The stark contrast between India’s official rhetoric on women and the grim realities faced by many of its daughters is visible in recent cases. In January 2025, 28-year-old Nikki Bhati was allegedly set on fire by her husband and mother-in-law over a Rs 36 lakh dowry demand. In late 2024, software engineer Atul Subhash died by suicide, leaving behind a 24-page note accusing his estranged wife’s family of extortion and wrongful harassment under India’s anti-dowry laws. These tragedies shocked a nation that now ranks 131st out of 146 countries in the World Economic Forum’s 2025 Global Gender Gap Report, behind Bangladesh, Bhutan and Nepal, but luckily ahead of Pakistan. They force the question: if we can celebrate holidays like Rakhi, Holi, Diwali, Independence Day, Women’s Day and Mother’s Day, aren’t we celebrating women all the time? If we are inclusive of “women-led” vision of development, then, why do so many Indian women still pay with their lives?
India’s gender politics were profoundly shaped by colonial and pre-colonial history. British colonial reformers intervened in practices like sati (widow immolation) ostensibly to “save” Indian women, encapsulated in Spivak’s critique of the colonial narrative “white men are saving brown women from brown men”. After independence, India’s framers enshrined gender equality in law. Dr. B.R. Ambedkar – principal architect of the Constitution – insisted that the “progress of a community [is] measured by the degree of progress which women have achieved”. The new Republic enacted landmark legislation: the Hindu Marriage Act (1955) and Hindu Succession Act (1956) granted women divorce and inheritance rights, and in 1961 India passed the Dowry Prohibition Act (though its early enforcement was weak). Nevertheless, entrenched patriarchal norms survived. Only after sustained agitation in the 1970s did Parliament strengthen laws: the 1983 Criminal Law Amendment made dowry-related cruelty non-bailable, and courts in the 1980s began to convict offenders in high-profile dowry murders.
The timeline of India’s anti-dowry laws shows gradual change: the 1961 Dowry Prohibition Act (initially ineffective) was followed by public protests (1975–79) and tougher legislation in 1983. The timeline graphic (above) tracks these milestones. For example, by the mid-1980s courts were imposing life sentences in cases like the Sudha Goel dowry-murder (1985). Over time laws have evolved – the recent Bharatiya Nyaya Sanhita (2023) even provides for faster trials and e-filing of FIRs – but social attitudes have lagged. As one court noted, “simply because [the accused] paid Rs 4 lakh [to the victim’s family], they cannot escape liability for dowry death”.
Dowry-related violence remains widespread. Official data show roughly 6,000–7,000 dowry deaths per year in recent years. The National Crime Records Bureau (NCRB) recorded 6,450 dowry deaths in 2022 – an average of about 7,000 annually from 2017–2022. These are likely underestimates, since many cases go unreported. The burden falls unevenly on certain states: in 2022 Uttar Pradesh accounted for 2,218 deaths, followed by Bihar (1,057) and Madhya Pradesh (518). Victims often suffer brutal abuse (burning, throttling, assault) before death. For example, a 2023 Hyderabad case involved a pregnant woman tortured over dowry who ultimately killed herself; the husband and mother-in-law were later convicted after admitting they had paid ₹4 lakh “compensation” to the victim’s family during an out-of-court settlement.
Unlike some crimes (for example, terrorist attacks where states may pay ex-gratia), the Indian state provides little automatic relief to dowry victims’ families. Courts sometimes award fines or direct offenders to compensate survivors under the Victim Compensation Scheme, but in practice families rely on criminal verdicts or social protest for redress. One NGO campaign (“#50MillionMissing”) highlights the roughly 50 million women “missing” from India’s population due to female feticide, infanticide, and dowry murders. These statistics underscore that dowry-related violence is not merely anecdotal but reflects a persistent social crisis.
Gender injustice in India is deeply intertwined with caste and class. Patriarchy cuts across communities, but Dalit and Adivasi women face a “double burden” of caste discrimination and misogyny. Ambedkarite feminists emphasize this intersection: as one commentator noted, “Being Ambedkarite is also being a feminist,” a philosophy that “bridges caste with gender”. In practice, Indian law and policy often distinguish women by caste and class – for example, reserving seats for Scheduled Caste (SC) and Scheduled Tribe (ST) women in local councils – reflecting both affirmative action and the reality of layered marginalization.
Despite legal equality, traditional attitudes remain strong across castes. A 2022 Pew Research survey found that nine-in-ten Indians agree that “a wife must always obey her husband”, with only a slight gender gap (67% of men and 61% of women fully agreeing). Likewise, 80% of Indians think men should have priority for jobs when work is scarce. These views cut across religious and regional lines. Such statistics reveal a domestic consensus on strict gender roles even as Indians profess support for female leadership (most said women make good political leaders). In parliament, the gender gap is visible: women hold only about 15.2% of seats (2023). As Ambedkar insisted, society’s progress is measured by its women – and by that measure, progress remains incomplete.
In daily life, patriarchy often manifests subtly. For example, UN Women reports that 23.3% of Indian women aged 20–24 were married before 18 (despite laws against child marriage), and only ~20% of India’s workforce is female (far below the global average of ~40%). Women’s work in India contributed about 17% of national income in 2022 (versus 37% globally), and unpaid care burdens remain enormous. These data highlight that caste and class strongly influence a woman’s life chances: an upper-caste urban woman with education may command opportunities abroad, while a poor Dalit woman in a village may have none. It is this stark inequality that feminist scholars like Audre Lorde warn against: “there is no such thing as a single-issue struggle because we do not live single-issue lives”.
In public discourse, all major Indian leaders profess commitment to women’s uplift. Prime Minister Modi, for instance, has repeatedly asserted that women’s safety and empowerment are national priorities. On International Women’s Day 2025 he spoke of a “women-led development” model and cited new laws (the Bharatiya Nyaya Sanhita) as steps for faster justice. Congress leaders, too, emphasize empowerment; in 2021 Rahul Gandhi stated that “no country can be successful without empowering its women” and said there should be no reason an Indian woman fears walking alone at night. In practice, however, policy often breaks down caste and class categories: schemes like Beti Bachao Beti Padhao (launched 2015) and reservations for SC/ST women aim to bridge gaps. Yet critics note that rhetoric (capital punishment for rape, zero FIR, fast-track courts) has not ended the scourge of violence in rural and urban India alike.
International indices reflect India’s mixed record. The World Economic Forum’s 2025 Global Gender Gap Report ranks India 131st out of 146 countries, far below neighbors such as Bangladesh (24th) or Nepal (125th). Only about 31% of Indian women participate in the labor force, and women’s representation in parliament remains around 15%. UN data paint a similar picture: Indian women make up roughly 20% of the formal workforce (global average ~40%) and on average work more unpaid hours than men. Health and education gaps persist as well, keeping India’s Gender Inequality Index high. By comparison, many post-colonial societies have seen varied outcomes: some sub-Saharan nations (e.g. Rwanda, Liberia) now have high female political representation, while countries like Pakistan or Afghanistan lag far behind.
The media narrative on Indian women is often contradictory. News outlets regularly celebrate “women achievers” – from rocket scientists and corporate CEOs to Olympic medalists – suggesting that India’s daughters are breaking glass ceilings. Yet these success stories are framed as exceptional, and seldom address structural barriers. On social media, gender discourse has become polarized. Feminist activists use hashtags (e.g. #MeToo, #SheTheChange) to highlight sexual violence or inequality, but these efforts often trigger backlash. Online trolls swiftly label outspoken feminists as “feminazi” – a term popularized by Western misogynists – to shame and silence them. As Guardian columnist Zoe Williams notes, branding a woman a “feminazi” is a desperate tactic that conflates women’s liberation with something “deeply ignorant”.
Scholarly feminist thought underscores these dilemmas. Simone de Beauvoir observed that historically, “man [has been] defined as a human being and woman as a female – whenever she behaves as a human being she is said to imitate the male”. India’s patriarchy often treats women as the Other, confining them to familial roles. Conversely, voices like Audre Lorde emphasize intersectionality: “Our struggles are particular, but we are not alone… there is no such thing as a single-issue struggle”. In Indian context this means caste, religion, and gender cannot be disentangled. Yet popular discourse tends to isolate women’s issues or pit groups against each other (for example, ignoring women’s plight while fixating on religious identity). This fragmentation undermines a united movement for gender justice.
India’s journey since 1947 has been extraordinary in many respects, but on gender it remains unfinished. The country can claim progressive laws and some shining examples of women in power – but these coexist with shocking violence and widespread sexism. In effect, by belittling or ignoring women’s rights, India implicitly sends a message that half its people are still second-class. One columnist poignantly noted that calling women “feminazi” “designed to be scary” – to discourage others from speaking out. Whether this is the image we want to project to the world is a question for our leaders and society. As Ambedkar insisted, social justice must include gender justice. If India is to break truly from its colonial and feudal legacies, it must confront not just the de jure promises of equality, but the de facto norms that have women walking the same streets in fear. Only then can the nation honestly answer whether it is living up to its ideals – and whether it is indeed fit to lead others.
