“Thak thak
thak thak.... thak thak thak thak...”
Something was
punching in my ears in my dreams, I thought for a moment. There was again that
irritating thumps penetrated into my head. I thought I was still feeling the
sound that was deafening me in the back of the tempo I had travelled the last
evening. It took a while to realise that it was not a hallucination or dream.
“thak thak
thak thak.... thak thak thak thak...”
The sound bounced
in a desperate loop. It was someone on the door. I had heard of peculiar ways of
treating people in Pune, but definately did not expect this fashion. So, that’s
how we were greeted on our first morning in Pune. But that wasn’t it as
something more weird was ready to welcome us in the then emerging metro.
We had
shifted our belongings a night ago and yet to place them. That was hardly a
space to live as compared to our previous house. But that was it. We were dog
tired and crashed out like ice bears the last night. So, it took a couple of moments
for both of us to figure out what exactly was going on.
That was
something to remember. Afterall, that was the first knock on our new house. In
fact, it was a big thump and not a knock. Well begun is half done! I half
opened the door to face a furious female face with a big red bindi and
underneath it was a pair of eyes shooting out a truck load of anger at me.
“Where’s
your wife?” she shouted.
She was
right behind me, my wife. She also was taken aback with the dreadful style of
welcoming someone in the neighbourhood. I was a bit relieved as my wife, trying
as awake as possible, took the charge from me.
“Yes, what
is it?”
“Are you
having your periods?”
“What?” We
both screamed at once. What a way to break the ice! As if take an aim at the
iceberg with an excavating machine and boom... make a tunnel. The entire heap
of an iceberg is churned into flakes the next moment.
“Are you
on with your periods?” The lady was asking in a Marathi dialect. Still, the
content prevented us from understanding the meaning, concern and purpose.
“N..n..No..
why?”
“Then it
is ok. Let me tell you that our gods don’t allow us and they’ll punish you if
you do.”
“What? What
for?”
“Let me
finish, you’ll be punished by our gods if you throw that f**** cotton in the
trash.”
What cotton?
What trash? What gods? Why punishment?
Did we
commit a blunder by coming to Pune? Is cotton not allowed here?
“Who are
you?” my wife seemed to be sorted and brave than me.
“Laxmi...
I am a trash collector for your building. You are not supposed to throw your dirty
cotton in the trash. Everyone knows here.”
Now, we
realised. Not me of couse. My wife realised it first. The girly talk you know.
Laxmi was the garbage collector and she found some ‘dirty cotton’ in her
basket. She was referring to a stained sanitary napkin. And someone told her that
we were the new ones in the housing society, so she thought it might be us who
pushed her towards the sins.
“But it
doesn’t seem like if you are telling the truth.” And she stormed out of our baffled
faces. I was sure she left us to find the culprit and appeal to her gods.
We looked
at eachother after closing the door and then we exploded laughing. What was
that? We asked eachother, but quickly realised the horrible feeling of Laxmi,
the garbage collector, to pick some other woman’s menstrual blood in her hands
to dispose off just because she was poor. This happened almost 17 years ago in
a suburb in Pune.
That was
my first encounter with this situation of sanitary pads. I didn’t have any
sister, so I really never needed to face this issue. And we were living in a
small village where this thing was a good taboo. The pads met me only after my
marriage. But still, I never realised the grave problem till the time I met
Laxmi in Pune. Lakshmi never had to wear this scary Avatar against us as we
were threatened enough not to throw the ‘dirty cotton’ in her garbage basket.
But then where to throw them? That question stayed with me for many days later
on.
Slowly,
the struggles of life overpowered the sensitivity towards social issues and I
almost forgot that incident till the last year. There was a small effort taken by
the Pune Municipal Corporation to add some respect to the profession of a waste
collector. It was an initiative in association with an NGO called RED DOT. It
was a campaign of the same name. The organisation had asked the women to wrap
the used pads in the multiple layers of the newspaper and seal it with the adhesive
tape, make a big red dot on it to differentiate. This waste would be collected
in a separate baskets by the collectors and the PMC workers would pick and the
organisation would dispose them. It was such a great initiative. I don’t know
if it’s still on. Then, there are some efforts taken by the BJP led central
government where they made it compulsory for the manufacturers to provide a leak
proof pouch with every napkin. This at least helped to stop leakages and stains
in the garbage. At least they don’t have to see what they are picking though
they know that it’s there somewhere in the piles of garbage.
The
internet is filled with the dangers of sanitary pads and their disposing
problems. I read somewhere that the plastic and the chemicals are so hazardous
to the environment that these non-biodegradable materials could stay for 800
years. It’s like leaving our sins to be repaid by our future generations if
they survive from the extinction during these years.
There’s
hardly any change in the situation of the waste collectors in last 17 years,
may it be a female or a male. Many residential societies have male garbage
collectors. The modern and educated women, living there, hardly have awareness
about this issue. Moreover they also don’t have any choice but to throw the
sanitary napkins in the garbage. The problem is still more with the offices
where women work.
Definitely,
we need to give more and more women access to their basic rights of celebrating
womanhood. But still, the problem might remain the same. What about the
disposal of the pads?
There are disposable
sanitary napkins also available, but they are not in everybody’s reach. And
there are a few locally made disposable napkin brands that are not much preferred
by the women. The other options like menstrual cups need more awareness in
India. It’s a one-time investment. Using cotton cloths like old days is not
possible for a working woman in a metro. So, all they can do is to rely on the
easily available brands over the counter.
And let’s
not forget that it’s not only about sanitary napkins. The same sad story tags
the baby and adult diapers. There are not enough facilities to collect them and
dispose them properly. That too without causing any harm to the environment.
Today, the
celebrities are posting their pictures on the social media holding a new and
unused sanitary pad in their hands and tearing the shame out of it. We all know
that it’s about the movie PAD MAN. It’s a promotional drive. The movie is based
on the inspiring greatness of the real life padman - Arunachalam Muruganantham. This might be a real good
entertainer, may be a message driven flick. A few lakhs of deprived women might
get their honour and they might start using this hygienic option. The leading
actor Akshay Kumar might get another national award for this. The director R.
Balki may get praises and Mr. Muruganantham certainly will get the deserved
bows. Unfortunately, this will fizzle out, barring the exception of Mr.
Arunachalam Muruganantham, with the next big release. People will start with
new drives and campaigns and worships.
Mr.
Muruganantham is no doubt a pad man. He deserves such honour and
acknowledgement. But there are many pad men and women around us who are doing
equally great job. They don’t ask for a pat on their backs or an honour with an
award. All they need is some respect.
I am not
an expert on this who has done all the scientific research to come up with
solutions. I am a commoner like you who can think. So, please spread a word and
see if someone extra-ordinary among us come up with a respectable solution for
our garbage collectors so that no Laxmi needs to wear a mask of false anger to
hide her shame.
