She.

If you are born a woman in South Asia, you are born into a cage that looks like home. It’s painted in bright colours, culture, tradition, family honour, but the bars are still bars. And if you dare to rattle them, even gently, they call you ungrateful. They call you shameless.

The first time I learned I was impure was not because I did something wrong, it was because I bled. I was twelve. I went to touch the temple door, and my aunt stopped me like I was holding a knife. She whispered, “Not now. You’re dirty.” Dirty? For bleeding? For being alive? For doing what my body was made to do? And yet, that’s what they tell every girl: your blood makes you unholy.

Marriage? They call it a union of souls. I call it a transaction. A woman here isn’t just marrying a man, she’s marrying his family, his expectations, his entitlement. And the price? Dowry. Yes, it’s illegal, but who cares? Laws here are like thin veils; everyone sees through them, everyone ignores them.

My grandmother didn’t even know what consent meant. She was married off at thirteen to a man more than twice her age. Thirteen. While she was still learning to braid her own hair, she was learning to serve tea to a husband who could have been her father. They called it tradition. I call it violence with a wedding garland around its neck.

My mother was a rule-breaker. She married outside her caste, a love marriage. Brave, right? Not really. She paid for that courage in shame. Her own sister told her, “You’ll never be happy. Women like you never end well.” Imagine that, your crime is loving someone your heart chose, and for that, they make you an example.

And me? I grew up watching this and thinking: maybe I’ll be different. But here’s the truth, nothing really changes. The neighbors still watch you if you come home late. Relatives still talk in hushed tones if you wear red lipstick or laugh too loud. I am still told, “Dress properly. For your safety.” For my safety, or their comfort?

When a man marries, he says, “We’ll stay with my family. I need to take care of them.” Noble, isn’t it? But when a woman says the same, they look at her like she’s broken the universe. They make her feel like she’s selfish for wanting what men claim by default. Apparently, we women are born parentless, our mothers and fathers erased the day we marry.

And God forbid you ask for a separate house. Then you’re the villain of the story. They call you a home-wrecker, a family destroyer. Here’s the irony: a woman who asks for space is destroying the family, but a family that crushes a woman’s spirit is just “keeping traditions alive.”

Here’s the sick part: if a man treats his wife with basic respect, his parents say, “She’s changed our son. She’s done black magic.” No one stops to ask why respecting your wife is seen as a curse.

The worst part? It’s normal. Absolutely normal. So normal that women themselves enforce it. Yes, women enforce this garbage. Women keep these chains tight because someone once tied them too. They don’t fight patriarchy, they become its soldiers. They call it “values.” I call it betrayal.

Here, a woman speaking the truth is “too loud.” A woman wanting freedom is “unsanskaari.” A woman who leaves a toxic marriage is “a slut who couldn’t adjust.” And a woman who chooses herself? She’s the devil.

This is South Asia. And this is the truth:

Women don’t need to be controlled anymore. They do it themselves. They silence themselves. They clip their own wings before anyone else can. And then they make sure their daughters do the same.

So yes, women can speak now. But don’t think that means freedom. We speak, but we still calculate every word: Will anyone marry me after this? Will people call me shameless? Will my family disown me?

This is the reality. And I’m done pretending it’s culture. It’s not culture. It’s control. It’s violence dressed up as tradition. I refuse to carry this silence like an heirloom. I refuse to pass this cage to another girl and call it culture. And if that makes me “too much,” then good. I’d rather be too much than be nothing at all.

Yours,
She.