I got my periods later than my friends. A few of them, out of good
humour, spread stories that period blood is green in colour. They painted horror stories about the cramp pangs. With my own curiosity about the white discharge (a colour other than blood red), I believed and not believed them. But vaguely knew what was to come. So when I saw blood on my underwear, I did not fear cancer. I did not panic. I went up to my mom. She taught me about using a pad, and how often to use it. Around that time she also taught me about wearing a bra, which I was unaccepting of. Because I had made up mind that sanitary pads and brassier were only for married women. I was able to give-in for one bubble burst, but not the other. Such was my ignorance. Ignorance spawned by a society where biology teachers shied away from teaching about reproduction, sex and consent. Where elders felt uneasy to talk about intimate hygiene. It was collectively and consciously left to the peers to influence our knowledge about intimate care.
What charmed me however was how my intimate care choices were enhanced by simple new-age intimate care products in the market:
on the other hand completely transformed my views about female public toilet use.
In all the years of our being, it is only now that we have a choice. A choice to say no to
adjusting. A choice that doesn’t limit our mobility. A choice to seek what should be rightfully ours. A choice for sironaintimate hygiene wash and care. A choice that I have made, along with many other women and trans-women. A choice that I carry with me in all my travels.
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