PLANNED BY MEN, FORCED ON WOMEN
- Madhukar Dama
- 3 days ago
- 7 min read
INTRODUCTION: A MASTERPLAN WITHOUT CONSULTATION
In India, the roles that women are expected to play — from birth to death — were never decided by women themselves.
They were designed, normalized, glorified, and imposed by men, over centuries, through rituals, religion, culture, and fear.
This is not tradition. This is submission dressed as culture.
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1. THE DOMESTIC CAGE: NOT A HOME, BUT A CONTRACT
Indian women are not homemakers. They are live-in service providers without wages, weekends, or retirement.
Cleaning, cooking, caregiving, emotional support, celebration management, sexual availability, and even compliance with in-laws — are all duties forced upon them, then repackaged as "love" or "tradition."
Men may help occasionally, but the system ensures that the full responsibility always remains hers.
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2. BIRTH TO MARRIAGE: TRAINING FOR SLAVERY
From childhood, girls are trained to become emotionally agreeable, physically modest, and mentally self-erasing.
Don’t speak loudly.
Don’t argue.
Learn to cook.
Adjust with everyone.
Think about marriage.
Don’t shame the family.
Even their education is not for independence, but to become a better match in the arranged marriage market.
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3. THE MARRIAGE TRAP: CONTRACTUAL IMPRISONMENT
Marriage in India is not a partnership. It’s a handover.
A girl is transferred like a liability from one man’s house (father) to another (husband), with no clarity, no choice, and no protection.
Her value is now judged by how well she manages:
The husband's family’s expectations.
Pregnancy timelines.
Kitchen duties.
Social rituals.
Her own desires? Not relevant.
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4. EMOTIONAL AND SEXUAL SERVITUDE
A woman is expected to be:
Soft, no matter how badly she’s treated.
Available, even if she is tired or unwell.
Smiling, even while suffering silently.
If she resists, she is called "moody," "arrogant," "westernized," or "characterless."
Her pain is dismissed, and her silence is rewarded with social approval.
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5. INVISIBLE WORK, NO RECOGNITION
Women manage 90% of daily life tasks — from cooking and cleaning to remembering birthdays and refilling groceries.
But it’s all free labor.
No salary.
No promotion.
No thanks.
It’s expected. If she forgets one thing, she is told, "You had only one job."
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6. THE SOCIAL CREDIT PRISON
In India, a man can succeed and fail as an individual.
A woman can’t. Everything she does becomes a reflection of her upbringing, family honor, and marital loyalty.
If a child misbehaves — blame the mother.
If a husband cheats — blame the wife.
If in-laws are unhappy — blame her attitude.
Even if she dies — blame her silence.
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7. THE NO-WIN CONDITION
There is no path to freedom:
If she stays at home — she’s called useless.
If she works — she’s blamed for neglecting family.
If she remains single — she’s labelled cursed.
If she’s widowed — she’s erased from life.
Whatever she chooses, she is still expected to serve.
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8. THE MEN’S ESCAPE CLAUSE
Indian men, meanwhile, enjoy:
Minimal domestic duty.
Emotional entitlement.
Legal protection in patriarchy.
Cultural permission to be incompetent at home.
When men “help” at home, it’s praised.
When women do it all, it’s taken for granted.
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9. WOMEN POLICING WOMEN: THE SECOND LINE OF CONTROL
Mothers-in-law, elder women, and even friends often enforce these same patriarchal rules.
But they are not the planners — they are prisoners promoted to wardens.
They were forced into these roles, and now they force others — continuing the cycle.
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10. THE HEALING BEGINS WITH REFUSAL
This system will not collapse with debates. It will collapse when women:
Refuse to carry guilt for choosing themselves.
Refuse to be exploited in the name of tradition.
Refuse to raise sons who expect to be served.
Refuse to normalize the burden.
Healing begins when women withdraw from forced roles — and demand that men co-own the life they benefit from.
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CONCLUSION: TRADITION ISN’T ALWAYS WISDOM
What we call “Indian values” is often a list of unpaid services that benefit men.
And what we call “family” is often a group of people who rely on a woman’s silence to function.
Until we admit that this system was planned by men and forced on women, there will be no justice — only decorated slavery.
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HEALING DIALOGUE
Here is a healing dialogue based on the essay “Planned by Men, Forced on Women”, featuring Madhukar the Healer and a three-generation Indian family of women — each silently burdened in different ways:
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Characters:
Madhukar – A former scientist turned healer, living off-grid with his wife and daughters
Kamala (68) – Grandmother, widowed, lived a life of full obedience
Meena (42) – Daughter-in-law, housewife, exhausted but ashamed to complain
Ruchi (20) – College student, confused between duty and freedom
Arun (45) – Kamala’s son and Meena’s husband, a government employee
Neha (16) – Ruchi’s younger sister, observant but quiet
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Scene: A small clearing near Madhukar’s forest home. The women are sitting on a mat, while Arun stands nearby, arms crossed.
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Madhukar (gently):
Welcome. Tell me, who asked for this meeting?
Ruchi (softly):
I did… I saw Amma crying alone last night. And Paati cries too. And I don’t know what I’m becoming.
Madhukar:
Crying is not weakness. It’s the body leaking truths it’s not allowed to speak.
Kamala:
We have no reason to complain. We are women. We must adjust. That is our dharma.
Madhukar (nods):
You said “must.” Who decided that?
Kamala (pauses):
Our elders... our husbands... God?
Madhukar:
You lived for sixty-eight years. Were any of those years your own?
Kamala (eyes fill):
No. But I thought that's how it's supposed to be.
Meena:
That’s what I thought too. I serve everyone. I never sit. I’m always tired. But if I rest, I feel guilty.
Madhukar:
You were never born to be a robot in a kitchen. You were not born to keep score of everyone's needs. You were born to be alive. Has anyone asked you what you want?
Meena (lowers eyes):
No. Not even me.
Ruchi:
I don't want to end up like them, but I don’t want to be called selfish either. People say I must marry soon, before I get “too independent.”
Madhukar (leans forward):
Ruchi, the system has taught you that independence in women is dangerous. Do you know why?
Ruchi:
Because then women won’t serve.
Madhukar:
Exactly. And when women stop serving blindly, the whole pretend-family model collapses. That's why guilt is the leash.
Neha (quietly):
Then… what’s real love?
Madhukar:
Real love is not sacrifice. Real love is freedom with responsibility, not slavery with fear. When a woman is free to say no, and still chooses to care — that is love.
Arun (defensive):
But I work all day. I earn. I don’t stop them from doing anything.
Madhukar (calmly):
That’s the trap. You don’t need to say "stop." The whole system does it for you. You just need to not question it. And it keeps rewarding you. Tell me, Arun — when was the last time you cooked a meal, washed a cloth, packed a tiffin, or listened without interrupting?
Arun (silent):
I… I don’t know.
Madhukar:
Because the plan was made for your comfort, not theirs.
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A long silence. Birds chirp. Kamala begins to cry, this time without shame. Meena holds her hand. Ruchi looks up at the sky.
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Madhukar (softly):
Let the old roles burn. Build new ones, together. You don’t have to fight. Just stop cooperating with your own suffocation.
Kamala (whispers):
Maybe it’s not too late to live a little.
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Follow-Up – 12 Months Later
Kamala starts a storytelling circle for widows in her village.
Meena begins to paint again and shares chores with Arun, who now cooks twice a week.
Ruchi refuses all arranged marriage proposals and studies village governance.
Neha writes poems titled “What Amma Never Said.”
They didn’t burn the house.
They just stopped being its unpaid workers.
And suddenly, the walls began to fall.
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"She Was Never Asked, Only Assigned"
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they said she was born a blessing
but the minute she could walk,
she was carrying somebody else’s slippers.
they called her “goddess”
then chained her to the kitchen
like a cow dressed in silk.
she wiped her father's sweat
then her husband’s shoes
and later, her son’s tantrums
with the same exhausted palms
that never once held her own dream.
they called it sanskaar
she called it slow death.
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she made ten thousand cups of tea
for guests who never knew her name.
she fasted for her husband’s life
while he drank for her death.
they gave her sindoor,
but no room.
they gave her bangles,
but no voice.
they gave her safety,
but locked all the exits.
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the mothers trained the daughters
to serve the same gods
that broke them.
“a good wife eats last.”
“a good woman speaks soft.”
“a good daughter never says no.”
the family was a theatre.
and she was the backstage worker
sweating in the dark
while the men took a bow under the lights.
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when she cried,
they told her she’s too emotional.
when she shouted,
they said she’s not feminine.
when she left,
they called her mad.
when she stayed,
they gave her another child to raise
and another funeral to manage.
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she buried her music.
she choked on her art.
she laughed on cue,
but forgot the taste of her own laughter.
every year, another sari.
every festival, another load.
every silence, deeper than the last.
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but one day,
she dropped the ladle.
left the clothes wet.
sat in the courtyard
without folding her legs.
the family gasped.
the gods looked confused.
the earth did not crack open.
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that night,
she fed herself first.
and it tasted like revolution.
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