Period. Exposed. Bloody Red.

Why is it so difficult for educated women to wrap their soiled sanitary napkins?

Make no mistake here. I amaze myself – and disgust others -- at my own ability to talk about poop, pee, fart and puke with complete nonchalance. I was raised to understand that these are essential body functions, and many childhood evenings were spent with my father and brother discussing the fart sounds of different people we knew; the mother would bury herself behind a book, pretending she had no relation to us. Only a couple of ex-boyfriends have not winced when I would attempt a minute-long monologue about either of the four taboo topics before them (I would shut my mouth at the right moment, because I knew they were always wearing running shoes).

But hygiene – or the lack of it – makes me wince. And no, this is not about the laments of the lack of toilets in India. This is also not about women still wearing pieces of cloth instead of the ones that are advertised promising a ‘happy period’. This is about educated women who know it well that soiled sanitary napkins need to be wrapped before disposed. You might feel this is a non-issue. An unintentional sighting of the dustbin in toilets of the institutions with squeaky clean facades would reveal something else.

I work in the office of a large newspaper, and this particular floor of the building houses three different publications. The Siberia-type-cold office where I work is flanked between offices of glossy magazines where extremely beautiful women and men work. Women in beautiful clothes, just the right amount of make-up, swanky heels, and artfully-acquired fake accents. Women who wouldn’t smile at each other when they adjust their chiffons and silks in the cramped bathroom space. Educated women, with absolute access to drinking water, and water in their faucets, and more.

Yet, the other day, and yet another day, I went into the toilet, only to see a blob of bright red tissue staring at me from the uncovered paper bin. There was no attempt at covering it with a pile of tissue paper (which flows like the Nile in such offices).

When I lived in New York in a women’s residence that can house 373 women, I assumed that I was living with mature women. We were about 30 women living on each storey. Every morning around 8am was a rush hour in the achingly slow elevators, and we jostled for space amid the fragrance of expensive perfumes and the sights of the best brands off the racks from Times Square. Photographers, fashion designers, bankers, researchers, students, journalists, analysts – the brightest of the brains in the most beautiful female bodies covered in the latest fashion trends, were on their way to work.

We had two sets of bathrooms with individual showers and toilets to share, and the housekeeping did an impeccable job of keeping the place clean. Yet, every now and then, a soiled sanitary napkin, with its crumbling sides and red-to-brown middle and netted top cover lay exposed in the bins near the showers. Was it so tough for such smart women to wrap their own sanitary napkins? I once lamented before the front desk that this was unbelievable. The lady there sighed with a smile, “Darling, why is this unbelievable? We hear this all the time!”

These might be the same women who would “Yuck!” aloud when the stench of ammonia from public toilets reaches their nostrils. They would refuse to use such public toilets, and I know of many women who would hold up their bladder until they reached a clean toilet. But women not wrapping their soiled sanitary napkins is a stupidly global phenomenon.

Few years ago, I had done a story about an organisation in Pune that works with waste pickers. With some smart origami moves, they had created a paper packet, with a sticker on it that announced its purpose – for the disposal of soiled sanitary napkins. The idea of the packet was to restore some dignity in the hands of the waste pickers, so that they do not have to confront a soiled sanitary napkin – or a diaper – with their bare hands, when women refuse to wrap them. The idea has its flaws, but they surely can be fixed. When I had told my mother about this idea, her surprised eyes soon turned moist, and then she said, “They are doing such a work of punya.” (= a spiritually noble deed).

But if there is such a huge market of being hygienic – right from anti-dandruff shampoos to metallic foot scrubbers – can’t women learn to behave with something as personal as their own sanitary napkins?

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Let's Not Photograph Pity

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Few days ago, I came across a news report in Hindustan Times, about the plight of widows of farmers who had taken their own lives. The widows had not yet received compensation despite promises, and life as widows meant a life of vulnerability and unaddressed emotional needs. It was a good report, yet the accompanying photograph was disturbing.

To begin with, it was a staged photograph. I understand that often photojournalists (and so do I) have to recreate scenes in order to tackle bad light, or simply because, sometimes, the composition is not visually effective. Staging a scene is still journalism, as long as the truth is being conveyed. But this photograph was staged in a way that was condescending to the women being photographed. It seems that the photograph was taken with severe lighting constraints, yet this is not justification to make the women seem as poor helpless widows. I have a problem with the triangular position instructed by the photographer, because this makes the scene so forcible constructed.

Besides the aesthetics, I am livid that the women were made to carry the photographs of their dead husbands. Where is the sense of respect towards someone who has suffered loss? Perhaps they did not utter a word when they were instructed to stand in that order. Perhaps, for them, this photograph after all would get noticed, and they would deserve the due they had been promised.

From my previous experience of working with photojournalists on assignments, it was unbelievable to watch them wield power over those who had to be photographed, especially with those who are in the vulnerable section of the society. The consciousness of class difference would automatically bring in a sense of humane indifference.

Let's imagine these three women as widows from a fancier part of Bombay. Would the photographer dare ask them then to stand carrying the photographs of their dead husband, and construct their spatial triangular position, and go click-click-click?

This photograph disturbs me because it does not elicit a sense of respect towards the women, even though the intentions might have been otherwise. Did the photojournalist see anything beyond pity, which he translated through his photograph?

I want to see a photograph where the pride of moving on in their lives, despite the strife, is visible. Let's assume one of these women had a toddler for a child. Let's assume she could not stop grinning upon watching her child gurgle. To me, that would have made a stronger photograph, for it would show me her desire to move on, and her strength and hope in raising a child, despite all odds. If this news piece is an attempt at making the woes of the widows heard, the photograph ought to convey that, instead of looking down upon them.

But I guess editorial boards have a narrow mandate of how a photograph ought to be. The blurred lines are hence erased: a sad story needs to go along with a sad photograph only. When a photojournalist has the ability to turn around the way we view society, it is appalling that stereotypes (of pity, in this case) continue to thrive.

Photographer Tejal Pandey knows this position too well, when her attempts at shifting perceptions have been thrown in the bin, so that the line is not crossed beyond that what is comfortable and safe. Few years ago, when she worked with The Times of India, she was sent to photograph the marathon. Her editors wanted to see images of the sport through sweat and muscles. But Tejal saw something else.

Tejal describes what she photographed, and how it was perceived:

When I reached the venue, I was aghast at seeing these men leering at a female athlete. For them, she was just someone to be ogled at. I took the photograph to my editor, with a caption in mind that would reflect what I had seen. But it was very sad when the underlying truths behind this photograph was ignored, and the photograph was published with a caption that just mentioned that another athlete was running. At such times you realise that your image is likely to get modified so that it fits into a certain framework that the publication wants to put forward and in this case the real message was ignored beyond what might seem obvious – just talking about the marathon and the athletes is fine, but it is not okay to write about the men leering at her... because that would call for another angle to the story, perhaps that of how Indian men look at sportswomen, or at how our blinkered perspective on appropriate clothing cripples our views on sports or sportspersons.

Going back to the original photograph that prompted this post: the photojournalist – Anshuman Poyrekar – is a dear friend. He was the first photojournalist I worked with, in my first assignment in my first job as a journalist at The Asian Age, eight years ago. The assignment was to visit the Marriott Hotel, where a chef was making a series of exotic chocolate delicacies. I was nervous there, but Anshuman had eased me saying that we journalists are the boss, when we are covering an event. When the public relations executive asked us if we would like to have coffee, he had said a prompt yes, while mine was a hesitant one. As the PR executive disappeared, I whispered into Anshuman's ear, “I shouldn't have said yes to the coffee. I cannot afford the coffee! This is the Marriott! Please pay now on my behalf and I will repay you when I reach office.” Such was my naivete, and Anshuman laughed aloud. But he was kind enough to keep this a secret and not embarrass me before my colleagues in the office.

Anshuman is a senior, and a gifted photographer. I only hope that he understands that we journalists are indeed powerful, and hence we ought to use this power to change perceptions, through the stories we tell or photograph.

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Revolutionary, Dreamer, Unsung Hero: Dabar Kalundia

On January 30, the valiant struggle of the residents of Kalinganagar, in the eastern Indian state of Odisha, lost its hero Dabar Kalundia. A Ho Munda adivasi (indigenous tribe), a farmer, a visionary, a revolutionary – 43-year-old Kalundia had been in the forefront to stop steel companies from taking over vast areas of land that indigenous peoples like himself have long been sustaining themselves with. Widely revered by his peers and equally loathed by the administration, Kalundia's integrity was unshakeable; his arguments were radical, his speeches were rousing, and his ability to celebrate resistance in the face of suppression unbelievable. On at leat three occasions he cheated death from attempts at assassination – his death would have meant easy access into the villages for the administration. Yet, it was a failing kidney – something so curable – that brought his breath to an end.

Few days before his sudden death, Kalundia had been admitted to the civil hospital in Cuttack (the nearest big town 100kms away), but he learnt that he would not survive. So he insisted on returning home so that he could breath his last at home. All these details emerged much later, after slowly digesting the shock of his death.

If one were to visit Kalinganagar today, large steel plants would be the first thing that would be noticed, followed by houses with thatched roofs of red tiles spread sporadically. For many people who have long been associated with the people's movement in Kalinganagar to prevent the onslaught of steel plants, the movement was a failure.

Kalundia's life goes unheard of in the limited scope of the understanding of victory and loss in a people's movement. And hence perhaps, there was not a plethora of obituaries written about him – he died just about the time when columns and air time was filled (rightly so) with the life and work of Pete Seeger as he passed on too. Only one memorial meet took place on January 10 in the state capital of Bhubaneshwar, 200kms south of Kalinganagar. But to understand why Kalundia should not be forgotten, and why his revolutionary vision cannot be called a loss, one ought to understand Kalinganagar.

Kalinganagar is the name given to the industrial industrial complex that was set up in the early 90s, and encompasses 11 steel plants. According to the indigenous Ho Munda community residing in those lands spread across several villages, the extent of the industrial complex has not been determined: every now and then, farther and deeper into the villages, there would be signs that indicate that the industrial complex was expanding. When I visited the place in June 2010, some of the 11 steel plants had already been constructed; some others were yet to acquire land from the people. One of those companies was Tata Steel, a subsidiary of Indian conglomerate Tata Group (Tata Motors, from the same conglomerate, had acquired Jaguar Land Rover from Ford Motor Company in 2008).

Surya Shankar Dash, a filmmaker, had been documenting the struggle in Kalinganagar since 2006. That's also when he first met Kalundia, and realised how the people's articulation, on why Tata could not take over their land, was far beyond the Leftist rhetoric. Dash feels that the movement in Kalinganagar evolved entirely through the strength of the people; it did not have the support of any NGO or mainstream political party. Neither was any outsider sympathetic to their struggle made a leader to guide them. “All decisions were collectively made by the community that stood to be affected by the projects, and this is something I have not seen in other movements,” says Dash.

When I met Kalundia in June 2010, he had invited me to a simple yet delicious lunch, that he had prepared by himself. During our conversation, he had said something, which helped me understand why the adivasis understood buzzwords like 'development' and 'sustenance' better that revered scholars. “We adivasis buy only two things for our kitchen from the market – cooking oil and salt. Everything else is found here. If I want to eat spinach one day, I will take some from my neighbour's farm. If he wants to cook tomatoes one day, he will take some from my farm. This is how we have always been living – in harmony with each other,” Kalundia had said, as I licked off my fingers to finish the meal.

 The only photograph of Dabur Kalundia in my archives, from my travel to Kalinganagar, in June 2010. © Priyanka Borpujari

However, it was this sense of independence, a keystone among indigenous communities, that brought Kalundia his untimely death. “Adivasis are the kind of people who would rarely complain. They ask very little of you. Everyone knew Dabar was a bit unwell with his kidney, but he behaved as though all was well. He had always put his personal issues aside,” remembers Dash.

Yet, there is no denying that Kalundia was a man listening to his own tune, when it came to responding to situations of repression. “He converted occasions of repression into celebrations of resistance,” says Dash. Once, the District Collector (the highest officer in a district) visited the village. Unlike in other villages where the reverence towards the Collector is shown by putting out a chair and table for him, Kalundia ensured that everyone sat on the mat on the floor, including the Collector. He recorded the proceedings of the meeting with his camera. Instead of trying to explain why they companies had no right in acquiring people's land, he directed every word towards the Collector, conveying that the latter was responsible to listen to peoples' issues. “It took a lot of courage to challenge the Collector and tell him that he wasn't doing his job well,” says Dash.

Kalundia was the leader with no declaration or frills. He was attacked at least thrice, and he escaped each time. He knew that it was important to respond to the repression in every possible way, and was hence open to new ideas. When Dash once suggested that he ought to be documenting all that was happening in Kalinganagar, he needed no explanation. “One day, he called me and said that he had saved up Rs 15,000 ($ 250), and asked me to get him a video camera. When I got one, he began to shoot and made more effective use of the camera than I would have,” says Dash.

Knowing about Kalundia's camera play comes a full circle for me: in 2010, I had seen some videos about the repression in Kalinganagar which motivated me to go there and report about the struggle. I had known that Dash had edited the videos and had uploaded them on Youtube. But it is only now, at his death, that I learn that Kalundia, inadvertently, invited me to Kalinganagar. However, according to Dash, Kalundia was soon bored with his new “toy” and had begun to train other men to use the camera. He knew that as a leader, he had to delegate work in the spectrum of a resistance.

But true to the democratic nature of the movement, Kalundia also faced the ire of his own people. He had sometimes undertaken contract work for the companies, and that angered the people around him. But he would explained his rationale behind taking up those works, stating that it was easy for the companies to bring people from outside to do the work, thus making way for those outsiders to dominate the natives. “Just because I am doing contract work does not mean that I would stop fighting the acquisition of our lands. It is my right to fight for my land, and it is also my right to work in a dignified way. I am not working as a petty labourer,” he would assert.

But increasingly, with more and land being taken over by Tata, Kalundia became an angrier but silent man. During the Martyrs' Day meeting on January 2 this year, he rebuked anyone who wished him 'Happy New Year'. Martyr's Day is observed on January 2 by the people of Kalinganagar since 2006, to remember the 14 men and women who had died that day, when they were attacked by the police that had charged at them, to forcibly drive them off of the land. Nobody had known that the land had been mined.

This year, on Martyrs' Day, Kalundia delivered a speech, in the state official language of Oriya. Here are excerpts from his profound – and last – speech:

“On Second January 2014, as everyone in our country and the world are wishing each other a Happy New Year, I would like to tell Naveen Patnaik [Chief Minister of Odisha state] that he has sold our flesh to the people of the world, he has sold the flesh of the people of Kalinganagar, he has sold the flesh of the tribal population.... The ministers, the police, the officials… they have consumed the blood of the people, and they have celebrated Holi [Indian festival of colours] with their blood. I will not forget this day, as long as I am alive. I will say this as long as I live… to this democratic nation, this democratic state, and the democratic political system…

In the name of democracy, they have brought all these companies here, who are preying on us for money… and are having a new year feast.... The ruling government in this country, in Odisha, and in the other states, has only one agenda – to exploit the common man....

In this world, there is not a single politician or government that has not taken money from big companies… nobody has the guts to speak out against the big companies… but I do… and I will speak against them...

Today, everyone is running after money, no matter what his income is… everyone wants more and more… but you cannot eat money… you can only eat rice, dal, roti, which come from the land… it does not come from factories… If anyone can prove to me that rice, dal, roti comes from a factory, I will kiss his feet. ...”

When Tata Steel was finally able to start constructing its plant on some of the arable land owned by the people, activists deemed the movement as a “lost” one. But what is a valid definition of a successful movement? For some, success means the mobilisation of people and a real democratic process, rather than one piece of paper into the ballot. For others, success is perceived as preventing any construction by the authorities. In the case of Kalinganagar, therefore, the fact that the 11 steel companies set up their plants on the lands of the indigenous communities is a “failure”. So, did Dabar die a vain revolutionary?

Only in his death can the richness of Kalundia's life and his revolution be understood – he was the catalyst that brought together several villages to put up a brave front before the combined magnanimity of the State and steel companies.

According to Dash, the struggle in Kalinganagar, and Kalundia's leadership, were not in vain. Tata Steel did set up its plant on significant parts of arable lands, but it could not displace people from their homes. They were not able to displace the residents of Baligotha, Chandia and other villages. “We activists seem to celebrate a half-baked victory only when a politician might openly support a movement,” says Dash.

A fortnight after his death, at least 50 people attended his memorial service in Bhubaneshwar. They were mostly activists and academics in solidarity with the Kalinganagar movement. Each spoke about Kalundia's unflinching integrity. Everyone remembered his lucid articulation; his distinct and unique style to reverse perspectives during arguments. They all knew how he would calmly listen to activists yet deliver a better speech himself.

“Can we pack our bags and move on, when some people take the petty compensation and the steel plants are built, while others resist every attempt at repression? People like us extend solidarity to peoples' movements, but we seem too distant to provide basic medical aid, especially when places like Kalinganagar are not at all inaccessible,” says Dash, in equal parts angry and sad about the avoidable death of one hero, unfazed by anyone, Dabar Kalundia.

(I visited Kalinganagar in June 2010 and reported about the movement in a six-part series called 'Kalinganagar Diary'. I had vowed to return soon, but it's been almost four years since.)