Like A River...

Disclaimer: The term “Chhaupadi” is used in this poem to reach a larger audience and to amplify the cries of women—particularly adolescent girls—who face unimaginable struggles within a blind and oppressive societal structure. The use of this term is intended to evoke awareness and understanding, not to degrade or demean any woman. It serves as a tool to highlight the harsh realities of cultural practices that silence and isolate women, forcing their pain into the shadows.

Trigger Warning: This poem explores themes of menstruation taboos, gender-based isolation, and implied sexual violence. Reader discretion is advised.

By Dikshya Adhikari (Guest Writer)

Like rivers choked by dust,

dirt, and plastic waste,

my blood flows—

pure by nature,

meant to nourish,

yet condemned as foul,

untouchable.

They said rivers were tainted

because people trusted their cleanliness too deeply,

thinking a little filth

wouldn’t defile an entire source.

But what about me?

What about all of us?

Are we, too, defiled by words—

twisted,

coiled to keep us contained,

controlled?

Words not spat with venom

but spoken as orders,

firm yet unthreatening.

And here I am, trapped,

trembling in my thirteen-year-old body,

fearing that with every step

I might bring curses upon myself.

Hell or the chhaupadi shed—

is there any real choice?

I am ready to sit

in the cold isolation,

day after day,

afraid to admit:

I can’t take it anymore.

Just a child,

I long for my bed's warmth,

the comfort of being understood.

But strength is slipping away.

I feel like a river once revered as Kumari,

a goddess, only yesterday.

And today?

Scorned as something dangerous—

a witch, whose bleeding could drown

an entire village in ruin.

Are they terrified of me?

But… I’m just a child.

Or is it true?

Will I become the witch

they say I am

if I dare defy them?

A shadow looms—

a presence.

Why are you here?

Who are you?

“I’m here to see you, little one.

Sweet child,

you’re a woman now.

Look how quickly you’ve grown.

Do you want to play, to dance,

with me,

with your body?”

My heart seizes.

Why is he here?

Whom do I call?

I feel paralyzed,

bound to his gaze.

Does he think he can bend me

to his will?

Just a doll,

nodding to his every wish.

My rejection goes unheard.

I cry, scream,

until my lungs shiver

in their own fear.

But he stands unmoved,

a smile creeping,

drinking in my helplessness.

The world blurs;

a storm roars through my mind—

I might die here,

in this room,

in this scream.

And he only watches,

unshaken,

savoring my pain.

My spirit crumbles.

For being a girl,

a woman.

A river muted,

a doll screaming—

with every ounce of silence

I was ever forced to bear.

“Tsk…tsk…tsk…”

His voice curls like smoke.

“Poor child,

no one’s going to believe you.

No one’s coming to help.”

Enough.

Rage surges—

raw,

unyielding.

“Amaaaa!” I shout,

my voice cracking open the dawn.

Suddenly, it is morning.

I am in my bed.

6:00 a.m.

Ama rushes in,

worry in her eyes.

“What happened, my dear?

A nightmare?”

Tears well up.

“How old am I, Ama?”

“My love, you’re twelve.

Today, you’ll turn thirteen.

Happy birthday, child.

What would you like

for your thirteenth year?”

“Pads.

Can we buy pads?

I don’t want to go to that shed.

My heart aches

just hearing of girls sent there each month,

locked away from life itself.

I only want pads.

Please, Ama,

save me from that cursed place.”

Trembling,

I whisper,

“I am so afraid.

Like a dying river.”

Author Bio: Dikshya Adhikari is a law student with a strong passion for equality and inclusion. As a feminist, she is committed to advocating for equal rights and justice, aiming to create a society where everyone is treated fairly and with dignity.

Dikshya Can be Reached At: Linkedin: https://www.linkedin.com/in/dikshya-adhikari/