This piece is a deeply personal reflection on caste-shaped masculinity, silence in families, grief, and the long journey toward empathy and equality.
I hope it opens conversations — especially among men.
I did not grow up hearing academic terms like gender, patriarchy, or hegemonic masculinity. But I grew up breathing them. In the small towns and villages of eastern Uttar Pradesh, masculinity was not a concept to be discussed; it was a script handed down silently, generation after generation. It told boys what to do, how to feel, and whom to become.
My education took place entirely in boys-only institutions. The absence of girls was not incidental — it shaped my worldview. Girls were not classmates or collaborators. They were distant, imagined figures shaped by patriarchal warnings and caste-coded expectations.
Masculinity meant dominance without question, emotional silence as virtue, and an entitlement to space granted by caste.
It took me decades to understand that the masculinity I inherited was not just personal — it was political.
When a Childhood Memory Became a National Conversation
In 2014, when Aamir Khan invited me to speak on the final episode of Satyamev Jayate, the platform offered something rare: the chance to connect private pain with public truth. As the episode spotlighted gender violence and male socialization, I spoke for the first time about a memory that had shaped me since childhood.
A Dalit boy, barely fourteen, was beaten for wearing slippers near an upper-caste household. His dignity was labelled disobedience.His presence was treated as provocation.
I saw how caste punishes masculinity differently. Upper-caste boys like me were encouraged to speak with confidence. Dalit boys were punished for the same. Their vulnerability was dismissed; their assertiveness was criminalised.
On national television, I said what I had never said before:
“My masculinity was shaped by caste and silence. I learned superiority before I learned empathy.”
The response was overwhelming. Men across India reached out — ashamed, relieved, emotional — admitting that they, too, had been raised with scripts that harmed them and harmed others.
Masculinity’s Hidden Curriculum: Silence, Fear, Loneliness
The boys I grew up with had an emotional vocabulary limited to four expressions: anger, teasing, bravado, and silence. Crying was weakness. Asking for help was shameful. Tenderness was unmanly. The absence of co-education amplified our ignorance — not just of women, but of our own emotional selves.
Social media has since made the burden heavier. Boys now perform toughness online, cultivating personas that hide insecurity behind humour and aggression. Vulnerability still has no safe home.
What we call “strength” is often suffering without language.
Unlearning the Inheritance
Activism became my second education — the one that taught me to unlearn the first.
Working in villages, bastis, and conflict zones of Uttar Pradesh, I met:
1. fathers who believed unemployment made them failures as men
2. boys who thought dominance was the only path to dignity
3. men who had never heard, even once in their lives, “It is okay to be afraid”
I learned that masculinity harms men too — but unequally. Caste decides the burden, class decides the cost, patriarchy decides the script.
To grow, I had to unlearn early lessons:
A. that crying is weakness
B.that leadership belongs to upper castes
C.that control is masculine and care is feminine
D.that earning defines worth
True masculinity, I realised, requires emotional honesty — not dominance.
A Family’s Story: Struggle, Silence, and the Fight for Justice
If masculinity shaped my early identity, family history shaped my moral compass.
In 2002, my mother drafted a will that omitted Shruti and me, while placing my brother Stalin at the centre of my father’s expectations. Stalin’s daughter too was left out — a silence that carried consequences for decades.
Stalin’s untimely passing marked a turning point. In 1997, my father stood with Justice M.N. Venkatachaliah and Justice V.S. Malimath at the inauguration of a human rights office built in Stalin’s memory. That building symbolised both grief and commitment — a refusal to let tragedy end in silence.
In 1994, I myself was evicted from my home — a moment that pushed me deeper into activism. In 1998, while I was in Manila fighting global child labour, Kabir was born at home — a moment of joy shadowed by another family crisis.
In 2007, after I received the Gwangju Human Rights Award, we built a modest house worth eight lakh rupees, registered under my mother’s name. Separate electricity meters were installed. Yet the 2002 will continued to distort truths, creating fractures that shaped family relationships for years.
My Mother’s Final Battle: Love That Outlived Illness
My mother’s struggles during the COVID-19 pandemic broke something in me. I arranged oxygen support, donated ₹2 lakh for her care, and prayed at the Dhoomavati and Batuk Bhairav temples. But one afternoon at Shubham Hospital, the call I feared came.
“Please come and sign the papers.”
By the time I arrived, she had already left us.
Why must I sign as she departed?
This question still lives inside me.
Her last learning in hospital to me remain a final gift — filled with insight, warnings, love, and her understanding of ideological tensions within the family. They guide me still.
The Turbulence of Loss: Kanad, My Mother, and the Unfinished Questions of a Family
Kanad’s death remains one of the most painful chapters of my life. Despite his personal struggles, he was someone who spoke passionately against the idea of suicide. My mother recognised his vulnerabilities and, in her final will, increased his share of the property in the hope that it might support a renewed beginning for him.
Yet, according to her wishes, the rights to sell the property were reserved for the second generation—another layer of complexity in our family’s long and emotionally charged history.
My father continued to support Kanad through his pension, showing how affection can persist even through conflict. One of my most cherished memories came in 2015, when my parents and Kanad boarded a flight for the very first time.
They were travelling to Mumbai, and I accompanied them to the airport to assist them until they stepped aboard the aircraft. The joy on my mother’s face that day remains one of the most meaningful investments of my life.
A Family Strained: My Perspective on the Years That Followed
In the years that followed, our family experienced serious internal stress. From my perspective, both my father and Kanad’s wife behaved in ways that caused emotional strain for my mother.
Although my mother and all my brothers supported Kanad’s marriage—conducted in 2021 exactly according to his wishes—I later came to believe that my mother was not receiving the level of care, respect, or nutrition she required within their household.
My mother was already a chronic patient, long suffering from diabetes and asthma. In my understanding, from January 2022 onward, Kanad, his wife, and my father assumed full control over her treatment and medical decisions. I feared that inadequate nutrition and insufficient care during this period contributed to the worsening of her condition.
During one of her final hospitalisations at Shubham Hospital, my mother confided in me—her voice heavy with fear—that she believed there were conspiracies and intentional actions contributing to her deteriorating health.
Her words during that vulnerable moment left a deep emotional impact on me. They raised serious concerns in my mind about the environment she was living in and the circumstances surrounding her care.Tragically, she passed away later in 2022.
The Will That Deepened the Divide
After her death, her will was opened. It included a clause stating that her major property must not be sold for up to three generations. This clause immediately created friction—particularly because, in my understanding, Kanad and his wife strongly wished to sell the property.
What followed were months of pressure, disputes, and heightened tensions within the family. From my perspective, Kanad was placed under immense emotional strain over these matters.
In 2023, under the weight of these pressures and conflicts—especially, in my view, the stress related to the property and the influence of his wife—Kanad tragically died by suicide.
His loss shattered what remained of the emotional equilibrium in our family.
Aftermath: Conflict, Allegations, and the Question of Justice
In the period following Kanad’s death, I have perceived actions and behaviour from Kanad’s wife and my father that appear intended to challenge, undermine, or restrict my and my brothers’ rights regarding my mother’s property. Kanad’s wife has made false allegations against us, attempting to draw us into unwarranted legal or criminal disputes.
These developments have caused profound emotional hardship. They have deepened my concerns about fairness, about truthfulness, and about whether my mother’s intentions—as clearly expressed in her will—are being honoured.
The unresolved questions surrounding my mother’s final years, the pressure on Kanad, and the conflicts that erupted after their deaths continue to weigh heavily on me. They form a part of a larger journey—a journey marked by struggle, grief, and an ongoing search for dignity and justice within the family that shaped my life.
What This Story Teaches Us
Our family’s journey is a mirror to many Indian families — full of love, struggle, silence, expectations, caste, patriarchy, and resilience.
The lessons are universal:
1.Families break when silence grows louder than truth.
2.Unity is not inherited — it is chosen.
3.Masculinity becomes humane only when men embrace vulnerability.
4.Justice inside the home is as important as justice in society.
A New Masculinity for a New India
If India must redefine mardangi, let it begin here:
A. Boys must be allowed to cry without shame.
B. Men must be allowed to fail without losing dignity.
C. Caste hierarchy must not dictate whose masculinity is celebrated or punished.
D. Tenderness must become a masculine value, not a deviation.
E. Emotional honesty must replace silence as the default language of men.
The bravest masculinity is the courage to be human.
That is the masculinity I choose.
That is the masculinity India deserves.
That is the masculinity that can transform us.
The featured image is for representation purposes only. Image Credit: Free Stock Photos, Canva
