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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