I need to run, I need to hide,
But where, I couldn’t define it for a while.
It all started with a flow of red colour in my white panties,
Thinking and blaming: what have I done wrong?
I was using newspapers to hide my little red blood secret,
But soon my mother discovered, seeing piles of my undies in my closet.
I thought now I am relieved as my mother will handle everything from here,
But rather she issued me a list of Do’s and Don’ts.
I was shocked and miserable when she said:“no more pickles,”
And, “for at least five days you need to be on your couch.”
Every Sunday morning my visit to the temple got cancelled,
With my family members, faces of unknown relatives succeeded in throwing me gazes of disgust.
I was hating myself, thinking it is just a phase,
But me being part of a period scandal was never-ending.
My childhood was taken and banned,
In the name of periods, my innocence was brutally tarnished.
Later, I realised I am not alone in the act of vaginal bleeding,
Every other girl is a part of socially acclaimed cyclical Disorder.
And what a coincidence, like me they were highly trained not to wear white, to rest for a while and not to eat sour,
Otherwise, they said, you will get IMPURE.
Poet: Astha Naval