Being the youngest in my family of four, I was the gofer, who everybody would turn to, for everything — from getting provisions from the nearby convenience store to directing guests from a busy roundabout, some 500 meters away from home.
It was in 1995, that I was introduced to a rather abysmal practice. Carrying an all-elusive black polythene from home. Such was its rarity, it would come out on only two occasions; one, on Sunday mornings, when Mutton HAD to be on the menu. The tradition, subsequently, blurred a little — thanks to Mr. Narasimha Rao — it now featured on the menu from Friday till Sunday.
The only other time it graced its presence was when Joslyn, my sister, would invariably cry — out of no real reason. At that point, I was promptly handed a high-density black polythene bag and asked to make a trip to the convenience store. No explanation — or money — on what I was supposed to buy.
Esmeralda, my mum, never said a word. The black polybag was it — a language. A sign.
Upon reaching the store, the sorcery further unraveled. Murari, the shop owner, who otherwise would smile upon seeing new business coming his way, this time promptly asked for the black polybag; went inside, wrapped something up, and sent me away. No pleasantries. Being an eight-year-old (then), I found this engagement really strange.
The packet opened, at some point, and would lay bare on Jos’ study.
It was a S-A-N-I-T-A-R-Y N-A-P-K-I-N.
At least, that’s what it said on the cover.
Of course, I didn’t know what that was for. But, it was good to finally know why the black polythene would make its way out of Esmeralda’s corner cabinet — filled with a farrago of plastics, medicines, needles, and crochet hooks.
Often, one would see ads on the television on these sanitary napkins. One where a lady would test these napkins with a blue coloured liquid, and it magically turned into gel. And I, an inquisitive kid, would wonder why Jos needed this blue gel to make her happy. At one point, when she cried, I bought her blue gel candies too — hoping it would make her smile. It made her laugh through the pain. In fact, it made the whole family laugh. I had succeeded in my mission.
It was only after my sex-ed class in grade 6, that I learnt about menstruation. But, unlike my peers, who smirked through the session, I never understood why this information was withheld for so long. Had I known it before, perhaps, I would have helped Jos in some way — maybe help her with her chores, maybe even do her homework. Maybe sensitise my peers on this being a HUMAN issue, and NOT a woman issue.
It is only recently that I found this Dasra study which stated:
• 52% of the women were unaware of menstruation prior to menarche;
• 70% of the women did not know why they menstruate;
• 70% of the mothers considered menstruation as ‘dirty’, perpetuating a culture of silence;
• Only 10.25% of the young adolescent girls said they had spoken to their mothers about menstruation;
• 45% of the women did not consider menstruation as normal
I wonder, even today, as to why this subject is shrouded in secrecy. If only this is spoken of — openly, consistently, and as often as possible — maybe there wouldn’t be a black polythene society.
