplies to her niece every week with the help of her neighbour who drove a lorry.
But she was not sure the girl was up to the task. As someone who had grown up in the city, she would not have the stomach for getting the job done by any means necessary. The abortionist believed that in her line of work one could not afford to have qualms. Her mother had been an abortionist and, when the situation had demanded it, she had taken over.
This story is from the April - June 2020 edition of The Indian Quarterly.
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This story is from the April - June 2020 edition of The Indian Quarterly.
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