Being the younger daughter doesn't always mean being the most protected, the most loved, or the one everyone takes care of.

We’re three sisters, and I grew up noticing things. I learned to do things by myself that I probably shouldn't have had to learn so young. And as you already know, in many desi families, when there are already two daughters, the third child sometimes arrives with one quiet hope hanging over them—maybe this time it'll be a boy.

Unfortunately, I understood that far too young.

Even before I had properly grown up, I remember Maa saying, “Now you guys are grown up, you have to do everything by yourself.”

But Maa, I was ten.

My elder sister was sixteen.

How was I a grown-up?

Maybe everyone was just too busy with my two sisters. And because I was always capable of managing things on my own, nobody thought to worry about me. Now everyone tells me how mature I am, how I'm more mature than my age.

But sometimes I want to ask—did you ever stop and wonder why I had to become this mature?

You didn't worry about me because I always managed somehow.

But Maa, I managed because you weren't there.

And I think that's where some of my anger comes from.

Because eventually, you start feeling unwanted without anyone ever actually saying, “We don't want you.”

Maybe that's the cruelest part.

You can feel unwanted without being abandoned. You can feel neglected while everyone around you genuinely believes they never neglected you. You can sit in the same house, eat at the same table, be surrounded by people who love you, and still feel unbearably lonely.

You can be grateful for everything your family has given you and still be angry about everything they didn't.

And yes, I am angry.

I'm angry about the things I had to understand too young.

I'm angry that I was expected to be mature when I was still a child.

I'm angry that being capable became a reason for people to stop checking whether I needed help.

I'm angry that I had to learn how to need less.

And then there are the words.

Being told by your own parents, as a child, that you're selfish, that you have no heart, that you're a bad person.. it is brutal. You're saying those things to a child who is still learning who she is. No one says those things to me anymore, but the child who heard them never really stopped hearing them.

Everyone saw my anger. Everyone saw my hatred. But did anyone ever ask what made me this way? A child isn't born angry or hateful. Something teaches them to be. And honestly, it's heartbreaking when parents are so busy blaming the child for their anger that the child has to teach them how to parent.

I still remember that traumatized fourteen-year-old me after a fight with Baba, sitting at the study table the entire night without sleeping for days, losing my appetite, repeatedly saying, “I want to leave this house.”

And instead of being understood, I heard even worse things.

I still remember that little girl begging them to understand her.

Just ask me what happened before accusing me.

Just once.

Don't call me names. Don't decide who I am before hearing me.

I remember saying , “Even if I die, you still won't understand me. And even if I die, I will never forget this.”

I was fourteen.

I shouldn't have had to beg to be understood.

Even when I didn't know what mental health problems were, I was already living with feelings I didn't have names for. I just knew I felt lonely, unwanted and exhausted. I felt the most unloved at the age when I needed love the most.

I didn't know what was wrong with me.

I just knew that something inside me hurt, and I desperately wanted someone to notice.

I was rebellious. I had opinions. I questioned things. I fought with baba constantly. And maybe I was difficult sometimes. But somewhere along the way, I started feeling like being difficult and being unloved were the same thing.

I never really felt like I had baba’s love.

And now, when I try to show him affection, it feels strange. Almost foreign. As if my body remembers all the fighting even when my mind wants to forget it.

And maybe that's why I feel jealous when I see girls with loving siblings, or a father who genuinely loves them, protects them, cares about them, and isn't afraid to show it. Idon't hate them for having what I didn't.

I just look at them and wonder what it must feel like to never have to question whether your father loves you. Sometimes I wish I knew that feeling.

Maybe that's what years of hurt do to you.

They make even love feel unfamiliar.

And sometimes my anger doesn't even make sense.

Something tiny happens and suddenly I'm furious.

Someone says something casually and it reminds me of something I thought I'd forgotten.

Someone expects me to understand them and I want to scream, why am I always the one who has to understand?

Why does everyone else's pain get an explanation while mine gets labelled as an attitude?

Why am I “too sensitive” when something hurts me, but “mature” when I silently deal with it?

Why did being able to handle myself become proof that I didn't need anyone?

I don't always have answers. Sometimes I just have anger.

Sometimes I wonder if I'm actually an angry person or if I just have accumulated anger.

Because there is a difference.

An angry person is simply angry.

But accumulated anger has a childhood behind it.

It has years of swallowed words, unanswered questions, disappointments that were never big enough to talk about, and moments where you needed someone to notice you but learned to notice yourself instead.

Maybe younger daughters aren't always angry because they were treated badly.

Maybe sometimes they're angry because they spent too much of their childhood trying to understand everyone else.

Understand Maa.

Understand Baba.

Understand their sisters.

Understand why everyone was tired.

Understand why nobody could be there.

Understand why they had to grow up.

But who was trying to understand them?

That's the question that stayed with me.

Because you can love your family deeply and still feel like nobody ever really saw you.

And there is so much guilt in admitting that.

“How can I be angry? They've done so much for me.”

So you forgive.

And forgive.

And forgive.

Until forgiveness stops feeling like peace and starts feeling like another responsibility.

I know I need therapy.

I know there are things inside me that I can't simply fix by understanding them or writing about them. I want to work through this properly someday. When I start earning and can afford it myself, I will get the help I need.

Until then, I'm trying to understand myself without hating myself for the things I feel.

I don't want to blame my family for everything I am.

I just want to be honest about what it felt like inside me.

Because maybe I wasn't a difficult child.

Maybe I was just a hurt one.

Maybe I wasn't heartless.

Maybe I just learned to protect the heart I was constantly being told I didn't have.

And maybe the angry younger daughter was never asking for too much.

Maybe she just wanted, for once, to be understood without having to beg for it.

Thank you so much for reading this rant till the end🤍

Did the British Really Leave Us?

Okay, hear me out.

Obviously, yes. Before someone starts typing an angry paragraph in the comments, I know India became independent in 1947. I know the British Raj ended. I know we have our own Constitution, our own government, our own elections and our own people running the country.

I'm not talking about that.

I'm talking about something else.

Because the more I read about colonial India, the more I keep coming back to one uncomfortable question: how much has actually changed?

We always talk about how the British ruled us for almost two centuries. How they came here, took control, exploited us, looted us and made policies that benefited them while ordinary Indians suffered. And obviously, yes, all of that happened.

But how did they even manage to rule us in the first place?

Take the Battle of Plassey in 1757. We usually remember it as the battle where the East India Company defeated Siraj-ud-Daulah and began establishing its political power in Bengal. But the British didn't simply arrive and conquer Bengal by themselves. There were already political rivalries and ambitions, and some people within the country were willing to work with the Company because it served their own interests. Mir Jafar's role is probably the most remembered example.

And that makes me think.

The British were looking after their own interests. They wanted power, wealth, resources and control. But they also found people within the country who were willing to help them because they saw something in it for themselves.

Their interests came first. And ordinary people paid the price.

And then came independence.

So why does it still feel like ordinary people have to stand on the streets and fight to be heard?

I'm not saying the British Raj and the Indian government today are the same thing. They absolutely aren't. We have a Constitution, elections, fundamental rights and democratic institutions that colonial India did not have.

But that's exactly why some things bother me.

The people ruling us today are our own people.

And yet, look around.

Students are protesting because their futures are at stake. We've seen protests over examination irregularities, recruitment systems and demands for accountability. The CJP-led protests and Sonam Wangchuk's hunger strike are recent examples of people feeling that they have to take to the streets before those in power will listen.

And I'm a student, so maybe this one hits differently. You spend years studying, sacrifice sleep, spend your family's money and build your future around an examination. Then imagine being told that the system you trusted may not have been fair.

What are you supposed to do?

Just sit quietly and say chalta hai?

Or protest?

Then there are the farmers.. the people who literally feed us. They have repeatedly had to protest over MSP, agricultural policies, debt, land and their livelihoods. We've seen farmers spend months on the streets demanding that the people governing them actually listen.

And somehow, we've become so used to seeing farmers protest that sometimes it barely shocks us anymore.

That's what scares me.

Something can happen so often that we stop being shocked by it.

Then there is something even more basic: safety.

Women weren't safe under colonial rule, and independence did not magically make women safe. Women still face sexual violence, harassment and abuse. And when elected representatives themselves have declared criminal cases involving crimes against women, including rape charges, it becomes even more disturbing. A declared criminal case is not a conviction, obviously, but shouldn't the people making our laws be held to an especially high standard?

We became independent.

So why are people still fighting for things as basic as education, livelihood, land, dignity and safety?

And then there is land.

Acres and acres of land are being given for businesses and large projects while the questions of what happens to the people living there, the forests standing there and the animals depending on those ecosystems often seem to come later—if they come at all.

I'm not against businesses. I'm not against development. Of course a country needs industries, infrastructure and jobs.

But what exactly are we developing if we are destroying the things that keep us alive?

Because it's not just about humans anymore. It's the forests, the rivers, the soil, the animals and the air we breathe.

Our Earth is in danger too. Not just us.

Animals don't have another home. They can't protest. They can't write a petition. They can't stand outside a government office asking us not to destroy their habitat.

We are the ones making these decisions for them.

And then there is the India most of us actually live in.

Broken roads. Potholes. Overflowing drains. Garbage. Poor infrastructure. Basic civic problems that become so normal that people stop expecting them to be fixed.

Sometimes it feels like the India experienced by those in power and the India experienced by ordinary people are two completely different countries.

A pothole isn't just a pothole when you're the person riding through it every morning. A flooded street isn't just a headline when it's your house filling with water.

And that distance matters.

Because when the people making decisions don't have to live with the consequences, how urgently will they want to fix them?

This is also where I think we need to talk about democracy.

Yes, India is a democracy. But democracy isn't just about voting every few years. It also needs a free press, space for dissent, independent institutions and the freedom to question those in power.

When media independence is questioned, journalists face pressure, criticism is treated as disloyalty, or protesters are portrayed as enemies simply for challenging authority, people are bound to question it.

India is not a totalitarian dictatorship. But that doesn't mean we should ignore patterns that remind people of how concentrated power can become dangerous.

We don't have to wait until a democracy becomes something else before we start questioning where it is heading.

Democracy isn't simply the right to choose who rules us. It's also the right to question them after they are elected.

And maybe that's what we sometimes forget.

When students protest, we ask who is behind them instead of asking why they're protesting.

When farmers protest, we question their intentions instead of listening to their demands.

When communities fight for their land, we call it an obstacle to development.

When forests are threatened, we calculate the economic value of a project before thinking about the value of the ecosystem.

And when someone criticizes the government, we sometimes treat it as criticism of the country itself.

Why?

You can love your country and still question your government. You can want development and still ask what it is costing us. You can be proud of India and still be angry about what is happening in India.

That's not hatred for the country. That's caring enough to question it.

Our freedom fighters questioned power. They protested against the government ruling them. They marched, refused to cooperate and demanded change. We celebrate them today because they refused to remain silent.

So why do we become uncomfortable when people protest today?

Why can't we first ask:

What are they asking for?

Maybe the student is genuinely scared about their future. Maybe the farmer is genuinely scared about their livelihood. Maybe the family fighting land acquisition genuinely doesn't want to lose their home. Maybe the person protesting a project genuinely wants to protect a forest. Maybe the woman demanding justice genuinely wants to feel safe.

History isn't supposed to be something we memorize just to pass an exam. It's supposed to make us recognize patterns—not exact repetitions, but patterns of power, greed, division, silence, resistance and complicity.

And maybe that's what bothers me most about the story of Plassey.

The British didn't become powerful in isolation. They found people willing to help them because those people saw something in it for themselves.

Centuries later, the rulers aren't British anymore.

But the question remains:

What happens when the people in power start putting their own interests before the people they are supposed to serve?

Maybe the British really did leave us.

But perhaps the harder question is whether we learned what their rule was supposed to teach us.

Because independence wasn't supposed to mean simply replacing foreign rulers with our own. It was supposed to mean that the country belongs to its people. That we have the right to question those in power, criticize them, protest against them and demand better from them.

Maybe history won't repeat itself exactly. Maybe it doesn't have to. Maybe what we need to be careful about are the patterns.. the concentration of power, the pursuit of personal interests, the people who benefit while others pay the price, and the silence that allows it all to continue.

And if students, farmers, women, communities, forests and even the animals whose homes we keep taking have to keep fighting just to be considered, then maybe we still have some very uncomfortable questions to answer.

Not about the British.

About us.

And perhaps the most uncomfortable question of all is:

Are we really free if people still have to fight this hard just to be heard?

Thank you for reading 🤍

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History remembers Partition as the birth of two nations. My grandparents remembered it as the day they lost their home.

Whenever people speak about Partition, the conversation almost always returns to Punjab. The images are familiar—crowded trains, endless caravans of people, smoke rising over villages. But another land was divided too.

Bengal.

The rivers did not know they had become borders.

The birds still flew across the sky.

The rain still fell on both sides.

Only people were told they no longer belonged where they had always belonged.

That single line drawn across a map did not just separate India and Pakistan. It separated rivers from the people who grew up beside them. It separated childhoods from the homes that held them. It separated families who believed they would meet again in a few weeks, never imagining that goodbye would become permanent.

Both my maternal and paternal grandparents crossed that border from what was then East Pakistan, now Bangladesh.

I don't know the village where they were born.

I don't know what the courtyard of their house looked like.

I don't know whether there was a pond nearby, or a mango tree that shaded the afternoons, or narrow paths where children chased each other until sunset.

History didn't preserve those details.

Perhaps grief swallowed them.

But I often wonder what that final night felt like.

Did someone knock on their door and whisper that the village would be attacked before sunrise?

Did they spend the night deciding what a lifetime was worth when all they could carry fit into a single bundle?

How do you choose between family photographs and food?

Between your wedding jewellery and your children's clothes?

Between memories and survival?

Perhaps my grandmother locked the front door before leaving.

Not because she believed it would protect the house.

But because hope has strange habits.

Maybe she thought she would return after everything settled down.

Maybe she slipped the key into the corner of her sari, believing she would unlock that same door again.

She never did.

Not everyone left the moment the border was drawn.

Many families stayed.

For days.

For months.

Some even for years.

They waited for the violence to end.

They hoped neighbours would once again become neighbours.

They believed the hatred was temporary, that life would eventually return to the way it had always been.

But hope slowly gave way to fear.

For many, leaving was not a single decision.

It was the last of a thousand hopes that had already been broken.

Only then did they begin packing the pieces of a life they had spent years building, knowing they could carry only a fraction of it with them.

Across the subcontinent, millions began walking.

Hindu families.

Muslim families.

Sikh families.

Different prayers.

Different names for God.

The same fear.

Some walked for days.

Some for weeks.

Children cried because they were hungry.

Mothers cried silently because they had nothing left to feed them.

Fathers carried sleeping children on their shoulders while pretending they knew where they were going.

Grandparents, too old to walk, apologized for slowing everyone down.

Survival demanded choices that no human being should ever have to make.

Railway stations became places where people prayed more than they spoke.

Overcrowded trains carried people searching for safety.

Some trains arrived safely.

Others arrived carrying only silence.

The "ghost trains" that rolled into stations filled with the bodies of their passengers became symbols of how completely humanity had collapsed. Families searched every face, refusing to believe that the person they loved would never step off the train.

Entire villages disappeared.

Neighbours who had shared meals, festivals, weddings, and harvests for generations suddenly feared one another.

Not because they had always hated each other.

But because fear spreads faster than trust ever can.

Women endured horrors that many never found the words to describe. Some were abducted. Some were assaulted. Some were forced into marriages or conversions. Many returned home carrying wounds that history ignored for decades.

Parents lost children in the chaos.

Children lost parents.

Brothers lost sisters.

Friends lost one another forever.

And perhaps the cruelest burden of all...

was surviving.

Living when your neighbour didn't.

Growing old while your closest friend never had the chance.

People often ask what survivors remembered most.

It wasn't the speeches of politicians.

It wasn't the maps.

It wasn't the borders.

It was the smell of burning homes.

The cries echoing through railway stations.

The terrifying silence after violence had passed.

The refugee camps where thousands waited with nothing but the clothes they were wearing.

The last glance at a house they knew they would never enter again.

The unbearable realization that someone else would wake up in the room where they had grown up.

My grandparents built a new life in India.

They built a home.

Raised children.

Watched another generation grow.

They laughed.

They celebrated festivals.

They carried on because life demanded that they do so.

But I don't think they ever stopped carrying the first home inside them.

They died here, in a land they eventually called home, yet the place where their story began remained across a border they never crossed again.

My father did what they never could.

He crossed that border once to meet the relatives who still live there.

He walked the same land my grandparents had once called home.

I often wonder what that journey felt like.

Did it feel like visiting a foreign country?

Or did it feel like returning to a place that had been waiting quietly in our family's memory all along?

Even today, few of our relatives still live in Bangladesh.

My father still speaks to them.

Sometimes I wonder if grief can be inherited.

Because I have never seen the home my grandparents left behind.

I have never walked those lanes.

I have never stood beside those rivers.

I have never watched the sunsets they once watched.

Yet somehow...

I miss a place I have never been.

History tells us that Partition happened in 1947.

Families like mine are a reminder that, in many ways, it never truly ended.

Perhaps that is why I cannot think of Partition as a chapter that ended long ago.

My grandparents carried it until the day they died.

My father carries it every time he speaks to the relatives we still have across the border.

And somehow, without ever crossing that border myself, I carry it too.

Maybe grief travels the way love does—

from one generation to the next,

asking only to be remembered.

Because some borders do not remain on maps.

They live inside people.

They are carried in old photographs.

In forgotten house keys.

In stories told softly after dinner.

In the way my father still calls people across the border "family."

The border divided a country.

It never stopped dividing its people.

Thank you for reading 🤍

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Last time, we talked about women who became spies, queens, rebels, and reformers.

This time, let's go further back. Much further back.

Before independence.

Before colonialism.

Before many of the kingdoms we learn about in school even existed.

Because if there's one thing history keeps proving, it's that powerful women are not a modern phenomenon.

They didn't suddenly appear in the nineteenth or twentieth century. They were always here.

Leading kingdoms.

Questioning scholars.

Making political decisions.

And sometimes doing things that would still be considered remarkable today.

The problem isn't that these women didn't exist.

The problem is that most of us were never told their stories.

So let's change that.

1. Razia Sultana: The First Woman on the Throne of Delhi.

Imagine being told your entire life that leadership isn't meant for someone like you.

Now imagine becoming ruler anyway.

That was Razia.

Born in the early 13th century, Razia was the daughter of Sultan Iltutmish, one of the most powerful rulers of the Delhi Sultanate.

In 1236, Razia became the first woman to rule the Delhi Sultanate in her own right—a position that few believed a woman should occupy.

And according to many historical accounts, her father believed she was more capable than her brothers.

That should have settled the matter. It didn't.

Because the nobles of the court had a problem.

Razia was a woman.

When she eventually became ruler of Delhi in 1236, she refused to behave like a ceremonial figure sitting quietly behind palace walls.

She appeared in public.

She held court.

She made decisions herself.

She dressed in ways that reflected her authority and ruled as a sovereign, not as someone's daughter or someone's wife.

For some people, that was inspiring.

For many powerful men, it was unacceptable.

Her reign was filled with opposition, conspiracies, and rebellion.

Eventually, Razia was overthrown and imprisoned.

But she wasn't ready to give up.

She joined forces with Malik Altunia, the governor who had once rebelled against her and later became her husband, and together they tried to reclaim the throne of Delhi.

They failed.

In 1240, while fleeing after their defeat, Razia and Altunia were killed near Kaithal, in present-day Haryana.

She was only around thirty years old.

Whenever I read about Razia's story, I can't help wondering how differently history might have treated her if she had been born a man.

Would her reign have lasted longer?

Would fewer people have challenged her right to rule?

We'll never know.

What we do know is that eight centuries later, most of us still remember her name.

Not because she ruled the longest.

But because she dared to rule at all.

2. Prabhavati Gupta: The Queen Who Quietly Ruled an Empire.

Some people change history dramatically.

Others change it quietly.

Prabhavati Gupta belongs to the second category.

She was the daughter of Chandragupta II of the Gupta Empire, one of the most powerful dynasties in ancient India.

After marrying into the Vakataka dynasty, she likely expected a fairly traditional royal life.

History had other plans.

When her husband died, her sons were still too young to rule.

So Prabhavati stepped in as regent.

And for years, she governed one of the most influential kingdoms of her time.

What's remarkable is that we know this not through legends, but through inscriptions.

Official records mention her authority and decisions.

Think about that for a moment.

More than fifteen hundred years ago, a woman was effectively running a major kingdom in India.

Yet most of us never hear her name.

Not because her story isn't important.

But because quiet power rarely gets the same attention as dramatic battles.

And perhaps that's what makes Prabhavati so fascinating.

She didn't become famous by leading armies into battle or winning dramatic wars.

Instead, she governed.

At a time when a kingdom could easily have fallen into political chaos, Prabhavati kept it stable and functioning under her leadership.

The inscriptions from her reign show that important decisions were issued in her name and that her authority was recognized throughout the kingdom.

The more I read about Prabhavati, the more I realize that history often celebrates conquerors while overlooking administrators.

But kingdoms don't survive on victories alone.

They survive because someone keeps them running.

And for years, that someone was Prabhavati Gupta.

3.Rudrama Devi: The Queen Who Refused to Be Limited.

If history were a movie, Rudrama Devi would probably be the final act.

Born in the 13th century, she became ruler of the Kakatiya kingdom in present-day Telangana.

From the beginning, many people questioned whether a woman could successfully rule such a powerful state.

Rudrama Devi answered that question the way great rulers often do.

By ruling well.

She strengthened administration.

Protected her kingdom.

Led military campaigns.

And earned the loyalty of many of her subjects.

What I find most fascinating is that some official records referred to her using masculine royal titles such as "Maharaja" and even "Rudradeva Maharaja."

It's almost as if society struggled to imagine a woman occupying that position of power.

So instead of changing their expectations, they changed the language.

But Rudrama Devi didn't need titles to prove herself.

Her rule spoke for itself.

And centuries later, she remains one of the most remarkable rulers in Indian history.

4.Didda of Kashmir: The Queen They Kept Underestimating.

Imagine being born into a world that constantly tells you what you cannot do.

Now imagine proving everyone wrong for nearly forty years.

That was Didda.

Born in 10th-century Kashmir, Didda had a physical disability that affected one of her legs. In a society where rulers were expected to be warriors and symbols of strength, many people likely assumed she would never become an important political figure.

History had other plans.

After marrying into Kashmir's royal family, Didda gradually found herself at the center of power. When her husband died and later when her son died, she became the power behind the throne.

And then, eventually, the throne itself.

The thing about Didda is that she was not remembered for kindness or gentleness.

She was remembered for surviving.

Court conspiracies.

Political rivals.

Rebellions.

Plots.

Again and again, people tried to remove her from power.

Again and again, they failed.

The more I read about her, the more she feels like a character from a political drama rather than a medieval queen.

Except she was real.

For decades, Didda ruled Kashmir and shaped its politics in ways that few people remember today.

Which is strange.

Because if a king had done everything she did, we'd probably never stop talking about him.

By the time Didda died in 1003 CE, she had become one of the most powerful female rulers in medieval Indian history and one of the most influential rulers Kashmir had ever seen.

5.Naiki Devi: The Queen Who Defeated Muhammad Ghori

Most people know the name Muhammad Ghori.

After all, he would go on to become one of the most important figures in the history of North India.

But here's something many people don't know.

Before his famous victories, he suffered a humiliating defeat at the hands of a queen.

Her name was Naiki Devi.

Born into a royal family in Goa and later becoming queen of Gujarat, Naiki Devi found herself in an extraordinary situation when her husband died. Her son was still a child, which meant she had to act as regent and govern on his behalf.

Then came the crisis.

In 1178, Muhammad Ghori marched towards Gujarat, expecting another victory.

Instead, he encountered resistance led by Naiki Devi.

According to historical accounts, she organized her forces and confronted the invading army near Kayadara, close to Mount Abu.

The result was unexpected.

Ghori was defeated and forced to retreat.

The same man who would later become famous for his conquests was turned back by a queen whose name rarely appears in school textbooks.

The more I read about Naiki Devi, the more I wonder why her story isn't widely known.

Because defeating an invading army is impressive.

Defeating one led by Muhammad Ghori is extraordinary.

And doing it while ruling as regent for a young child makes it even more remarkable.

Why These Stories Matter—

The more I read history, the more I realize that women were never waiting to be empowered. They were already doing extraordinary things.

They were ruling kingdoms.

Leading armies. Defending their people. Making political decisions.

And doing all of this in worlds that often expected them to stay silent.

But what stays with me most is not just what they achieved. It's the fact that they achieved it despite the resistance they faced.

Razia ruled when many believed a woman should never sit on the throne.

Didda spent her life proving wrong those who underestimated her.

Prabhavati governed a kingdom when power was rarely associated with women.

Rudrama Devi ruled so effectively that some people found it easier to call her a king than accept her as a queen.

And Naiki Devi defeated an invading army at a time when few would have expected a woman to lead the defense of a kingdom.

Different centuries.

Different kingdoms.

The same courage.

History did not lack extraordinary women.

We simply don't talk about them enough.

And perhaps that's why these stories matter.

Not because they are stories about women.

But because they are stories about power, courage, leadership, resilience, and the determination to keep going despite the odds.

The kind of stories that deserve to be remembered.

And if there's one thing these women prove, it's that they were never waiting for permission to make history.

They simply did.

And this is only the beginning.

There are many more women waiting outside the pages of our textbooks.

I'd love to know—which of these women fascinated you the most?

See you in the next part. 🫶🏼

I was bullied in school about my skin colour, my body, and almost everything about the way I looked. I fought through all of it in my own way. Some days I genuinely love myself, but there are still days like this when I don’t. I’m 19, and I truly don’t want to carry this version of me into the future as I grow older.

I’ve always been insecure about myself—my body, my skin colour, my hair, even small features I never used to notice until someone else pointed them out. I try to love myself as I am, and on some days I genuinely do feel at peace with how I look. But on other days, insecurity quietly comes back, especially when something about my appearance is commented on, even casually or unintentionally.

Over time, I’ve carried a lot of these feelings. I try to stay positive, and I try to encourage others too, because I don’t want anyone else to feel the way I have felt. But still, I often find myself staring at my pictures, videos, or my reflection in the mirror and overthinking everything I see, as if I’m trying to find something “wrong” with me even when nothing new has changed.

I know that humans are meant to be different from each other—there is no single way we are supposed to look, no fixed version of beauty that everyone has to fit into. But even with that understanding, some comparisons and comments stay longer in the mind than they should. Words don’t always disappear just because we know they are not true.

A big part of my insecurity has always been my skin tone. I have a dusky complexion, while my sister is fair, and that comparison has quietly stayed with me over the years. Even if no one directly compares us, I still end up doing it to myself in my head sometimes.

But my mother has always been the voice that pulls me back from these thoughts. She never liked it when I called myself “dark” or said certain colours wouldn’t suit me. She would always tell me, wear whatever colour you like, no matter what others say, as if she was reminding me that I don’t need permission to exist the way I am. She also always told me that your behaviour and character are what truly matter the most—not your appearance, which holds no real value if you don’t know how to treat people.

I still remember buying a light pink dress once. People around me said I should’ve gone for a darker shade instead, as if they were correcting something about me. But my mum stood by me and said it was completely okay—that every colour can be worn, and that beauty is not something that should be limited by other people’s opinions or rules.

I’ve also been insecure about my lips. They’re naturally pigmented, but people sometimes assume things or ask if I smoke. Even small comments like that stay in my mind longer than they should, replaying again and again in moments when I’m already feeling low.

Then there’s my body—my waist, my lower body, my overall shape. Even casual remarks from others about going to the gym or changing something about myself slowly build up over time. What might feel like a small comment to someone else can become something I keep revisiting in my head for days.

And my face too… my pimples, my skin texture—on certain days, I notice everything more sharply than I should. On better days, I barely think about it, but on worse days, it feels like I can’t look at myself without analysing every detail.

I don’t really know when I’ll fully learn to accept myself as I am. I try, I really do. But some days it feels like I fail at it, and I hate that feeling because I know I’m trying my best in my own way.

Still, I’m trying.

I hope that one day we will feel confident in ourselves, overcome our insecurities, and live happily exactly as we are.

And maybe this is also a reminder that we don’t need to point out someone’s appearance. Most people already know exactly how they look—they see it every single day in the mirror. Those words are rarely helpful, and often they stay much longer than intended.

I wrote this as an article. I thought I would post it as a note, but this felt like something more—something that maybe a few other people might need to read. Or maybe there are people like me who carry similar insecurities. So I’m just sharing this here as an article.

Thanks for reading 🤍 ✨

If I ask you to name five kings from Indian history, you probably can.

If I ask you to name five women who changed Indian history, most people suddenly go quiet.

And that's not because those women didn't exist.

It's because somewhere between writing history and teaching history, we decided some stories mattered more than others.

We memorized the names of emperors.

We learned dates, battles, treaties, and dynasties.

But what about the women who led armies, resisted colonial powers, ran kingdoms, worked as spies, challenged social norms, and changed the course of history?

Why do so many of us reach adulthood without ever hearing their names?

As a history student, this is something that bothers me.

Not because history is unfair—history often is—but because these stories are fascinating.

The more I study history, the more I realize that women were never absent from it.

They were there all along.

Sometimes leading.

Sometimes resisting.

Sometimes surviving.

And sometimes doing things so extraordinary that if they happened in a movie, we'd call them unrealistic.

Which is why I've never fully understood the claim that women demanding equality is a modern idea—or a Western one.

Long before the word "feminism" entered everyday conversations, women were already leading kingdoms, resisting empires, pursuing education, and refusing to stay silent.

History has been quietly proving that for centuries.

We just don't talk about it enough.

Here are four women whose stories deserve far more attention than they receive.

1. Noor Inayat Khan: The Princess Who Became a Spy

If someone pitched Noor Inayat Khan's life to Netflix today, most people would say it sounds made up.

A princess.

A children's writer.

A musician.

And somehow… a spy operating in Nazi-occupied France.

But it wasn’t fiction.

Noor Inayat Khan was born in 1914 in Moscow. Her father, Hazrat Inayat Khan, was an Indian Sufi musician and teacher from Baroda in present-day Gujarat. Her mother was American. Noor grew up between France and England, surrounded by music, storytelling, and spiritual thought.

She was gentle, creative, and deeply drawn to writing stories for children. War was not part of her world.

Until it was.

When Nazi Germany occupied France during World War II, Noor joined Britain’s Special Operations Executive and was sent to occupied France as a wireless operator.

It was one of the most dangerous roles in the entire resistance network.

Wireless operators were hunted relentlessly because they were the communication link between resistance groups and Allied forces. If captured, survival was unlikely.

Noor knew this fully.

She still went.

Even when her network began collapsing around her and she was advised to return, she refused to leave. Someone had to keep the messages going. Someone had to stay.

Eventually, she was betrayed, arrested by the Gestapo, and imprisoned.

She attempted escape more than once.

She refused to give information even under interrogation.

In 1944, she was executed at Dachau concentration camp at the age of thirty.

A life that began in stories ended in silence—but history should not keep repeating that silence.

2. Rani Abbakka Chowta: The Queen from Ullal

Long before the British shaped colonial history in India, the Portuguese had already reached the western coast.

And on that coast stood a queen they repeatedly failed to control.

Most school textbooks quickly move from colonial history straight to the British era. Rani Lakshmibai of Jhansi is a familiar name. But centuries before her, Rani Abbakka Chowta was already resisting European expansion from the shores of Karnataka.

Rani Abbakka Chowta ruled Ullal, a small but strategically important coastal kingdom in present-day Karnataka, during the 16th century. She belonged to the Chowta dynasty, a ruling family of the Tuluva region.

The Portuguese wanted control over coastal trade and political influence. Many local rulers were pressured into submission.

Abbakka refused.

She resisted them again and again, not as a symbolic gesture, but as sustained opposition.

She built alliances, defended her kingdom, and challenged Portuguese attempts at domination despite limited resources and constant pressure from a far stronger naval power.

Her story is not defined by easy victories.

It is defined by persistence.

A small kingdom should not have been able to resist a global maritime empire for so long.

But she made sure it did.

And yet, her name is still missing from most mainstream history lessons.

3. Begum Hazrat Mahal: The Queen of Awadh Who Chose Resistance

Imagine waking up to find that your kingdom no longer exists in the way it did yesterday.

That is what happened in Awadh in the mid-19th century.

Begum Hazrat Mahal was the wife of Nawab Wajid Ali Shah, the ruler of Awadh (present-day Uttar Pradesh). She lived in Lucknow during a time when British colonial expansion was reshaping India.

When the British annexed Awadh and exiled the Nawab, she was expected to step aside quietly.

She did not.

During the Revolt of 1857, she emerged as one of the most important leaders in Lucknow. She took charge of political resistance, helped organize forces, and became a central figure in one of the largest uprisings against British rule.

She was not a background figure in history—she was inside its most turbulent center.

Eventually, the rebellion was crushed. The British regained control, and she was forced into exile in Nepal, where she spent the rest of her life.

But what remains striking is not how her story ended.

It is how firmly she refused to disappear while it was still unfolding.

4. Pandita Ramabai: The Scholar Who Asked Uncomfortable Questions

Pandita Ramabai was born in 1858 in the Western Ghats region of Maharashtra, into a Chitpavan Brahmin family.

She grew up in a society where women’s education was limited and often discouraged. But she became one of the most learned women of her time, studying Sanskrit and engaging deeply with religious and social texts.

And as she studied, she began to notice something that could not be ignored.

The rules were not the same for everyone.

Women’s lives were narrower, more restricted, and more heavily judged.

So she began asking questions that many around her were not comfortable hearing.

Why should education be limited by gender?

Why should suffering be accepted as fate?

Why should widows be treated as burdens?

These questions became the foundation of her life’s work.

She wrote. She travelled. She spoke publicly about women’s education, widowhood, and social inequality.

And she was often met with resistance—not because her questions lacked meaning, but because they challenged systems that had existed for generations.

She never stopped asking them.

Why These Stories Matter

Whenever someone says that women only recently started fighting for equality, I think about women like these.

Not because they all lived the same lives.

Not because they shared the same beliefs.

And not because they would have called themselves feminists.

But because they refused to accept the limits placed upon them.

A princess became a spy.

A queen resisted an empire.

A ruler led a rebellion.

A scholar questioned social norms.

Different centuries. Different worlds. Same refusal.

History did not begin with the people whose names appear most often in our textbooks.

And the most fascinating stories are often the ones left just outside the syllabus.

Maybe that’s where we should be looking more often.

And I’d genuinely like to know—which of these women fascinated you the most?

There are many more whose stories deserve to be told, and I’ll be sharing them next.

See you in the next part.

Thanks for reading 🤍

as if it happened in a moment,

as if the breaking wasn't gradual.

like the goodbye wasn’t written

in every sleepless night before.

They didn’t see the quiet ache,

the way her smile kept shrinking

while her questions kept growing.

or how she had already learned silence early,

from a childhood that taught her

how to hold things in without breaking them in front of anyone.

They didn’t notice the quiet unraveling,

how her heart gave out

long before her footsteps did.

She held on with hands that trembled,

kept stitching hopes into silence.

Built a life in her head

with someone who never showed up in it fully.

She was the thinker,

always tangled in maybes and what-ifs.

He was the distant,

present only in presence,

never where it mattered

And still, she stayed,

trying to read meaning into the empty.

too young in ways that mattered,

just fifteen in the parts of her that still believed

being understood didn’t have to be earned so painfully.

When it all fell apart,

she didn’t scream..

she simply turned into a whisper.

Drew dreams with trembling hands..

and later, buried them

with those same hands,

heart heavy with guilt

for wanting more than almost.

Yes, she left...

but not without scars.

Not without a heart full of guilt,

and a soul that mourned..

after losing pieces of herself

in a love that never looked back the way she wanted.

Not because she stopped caring,

but because she was slowly being erased.

She didn’t just walk away.

She faded,

bit by bit,

heartbeat by heartbeat.

I laugh, I joke, I show up, but something inside me hasn’t moved in months, and nobody notices not the ones who should, not the ones who claim they love me.

There’s a numbness threading through my bones, a kind that makes living feel like a habit instead of a choice. I keep swallowing words that should’ve been screamed, arguments I never got to win replaying like broken film in my mind. I’ve been the bigger person so many times that I don’t even know where the smaller, hurting version of me went to hide. My chest feels like a locked room and I lost the key somewhere between childhood and disappointment.

I didn’t fall apart today, but something cracked — something small, something quiet, something that won’t let me sleep without reminding me that I’m tired of being the one who feels everything too deeply and receives nothing in return. I stand in my own life like a stranger sometimes, watching people walk past me as if I’m furniture. I try to forgive, but my heart keeps bleeding in ways I can’t explain, in places I can’t reach.

Maybe I’m not breaking. Maybe I’m just finally noticing the wounds I pretended were healed. And maybe that’s why everything aches the same way no matter how many times I promise myself I’m okay.

Thanks for reading.

I think I first felt it when I was around 15.

We had a teacher who would constantly talk about how important education is for girls.. how women should study, become independent, be empowered. It all sounded right. Almost inspiring.

But then, in the same class, he would ask us about our families. And if someone said they had only sisters, no brother, his tone would change.

“No brother?”

Then he’d smile in that dramatic way and say, “It’s okay… you will be the man of the family. You’ll take responsibility like a son.”

And something about that never sat right with me.

One day, I asked him—why?

Why do I have to become a son to be enough?

Why isn’t being a daughter already enough?

For a moment, he fumbled. A friend of mine supported me, and suddenly his confidence disappeared. He corrected himself, said “yes of course,” and quickly changed the topic.

I was just 15, but I remember standing there, feeling something shift inside me. And even now, I feel proud of that moment.

But that wasn’t the only time I saw this contradiction.

At home, my father always encouraged us to study, to work, to be independent.. he would say we should never live under any man’s dictatorship. And I believed him.

Until I started forming my own opinions.

The moment I tried making my own decisions, or even supported another woman in a way he didn’t agree with, it became a problem. Suddenly, the same idea of “independence” came with conditions.

Somewhere, it still expected obedience.

And I couldn’t help but think.. if I’m supposed to be independent, why does it still feel like I’m being controlled?

And then, a few days back, something small but unsettling happened during a train journey.

I overheard a man talking about his daughter who had just passed 12th. He said, “I don’t know where to send her.” Then he decided he’d put her in the nearest college.

“I won’t send her to another city,” he said. “It’s better if a girl stays in hand.”

And in the same breath, he added—

“Girls’ education is very important nowadays. Even more than boys.”

I remember sitting there, genuinely confused.

What exactly are you trying to say?

That moment stayed with me. It made me question a lot. And then it clicked—this isn’t rare. This happens so often. We hear things like this all the time, we even ignore it, and move on like it’s normal.

But maybe it shouldn’t be.

Maybe we need to question it more.

And I think this is exactly where I knew I wanted to write about it.

Because a lot of what we call “support” for women isn’t actually support. It’s conditional. It’s comfortable. It looks progressive on the surface, but deep down, it still holds onto the same old beliefs.

It’s feminism—but only when it’s convenient.

Empowerment—but only when it doesn’t disrupt anything.

And I think that’s what frustrates me the most.

Because real support doesn’t ask women to become something else to be valued. It doesn’t come with hidden rules. It doesn’t shrink the moment a woman starts thinking for herself.

I’m still figuring out my own understanding of feminism. But one thing I know for sure—

I don’t want a version of it that just sounds good.

I want one that actually stands strong when it’s uncomfortable.

And I think that starts with asking simple questions, even at 15, even in a classroom—

Why am I not enough already?

I remember the moment clearly. I wanted to ask my father for a chocolate. My mouth opened slightly, words forming, but then I froze. His eyes, sharp and unpredictable, were enough to stop me. I swallowed the words, nodded silently, and pretended I hadn’t wanted anything at all. That was me—a “good girl.” Quiet, obedient, invisible.

For years, I lived like this. Walking on eggshells, thinking a single misstep could spark his anger. Not respect—fear. Pure, paralyzing fear. I watched my mother flinch, my sister shrink, and I thought, “I will never be like him. I will never let this happen to me.”

But life has a way of teaching you things you didn’t ask for. I grew up. I saw him clearly—not a father to admire, but a man ruled by his anger. And then I saw something else: the anger I had feared, I had inherited it too.

At first, it scared me. I felt it rise in my chest, quick and hot. I could shout. I could explode. I could defend myself. And I did—sometimes too much, sometimes raw, uncontrolled. But the difference now is I won’t stay silent. I won’t shrink. I will take my stand, even if my voice shakes, even if my chest pounds, even if the world doesn’t like it.

I am both the storm I ran from and the voice I refused to silence. I am learning to hold this anger without letting it destroy me. To speak my mind without fear. To protect myself without losing myself.

Fear taught me caution. Anger taught me power. And in between, I am learning something else: being “good” doesn’t mean being quiet. Being good means being true. It means standing firm, even when the past screams at you to disappear.

I was once the girl who froze at a chocolate. Now, I am the girl who refuses to be silenced.

Today I miss my childhood home a little more, it wasn’t just a house—it was where i felt safe without even knowing what safety meant. I remember sitting by the window,falling asleep on the sofa, laughing with my siblings, and looking at myself in the mirror with a simple, carefree heart.

back then, i was scared of the dark, ghosts, and shadows. i didn’t know life had much bigger fears waiting for me. That home protected me from things i didn’t even understand.

somewhere along the way, things changed.

I left that home, and now i’m in my last teenage year.

growing up wasn’t loud—it was quiet and confusing, full of feelings i didn’t know how to express. i started keeping more inside than i shared. now, the fears are different—uncertainty, silent tears, and things i can’t explain.

it’s strange how what scared me before feels so small now.

and still, i miss that place.

not just the home, but the person i was there.

i’ve moved on, but a part of me is still there—

in those memories, that happiness, and that innocence i can’t go back to.”