(This poem is written keeping in mind the frustration regarding the taboos around menstruation)
When I was little
Amma told me that
I was going to bleed
four days a month and
the festival is
going to go on till
the time I am old enough
to take it no more,
that it’s a sin that passes
on from one woman to
another, a curse rather we
inherit for being the
grounded sex,
she said it’s a kind of
painful cleansing that
reminds you of where you
belong but gives you the
little identity you need to
sustain under patriarchy
and bearded men, she said
that men breed a sin too and
it’s even worse, the idea of
not letting go :
a man inside a man is
the worst kind of monster,
she said they thrive on it
for purgation
and while the gods were angry
with both man and woman,
he for the she sat bleeding those
four days decided to take charge,
How many days does it take
to go sinless?” I asked.
It’s a curse she said, “It’s a curse.”
Amma told me,
you don’t bleed like a woman,
you bleed like a broken man-
it’s been years now for me to
sit with my legs sealed
so that my impurity doesn’t
leak the age-old sin.