Period Leave

Boys ka response mixed tha. Kuch curious the. Kuch awkward. Kuch ne immediately us kind of smirk diya jo insaan ko bata deta hai ki woh discomfort ko joke banana chahta hai.

Ek boy ne pucha, “Par agar chhutti mil gayi toh misuse nahi hoga kya?”

Maine uski taraf dekh ke bola, “Haan, because log fever ka misuse kabhi nahi karte. Medical leave ka misuse kabhi nahi hota. Is logic se toh koi policy kabhi exist hi nahi karegi.”

Kabir ne bina tone badle add kiya, “Misuse ka risk har welfare policy mein hota hai. Uska solution policy ko reject karna nahi hota. Solution safeguards hote hain.”

Ananya, jo pehle itni loud nahi hoti thi, us din ek point pe khud bol padi jab ek senior boy ne hansi mein kaha, “Yeh sab attention ke liye hai na?”

Uski awaaz thodi kaanp rahi thi, but she stayed there. “Nahi. Yeh isliye hai kyunki kuch log har mahine pain ke saath class attend karte hain aur usko joke samjha jaata hai.”

Mujhe us pal us par itna pyaar aaya ki kuch bol hi nahi paayi.

Do din mein kaafi signatures aa gaye. Utna nahi jitna mujhe chahiye tha, par enough to formally take it up.

Maine socha tha issue simple hoga. Reasonable demand, reasonable people. Bas thoda push.

Mujhe nahi pata tha ki system ko facts se zyada apni language pasand hoti hai.

Principal’s Office

Principal Dr. Deshmukh ka office college ke old wing mein tha—wooden desk, framed certificates, aur cupboard mein trophies aise arranged jaise discipline ka museum ho. Khidki se jacaranda trees dikh rahe the, but andar hawa bilkul stale thi.

Hum char log gaye the: main, Ananya, Kabir, aur student council ki ek quiet support karne wali girl. Principal ne spectacles adjust kiye aur polite smile ke saath bola, “Boliye.”

Polite. Aur already closed.

Maine petition unke saamne rakha. “Sir, hum period leave policy request kar rahe hain.”

Woh paper dekhne lage. “Hmm.”

Kabir ne measured tone mein start kiya. “Sir, many colleges have some form of menstrual accommodation. This is based on student feedback and health concerns. It’s not about lowering standards—”

Principal ne haath uthaya. “One minute. College academic discipline ka place hai. Agar hum har physical inconvenience ke liye leave dene lagenge, toh fairness kahan rahegi?”

My jaw tight ho gayi.

“Sir,” maine kaha, “periods physical inconvenience nahi hote. For many students, they’re painful and sometimes debilitating.”

Woh thoda sa smile kiya, almost patronizing. “I am not denying biology. I am saying equal treatment is important. If we create a separate rule for one group, then will it not become inequality?”

Ananya ka pair neeche se hil gaya. Kabir chup raha, because he knew if I got interrupted now, I’d explode.

Maine breath liya. “Equal treatment and identical treatment same nahi hote, sir.”

“Hmm,” he said, leaning back. “The trouble with such demands is that they are emotionally driven. Today you ask for leave. Tomorrow someone will ask for exemption because she feels low. Discipline will collapse.”

Mujhe wahan pe samajh aa gaya ki woh sirf disagree nahi kar rahe. Woh define kar rahe the ki kya serious hai aur kya nahi. Power ka original game yahi hota hai—sirf no bolna nahi, no bolne ka language control karna.

Kabir ne fir se calmly bola, “Sir, this can be a limited, self-declared accommodation. Confidential. With safeguards. It’s not about random absenteeism.”

Principal ne chair mein thoda adjust kiya. “And what about parents? Management? Reputation? People will say we are encouraging excuses.”

My hands lap mein tight ho gaye. Reputation. Always the invisible audience, always women ke bodies pe public opinion ka board.

He continued, “The college has a reputation for rigor. I cannot approve something that may be misused and later blamed on administration.”

I looked at him. “So because someone might misuse it, everyone else should suffer?”

He didn’t answer immediately. Phir woh wahi same soft, almost kind tone mein bola jo actually condescending hota hai.

“Myra, you are passionate. That is admirable. But passion must be tempered by institutional reality.”

Institutional reality.

Jaise pain koi spreadsheet mein fit hone wali cheez ho.

Mujhe gussa aaya. Real gussa. Par us office mein main samajh gayi thi ki sirf loud hone se kuch nahi hoga. Power noise ko absorb kar leti hai, par contradiction se discomfort hota hai.

“Sir,” maine slow, clear voice mein bola, “standardization is easy when the standard body is male.”

Room mein ek second ke liye silence ho gaya.

Ananya ne ek shallow breath li. Kabir ne mujhe side glance diya—warning nahi, respect ke saath tension.

Principal ka face still tha. “Careful with your words.”

“I am careful,” I said. “Because the issue is not comfort alone. It’s dignity. Some students come to class bleeding through painkillers. Some skip lectures and get punished. Some suffer in silence because the campus culture makes them feel weak or dramatic. If this college can accommodate sports events, cultural rehearsals, election duty, internships—then why not a predictable health need?”

He folded his hands. “You are making a moral argument.”

“Yes.”

“And policy cannot be based on sentiment alone.”

Kabir tried again. “Sir, other institutions have pilot models. Two days per semester. Self-declared. No academic penalty. It can be reviewed.”

Principal looked at him, then at me. “If we do this, there will be pressure from management. They will ask whether this opens the door to misuse.”

I felt that familiar rage come back, but now it had edges. “And if there is misuse, sir, shouldn’t you regulate the misuse instead of denying the need?”

He gave that adult look. The one that says you’re young, you don’t understand institutions.

“Passion is good,” he repeated. “But institutions run on reality.”

We left with no approval. Not even a half-promise. Just “send a formal proposal” and “we will consider.”

Corridor mein nikalte hi meri chest mein aag thi.

Ananya exhaled first. “Okay. That was worse than I expected.”