“Earlier, during my periods, I would not bathe for four or five days,” says Sitara Devi (name changed), sitting outside her mud house in a village in Gaya district. “I believed that if I bathed, the bleeding would increase. I was always anxious about stains, about smell, about what others would say. I felt I had no control.”
In another village nearby, two sisters, Chandi Kumari and Khushi Kumari (names changed), remember a different kind of silence. “We are sisters, but we were taught to hide our periods even from each other,” they say.
“When I started menstruating, my mother told me not to tell anyone because people might judge me for starting early. We felt that periods were something to hide. Later, we realised that hiding only increases shame. Sharing knowledge gives confidence and strength,” explains Khushi.
For many girls and women across rural Bihar, menstruation has long meant isolation, confusion and hushed endurance. In villages where access to sanitary products is limited and privacy is scarce, periods mould daily routines in ways that often go unnoticed by the outside world.
It is in this landscape that 34-year-old Surbhi Kumari has chosen to work, not as an outsider imposing change, but as someone who understands the weight of that silence from within.
Growing up in silence
Surbhi was born and raised in Gaya, Bihar, in an environment where restrictions on girls were normalised. “Being a girl meant knowing your boundaries. We were not allowed to step out after sunset. We were taught to adjust, to lower our voices, to avoid questioning elders. And menstruation was something you managed secretly, without ever naming it,” she tells The Better India.
For many girls and women across rural Bihar, menstruation has long meant isolation.
Her first experience of menstruation came when she was 13 and studying in Class 7. She remembers sitting in her classroom, unaware that a dark red stain had spread across her skirt. Some boys began whispering and laughing, pointing towards her. She did not understand what had happened.
“I genuinely thought I was seriously ill,” she says. “No one had explained menstruation to me. I thought something inside my body had gone wrong, and I remember feeling terrified.”
At home, her mother handed her a piece of cloth and told her that this was normal, that it happened to all women. The explanation was brief, and the embarrassment remained. Like countless girls across rural India, she entered adolescence without language, without guidance and without confidence about her own body.
Growing up in Gaya framed her thinking in subtle but powerful ways. She saw women wake before dawn, cook for extended families, tend cattle, work in the fields and care for children, all while observing restrictions around food, movement and ritual during menstruation.
“I saw immense strength, but I also saw how silence was treated as discipline. That contrast stayed with me,” she says.
Failure, redirection, and finding a voice
Her path towards activism did not begin with certainty. Like many parents in Bihar, her family dreamt of seeing their daughter become an engineer or a doctor. She enrolled in mathematics, travelled to Kota to prepare for competitive entrance examinations and tried to align herself with that ambition.
But she struggled with the pressure and the syllabus. She failed her Class 12 examinations twice. “It was one of the lowest points in my life,” she admits. “In our society, failure is not just personal; it becomes a family matter. I felt I had let everyone down.”
However, those failures became a turning point. They compelled her to reflect on what she truly wanted. “I realised that I was forcing myself into something that did not fit. I had always loved writing. I wanted to talk about social issues, especially about women’s lives,” she explains.
Surbhi launched ‘Sabla’, meaning empowered woman, as a menstrual health initiative under SumArth.
In 2011, she enrolled at Patna Women’s College to study journalism. During her undergraduate years, she joined a project with the Abdul Latif Jameel Poverty Action Lab in Jehanabad district. There, she encountered a reality that left an insightful imprint on her.
“I met women who used old cloth repeatedly without proper washing or drying. Some used sand or ashes because they had nothing else,” she says. “They missed school and work, and suffered infections silently. Menstruation was halting their opportunities.”
Journalism polished her ability to observe and question. After graduation, she worked in film public relations, later completed her post-graduation in journalism, and worked as a sub-editor. She eventually earned a PhD focusing on women’s health and social inequities. Through research and reporting, she analysed systems of inequality. But she increasingly felt that writing about problems was not enough.
Returning home and joining SumArth
In 2019, Surbhi married Prabhat, one of the co-founders of SumArth, an organisation established in 2014 to support small and marginal farmers in Bihar. Later that year, when the COVID-19 pandemic disrupted urban life, she returned to Gaya.
“It felt like the issues I had studied were no longer abstract. They were in front of me. Women were struggling with livelihoods, health and basic dignity,” she says.
In December 2019, she formally joined SumArth. The organisation already worked with over 30,000 farmers, nearly 60 percent of them women. While engaging with women farmers, she noticed a recurring pattern. Many avoided working in the fields for several days each month because they could not manage their periods comfortably.
“I realised that menstruation was not a separate issue. It was connected to labour, income, and self-worth,” she says.
She launched ‘Sabla’, meaning empowered woman, as a menstrual health initiative under SumArth. The work began with listening. She travelled to villages across Bodhgaya, Chandauti, Bankey Bazaar, Konch and Tekari, sitting with women in courtyards and community spaces.
In government schools, Surbhi introduced structured sessions known as Periodshala.
“These conversations revealed how seriously myths were embedded,” she says. “Some believed that bathing would worsen bleeding. Others believed they should not touch certain foods or enter kitchens. Many had never been told the biological reason for menstruation.”
From whispered questions to confident voices
In government schools, Surbhi introduced structured sessions known as Periodshala. These workshops focus on biology, hygiene, body literacy and self-care. But beyond the curriculum, they create space for questions.
Nisha Kumari, a student at Bhagwanpur Middle School, remembers her experience. “I have been menstruating for three years, but before the session I had never even heard the word vagina,” she says. “We were never taught about our bodies. Now I understand what is normal and how to take care of myself. I feel stronger.”
In villages, the change was slower but visible. Chandi and Khushi began speaking openly about their menstrual cycles to each other. Sitara Devi began bathing without fear. “This knowledge has given me dignity and strength I never had before,” Sitara says.
Kumari Annu from the Mahadalit community describes a more personal shift. “I was never allowed to step out of my house or think about higher studies,” she says. “Through repeated meetings with Surbhi didi, I slowly gained confidence. Today, I conduct menstrual health sessions for young girls in my own community. I travel out of my house with confidence, and I feel proud.”
For Surbhi, such alterations reflect something more substantial than awareness. “When a girl asks a question without lowering her eyes, that is impact,” she says.
Building access and livelihoods
Education alone could not address the lack of access to menstrual products. In some villages, sanitary pads were unavailable or unaffordable. Disposal was another challenge, with used pads often discarded in open spaces.
In September 2022, SumArth installed a fully automatic sanitary pad manufacturing unit in Bargaon village. Funded through the support of friends and family, the unit produces biodegradable, skin-friendly pads at a subsidised rate.
“Each pad costs around Rs 7 to produce, and we sell them at a subsidised rate to make sure they are accessible. For example, a packet of six pads normally costs Rs 42, but we provide it for just Rs 25. Women can take as many packets as they need each month,” she explains.
In September 2022, SumArth installed a fully automatic sanitary pad manufacturing unit in Bargaon village.
The co-founder adds, “The machine itself is a big investment, around Rs 12 lakh, and the raw materials for our biodegradable pads are imported from China, which makes it expensive. Our pads are 85 percent biodegradable, which means they are safe for the skin and better for the environment.”
On replicating the model in other villages, she says, “At this point, it is not feasible because of the high cost. But even as a single unit, it has made a huge difference. It has become a centre for awareness. Women are learning about menstrual hygiene and breaking taboos.”
“When the machine was installed, none of the women had ever operated such equipment,” Surbhi says. “Today, they manage production and packaging themselves. That confidence is worth appreciating.”
The unit operates as a pilot in one village, with distribution facilitated through local women known as Periodpreneurs. Alongside this, the initiative introduced menstrual cup awareness sessions. Around 50 women have adopted cups so far.
Rita Devi (name changed) shares her journey. “I was never comfortable using sanitary pads because they caused rashes, and disposal was stressful,” she says. “When I learnt about the menstrual cup, I was hesitant. But with guidance, I tried it. Now I feel comfortable and confident.”
The road ahead
Since its inception, the menstrual health programme has reached more than 25,000 women and 5,000 adolescent girls. Surbhi measures success less in numbers and more in stories.
“There were days when mothers pulled their daughters away from sessions,” she recalls. “There were days when I returned home exhausted, balancing fieldwork and motherhood. But when one woman says she feels less ashamed, it makes everything worthwhile.”
To raise awareness on a larger scale, she also organises a Pad Yatra, a community march dedicated to menstrual health. “We gather people in one place, walk together carrying slogans, and perform street theatre, or nukkad natak, to engage the local community,” she explains.
Surbhi also introduced menstrual cup awareness sessions, and around 50 women have started using them.
“We began this initiative in 2025, and our first Pad Yatra took place on 28 May, the International Day of Menstrual Health and Hygiene. It was incredible to see people come together, breaking the silence and openly discussing a topic that had been taboo for generations.”
Deep-rooted stigma, caste discrimination and poverty continue to pose challenges. Expanding the manufacturing model requires sustained financial support. But Surbhi remains confident about her purpose. “Empowerment is not about charity. It is about restoring dignity,” she says.
In the villages of Gaya, menstruation is no longer entirely cloaked in secrecy. Sisters talk openly, students, regardless of gender, ask questions, and women choose what works best for their bodies.
All pictures courtesy Surbhi Kumari.
