Stay Free—All Night [XL]

I’m five and I see

A little white pocket with doodles of wings.

I ask mum what it is.

She tells me too quickly, “It is to keep the bathroom clean.”

 

 

It is Grade 3, and mum picks me up early.

"Grandmother is sick”, the leave note reads.

I ask mum what’s wrong,

But she looks away the whole way back home.

Hurries me to the bathroom, hands me a Whisper

Stuck awkwardly to my bloomers,

And whispers that I’m different, a big girl now

And I’ll have to wear this every month.

I don’t get it. I ask her out loud,

“Why, what’s happening?”

And she smacks my cheek.

“Don’t advertise, stupid! Just do as you’re told!”

My perfectly healthy grandma pokes her head in,

And mum smiles, “Nah, all good, she’s just feverish.”

Someday, I’ll get that the secrecy is so that

My period doesn’t become the headline of my hometown.

 

Different. It haunts me everywhere I go.

When my friends are playing volleyball,

Mum and I shop for training bras.

I bet the other girls in my class don’t wear pads yet.

Such embarrassing words. Bra. Pads.

I can’t say them out loud.

Yet I wear them.

I don’t know what’s up with me.

But mum won’t tell me.

So I just do as I’m told.

 

In the summer holidays, we go to a temple.

I wear a dark blue kurta:

The front’s a little loose so I keep pulling it down from behind.

My stomach feels queasy.

As the crowds jostle for position inside

The darkness in the House of God,

I’m shoved away from my parents

And a man who I’ve never seen before

Shoves one hand between my legs

And the other grabs my breasts.

I’m

Paralyzed.

But mercifully, sunlight comes in fast

And the crowd scatters like sugar in a water bowl.

So does that horrible man.

Until I see him walking in the distance.

If you didn’t know what he did just now,

You’d think he was any other man

Just walking down the street.

He just walks down the street

No remorse.

My lips are sealed tight.

I will never wear a kurta again.

 

 

Grade 4.

I’ve gained weight.

I’ve grown taller.

My waist is fuller.

My breasts are rounder.

In the costume room for the Annual Day,

I take my shirt off in front of the teachers.

Their eyes are zeroed in on my chest.

And the talks of dresses and measurements

Turns into an interrogation of whether I wear a pad

And what my mother’s told me about this all.

I squirm, look frantically at the other girls and think,

“Oh no, my secret’s out.”

 

Turns out school’s not the only place where it’s out.

My hometown knows now.

I don’t sit for puja when I’m on my period.

My aunt looks at me strangely while she combs my hair:

There’s an interrogation of how my body feels,

How my dresses are tighter, how my hips are wider—

And oh God I just wish they would stop!

But it goes on. And on. And on.

 

 

Grade 5, and oh all my years of confusion have come to a glorious end!

Today, there was a gender sensitisation session at school.

And I finally, finally came to know why I’m different.

Turns out I’m not different after all.

All girls bleed from there after a certain age.

So, it’s basically because the body makes a crib

Without knowing whether a baby’s gonna come or no

And then just throws it away when there’s no baby.

 

It feels cool to know.

It feels gross to know.

I’m relieved that I’m not alone.

And maybe a little bummed that I’m not “special”.

Mum didn’t have to make such a fuss about this.

 

The session’s over and my friend loudly announces

That she’s been having her period for some months now.

I’m half-inclined to slap a hand over her mouth.

But some days later, there’s a leak on my chair,

Little red smudges that make me aghast.

Desperate, I turn to her. She gives me a pad and a smile.

I tell her that I’ve been having my periods since I was 9.

A weight taken off my chest, her sealed lips.

Sharing secrets isn’t so bad, after all.

 

 

Grade 6, and what goes around comes around.

Who knew an act of goodness came in the shape of a pad?

For when I see a leak on my friend’s chair,

I give her a pad and a thumbs up.

She has my back, I have hers.

I feel warm inside.

 

 

It is Grade 7 and boy, I thought I knew everything about this!

But no. Apparently, there’s not only the no-puja-in-period thing.

There’s also a no-pickles-in-period thing.

There’s a no-looking-at-boys-or-you’ll-become-pregnant thing.

There’s a no-going-to-kitchen thing, which turns into a no-entering-the-house thing in some families.

This is so unnecessary!

Ridiculous.

Humiliating.

Outrageous.

But overpowering the rage, at that moment, is the laughter bubbling from the mouths of

My friends and I,

Our eyes trained over a book titled Science, Class Eighth by NCERT.

Page 122, Myths and Taboos about Menstruation.

 

Too bad, we city-girls don’t have an inkling that

In my hometown

Girls my age would be chastened about

All the things we laughed off just now.

 

 

Grade 8, and they talk of periods like they talk of the weather.

Nearly everyone has their period by now.

You’re different if you don’t wear pads or bras.

Or padded bras, like some girls in my class.

Oh, how the times change.

I feel a pang of jealousy for everyone at the lunch table.

Look at them talking about their pimples and period cramps.

I had no one to talk to when I first started getting mine.

But I nod on and pitch in my two cents,

Because nothing feels better than finally fitting in.

 

…Not for long, sadly.

 

It’s the end of 8th Grade, and I’m boarding a train.

I wear a loose navy blue shirt

Full sleeved, the line of buttons up till my neck.

My chest looks fabulously flat,

And I breathe easy.

As the crowds jostle for position inside

The coach of a train that’s just arrived,

I’m shoved into the hands of 

A man I’ve never seen before,

Who grabs my boobs like you’d grab a handle.

And my corporal confidence melts away

As breath into the wind.

The seconds tick loudly.

This can’t be happening a second time—

I was just pushed too roughly towards him, right?

His hand must have just landed there.

But his fingers linger a little too long

My hand reaches out to slap off his wrist

But my mum is quicker; she slaps him hard.

There’s a hue and cry in the train, 

But it’s a dull throb in the background

Compared to my bright, naked realisation:

Nothing I wear will restrain their unbridled lust.

 

 

9th Grade.

I stand in front of the mirror,

Wearing a light pink kurta by choice.

I smile, and take a selfie.

 

I stand in front of the mirror,

Wearing a black tank top by choice.

I glance at my tits and face and hair

And blush, because I look cute.

Someday, I’ll have the guts to wear it outside.

But for now, it’s just me and my mirror—

And we’re happy.

 

Talking about it has helped.

I’ve had conversations with parents and friends

And strangers on the Internet,

And my heart is steadier.

When the doctor asks me to take off my shirt for the shot

My heart freezes when her hand’s on my shoulder,

But it starts again, whining like a old car engine

And it’s okay. 

Someday I’ll be able to kiss and touch people

Without a shred of those people on my mind,

But for now,

Getting by is okay.

 

It is funny, how, in my house, 

Periods have always been that-what-must-not-be-named.

We never say the word aloud.

Whispering doesn’t count.

Hushed gestures don’t count.

Code words don’t count.

But today is Day 2 and dad asks me to jog with him

So I take a leap of faith and say out loud:

“I’m not coming, I’m on my period right now.”

And, wow, no angry period gods showed up at my door!

No, really, it is freeing.

 

If you still think “aw periods, such a big thing, must hide it”

Then you’re a fool.

Seriously, you are a fool.

Speaking from experience, bro.

 

 

10th Grade—

And my point is

It’s so ironic how we whisper “Stay Free—All Night” to the druggist;

It’s so wrong that a little white pocket with doodles of wings

Is something that chains us down.

It’s high time that we cast aside the veil shrouding bodies.

You know, since we all have one.

 

Dear parents, teachers and elders,

Teach young people that their bodies aren’t something they must hide;

Show them the pupa is as beautiful as the emergent butterfly.

Tell them about periods and boners and dysphoria and body hair.

Despite the pimples and dorkiness, you must believe they’re fair.

Because for all that toughness on the surface, deep down, they’re a child—

They need indulgence from time to time, it’s just their hormones that are wild.

Open up about sex, and how asking for consent is hot and A PREREQUISITE

And make sure they know that looking hot is NEVER “asking for it”.

Hammer that nail on the head and make sure you get it right,

Because avoiding The Talk will make them learn from nc porn websites.

Preach the message of acceptance to everyone, young and old—

So no other girl will have to “just do as she’s told”

Ever again.

 

Photo by cottonbro from Pexels