It was the hot month of June when my mother first started showing symptoms of arthritis in her right hand. She could not hold the broom or make rotis as her grip weakened and it was difficult for her to move her fingers. Despite all this, she didn’t stop doing housework, not because she wanted to, but mostly because she didn’t know she could stop. For thousands of women like my mother, who continue to have peace even as they age, rest is a luxury in the rigid, caste-based, patriarchal structure they live in, which is so deeply internalized that they are either too afraid to break because of the consequences, or perhaps know no other way to survive.
It took six months before we discovered the disease. You may be wondering why. Partly it was because we didn’t know where to go – to an orthopedist, to a neurologist, to a homeopath or to Ayurveda? But if I’m honest with myself, I wasn’t active or involved enough in her treatment because I couldn’t see her pain. Why? Because she didn’t tell me and I didn’t see it. This silence was not personal; it was systemic. As a family, we never learned to truly see women’s pain until it screamed.
FII
Recently I have learned that various stressors can increase the risk of developing probable autoimmune diseases such as arthritis in women. Even though the doctor said it was due to age, I know that my mother’s arthritis is due to the stress she has carried – and continues to carry – throughout her life. Growing up, I only knew two emotions from my mother: anger and tears. Her tears often turned to anger, which she almost always took out on her children. Growing up, all I knew was an angry mother. Because of this, for most of my life, I never loved her the way a son should. Even now, anger still scares me, no matter who it comes from. That’s the first thing I inherited from her – fear.
Anger as a form of resistance and survival
Growing up, I often wondered: Why was she always angry? How come I can’t remember a loving mother? This anger wasn’t hers. She always wanted to love her children, but she was so busy surviving within the caste and patriarchal structure that was forced upon her that she never had the space to love freely. She spent half of her life as a choti bahu in a joint family of ten people in a two-story house. To survive in a family that had no place, anger was the only weapon she had – a weapon that I and society at large often referred to as that of a “hysterical woman.” Her anger was her only weapon – the one she inherited from her resistance to personal trauma. Before mental health professionals could reach her, she relied on her own form of resistance to ensure her psychological well-being and daily survival.
To survive in a family that had no place, anger was the only weapon she had – a weapon that I and society at large often referred to as that of a “hysterical woman.” Her anger was her only weapon – the one she inherited from her resistance to personal trauma.
The joint family was traumatic for her. She never loved living there, because in these 600 square meters. ft. of space, it couldn’t belong to any corner of the house. She has never accepted a single brick of this house, nor has this house ever accepted her. All because she had no choice, which is directly related to her dignity.
Later in life, I realized that the choice was central to my mother mental health – the decision not to cook, the decision to speak out against inappropriate behavior by men in the family, the decision to go for a walk, or the decision to sleep during the day. The lack of freedom of choice continues to affect her mental health to this day, manifesting itself in sleepless nights, pain in various parts of her body, fever, etc. She fought her entire life – with her angry self – for the right to choose, for herself and for her children. Most of the time she failed. She rarely succeeded.
This fight has now resulted in our separation from our shared family, her having arthritis and her being labeled a homewrecker. The election was never just about taking space or doing things your way; It was about understanding her own identity and self. Every time my father or the elders in the family excluded her and denied her the right to vote, she lost a small part of herself and slipped further into the patriarchal structure, eventually becoming the bearer of the patriarchy that was forced upon her.
Tears, mother and small resistances
Whenever my mother cried in front of us, her tears were always about something her children had done—something that embarrassed the family or disrupted the status quo. But those tears weren’t just for her children. They were her only outlet, her only way to feel a moment of relief. She was never allowed to cry about her own pain, because for women like her, these weren’t “issues” – they were just life. A life lived by her mother, her sisters and every other woman around her.
This silence was not personal; it was systemic. As a family, we never learned to truly see women’s pain until it screamed.
As Michel Foucault said in his essay “The History of Sexuality” (1976): “Where there is power, there is resistance.” Therefore, the resistance of women like my mother also comes from these power relations in their everyday negotiations and survival actions. In the face of despair, women find small things to call their own – be it sewing, knitting or gossiping. For my mother, it was her two-decade-old sewing machine that is no longer used, but she refuses to throw it away. It used to be a source of income, but more importantly, it was her private space, a way to distance herself from the world and do something that was truly hers.
For example, one of my neighbor’s aunts spent her afternoons visiting houses, talking to women, and sharing and gathering news about their lives. She was often referred to as ‘Gharghushi’ (Marathi word for one who sticks his nose into everyone’s business). But for her, these conversations were a lifeline – a way to take care of her mental well-being and the only space to take a breath and relax.
Community care and feminist resistance from mothers
The current discourse on mental health care proposes universal care for the entire population, relying primarily on biomedical care and diagnostic criteria that build on Western concepts and understandings of mental health. For a country like India, which is so socio-culturally and economically diverse, this is not always relevant context. Therefore, it is important to identify and acknowledge such coping mechanisms of women and mainstream mental health care in the community to ensure the mental well-being of thousands of women like my mother in India. This has proven beneficial in the case of Prof. Chibanda and many grandmothers. Intervention on the friendship bench in Zimbabwe, where grandmothers trained in the basics of counseling sit outside under a tree and talk to people in need. Friendship benches are perhaps one of the most popular and documented community mental health interventions, but Indian women, particularly Dalit and Bahujan women living in bastis (ghettos), have their own form of friendship benches. In the afternoons, when men go to work, women sit outside their own houses or gather at someone’s home with vegetables to cut, grains to clean, or wool to knit and talk to each other about their daily lives and problems, offering their own solutions and support to each other that arise from their lived experiences. Women have their own vocabulary for mental health and forms of care. In the current expert discourse, these are often not recognized and valued. Yet they are critically important to thousands of women who navigate their daily lives and mental well-being through these calm, self-developed practices.
Women’s resistance is often seen as a linear process. The history of feminist movements is understood as a mass of women gathering in the streets and taking collective action. However, women like my mother negotiate the respectability of the family while violating caste and gender norms. They cannot be neatly divided into binary groups, neither conformists nor rebels. Rather, they live in moments of both conformity and rebellion. (Kamal Danika, Feminisms of our Mother, 2024, p. no. 39). These resistances are not only their way of demanding their space and rights, but they are also their way of caring for their spiritual well-being, as it is inextricably linked to their rights and dignity.