Yatra: A journey of a girl with her inevitable pain!

What comes to your mind when you hear the word, Periods?

Taboo, stomach cramps, discomfort, grumpiness and severe mood swings?

Periods or menstrual cycles are the regular natural changes that occur in the female reproductive system (specifically the uterus and ovaries) that make pregnancy possible. It is often accompanied by severe abdominal pain.

Naturally as women, we often avoid scheduling anything important on those dates, and travelling definitely is in that 'avoid-for-now' list. Unfortunately, this is not always under our control and sometimes, we are compelled to deal with most difficult and unpleasant situations during periods. In this post, I will be sharing one such misadventure, one of the scariest incidents that I have ever experienced.

I was in Bhubaneswar for a Women's Conference. At the end of the conference, a group of delegates and I decided to go for sightseeing before taking the late night train from Bhubaneswar to Delhi. Prompted by the onset of premenstrual cramps, I kept a sanitary napkin in my purse before boarding the early morning bus for Konark from Bhubaneswar. I was right in anticipating it. I urgently needed to use a washroom, so I hurried to a restaurant in front of the Sun Temple Entry Gate as soon as I got down from the bus to save blue from turning red. :P I have an irrepressible craving for green Lays during periods, luckily there was a general store beside the restaurant.

We were a group of people in three different buses. I was enjoying Konark putting my best efforts to pay no heed to cramps. I had taken a vow to not depend upon Meftal Spas tablets to soothe the pain, and had learnt to tolerate it.

Sun Temple, Konark

After a late lunch, we started off towards Puri from Konark at around 3 PM. The bus I boarded had a mechanical fault, which meant that I had to disembark and wait for the organizers to provide an alternative one. A replacement bus did not arrive. So, we grudgingly waited under a tree shade whilst the mechanics tended to the bus. It took two whole hours to get the bus up and running again. We set off for the city. This untimely mishap had me running late. I was worried and apprehensive of missing my train from Bhubaneswar to Delhi at 11 PM. My fellow colleagues, who had to board the same train, had already reached the temple, and they were to start from there at 8 PM for Bhubaneswar.

As the bus huffed and puffed towards the outskirts of the city, the conductor informed us that due to traffic restrictions, the bus was not allowed into the city centre. That meant I had to take an auto rickshaw to complete the journey. This slight inconvenience chewed away at the little sightseeing time I had. I called my teammates who were already in Puri to wait for me before starting for Bhubaneswar. I had to shelve my plans to go to the beach and temple. Time was not on my side, and apparently the heavens had other plans.

I reached the auto-rickshaw stand, to only discover that there were no available for-hire autos. I dashed into a fully loaded auto and squeezed myself next to the driver as it was already leaving the stand. I begged the driver to speed up a bit but my pleas fell on deaf ears. Instead of heeding my desperation,  the driver annoyingly tried to engage me into an unnecessary conversation by frequently asking questions;

'Kaunsi train hai (which train is it)?

apne dosto ke sath kyun nahi gayi (why didn't you go with your friends)?', and so on.

Finally to shut him up, I shouted;

'suno, apni bakwas band karo aur chupchap auto chalao' (listen, shut up and drive). I realised that I sounded very rude and he looked offended by my tone. Who cared? I was at peace that he was finally quiet.

I frantically tried to call my colleagues but nobody was picking up my calls. Finally we arrived at the beach. At this point, the auto was empty. I got off and rushed towards the Jagannath temple to meet up with my friends. I reckoned they had left their mobile phones at the temple's locker room.

I ran as fast as I could towards the main circle to find other means of transport while also continuously calling them. As I slowed down to catch my breath,  I intuitively turned my head to look behind me, and I suddenly realised that the auto-rickshaw driver who had dropped me off moments ago, was following me. He was yelling at me saying;

 'madam, aao baith jao, main chhod deta hoon, pareshan mat ho' (Ma'am, sit in the auto, I will drop you off, don't worry).

He signalled me to go into his auto, where another strange guy, whom I presume to be his friend was already on the wheel. We sat in the back passengers seat with the familiar driver who hurriedly offered me some popcorns that were wrapped in a dirty newspaper cone. I politely declined the offer.

'Drop me at Jagannath Temple!' I instructed him.

'Theek hai madam. Chinta mat karo. Yeh lo popcorn khao' (Alright, don't worry, have some popcorns).

'Nahi chahiye' (I don't want). I retorted.

As we made our way to the temple, I felt his hand rest on my shoulder and I immediately shouted angrily,

'Stay away, don't touch me!'

I was growing suspicious and uncomfortable . Why was he insisting on having me eat the popcorn? Has he mixed something in the popcorn to make me unconscious? My mind wondered.

"Baap re, itna gussa, shant ho jao, lo main door baitha hoon' (Calm down, don't be angry, let me sit further away).

Finally, I got a response from my colleagues that I had to go directly to Talabania where the bus for Bhubaneswar was parked. My friend spoke with the Autowala to direct him to the place.

'Talabania toh bahut door hai' (Talabania is very far). The auto driver quipped .

'How far?' I asked.

'Kareeb 7-8 KM, apka train toh miss hoga' (Approximately 7-8 KM, you won't be able to catch your train). He guessed.

I didn't believe him. My friend had mentioned that Talabania was nearby.

I felt the eery feeling of being trapped. Am I in danger? What will he do? Traffic me or take me to a secluded spot and then what?

No! I was freaking out.

Despite my incessant yelling to have him stop the auto,  the driver kept his foot on the pedal. I had all kinds of terrible thoughts and worst-case scenarios running through my mind . Jumping off a moving auto was not the best of ideas.

We drove into thick traffic which forced the driver to significantly reduce speed. I saw my opportunity to escape. I snuck out of the auto, which at this time had come to a halt. I saw a small Chai-Cigarette shop.

'Uncle Talabania yaha se kitni door hai?'(Uncle, how far is Talabania?) I yelled at the shop attendant.

'2 KM, beti. Yaha se sharing auto mil jayega' (it is 2 KM. You will find sharing auto from here). He responded with an expression of bewilderment.

It was apparent that the autowala and his friend had sinister plans. He was being untruthful and clearly was driving me away to a destination only known to himself. This just augmented my uneasiness.

As all this drama was unfolding, I was having excruciating period pain. It felt like my ovaries were being shredded into pieces. I yearned for a peaceful place to relax and have a cool breeze rub against my face.

Firstly, I had to extract myself from a sticky situation whose end looked more ominous. He was still following me on foot. Nobody was stopping to help me because of the things (best known to him) he was telling them in Odia.

A passing biker stopped to enquire if I was okay. I had no time to explain or let alone dial 100-the emergency police number. I requested him to take me to Talabania (hearing this, the auto driver was displeased). This is where my colleagues were waiting for me. He agreed and we sped off.

'Yahan 5 min khana pack kara loon nahi toh bhookha rahna padega?' (Can I stop here for five minutes to get some food packed?) The biker requested.

'Hmm, okay.' I answered with a nod.

The stress on my face was so apparent as he ordered food at a roadside restaurant. Time was not on my side. I forgave the waiter when he enquired whether I had been fighting with my boyfriend- the Good Samaritan biker, or not. The thoughts of missing my train to Delhi were making me extremely jittery.

As they prepared and packed the food , my period cramps did not let loose. The agony was unrelenting. I waited for the food for what felt like forever. My colleagues kept my phone abuzz.  This signalled that I was getting late. I was already late.

In my desperation, I requested the restaurant owner if he could quickly drop me off to where my friends were. He agreed. I thanked the Good  Samaritan biker and left. In no time, we safely reached the destination . Finally I was reunited with my friends. I felt relieved.

I hurriedly boarded the bus and rushed to the window seat at the backside where no-one could see me. I slumped into my seat, heaved a sigh of relief and all the tears I was holding back started rolling down my face uncontrollably. I sobbed like a toddler. A Nepali friend in the group saw me. I cried more when she hugged me. She made me feel better. Nobody except her knew about this incident. And, I never felt the urge to share it with anyone else.

We had no time to go to the place of accommodation to get our luggage. The idea was to reach the station directly and ask some of our friends who had remained behind at the guesthouse to pack and carry our luggage from there to the station. Many of my miscellaneous belongings including the much needed sanitary napkins were left behind in the room. I looked for shops and medical stores at the station, but unfortunately all were closed.

Dysfunctional vending machine

I searched for sanitary napkins at the Railway's Passenger Welfare vending machines in the ladies waiting room. They were not functional. I complained to the station staff. I was told that the person in-charge for the dispensing machines was not around. They could not offer any more help. My train's imminent departure was announced on the speaker. 'Leave it. I have no time for the this.' I talked to myself as I ran to my train.

The Bandage.

I was running towards my coach when I heard a voice;

'Eh ladki ruko.' (Hey, girl, stop). A man, whose age I presumed to be that of my father stopped me.

'Yeh rakh lo.' (Take this). He said as he politely extended a bandage to me.

It was of no use but I was touched by the generosity and sensitivity of the old man. I gladly accepted it. He was sitting in a corner of the small male-only-office of Railways when I went to complain about the dysfunctional vending machine. To this day,  I still have the bandage as a souvenir. The old man reminded me of how my father used to quietly keep sanitary napkins in a small zip compartment of my school bag.

In a society where uttering the word period is a taboo, my parents never made me feel that periods are shameful, embarrassing or should not be openly talked about.

Fortunately, a friend of mine had spare napkins and tampons which she joyfully shared with me.

In the end:

"To share your weakness is to make yourself vulnerable; to make yourself vulnerable is to show your strength." 

- Criss Jami