Has a book made you angry, uncomfortable, annoyed and sad at the same time? Good Indian Daughter by Ruhi Lee is one of those books. I’m going to try and articulate my feelings on it as best as I can. Because honestly, I had many conflicting thoughts and emotions while reading it.
Before going on to the book, let me put forth a few things.
I grew up in a small town in the northeast of India, not in one of the big cities. But still, my sister and I were given the freedom to dream, to expand our wings. Our parents never told us that our singular purpose in life is to get married and have children. Neither were we stopped from having friends of the opposite sex. I never spent time learning how to cook food in the kitchen on account of my gender. Anytime someone so much as even thought to abuse us in any way, our parents made sure that they heard, believed and loved us more than on any ordinary day. Also, they didn’t let the person walk all over them or even us. They never made us feel that our relatives were more important than us. We could eat what we wanted. We had the freedom to make plans with our friends, talk to them over the phone without being snooped upon and eat anything we liked even if our parents didn’t eat that. When I was pregnant, my mom didn’t ask me to do things her way. She told me nobody knows more than my gynaecologist. So, when I read Ruhi’s story, I felt really bad for her.
I felt horrible that she wasn’t allowed to assimilate the culture she was growing up in. For someone who was never laid a finger on by her father, I abhorred what Ruhi’s dad did to her when enraged. I disliked the fact that her feelings were not significant to the two people who were supposed to protect her from every hurt and heal her if the world ended up hurting her anyway. I loathed the fact that her home wasn’t the sanctuary it was for me growing up. She deserved better. She did.
Anytime I’m sad, or I fail, my day always tells me, even today, that don’t worry, I’m there. That is what a kid needs to hear. That is what a daughter needs to hear. Ruhi didn’t have that, which was wrong on so many levels. When she wanted her parents to support her during the family therapy sessions so that they could heal as a unit, she didn’t get that. That was unfair on so many levels. The mental and emotional stress she was subjected to by her feelings not even being acknowledged by her parents made me angry.
But I also felt incensed at the underlying assumption that most Indian families are like hers. Are the only exceptions the few in the cities? That’s not true, surely? I couldn’t understand her parents. They had left India for a brighter future but always used India as an excuse for, what can only be called, a miserable failure to be better parents to their kids. How could any parent not cut out of their life a relative who abused their daughter no matter how close? And weren’t they the ones looking towards a bright future in a western land then why was it so hard for them to adopt what was good there. Why couldn’t they understand the importance of therapy or even boundaries? And why were their shortcomings as individuals brushed in an all-encompassing Indian stroke?
It is very much a patriarchal society, who am I kidding? The difference only is the degree of patriarchy we all live with.
I truly felt bad for Ruhi, I did. But I also felt anguished at the direct or indirect innuendoes towards my country and culture. While I empathised with Ruhi, I felt the generalisation typical of those who have had no connection with India for years, other than few yearly vacations and Bollywood movies. But then suddenly I also realised something else, something very important.
I realised that I was probably upset because the truths were uncomfortable. Truths! There were families where daughters were not allowed to choose their life partners, let alone wear sleeveless dresses. Not that love marriages were easy to bring about with everyone’s consent. I should know the emotional battle one has to wage. Rapes and honour killings were real, not a figment of Ruhi’s imagination. I also remembered many women I worked with who had to follow all traditions no matter how inconvenient just because the elders mandated it. I thought about my colleagues who couldn’t make decisions about their own children without consulting their parents or in-laws. They never even questioned why that was so. I remembered couples who couldn’t have alone time because of being given no privacy by their families. I thought about those who went through the motions of having kids, fasting even when sick, not because they chose to but because their parents wanted them to. There were also those abused by family members and couldn’t say anything about it. Then the emotional blackmail most parents subject their kids to or our general apathy to mental and emotional well-being, which is only now starting to change, that too not fast enough isn’t something I can deny. So, Ruhi was right. She is right.
Being a good Indian Daughter probably means suppressing one’s individuality and voice. Somewhere we all have been hurt in varying degrees while trying to follow that script. As a society, we aren’t perfect and far from it. When it comes to our daughters, we hardly do justice to them. Most of our daughters suffer from the womb till their funeral pyres. I remember when a man stood shoving his crotch towards my face while I was travelling on a bus. I know how men behave during festivals or gatherings. Yes, being a good Indian daughter means living with most of that. It is very much a patriarchal society, who am I kidding? The difference only is the degree of patriarchy we all live with. Also, like Ruhi’s parents, I don’t think most Indian parents are yet open to what we call therapy or mental well-being. So, while Ruhi’s book is a very uncomfortable read, it is a must-read, an uneasy mirror to the Indian Daughter experience.
Most of our daughters suffer from the womb till their funeral pyres. #IndianWomen #Society #Patriarchy #NabaSays Share on X
But having said that, I disliked the silent insinuation that white families have less severe shortcomings. Parents, in general, are adept in emotional blackmail, if I may say so. Skin colour doesn’t change that. Why is their inherent racism a mere inconvenience to their apparent superiority while everything brown automatically becomes an aberration? I think parents from all over the world wield varying degrees of power of emotionally blackmailing their progenies, stunting their mental health that can end up having harmful repercussions. It’s not indigenous to Indian parents. Also, women being abused, raped and harmed is a universal reality, not that it makes what happens in India acceptable, but it is still a worldwide phenomenon. So, while we accept our shortcomings humbly, the rest of the world can’t pass judgement on us from a moral high ground or sit pointing fingers at us from a pedestal.
Ruhi says at the end of her book that she doesn’t mean her experience is homogeneous, but it is probably a majority experience which makes it hard to digest. It’s never easy confronting the bad parts of oneself, isn’t it?
So, my point is, read the Good Indian Daughter because maybe it will help you not make the mistakes most parents make. Maybe those immigrating outside India will let their children grow up to be their own person and not suffocate them trying to hold on to faint reminiscences of the land left long ago. Or, maybe, you will learn that your life decisions are yours, not your parents, and that is not a wrong thing. Also, that it’s better to let go of a toxic relationship, even with parents, for your well-being. And yes, Bollywood is hardly a measuring scale of everything Indian.
And Ruhi, thank you for writing this, making your readers feel so many things, so many important things.
