Rashmi Maruvada was born in Kerala into a socially and economically privileged family. She was also born with a visual impairment: an early reality that shaped her everyday life, schooling, and access to dignity. Despite multiple eye surgeries that did not succeed, her parents refused to let her life be defined by pity or lowered expectations. Her mother even completed a special education course so she could support Rashmi’s learning. 

Yet, even with a supportive family, Rashmi grew up facing what so many children with disabilities face: subtle, persistent ableism in schools, in public spaces, and in people’s attitudes. From early childhood, she learned that inclusion is not automatic, and that systems persistently fail to see her needs as valid or distinct.

In her mainstream school, Rashmi encountered routine exclusion disguised as normal. The school toilets were unhygienic and unsafe for any child, but for a visually impaired child, they were especially inaccessible. There were no tactile markers, guiding cues, or support systems. Using the toilet once led to a severe urinary tract infection that required hospitalisation.

After that incident, Rashmi began avoiding the school toilet entirely. She held her bladder through the school day, experiencing pain, fear, and recurring infections. The neglect of basic sanitation needs for children with disabilities took a direct toll on her health and sense of self.

Infrastructure was only part of the problem. The attitudes of her peers compounded her struggles.

One day, after using an unhygienic toilet, she stepped out with a bloodstain unknowingly stuck to her skirt. Her classmates burst into laughter. Instead of comforting her, they mocked her. When her teacher learned of the incident, she scolded Rashmi and even suggested that her mother keep her at home until she was ‘cured’.

When Rashmi began menstruating at age ten, there was no conversation at home or school to prepare her. During one of her cycles, she asked a classmate for a sanitary pad; she was ignored. She spent the rest of the day in discomfort and shame. After that, her mother created a small emergency period kit that Rashmi still carries with her today.

These moments laid bare how gender and disability intersect, turning sanitation and menstruation into sites of vulnerability, silence, and exclusion.

Rashmi acknowledges her privilege. Her family had resources, education, and the willingness to seek support. She often reflects that her journey, painful as it was, would have been far more difficult had she come from a poorer or rural background.

For many girls with disabilities who lack access to healthcare, assistive devices, or supportive families, daily acts like using a toilet or managing periods become far more challenging. This awareness now fuels Rashmi’s commitment to disability inclusion as a matter of social justice, not just personal experience.

Disability-related misunderstandings continued into her college years. In her undergraduate hostel, she was automatically allotted a ground-floor room because it had an “accessible” toilet, even though her needs as a visually impaired person were entirely different.

Rashmi shares, “Being visually impaired does not mean that I need accessible toilets designed for mobility challenges. My needs are different, but they are often not asked for or assessed.”

She pushed back and chose to live with her peers on the top floor, challenging the assumption that all students with disabilities require the same facilities. This “overprotection” was another form of ableism, one that assumed incapacity without asking her what she actually needed.

At the Tata Institute of Social Sciences (TISS), Rashmi experienced a refreshing contrast. Before assigning accommodation, the institute asked her directly about her needs, preferences, and comfort. For the first time, she felt heard. “Real inclusion begins when institutions take the time to listen,” she says.

Rashmi’s experiences show that sanitation is not just about toilets or buildings; it is inseparable from dignity, safety, autonomy, and identity.

She points out that the Rights of Persons with Disabilities Act, 2016, recognises 21 types of disabilities, each with unique needs and experiences. Yet, sanitation services rarely reflect this diversity, especially for women. Most ‘accessible’ toilets are designed only for locomotor disabilities. For visually impaired students, accessibility is often reduced to a Braille signboard—far from adequate for real safety and usability.

Rashmi emphasises that accessibility cannot be achieved through one-size-fits-all approaches. It requires empathy, dialogue, and systems that recognise people as individuals with intersecting needs. Through her training in law and social work with a specialisation in disability studies, she hopes to work toward strengthening the rights and voices of persons with disabilities across public spaces.

Rashmi’s story exposes the everyday ableism embedded in Indian schools and colleges, from inaccessible toilets to insensitive peer behaviour, from menstrual stigma to institutional neglect. Although she came from a privileged background, her struggles reveal how disability, gender, and class intersect to shape access to sanitation, education, and dignity.

Her journey is also a reminder that true inclusion does not come from assumptions or standardised facilities. It comes from listening, understanding lived realities, and building systems that respect diverse needs.

Rashmi continues to advocate for disability rights, working toward a world where every person, irrespective of a disability, can access sanitation, public spaces, and education with dignity.

— Nisha Rani, Programme Coordinator, CREA