Most people think men are free in India. They are not. They are just unspoken prisoners.
When a boy is born, he is handed a cradle along with a script. Be strong. Be silent. Don’t cry. Win. Earn. Provide. Protect. Don’t feel too much. Don’t ask too much. Don’t break. Don’t rest.
This is the culture and conditioning.
Ancient India had gentler visions of masculinity. Krishna cried openly. Ram doubted himself. Arjun sat in paralysis before war. Shiva is still worshipped for his dance, his rage, his stillness. Our mythology was not built on toxic strength. It was built on tension. On internal battle.
But colonisation changed this. The British needed obedient men, not emotional ones. The factory system needed efficiency, not empathy. The school system needed memorisation, not exploration. And suddenly, the Indian male had to become productive before he could become reflective.
Post-independence, the burden only grew. Nehru’s nation needed engineers. Gandhi’s nation needed sacrifice. The man was now duty. The woman was now honour.
By the 90s, with economic liberalisation, the man became ambition. Salary slips. MBA degrees. Cars on EMI. Foreign trips on credit.
But at no point was he ever allowed to feel.
Tell me, when was the last time a father told his son, “It’s okay to be confused”?
Or a teacher said, “You don’t have to win to matter”?
Or a friend said, “You seem quiet. Let’s talk”?
Instead, we hand them labels. Breadwinner. Protector. Alpha. Boss.
Even love is offered to them with terms and conditions.
“Be strong for me.”
“Don’t show weakness.”
“Be the man.”
So what happens to the boy who breaks?
Who fails?
Who feels more than he can name?
He hides. He jokes. He drinks. He buries himself in work. In gyms. In games. In distractions.
And when that no longer works, he erupts.
You see it in domestic violence. In road rage. In cyber abuse. In lonely, angry men typing hate in comment sections. In fathers who never learned how to say sorry. In husbands who love silently but punish loudly.
Because they were never taught to process. Only to perform.
This is why I worry about Indian masculinity. Not because it is toxic by nature. But because it has been stripped of tenderness.
We have created men who are armoured, not anchored.
And when a generation is raised to believe that strength means silence, it raises another generation afraid of softness.
So yes, I worry.
About the boy who doesn’t know how to cry.
About the man who cannot say he’s scared.
About the father who loves you but only talks in instructions.
Masculinity is not the problem.
The absence of emotional language is.
If we want to heal this country, we must first let our men feel.
Not after the crisis. Not after the breakdown. Not after success.
Now.
Teach them it’s okay to pause.
To ask.
To doubt.
To admit.
Because even steel melts.
And even gods bled.
And until men stop pretending they’re fine,
No one else will be.