Aruna Varsani

Fifth Win,  The true battleground was not the dark room or the treacherous path, but the ungovernable territory of her own body. The monthly arrival of her blood was a siege she faced in profound solitude, a crisis of biology that demanded perfect secrecy and flawless logistics. This internal rhythm, shared by half the world, was in her world a catastrophic vulnerability. Every cramp was not just pain, but a potential groan that might draw attention; every careful adjustment of her homemade cloth pad in the latrine's dim privacy was a high-stakes operation. A single misstep, a single tell-tale stain, could unravel everything. It could brand her as unclean, a source of disgust or a target for fury in her own home. Her victory was a silent, meticulous containment: the precise fold of the cloth, the secure pin, the art of lying perfectly still for hours to prevent any leak, all while breathing through waves of pain. To wake at dawn unstained was to have won a vital, invisible campai...

Fourth Win The last bell rang, and the school yard boiled with shouts and running feet. She waited, a quiet figure by the wall, until the big crowd thinned. Walking home alone was asking for trouble, but walking with everyone was just a different kind of trouble, too many eyes, too many elbows. She picked a family she knew from a nearby shamba, a mother with three younger children, and followed them at a careful distance. Their noise was a good cover. The hard knot of worry in her belly, which had loosened a little during lessons, pulled tight again. Getting home was its own fight. The red-dirt road was hot and open. Up ahead, near the broken-down tractor, some older herd boys from the secondary school were kicking a plastic bottle. She saw them see her. Her face went still and faraway, like she was looking right through the baobab tree at the side of the path. She slowed her steps just a little, letting the family ahead get closer. A boy whistled, low and long. She didn’t turn her hea...