While India has reached Mars and aspires to be a global technology leader, millions of women in rural Bihar still struggle to access basic knowledge about their own bodies. In the absence of education, myths, fears, and whispered half-truths shape their understanding of reproductive health.
Today, I share the story of Neha, a 25-year-old woman from a village in the Supaul district. She never went to school and got married so young that she cannot recall her age at the time. Gesturing with her hand to show her small size back then, she said she didn’t even understand what marriage meant. Married before puberty, she now has two sons and recently gave birth to her third child, a daughter.
Neha’s story has stayed with me ever since she shared it. It’s not extraordinary—if anything, it’s heartbreakingly common. But that’s exactly why it feels so heavy.
Feel it with me.
During my internship with ZealGrit Foundation, I have been learning about menstrual health and hygiene management, as well as the rights associated with these. Neha’s account of her first menstruation left me deeply unsettled. It made me question how much still needs to change in communities where menstrual health—a basic right—remains poorly understood.
One morning, she woke up feeling cold and uncomfortable. Her saree was wet, and when she looked, she saw blood. She was terrified. Neha didn’t know what to do, so she ran to her mother-in-law, holding up the saree and asking, “Aye Mai, bata na ye kya hai? Kya hua hai mujhe?” (Mom, tell me, what is this? What happened to me?)
Imagine how horrific it could be for someone waking up with the blood and not knowing what is happening to your own body. You can feel the fear, confusion, and helplessness.
Her mother-in-law, calm as ever, just said, “Don’t shout. Keep quiet. I’ll take you for a bath. Let’s go.” There was no explanation, no reassurance—just a quick bath and a thick piece of cloth handed to her with instructions to “use it for the blood.”
Neha thought there were leeches in the house or maybe even in the whole village. “Mujhe mere ghar pahuncha do,” she begged her mother-in-law. (Send me home. I don’t want to stay here.)
The next day, her brother and another relative came to take her home for her bidaai (ritual departure). While leaving, her mother-in-law handed her a thick piece of old cloth. While conversing with me, she was holding her newborn wrapped in a blanket, so she showed the cloth was this thick to keep it down where it was bleeding. She asked her why she had given her this thick blanket. She said, it is for that blood you will sit on the bike; it would prevent stains, and don’t throw it away, even if it itches.
The bike ride home was anything but comfortable. The cloth itched so much she couldn’t sit still. At one point, she showed her bloody fingers to her brother and asked, “Bhaiya ho, dekh to. Yeh kya hai? Khoon aa raha hai.” (Brother, see, I am bleeding).
Embarrassed, her brother avoided eye contact and dismissed her concerns. On further probing, the other relative hit her and asked her to remain quiet and tried to make her stop showing blood on her finger by telling her she must have a boil inside that must have burst, causing the bleeding.
But Neha wasn’t satisfied with that explanation. She insisted they take a detour through some bamboo and bush fields. Why? So, she could secretly throw away the cloth without anyone noticing. Her brothers caught on to her plan, though, and made her sit in the middle position on the bike. And told her, “Let’s go home; I’ll make sure you get bitten.”
When she finally got home, her mother sat her down and explained everything—periods, why they happen, and what to do. But by then, Neha was already mortified. She couldn’t even look her brother in the eye. “I didn’t know how to face him after that day,” she admitted.
Over time, she learned how to manage her periods. But gaps persist. I asked Neha how she disposed of her used pads. Her response reflected deep-rooted misinformation. She said she collects the used pads in a black polythene bag and discards them in a nearby garbage pile. When I asked why she avoids the community dustbin, she explained she feared the garbage collectors might burn them, which, according to her belief, “could lead to painful periods.”
I couldn’t stop thinking about what Neha went through—how scared and confused she must have been. And it’s not just about menstruation; it’s about dignity, health, and basic understanding. I asked myself: How many others suffer the same confusion, misinformation, inaccessibility, pain, and stigma? How long will such stories remain hidden, buried under silence and shame?
My time with the ZealGrit Foundation has shown me how deeply ingrained these taboos are and how much work is needed to change them. No woman should feel ashamed about something as natural as her period. No girl should have to figure it out on her own, scared and confused like Neha was.
These conversations need to happen—not just in schools but in homes, communities, and workplaces. Real change begins when we stop whispering and start talking openly. I am grateful to be part of an initiative by ZealGrit that brings these issues to light boldly!