The first time I skipped my Quran reading class, I was 11.

I stayed inside the room while my brother carried on his poorly-accented Arabic recitations with our Qari sahib. I wasn’t worried about getting in trouble for not attending; my mother had told him I was "sick".

I was nervous about that inevitable awkwardness when Qari sahib saw me walk by towards the kitchen. He nodded in my direction. I wished him salam. He responded and almost immediately lowered his eyes, keeping them firmly affixed on the pages in front of him.

I scurried away, my head bent. He and I both knew that my absence was to be a regular occurrence, for now I had officially succumbed to “it” – that ultimate "demon of impurity".

I had gotten my first period.

Now, at a certain time of the month, I am excused from many practices; I cannot pray on the prayer mat, read the Quran, or fast during Ramazan, or swim, or wear a whiteshalwar qameez unless I want to embarrass myself.