Watta day at office to leave behind the footprints on the
sands of time- wait, why am I quoting H. W. Longfellow’s ‘A Psalm of Life’? It
was one of my most adored poetry pieces of the Std. 9th syllabus.
Anyway, my attempt at sarcasm is quite often ear-bleeding, I’m told. I quite
agree.
So, I’m at this café asking my best friend the potential names for babies and exchanging vigilant glances across the adjacent table only to deduce the girl’s trying too hard to please the guy- they’re on a Tinder date, my James Bond spirit shimmers in pride. Man, I really got to not divert away to stupid stuff during headaches- therefore Facebook login. There you go- another peer getting engaged, shoot! Fake saree candid, uh huh. Road trip pictures, wow. ‘Karni Sena to protest against Sanjay Leela Bhansali’s next musical he’s working on’ – I predict well, haha. A man posing with a Pad, a woman too, more than two people in fact- Scroll down. Scroll up. Pause. What?
I clearly remember being in Std 7th when Mom was speaking with my Bua over the phone with Dad ironing his shirt. With the Chemistry book in hand, I saw her sigh an anticipative ‘She is yet to grow old’ and Dad frantically rubbed my back. About a week later, I return home midday crying my lungs out that my Wednesday sports skirt has blood stains. And that the school reception gave me a rectangular object to place under my underwear. But there was blood still. Maa checked, told me I had placed it on the wrong side, got me all cleaned up, fed lunch and put me to sleep. Oh, I had slept like a baby that day- for a straight 14 hours. I woke up only to find the bed stained. Maa placed the similar rectangular object on my hand, gave directions about placing it on the right side and asked me to call it a Pad.
Oh that time! I was among the selected unluckiest lot who had the most torturous five days of a month. The first day of the period meant a guaranteed vomit sessions, followed by a ten minute serious unconsciousness. It sailed into a feeling of broken back and soaring temperature through the second and third day and comparatively better through the remaining two. The time, however, genuinely promised royalty. No making the bed, no doing the dishes, no going to sports, no disturbance in sleep- Dad would massage my feet every time he was home. I generally felt good except for these times when my grandparents visited us and grandmother would discuss with Dad that being born a girl is such a pain. I was not allowed to join them for temple visits and was even asked to skip homework. There would be hush hush talks about that time of the month where it’s fair for me to appear dull and lost. I found it convenient.
That sort of got me to use the period as an excuse through school and early days of college. I had huge respect for people who gave me space when I would tell them about my ill health. They supported me acting special about it. I think I met a pilot who was invited to college for a session. While I showed her the rest room to change around, she mentioned she’s not well. Assuming it would be that time of the month, I expressed my genuine sympathy as to how brave of her to have made this. I swear, I had never felt that guilty before- she was shocked with my calling a normal, natural occurrence special. Her words still ring in- “As women, we already have a lot of challenges to convert to privileges. If we’re the ones to demean what goes into our making, we cannot expect the world to believe otherwise.” Something changed within that day.
It’s been 6 years I’m away from home. A total of 11 years, 2 months and 5 days of period pain encountered already- if I make it past 50, there’s still 26 more years to go before I hit menopause- might as well make peace with the system! I don’t say there’s a time when I look forward to welcoming them with open arms but we’ve kind of reached a settlement wherein we’re normal about it. There’s pain, cravings, cramps and acceptance. By now, I’ve travelled, worked, shopped, sweated out, and performed - all my schedules have check-boxed with the period schedule. Acceptance.
So, I’m at this café asking my best friend the potential names for babies and exchanging vigilant glances across the adjacent table only to deduce the girl’s trying too hard to please the guy- they’re on a Tinder date, my James Bond spirit shimmers in pride. Man, I really got to not divert away to stupid stuff during headaches- therefore Facebook login. There you go- another peer getting engaged, shoot! Fake saree candid, uh huh. Road trip pictures, wow. ‘Karni Sena to protest against Sanjay Leela Bhansali’s next musical he’s working on’ – I predict well, haha. A man posing with a Pad, a woman too, more than two people in fact- Scroll down. Scroll up. Pause. What?
I clearly remember being in Std 7th when Mom was speaking with my Bua over the phone with Dad ironing his shirt. With the Chemistry book in hand, I saw her sigh an anticipative ‘She is yet to grow old’ and Dad frantically rubbed my back. About a week later, I return home midday crying my lungs out that my Wednesday sports skirt has blood stains. And that the school reception gave me a rectangular object to place under my underwear. But there was blood still. Maa checked, told me I had placed it on the wrong side, got me all cleaned up, fed lunch and put me to sleep. Oh, I had slept like a baby that day- for a straight 14 hours. I woke up only to find the bed stained. Maa placed the similar rectangular object on my hand, gave directions about placing it on the right side and asked me to call it a Pad.
Oh that time! I was among the selected unluckiest lot who had the most torturous five days of a month. The first day of the period meant a guaranteed vomit sessions, followed by a ten minute serious unconsciousness. It sailed into a feeling of broken back and soaring temperature through the second and third day and comparatively better through the remaining two. The time, however, genuinely promised royalty. No making the bed, no doing the dishes, no going to sports, no disturbance in sleep- Dad would massage my feet every time he was home. I generally felt good except for these times when my grandparents visited us and grandmother would discuss with Dad that being born a girl is such a pain. I was not allowed to join them for temple visits and was even asked to skip homework. There would be hush hush talks about that time of the month where it’s fair for me to appear dull and lost. I found it convenient.
That sort of got me to use the period as an excuse through school and early days of college. I had huge respect for people who gave me space when I would tell them about my ill health. They supported me acting special about it. I think I met a pilot who was invited to college for a session. While I showed her the rest room to change around, she mentioned she’s not well. Assuming it would be that time of the month, I expressed my genuine sympathy as to how brave of her to have made this. I swear, I had never felt that guilty before- she was shocked with my calling a normal, natural occurrence special. Her words still ring in- “As women, we already have a lot of challenges to convert to privileges. If we’re the ones to demean what goes into our making, we cannot expect the world to believe otherwise.” Something changed within that day.
It’s been 6 years I’m away from home. A total of 11 years, 2 months and 5 days of period pain encountered already- if I make it past 50, there’s still 26 more years to go before I hit menopause- might as well make peace with the system! I don’t say there’s a time when I look forward to welcoming them with open arms but we’ve kind of reached a settlement wherein we’re normal about it. There’s pain, cravings, cramps and acceptance. By now, I’ve travelled, worked, shopped, sweated out, and performed - all my schedules have check-boxed with the period schedule. Acceptance.
Except for the medical stores who would still go for a layer of newspaper wrapping followed by a black polybag before they’d handover pads with the looks of a scared drug dealer, except for the religious heads who wouldn’t suggest you being a part of some holy ritual because your impurities would dampen their already blackened spirits into darker holes, except for the ladies and gents who would shush you when you exclaim you’re on your third day of periods- it is supremely uncomforting to hear you talk about your problem that vocal and public, what has this generation turned into, a fanatic modernity?- all acceptance except these.
Arunachalam Muruganantham’s a hero. I must confess I love him for his sense of humor and simplicity. While the world gets to live the story of our real ‘Padman’ in the Akshay Kumar starrer on Feb 9th, I’m already swooning over a dialogue from the trailer which goes something like “I never study IIT, IIT study me now.” This guy’s making lives brighter- I take to the context of #Padman challenge where he asks people to pose with pads, reigning the spirits of how they’re not ashamed to hold one in their hands.
This isn’t a publicity #metoo stunt. It feels accomplished to see celebrities holding pads, men not shying away from standing by the spirit of normal womanhood, women steering it calm and clear in a similar fashion- Oh My! The last few days have been a treat to the eyes to watch this easy breezy wave of acceptance.
Oh, there’s of course miles to go- We got to reduce the usage of plastic and promote menstrual caps. But all new beginnings deserve applauds. I wish I was at home to pose with Maa and Papa holding sanitary pads along with me but work commitments…Since my sister’s going to be a doctor anyway, it would just be redundant of her promoting the PADMAN spirit.
Therefore, I come back home to wake my flatmate up to click me with a pad only to find the pictures coming bad. We tried a few angles and then decided I cannot be looking so dull (read cough and cold) with a pad in my hand. I shall go without one for now, sigh!
Now, before this sweet wave of kind gesture rubs across into “I’m holding a Pad and I support period, and the existence of women, and their right to live….and blah blah blah”, I take to my happy little victory dance because this right here, right now is Feminism in place. No shrieks, no hues- we’re happy in the company of our period being accepted. Period.
It’s 2 AM and I’ll sleep blessing Muruganantham again. And Twinkle Khanna for bringing the story to us. And my best friend who’ll hopefully take me for a whistle-filled Padman watch on Feb 9th!
Wake up bright, dear world!
"Period being accepted. Period." No puns intended. I'll take a picture of us with one because this wave must not just be 'periodic' and fizzle out just like the 5 days of the month do. Until next time.
ReplyDeleteYou look beautiful in the Google picture here! :)
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