For most of my life, my work and experiences have been deeply rooted in North India. The towns and villages I’ve visited have shaped my understanding of menstrual health—its challenges, taboos, and quiet resilience. But recently, at an event in Mumbai, I had an encounter that reshaped my perspective—one I had never considered so deeply before.
At the event, amidst discussions on research findings, policies, and grassroots initiatives, I met a 12-year-old girl named Saniya Hussain. She was from Dharavi, the heart of Mumbai and Asia’s largest slum—an area where over a million people live packed into a sprawling maze of narrow lanes, tiny homes, and shared community spaces. In Dharavi, families live in one-room homes, sometimes with a dozen people. Basic amenities like running water, sanitation, and privacy are scarce. Open drains run along footpaths, and water must be fetched from public taps that operate only for a few hours a day.
With bright eyes and quiet confidence, Saniya shared her journey through menstruation—a journey not just about hygiene or stigma but about survival.
"When my periods started, I was scared. I told my mom and aunt, and they taught me how to use a sanitary napkin and follow the rituals and taboos. That was my first lesson in menstrual hygiene. But… we don’t have taps at home. Every drop of water is precious."
Her words weighed on me. In the regions I had worked in North India, menstrual challenges revolved around access to sanitary products, cultural taboos, and lack of awareness. But here in Dharavi, the struggle was far more fundamental—the absence of water itself.
Saniya’s family, like many others in Dharavi, had to fetch water from a distant communal tap, rationing every bucket. Bathing daily during menstruation was a luxury she couldn’t afford. Cleaning reusable cloth pads was a challenge—sometimes, she had to wait until late at night, when fewer people were at the communal water source, to wash them discreetly.
During the summer months, when the water crisis worsened, she would use the same cloth longer than she knew was safe, simply because there wasn’t enough water to wash it.
I asked her how she managed school.
She smiled. "Sometimes, I don’t go. Sometimes, I sit in the last row and try to ignore the discomfort."
Listening to Saniya, I realized how much the menstrual hygiene conversation needs to expand. In the absence of water, even the best awareness campaigns or access to affordable sanitary products lose their impact.
We often speak about the three pillars of menstrual hygiene—availability, affordability and accessibility. But what happens when the foundation itself—water—is unstable?
As the event wrapped up, I asked Saniya what she hoped for.
She thought for a moment and said, "I just want a water tank near our house. That will solve many problems."
Her answer was simple, yet profound.
I left the event with a new understanding. Menstrual hygiene isn’t just about breaking stigma or improving access to products. It’s about ensuring that the most basic needs—like water—are available. Until we address these fundamental gaps, girls like Saniya will continue to face impossible choices.
The work isn’t just about menstruation. It’s about dignity. It’s about survival. And it’s about making sure no girl has to choose between managing her period and saving a bucket of water for her family.
Dr. Arunima Chauhan
Project Consultant
Sulabh International