🎬 South Asian TV & Film: The Real Villain?
“Bollywood gave us heroines who were either bechari (helpless), vamp (evil), or sanskaari (perfect wife material). Where were the real South Asian women? The ones who are angry, loud, depressed, healing?”
et’s talk about how Bollywood shaped the way we saw South Asian women.
Growing up, we were shown heroines who neatly fit into three boxes.
First, there was the bechari.
You know her — she’s always crying, always in pain, usually poor or oppressed. She gets slapped by her in-laws, suffers in silence, and the audience is expected to love her because she’s… what? A martyr? Because she endures everything and never fights back?
She was never allowed to be angry. Never allowed to say, “No, I don’t deserve this.”
Apparently, being a doormat made you lovable.
Then came the vamp.
Bold, unapologetic, sexy — maybe she wore short dresses, smoked, or had a past. The second she showed any confidence, she was branded “bad news”.
She wasn’t wife material. She was the villain.
The message? If you’re too loud, too opinionated, too much — you don’t deserve a happy ending.
And of course, let’s not forget the sanskaari queen.
The perfect daughter-in-law. The one who makes round rotis, touches feet, prays on time, and never raises her voice — even when she’s falling apart inside.
Her worth? Based entirely on how well she serves others.
But here’s the thing.
Where were the real South Asian women?
Where were the girls who are angry — because they’ve been told to shrink themselves their whole lives?
The ones who are loud, not because they’re rude, but because they have things to say and they’re done being silenced.
The ones who are depressed, anxious, burnt out from carrying expectations no one even asked if they wanted.
The girls who don’t have it all together — who are healing from generational trauma, broken relationships, identity crises, and still choosing to wake up and keep going.
Why didn’t we ever see her on screen?
The girl who fights with her mom. Who questions religion, gender roles, and her place in the world.
The one who laughs loudly, loves fiercely, cries randomly — and doesn’t apologize for being complex.
Why did we have to grow up thinking that being a “good girl” meant being silent, soft, and selfless to the point of self-destruction?
We deserve stories that show us — not some outdated, filtered version of what a woman should be — but the raw, real, messy truth of who we are.
We are not one-dimensional.
We are not perfect.
We are not just “bechari”, “vamp”, or “sanskaari”.
We are all of that — and more.
It’s time Bollywood — and all desi media — stopped putting us in boxes… and started giving us the space to just be.
“Why does every South Asian drama show women being tortured by their in-laws like it’s entertainment? Do you realize how normalized emotional abuse has become in our communities because of TV?”
Can we talk about something that nobody really wants to address?
Why does every South Asian drama treat women being tortured by their in-laws like it’s entertainment?
Like… seriously.
Every other show has the same formula: a sweet, quiet girl — usually an orphan or someone from a broken home — gets married, and boom. The second she steps into her new house, it turns into a war zone.
Suddenly, the mother-in-law is a villain. The husband is either spineless or straight-up abusive. And the rest of the family? Silent spectators.
And the girl? She just keeps suffering. Crying. Apologizing.
For existing.
We’re supposed to watch this and feel sad, but let’s be honest — it’s been served to us as prime-time drama for years.
Take Hala from Mere Humsafar, for example.
She was just a child when her own relatives started mistreating her — making her feel like a burden in her own home.
They isolated her. Humiliated her. Gaslit her. Made her feel like she wasn’t good enough for basic kindness.
And when she finally got married, what happened?
More trauma. More manipulation. More emotional abuse — all dressed up as “family drama.”
And here’s the scary part:
We don’t even flinch anymore.
We’ve seen it so many times that we’ve become numb to it.
Some of us even call it “relatable.” Like, oh yeah, that’s just how Desi families are.
But that’s not okay.
You know what this kind of storytelling does?
It normalizes emotional abuse.
It conditions women — especially young girls — to believe that suffering is part of their identity. That they’re supposed to endure disrespect for the sake of “izzat” or “family unity.”
That if your in-laws mistreat you, you should still smile and serve them tea.
Because that’s what a good girl does, right?
Wrong.
What these dramas rarely show is the woman who walks away.
The woman who says, “No, I don’t have to take this.”
The woman who sets boundaries, who heals, who puts herself first — not out of rebellion, but out of survival.
We need to stop glamorizing pain and calling it strength.
Suffering isn’t character development.
Abuse isn’t a plot twist.
And watching a woman cry in every episode doesn’t make a show “emotional” — it makes it exhausting.
It’s time we demand better from our media.
More stories of South Asian women who fight back.
Who choose peace over toxic loyalty.
Who break cycles instead of staying stuck in them.
Because the more we see strength in silence, the more we teach the next generation of girls to keep quiet when they should be screaming.
“Why does every South Asian drama show women being tortured by their in-laws like it’s entertainment? Do you realize how normalized emotional abuse has become in our communities because of TV?”
This recurring theme in our media isn’t just storytelling—it’s a reflection of deeply ingrained societal norms. By normalizing emotional abuse, these dramas perpetuate the idea that women should silently endure mistreatment. Let’s examine three recent dramas that exemplify this troubling trend.
🎠Dao – The Deceptive Matchmaker
In Dao, Almas, a matchmaker, orchestrates the marriage of Nisha to Saad, a man with a cruel nature. Almas’s greed blinds her to the consequences, leading to Nisha’s suffering. The drama portrays Nisha’s torment as a central plot point, focusing on her victimization rather than her agency. This depiction reinforces the notion that women are passive recipients of fate, rather than active agents in their own lives. harpalgeo.tv+5Showbiz Hut+57thsky.biz+5harpalgeo.tv+2Hoyatag+2IMDb+2
đź’” Jaan Nisar – Fiza’s Silent Suffering
Jaan Nisar introduces Fiza, who marries her sister’s ex-boyfriend. Her life becomes a cycle of abuse: verbal, physical, and emotional. Despite enduring a miscarriage and the constant belittlement, Fiza remains in the marriage. Her eventual divorce is portrayed as a form of redemption, but the narrative doesn’t fully explore her journey towards self-empowerment. Instead, it positions her as a passive character, waiting for external validation rather than taking control of her own story. Reddit
🌪️ Radd – The Older Sister’s Torment
In Radd, the older sister faces continuous emotional abuse from her in-laws. The drama highlights her suffering, yet there’s a lack of focus on her resilience or efforts to reclaim her dignity. This portrayal suggests that enduring abuse is an inevitable part of a woman’s role, rather than challenging the systems that allow such behavior.
The Impact on Society
These dramas, while fictional, mirror and reinforce societal attitudes towards women. By consistently depicting women as victims who passively accept abuse, they contribute to the normalization of such behavior in real life. This portrayal can desensitize audiences, making them less likely to recognize or challenge emotional abuse when it occurs in their own communities.
A Call for Change
It’s time for a shift in narrative. We need stories that depict women as complex individuals with agency, resilience, and the ability to overcome adversity. Rather than glorifying suffering, let’s celebrate strength, independence, and the journey towards self-discovery. By changing the stories we tell, we can influence the reality we live.
“How many South Asian movies have romanticized stalking, harassment, and toxic male behavior? We grew up thinking pain = love. And that lie cost us our mental health.”
Too many.
Way too many.
We grew up watching guys follow girls around, harass them, obsess over them — and somehow, it was called “love.”
Somehow, his pain was proof of his passion.
His aggression? Just a side effect of “loving too much.”
And we were told to root for it.
To romanticize it.
To believe that if it hurts, it must be real.
But let’s be honest — that lie?
That pain = love?
That messed up a whole generation’s understanding of relationships.
It cost us our mental health, our boundaries, our self-worth.
Let’s talk about the damage, shall we?
🎥 Tere Naam
Radhe is aggressive, violent, obsessive — and yet, we’re told he’s the “tragic hero.”
He harasses the girl until she “falls” for him. When things don’t go his way? Rage, breakdown, chaos.
And instead of calling it what it is — emotional instability and harassment — we framed it as “true love gone wrong.”
🎥 Tere Chahoon Mein Deewangi Ishq Hai
This entire drama is built on a toxic obsession, where the male lead’s control, manipulation, and delusional possessiveness are painted as devotion.
His inability to respect consent is portrayed like it’s passion.
The woman has no space to choose — because the man’s obsession erases her voice.
🎥 Kabir Singh
Let’s just say it: Kabir Singh was not a misunderstood lover — he was an emotionally abusive man.
He slapped his girlfriend, controlled her life, and self-destructed when he couldn’t have his way.
But what did the film say?
That he was just “broken.” That he was “madly in love.”
And somehow, it made over 300 crores.
People clapped. Boys mimicked him.
And we called it cinema.
🎥 Badrinath Ki Dulhania
Let’s not forget Badri — who stalked and pressured Vaidehi relentlessly.
She said no multiple times.
He didn’t stop.
He followed her across cities, forced her to explain her decisions, made her feel guilty for living life on her terms.
And by the end? We were all supposed to cheer when she forgave him.
Like her independence was a phase, and his entitlement was just “love in disguise.”
We were never taught how to recognize respect.
We were told:
- “If he’s jealous, he must really care.”
- “If he can’t live without you, that’s love.”
- “If he gets angry, it’s only because he’s passionate.”
No.
That’s not love.
That’s control. That’s manipulation. That’s emotional abuse.
But our movies told us otherwise.
So what happened?
We grew up with blurred boundaries.
We tolerated red flags because they looked like “romantic gestures.”
We confused possessiveness with loyalty.
And we started thinking our pain was a price we had to pay…
for love.
And now we’re unpacking it all in therapy.
Trying to unlearn the lies.
Trying to understand that real love doesn’t hurt.
It doesn’t stalk.
It doesn’t suffocate.
It doesn’t silence.
It’s time to hold our stories accountable.
Romance isn’t about obsession.
Heartbreak doesn’t justify abuse.
And love?
Love is only real when it’s rooted in consent, respect, and emotional safety.
We deserve better.
Our generation knows better.
And the next one?
They should never have to unlearn love the way we did.
Our media tells us that a South Asian woman’s worth lies in how much pain she can endure quietly.
Like the more she suffers, the more “respectable” she is.
The more she tolerates, the more “dignified” she must be.
But let’s just ask the hard question:
Why is suffering seen as strength?
And why is silence treated like dignity?
Because the truth is —
This conditioning has broken us.
It’s taught generations of girls that they are “good” only if they put everyone else first…
Even if it kills them slowly.
Let’s talk about some stories that hit hard:
🎬 Provoked (2006)
Based on the real life of Kiranjit Ahluwalia — a woman who was brutally abused by her husband for years.
She stayed silent. For her children. For her family. Because society told her that was her role.
Until one day, she broke.
And what did the world do? It questioned her. Not the man who tortured her.
This film showed us that a woman’s silence isn’t always choice — sometimes, it’s the cage she’s forced to live in.
🎬 Darlings (2022)
In this film, Badru keeps forgiving her abusive husband — over and over again.
She makes excuses for him, even blames herself.
Because that’s what women are taught to do, right?
Be patient. Be loyal. Be quiet.
Even when you’re breaking.
But then comes the shift — she takes back power.
And for once, we see a woman stop enduring and start fighting.
But why do we always need to reach a breaking point for the world to finally listen?
🎬 Thappad (2020)
A slap. Just one slap.
And the world said, “Itna bhi kya bura lag gaya?”
Because women are expected to tolerate “a little bit” of pain.
A little bit of disrespect.
A little bit of humiliation.
It’s always “not that deep” until it happens to you.
This movie wasn’t about one slap — it was about years of being silenced, unseen, and unheard.
And when she walks away? That was the loudest statement of all.
🎬 Guilty (2020)
This one hit different.
A college girl accuses a popular guy of sexual assault.
And instead of support, what does she get? Character assassination.
Because when a South Asian woman speaks out — she’s labeled crazy, attention-seeking, promiscuous.
But if she stays silent? She’s “respectable.”
So basically, no matter what she does, she loses.
Unless she plays the game of pain — and suffers silently.
And we have to ask — when did silence become a symbol of pride?
Why do we romanticize the woman who “endured everything” but not the one who left?
Why do we call it “sabr” when it’s really suppression?
Why do we tell our daughters that their voice makes them “difficult”?
It’s time we change the story.
Strength is not in suffering.
Dignity is not in silence.
And endurance should never be a woman’s only identity.
Let’s stop glorifying pain.
Let’s start respecting healing.
And let’s teach the next generation that it’s okay to speak up —
Even if your voice shakes.
Even if the world calls you “too much.”
Because you’re not too much.
You’re just finally enough for yourself.