can you hide your womanhood in a brown paper bag?

reflections from the land of baby booms and period taboos

After getting my period on a recent trip to Karachi, I found myself in a pickle. I had exhausted my limited supply of sanitary pads and had a difficult decision to make: would I ask someone else to buy them for me, or would I go to the store myself? I chose the latter, (a) because I am picky, and (b) I didn’t want the household to go up in flames. I’m glad I went myself though because it really was a unique sociological experience.

I entered our local store, like I have countless times before, and immediately made my way to the upper floor. More concealed, I thought. There are usually a few women working upstairs during the day. Despite being tasked with trying to sling overpriced imported Cerave products, they are otherwise pretty helpful. Seeing as that I got to the store late in the evening, all the female shopkeepers had left, leaving me with the dreaded task of asking a man where the “women’s section” was.

He shyly pointed to the far end of the floor, making it the part of the store farthest from the entrance. I made my way to the women’s section, a modest corner covering everything you’d need from courtship to postpartum. Though I initially found the level of secrecy surrounding this section of the store strange, I soon found solace in the seclusion. I relished in the dignity of deciding what I needed to buy in the absence of prying male eyes.

What I didn’t expect was the mountain of brown paper bags stacked in the corner. You see, when you buy pads in Pakistan, you put them in a brown paper bag the same way you would a croissant in the baked goods aisle of a grocery store. I’m accustomed to the practice at this point, but was still taken aback by the brown heap stacked several inches high.

the women's section of a Pakistani grocery store, brown bags included

There were two kinds of bags available, regular and large, depending on the size of your maxi pad pack. Initially, I was intent on buying a large pack—more economical, and it would spare me from putting myself through this inconvenient, yet admittedly entertaining, ordeal again. But then I’d have to walk out of the store clutching a brown bag the size of a pack of diapers. And my ego wasn’t quite ready for that.

I opted for a regular pack instead, but the question remained which regular sized pack. Over the past year, I’ve tried to make more of an effort to go local, especially when I’m in Pakistan. I decided to go with a local brand that claims to make Pakistan’s most comfortable sanitary pad. Plus, I liked the branding—it looks like they’re trying to market themselves as the pad brand for Pakistani women, which I think is pretty cool.

example of an up-and-coming Pakistani pad brand

It makes me wonder if brands will lead the way in the movement to normalize menstruation. For as long as I remember, they have been; even as a child I remember seeing ads by Always Pakistan that were period positive. I’d like to believe we’re getting better at reducing the stigma, but I don’t think we’re ever going to get to where we need to be.

And I can’t help but find this strange. We’re a culture that’s obsesses over pregnancy but neglects the process that makes it possible.

I know I don’t have to put my pads in a brown bag, but I do it because of social norms. Then again, aren’t brown bags more of a glaring indicator you’re on your period? Perhaps there’s no winning, but I would like to see the day when stores don’t have brown bags for us to put our pads in.

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