I spent the last eleven years of my life outside of my hometown. There was this one time that I did decide to visit, but Aunty Flow decided to accompany me. Well, no thank you. Oh, but I don’t have a choice, do I? Over the years, I have come to not loathe my periods. Well, as much as one can, anyway. As soon as my flight landed at the airport though, a reminiscent dread started creeping over my body. I started panicking. Emotions aren’t my best friends during my ‘time of the month’ or anytime, really. But that’s a different issue.

I couldn’t recall all the gazillion rules that I was supposed to abide by while I was on my period in that house. Not to walk in front of the tiny temple we have at home. Not to touch anything in the kitchen. And, what? With every stair I climbed, another rule would pop up in my head. Don’t touch the water container. Don’t touch the jars and jars of namkeen set on the table for everyone to eat whenever they please. Except a bleeding, extra-hungry me of course. That’s when I saw the chair. The red plastic chair, sitting silently by the side of the comfortable sofas in the drawing room. Silently judging me and punishing me, for being a woman.

In this house, when Aunty Flow visits you, you aren’t allowed to sit on the sofas. Or the normal and soft dining room chairs.[inlinetweet prefix=”” tweeter=”” suffix=””] There is a special chair in the house for you to sit on – the Chair of Shame.[/inlinetweet] Shame, that you are bleeding. Shame, that you are a woman. Shame, shame, shame. The scene called Walk Of Shame from Game of Thrones started playing in my head. I looked at my mother and made a face. She made a face and pointed to the chair. I sighed and took my seat. On the cold, plastic chair. Was it red on purpose? I’d never gotten an answer to that question. Once we moved to the other city, I never bothered. There was no red chair there.

The crazy lady is waving a bell behind me, chanting. Shame.

This is my grandmother’s kitchen. I can smell the gulab jamun and the gajjar ka halwa enticing me into the kitchen when I go to fetch a bottle of water filled for myself. The halwa is burning a little. Out of habit, I raise my hand to stir the pot, and stop. You can’t touch this. 

Can’t touch this. Na-nanana-nana-nana. Can’t touch this. Oh-Oh Oh Oh-Oh-Oh. 

The song played in my head for the rest of the day. MC Hammer, you devil.

[inlinetweet prefix=”” tweeter=”null” suffix=”null”]For some reason, after the fourth day of your periods, you aren’t the subject of shame.[/inlinetweet] You can just wash your hair and seat your free(er) bottom on the comfy sofas and eat the gulab jamuns you have served for yourself. I never understood why. I had asked, when I was younger. I didn’t understand the reasons then and I don’t remember the answers now. I still can’t go to the temple, though. So strange. There is too much happening for me to start asking questions in this instant. So I am not going to bother mum with my questions. Not now, anyway.

So the very next day, I was a welcome member once again. I ate as much as I wanted, whenever I wanted. I filled three bottles of water just for the heck of it. Then I was about to go sit in the balcony when I noticed that the temple doors were open. I sighed and just changed my course, thanking God in my head for the wonder that is a ‘Transferable Job’.

This isn’t the case just at my house; many of my friends have similar rules enforced on them during their periods and that too, by the elder female members of the house. What confounds me is that they themselves have been through this. Periods aren’t exactly a cake walk. They’re uncomfortable, painful and not particularly fun, now, are they? On top of that, one has to deal with more irrational rules and restrictions. Why? Is there an objective argument in favour of this? Times have changed since these rules were made. There is no scarcity of personal hygiene products and yet, menstruation is considered filthy and foul. Why does a normal, natural, healthy occurrence make me, my touch or my presence noxious?

[inlinetweet prefix=”” tweeter=”” suffix=””]When we lived in a hostel, we gave anyone on their period a free pass.[/inlinetweet] We used to get them whatever they wanted to eat, let them watch whatever they wanted to watch and just let them be comfortable. Just relax and take care of the blood flow and the cramps. I remember the numerous lasagnas I ate while sitting on my bed, watching F.R.I.E.N.D.S. Oh and the numerous chocolates I would get for my friends whenever they asked. Why should home have to be so much scarier and so much more annoying for a menstruating woman?

When I am home (the real home home), guess what, there are not-so-dear, random, unreasonable and inconvenient rules.

Can’t touch this. Na-nanana-nana-nana. 

kavya_thumbAuthor: KaeJae

KaeJae is a 21 year old who has grown up in a lot of different cities across India, and fallen in love with all of them. She is passionate about words, and the emotions that lie underneath them- her own and those of others. She blogs here.

 Edited by – Divya Rosaline

Illustration by Brian Harvey.

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