In Indian Hospitals and Homes, Patriarchy Still Wears A White Coat

I remember a monsoon day on a crowded bus—the scent of wet earth mingling with the presence of unfamiliar bodies. I was too young to understand the strange shape beneath a man’s lungi. I thought it was an umbrella. But now, I know. That moment, confused, silent, was my first lesson in the unspoken language of shame that women in India are taught to speak fluently. A language heard beneath fluorescent lights, where patriarchy wears scrubs, and nudges often masquerade as advice—like when a surgeon casually mentioned that women shouldn’t pursue surgery. Not because we lacked skill or intellect, but because, in his words, “It’s a demanding speciality. Better to pick something more… manageable.” 

Gendered Anatomy of Power in Indian Womanhood 

He didn’t say it outright, but the implication was clear: more manageable for a woman. For someone who, presumably, would soon have a husband, a child, a kitchen, and a compromise waiting at home. 

Because in India, a woman’s career is a subplot. The main story? Marriage. Motherhood. Moderation. 

These comments aren’t just outdated—they’re dangerous. And they persist. We’re still asked if we can cook, as if simmering dal is somehow a prerequisite for credibility. With all due respect, sir, a woman is more than the domestic duties you reduce her to. 

And this bias doesn’t always shout. Sometimes, it whispers. It’s in the idea that gets overlooked until a man repeats it. The assertive tone that becomes “difficult.” The calm protest dismissed as “too emotional.” It’s in the quiet rejections women absorb before even speaking. 

As a young woman in medicine, every morning I step into a system that was never built for me—but for men who had wives to handle everything else. My competence is measured not just by my skill, but by how well I can balance on a tightrope: driven but not too ambitious. Polite, but not assertive. Presentable, but never provocative. 

Outside hospital walls, sexism shifts faces but never disappears. There’s the accidental brush in a crowded lane. The arrogant man mansplaining period pain like he’s the expert. The smirking disbelief: “Wait… you actually know how to drive?” 

And when we call these out, we’re told, “Relax, it’s just a joke.” No apology. No accountability. Just the expectation that we’ll laugh along—because apparently, sexism is hilarious.

This isn’t about being angry feminists in crop tops. This is about basic rights—autonomy over our bodies; the right to safety, to justice, to dignity; and equal pay for equal work. It’s about the way domestic violence is still downplayed. About how marital rape remains uncriminalised in Indian law. It’s about how a woman's pain is dismissed or misdiagnosed in clinics across the country. It's about the lines we rehearse daily: “I’m not interested.” “I have a boyfriend.” “Please stop,” hoping we’ll never have to use them. It’s about being expected to raise sons who respect women while simultaneously teaching daughters how to protect themselves from them.  

So yes, we carry pepper spray. We learn self-defence. We share our live locations, limit our clothing, and calculate risk in every commute. Because we were taught to measure freedom in inches of fabric and minutes past sunset—to avoid “inviting trouble.” 

I cut short night outs—not by choice but by necessity. I dread the twenty missed calls from my dad—calls he wouldn’t have made if I were his son. 

So, dear men: please stop making it harder than it already is. 

This isn’t hatred. It’s a mirror. Held up to those who mistake kindness for consent. To those who hear “no” as a dare. To those who defend the perpetrator with, “He was drunk”—as though alcohol absolves assault. 

Dear men, you are not entitled to us. We are not your muses, maids, or baby-making machines. You cannot grope us on dance floors, ogle us in public, or degrade us behind the veils of ‘locker-room talk.’ And if it takes imagining your mother or sister in our place just to evoke some semblance of empathy—then the problem runs deeper than you know. 

Every woman I know has a story that may differ, but rhymes in familiar ways. For a moment she flinched. A rage she swallowed. A laugh she buried. 

This essay is mine, but it could just as easily be hers. Or yours. And yet, we’re told feminism has served its time. 

We’re not asking for the world. We’re asking for space in it. We’re not angry because we want too much. We’re angry because we’ve accepted too little for too long.

The gendered anatomy of power isn’t something you’ll find in medical textbooks. But we see it. 

We feel it. We fight it—every single day. The world wasn’t built for us. But we are rebuilding it—cut by cut, stitch by stitch, word by un-silenced word. And this time, we are not going back to silence.

Saachi Shetty is a final-year medical student and writer whose work often explores the intersection of culture, inequity, and womanhood, drawing from personal experiences in medicine and society. You can find her on Instagram as @thesaachii.