Chhaupadi

The Untold Stories

Deflated. That is how I feel. Or at least that's how I seem to feel until I catch a glimpse of him.
Just one look. One. That's all it takes to create a spark that fuels me up, like ignition to a hot air balloon. It allows me to rise above the clouds and escape; even if it is only for a few moments. Little did I know, that small spark would soon turn into a wildfire that would consume me, until I am no more, feel no more and think no more.

Love. I toil over this word. The way the 'L' feels when it rolls through your mouth, almost like a wave before it crashes onto the shore and breaks away.

These were the thoughts that used to occupy my youth; now, however, the world has opened up to new possibilities. Possibilities that destroy women like me. I used to associate love with romance. Now I just associate it with pain. We are bred like pigs, categorised by the colours we wear until we no longer bleed. It is only at this point in our lives that we are deemed free and pure. But until that day, we are left in exile to suffer and the only waves breaking over my shore come from the rivers that supposedly wash my sins away. It never used to be like this. There were days where I used to be carefree. Free. I focus on that word. I wish I could go back to those days. The days where love was romanticised, instead of being materialised. Prince Charming would sweep me off my feet as we rode off together into the moonlight; moonlight that was not yet tainted by the traditions of my society.

I still remember the day that everything changed. The day I was stripped of my freedom and left me bare in turn. I was twelve. It was just like any other morning. Rays of sun shone through the window leaving a dappled pattern across the smooth floor in its trace, which was usual, but this morning felt different. Almost strange. Then I see it. What I initially thought was a petal from the Red Vanda plant that grows outside the window, but turned out it was actually a part of me instead. A burst of crimson red against the clean white sheets. A symbol of sin amongst women. It was this moment that everything changed. I was suddenly a calamity and was sent off against my will, and against the law. All because of the Chhaupadi. The small mud hut soon became my home once a month, for seven days, along with several others. The brown hard floor had been painted with red. Each individual contributing to the artwork whether they were aware of it or not. It was here where we waited out the weeks in the small hut until our time had passed. Time seemed to stand still during these days as our actions were limited which made the time appear to drag out. Some nights we would go hungry and other nights the chill seeped through our bones as our only warmth came from a burlap and nearby fires. It was scary.

The treks were dangerous. Eyes seemed to flicker from the shadows watching our every move as we hiked through thick woods infested with cobras and clouded with smoke from new fires that brought warmth, but also asphyxiation from the smoke. Colours of amber and red illuminate the path as we walked onwards and the trees reached high; their trunks long and dark as they stretch towards the heavens. The emotion of love that once fuelled me had now been replaced by fear. The world no longer felt safe, and love involved being forcibly raped. It hurt, but we weren't supposed to show pain... as after all, men didn't understand our pain despite the many that have died suffering as they partook in this ritual. Sometimes their faces still haunt my dreams. That is; when I do dream... Gaunt faces filled with despair. It was a look of utter desperation, but nothing could be done, for we were cursed. Disowned. Unwanted.

Every now and again we would be 'healed' from this pain, but in reality, it just caused more pain, until it was no longer bearable. Bruises and welts decorated my body, but it didn't compare to the damage concealed within. Sometimes the will to continue through this punishment grows faint, and I feel myself begin to slip as the edges of my visions blacken with fatigue. But sleep brings danger, so here I remain. Ostracised. I long to touch a man. To be loved not for what I am, but who I am. The only problem is that, when I am in exile, such desires are forbidden due to the impurities that we possess. We are deemed as the "untouchables." So here I wait in my shed with the others that have also been deemed impure. We sit two by two; row by row, waiting for something that has yet to be found. A world where we are not discriminated against due to our bodily processes. But until this days arrives; I am no more, feel no more and think no more. For I am no longer deflated, but emptied.