“Harass? itna bada shabd? Dekh hi toh raha tha.”

Translation: “You are using such a big word when he was just looking?”

That’s what Maa said to me when I was twelve, naive and scared, and in a tone I had grown used to: dismissive. She was amused by this language coming from her young daughter, whose maturing she was already cautious of.

We were walking through the narrow public lane behind our house, which was crowded and still not safe, when it happened.

The look that lingers, strips, and somehow remains socially invisible. There is a particular brand of protectiveness that comes with Indian motherhood.
Limited awareness, strict precautions, and the constant need to appear as if you are parenting *right* (if that is even a real thing).
Naturally, my addressing street harassment in my vocabulary was not desirable.

My mother did not victim-blame; rather, she believed there was no victim. Not in public spaces, not in passing touches, not when the “looking” did not leave bruises.

On my thirteenth birthday, my cousins gifted me a crop top that stopped just short of my chest. My mother pulled me aside and asked what I would do if someone touched the exposed skin on my back in passing. I was stunned. Speechless. Unsure what horrified me more: the possibility of the incident, or the audacity of that question.

We’re always told to consider the care our mothers’ sharp words stem from, the fear she holds as a woman, the human she is before the superhero society places on a pedestal.

But can I forgive you for the bitterness just because it’s your first time living, Maa? Will I truly understand you one day, like you always say? Do I even want to find an excuse to justify your actions?

“My mother’s fear was not just of men’s eyes, but of what people like us were allowed to complain about. We make mistakes because we were raised by people who made them too. And we will raise people who will continue to do the same.”

The truth is, I don’t want to be perceived by anyone the way I have perceived you at times. I know you love me–perhaps more than life itself-but if this is what your love feels like, then I am more scared of you than you are for me.

I am not trying to paint my mother as a villain. I do not expect flawless parenting– to err is human–but it is only right to call her out for what she got wrong. For the moments and words that have silently sculpted the way I view the world.

We were not rich. Respectability and safety were stitched into affordability, what we wore, how we walked, and where we were allowed to speak up. My mother’s fear was not just of men’s eyes, but of what people like us were allowed to complain about. We make mistakes because we were raised by people who made them too. And we will raise people who will continue to do the same.

But what is dangerous is that the excuses we make for someone who hurt us are often the same ones we use for harassers, abusers and, too often, rapists. People who have never been told it is wrong. People who have never had to control themselves. People who have never stood in a room with a parent warning them about their own body. People who have never rejected clothing because of a fear that shouldn’t exist.

I am sure there were times my mother, too, was embarrassed to use that “big word.” And I’m even more sure it wasn’t just her. It is time to call it what it is. It’s time to name the fear. It’s time to be more than a victim, to be a changemaker. Because every voice makes an impact. Even a high-pitched, twelve-year-old one. Because it is not the voice that should be embarrassed, but the hand trying to silence it.

My mother is not perfect. She still stumbles over my words. But this past year, I saw her ask if she could borrow a crop top from my closet. I like to think of this phase as her healing and not mine.
Because I know she has been through sharp words, too. I know she does not know where to place this generational grief. I know she cannot help but pass it on. And I know she wants to do a good job.

But I also know that she is borrowing change from me. And I know it matters to be gentle. Because the perception of mothers in our family ends here, with me.

It would be hypocritical to speak of changing society without mentioning a changed person, and I am only speaking because I have seen it happen.

Maa tries to be less dismissive. She chooses to listen. To agree even if she is scared.

And that is all that matters.

itna bada shabd

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