Where, in Western standards, we have the following:
“Be strong, but not intimidating.”
“Be soft, but not needy.”
“Be sexy, but not slutty.”
“Be confident, but not loud.”
“Be independent, but still let him lead.”
In Indian culture we elevate it to:
“Be strong, but not intimidating.”
Strong enough to lug the 10kg bag of atta in by yourself — your husband might be tired, after all. But don’t look strong in a sari. We like our girls to appear dainty.
I had one aunt who used to hug me just to grope me — a quick squeeze to check if I’d “put on.” Then came the verdict: healthy, which in Aunty(ji)-speak roughly translates to tubby.
That can go either way. Tubby girls are often called homely — and that’s meant as a compliment.
Caveat: only if the girls cover up the girls.
“Be soft, but not needy.”
Soft enough to be manipulated into always putting others first. Do this without any negative reaction, especially anger. But don’t be needy, puth.
If your mother-in-law requires your husband at the weekend, he should be able to go. This will be regardless of the number or ages of your child/ren. Also, any prior commitments.
Especially if the prior commitments involve your family.
You’re ours now — no need for them. We are your family now.
“Be sexy, but not slutty.”
Never be sexy — except in the bedroom, where you must turn it up.
Breed, and keep your husband happy. Don’t carry out any of this affection outside the bedroom. Feel free to chastise your wife in a room full of people. But don’t kiss her, it makes others feel uncomfortable.
If you’re assumed to be slutty, you should know: you are now fair game.
You brought it on yourself.
You will become the conversation.
“Be confident, but not loud.”
Only confident in your cooking ability. And even then, if you get feedback, take it gracefully and try again. Always avert your gaze. Be demure.
Don’t be loud — you’ll embarrass us.
Be social, but not too social. Don’t look too happy or too sad. Dress up, but look conservative.
Blend in. Don’t stand out.
I once wore a baby pink sari — soft colour, barely any embroidery — but the blouse was backless. I looked fucking great.
During the event, my MIL, FIL, and husband took it in turns adjusting my sari palla to cover my back.
I figured they’d get bored eventually, so ignored it.
If anything, they picked up the pace through the night.
I asked them to stop. Said it was making me uncomfortable.
They didn’t. I lost it unfortunately it was during my FIL’s shift.
I asked him what the issue was.
He said my back looked better covered.
I said, “Well, my back doesn’t mind.”
I invited him to look around the room.
“Everyone here’s got a back. They know what one looks like.”
Then my MIL came over oblivious to the growing tension and adjusted it again.
I snapped.
I told them — not angrily, but firmly — that if anyone touched my sari palla again, I’d take off the whole sari.
They stopped.
I miss that girl.
“Be independent, but still let him lead.”
You’re allowed independence — in housework and childcare, if permitted. Your children may be required on order, regardless of their schedule. Aspire to be called homely, that’s considered a compliment.
Let him lead. Let your mother-in-law lead him — blindfold optional.
I was expected to be independent enough to pay equally into my marriage. I married into a modern family — one that didn’t demand a dowry.
Everybody told me how lucky i was.
In my next life, I’ll just pay the fucking dowry.
Our society rewards women for bottling up their own rage, and encouraging others to do the same.
There are so many contradictions.
We don’t talk about divorce. But we do talk about a secret stash. The runaway fund — preparing for betrayal while pretending it could never happen.
“I used to think being the bigger person meant being wise. But on reflection, it just means being the quieter one who swallows the most shit.”
Or get used to the taste of shit.
At its core, toxic femininity is a set of societal norms and expectations that pressure women to conform to limiting, submissive, or self-sacrificing roles. In order to be accepted, loved, or deemed to be “good.”
This is amplified by both women and men in my culture.
The men are the beneficiaries, and some of the women are the enforcers — Aunts, like in The Handmaid’s Tale.
We just have to call them Aunty(ji).
The Aunty(ji) has resources on hand to ensure that sacrifice, honour and duty are accepted as the norm. This is all closely monitored under the What will people say? radar..
This is cleverly disguised as our culture and tradition.
You’re either “normal” (aka a good girl), or “not normal” — and that list is long.
Think peri-menopausal symptom list long.
In Gilead, where the Handmaiden’s Tale is set, the punishment was mainly delivered by women to women. Usually through tactics of shame, and isolation.
These tactics are used in my culture for not conforming. Not only as a lesson for the individual, but also for others to observe what happens when you fall out of line.
You lose the protection of the pack.
The language used by Aunty(jis) is very similar too:
“Adjust.”
“Be the bigger person.”
“Don’t air dirty laundry.”
“Respect elders no matter what.”
“Girls must protect their dignity.”
The idea that the dignity of the family lies at the girls’/women’s feet, and control is the only way to preserve it.
Our Aunty(jis) didn’t need cattle prods.
They had shame, honour, and silence.
I had one such called ‘Aunt’(ji).
I would find her at my MIL’s house all the time, popping in for gap-śap (gossip) and chai.
I was in the kitchen making the chai — and I heard the following conversation.
Her son had married a girl from India; the girl had got married and moved into the family house. As was tradition.
Back story: when I asked this Aunty(ji)’s son about his soon-to-be future wife, he said:
“I don’t know, innit. My mum and dad chose her based on her family. I saw her picture and thought, yeah alright.”
He continued: if it didn’t work out, it wouldn’t be his fault. It would be his parents’. They chose her.
He’d just send the girl back to India.
True love.
Anyway, the Aunty(ji) was complaining about her DIL. She had only been married for about a month at this point.
She said the girl was supposed to be doing housework, and she found her asleep in her room.
She compared her to a lazy maid that got caught not working and needed to be scolded.
“These girls that are coming from India are so lazy now — they’re not even scared.”
Like this was a major setback.
The conversation was between two married women — both of whom had moved to the UK after their own weddings.
They were gossiping about a newly married young woman, calling her a naukar (servant) in her in-laws’ house — and laughing.
In the end, she had the last laugh.
On the day of her getting made paka (the three-year-long game to get her citizenship). She took all her wedding gold and left the house in the dead of night — that very night.
It was good that they underestimated her.
I find a lot of us get more done in that space.
Their narrative?
“She stole from us and then just left. We were so good to her.”
She stole her own wedding jewellery?
I don’t know why it’s this way. Not all of us are like this.
I see myself as Aunty(ji)-age now.
Were they trying to protect us?
Were they like me before? Do they recognise me? Is that why I annoy them so much?
It’s clever, really — this web of rules and whispered warnings.
It eats us from the inside out, quietly hollowing us, while we keep up the show.
You learn to smile, to serve, to stay silent — and somehow, that’s what makes you a “good woman.”
Maybe that’s the trick.
If you’re too tired to rebel, you’re easier to manage.
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