Like every other woman crammed into the waiting-room couches at the infertility clinic, I was desperate to conceive a child. Trying to become pregnant through artificial means had consumed my emotional and physical energy for over three years. Every time a heavily pregnant woman, often with another child in tow, trudged past, some of us looked up from our magazines, unable to conceal our pure, unadulterated envy. Others made a brave show of continuing to read.

We carefully avoided staring at infertility patients exiting the consultation room, especially if they were dabbing at teary eyes. After all, we might be next to be told that all the injections, medications, hospital stays, endless commutes, missed workdays, mental anguish and money spent this month had, alas, once again failed to produce the longed-for kodakara (treasure child).

There was no conversation in the stony silence of the waiting room. Each woman created a small, protective shell around herself and was a practiced master of gaman (silent forbearance). American and chatty by nature, I wanted to hear others' experiences and to share mine. The only foreigner present, I kept my mouth shut, not wanting to embarrass anyone, including myself.