Impure, therefore untouchable - even my shadow should be avoided by people. My offence? I menstruate. I get my monthly periods, just like 50 percent of the world's population. It's a sign of fertility and I should be proud of it. But I am made to feel ashamed, made to cringe in the corner lest I cross someone's path.

It hit me while I was covering Wari, the pilgrimage initiated by philosophers in Maharashtra to break caste and class boundaries and unify people. I joined a group of doctors who extended free medical aid to the pilgrims. Instead of breaking any boundaries, I was chained to tradition and divided from all other non-menstruating human beings.

This team of medical practitioners was led by a 20-something botanist "enlightened" by preternatural powers of some spiritual Guru whose name had a 'Maharaj' tagged to it. His team of followers did this 'service to mankind' every year to win some soul-points that would land them in heaven. During Wari, I saw some of them yell at sick pilgrims, even shoe them away. It was all with the approval of their 'spiritual leader'.

Wari was a potpourri of pilgrims from across India belonging to different castes, creeds, religions walking to the same destination. Women were not there just to serve their male counterparts. The work was distributed evenly. If women cooked, men served and vice versa. At night, when everyone sang devotional verses, Sant Janabai's verses were sung with same fervour as Sant Dnyaneshwar's.

Busy catching the spirit of Wari, I made a mistake. I asked one of the women doctors for a tampon when I got my periods.

Suddenly, all women in the group eyed each other and spoke in a hush-hush tone. One of them took me aside and told me to avoid touching all men, especially the leader. "He is the pure one and such an impurity can't touch him. Try to keep away so that even your shadow doesn't touch him," she whispered.

I became a jailbird for next four days. Those four days made me understand what it's like to be an educated Indian woman, condemned to live 21st century life chained by 18th century traditions. Imagine having to sit aside in a 6"x 6" one-room apartment in Mumbai, trying not to cross paths with any of the family members. The woman can't touch food, clothes or people, eat quietly in her corner and wash her clothes, plates and herself very early in the morning, so that she doesn't 'contaminate' it when others need to use it.

The more I asked around, more terrified I was hearing about the inhuman traditions being followed to the T.

Recently there was a furore, when a woman confessed entering the 'forbidden' Sabarimallai shrine in South India. The priest was sacked and newspapers kept on publishing hate mail directed at the woman culprit.

I, too, wrote her a letter. 'Did she realise what a grave mistake it was to be an Indian woman? How could she forget that she wasn't allowed to even wish to worship the God who puts a 'males-only' sign outside his door? How dare she imagine that we Indians have come a long way from the male-dominated ritualistic society and will forgive her for her crime?' I hope she got the message.