Crimson Tide

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I remember that day like it was yesterday,

My mother called my father and we went home again.

“You’re lucky we spotted it.

Bring some rice, Magesh. You please sit.”

 

Four days after that day,

Family and friends came to celebrate.

“This isn’t a joyful occasion,” I screamed.

But you see,

My first period is a sign of my reproductive capability.

“And it’s tradition to celebrate it.”

Or so she said.

 

“Do not enter the kitchen.

Do not hang out with men.

Do not run or exercise.

Just those four days be quiet.”

 

If I’d lived by their rules, I’d have failed every class,

Made no friends,

Met no men.

If I’d lived by their rules, I wouldn’t have lived at all.

But I had a father who hated tradition,

“She wants water, she’ll walk into the kitchen.

She’s not a princess, you’re not her boss.

It’s just her period. It doesn’t change it all.”

 

Eleven years later,  headed to a party,

A colleague stood by me.

As I bought *shhh*, the other nudged my shoulder,

“Told you not to buy it.”

Please do tell me – DOESN’T HIS WIFE GET HER PERIOD?

 

I’ll be honest,

My moods do change

My emotions run high

My irritation stays.

But here’s the thing – it’s not always about those four days.

 

When I’m angry, I’m not bleeding.

When I’m crying, I don’t have cramps.

When I’m flustered, I’m not PMS-ing.

When I’m laughing, it hasn’t passed.

 

So don’t ask me if it’s “one of those days”

Don’t roll your eyes when you see me cry.

Don’t talk about pads like a sinful secret,

It’s not shameful. I don’t have to hide.

 

So I get my period,

There’s no reason to lie.

It’s just another day.

It’s just a Crimson Tide.