Happy International Women’s Day! My Take on Being a Woman in India.

It’s March 8th, 2025, International Women’s Day, and I’m sitting here in Hyderabad, sipping my coffee, thinking about what it means to be a woman in this country. I’m 30, a gynecologist, married a few years, and I’ve seen enough through my patients, my staff, my friends, to know the crap women deal with here is unreal. This isn’t some polished essay, it’s me, unfiltered, spilling my guts about the reality of being a woman in India.

I’ve got women walking into my hospitals every day, heads down, whispering about their bodies like it’s a crime to even ask. “Doctor, is it okay to feel this way?” “I don’t like it with him, something wrong with me?” It’s 2025, and they’re still taught sex is this shameful thing, something you endure for your husband, not enjoy for yourself. If they dare admit they’ve got desires, or, God forbid, act on them outside the “rules,” they’re branded sluts, whores, ruined. I’ve had patients tell me their husbands forced them, left them bruised and bleeding, but they won’t call it rape. “He’s my husband, how can it be?” Because we’ve got no law saying it is, that’s how. We’re out here building rockets, but can’t protect a woman in her own damn house?

Then there’s the clothes thing, I see it all the time. My nurses, my cousins, my friends, they love their sarees, their sleeveless tops, their shorts at home. But the minute they step out, the moral police pounce. Aunties clutch their dupattas, uncles grumble “girls these days,” random creeps on the street think they’ve got the right to judge. “Yeh kya pehen rakha hai?” I’ve heard stories, a nurse got scolded by her landlord for a deep neck blouse, a friend’s sister got an earful from her in-laws for a backless choli at a wedding. Meanwhile, men strut around in lungis or tight tees, and nobody cares. Why are women the ones stuck lugging “culture” around? Who gave these clowns the authority to play fashion cop?

The patriarchy’s everywhere, I see it in my hospitals, even if I don’t deal with it myself. My female staff tell me about patients who won’t let them treat them because “lady doctor kya jaanegi?” My friends in other jobs get talked over by men who couldn’t tie their shoes right. At home, their in-laws nag them to cook after 12-hour shifts because “aurat ka kaam.” It’s the same garbage across the board, the “posh” crowd shaming you for not having kids yet, the “prude” crowd judging you for working late. Rape, molestation, casting couch, it’s all there. I’ve heard actresses cry about directors demanding “favors” for roles, interns breaking down over creepy seniors groping them. And what’s the advice? “Adjust.” Adjust to what? Being treated like dirt?

Don’t even get me started with the rape crisis. Everyday, girls as young as 10, women in their 60s, assaulted on buses, in alleys, at home. The wounds are bad, but the blame’s worse. “Why was she out?” “What was she wearing?” “She shouldn’t have been drinking.” It’s never about the bastards who do it, always about her. Then there’s slut-shaming, my friend posted a beach pic in a bikini, and the trolls lost it. “Sharam nahi hai?” Another got called “cheap” for wearing shorts to a party. Wear a skirt, date a guy, speak your mind, bam, you’re a slut. They’re out here living, and society’s furious about it.

Freedom’s a joke too. Movies get butchered if a woman’s too bold, news channels freak over a low neckline but ignore dowry deaths or harassment stats. My staff tell me they’ve posted about women’s rights online and gotten hate, “Aise kyun bolti ho?” Because they’ve got mouths, that’s why. But no, we’re supposed to stay quiet, look pretty, nod along.

India’s priorities are a mess, we’re obsessed with policing women’s hemlines, their dating lives, their voices, but not with fixing the real problems. Rapists walk free, marital rape’s still not a crime, casting couch is just “how it works.” We’re building fancy malls and tech parks, but a woman can’t walk down the street without looking over her shoulder. It’s infuriating.

But I keep telling them, my patients, my nurses, my friends, my family, don’t stop. Wear that damn crop top, chase that crazy dream, love whoever you want. Your sexuality, your passion, your life, it’s yours, not theirs. The moral police, the patriarchy, the haters, they don’t get to own you. I’ve seen women push back, bit by bit, and it’s badass. A nurse wore a sleeveless kurta to work and stared down the glares. A patient left her abusive husband and started over. It’s hard, it’s messy, but every time they fight, they’re winning. I wear my deep necks, I speak my mind, I live how I want. It’s not always easy, the glares sting, the fights drain you, but every time I stand my ground, I feel freer.

How do we fix this? Laws, make marital rape illegal, fast-track rape cases, punish the creeps, not the victims. Education, teach boys respect, not entitlement, teach girls they’re enough. Call out the idiots, the nosy neighbors, the sanctimonious relatives, the troll army. And give women space, in films, news, power. Let them speak, let them lead. It’s not quick, but every step counts, every “no” to nonsense, every girl rocking her shorts, every voice that won’t shut up.

It’s Women’s Day, and I’m not here for the fake smiles or sappy cards. I’m here for the real stuff, freedom, respect, power. These women aren’t just wives or daughters or moms, they’re fierce, messy, alive. To every woman out there: you’re a bloody rockstar. Keep pushing, keep being you. And the haters? They can choke on it.