I am twelve years old, called on certain auspicious days, All of a sudden I am told to change my ways. I am no longer considered pure, told to sit on the side, Do you think I should abide? I question myself- is it the menses? Now I go off my senses! Do not cook, I hear someone whisper, Do not pray, I hear a voice more crisper. Forbidden to touch the pickles as they turn sour, This is being told to me every hour to show their power. Fertility is celebrated by a half saree celebration, While the chemist hands me sanitary napkins with a lot of hesitation. I am getting conflicting messages, If you cook during your periods you will turn into a bitch say the sages! I wonder what made these sages holy, Unholy blood they touched to create a folly? All I want are some valid reasons, To create these treasons. Who are you to be able to decide my fate? I am the reason that you are able to procreate. All I want to say is that I want a world of equality, Not to treat my fertility with such frivolity. Let each of us say no to superstitions, So that we can follow the path of liberation, And demonstrate our determination.
The poem is based on the taboos of menstruation. I began noticing these taboos when I was around twelve years old. In Hinduism, we celebrate a festival called Ashtami as a part of which people invite girls to their houses and pray to them as incarnations of goddesses ( Kanya Pooja). I too used to be invited but as soon as I started my periods, I wasn't anymore and the reason given to me was that I was no longer pure.
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