“She’s Not Better, She’s Just Different: Unlearning Generational Competition Among South Asian Women”
She’s Not Better, She’s Just Different: Unlearning Generational Competition Among South Asian Women”
From childhood, Shreya and Banita were inseparable. Two South Asian girls growing up in neighboring households, their friendship began before they even knew what the word “competition” meant. But soon, it wasn’t just about friendship—it became about aesthetics, academics, and approval.
Shreya was bold—dyed hair blue, oversized shirts, lived loudly and colorfully.
Banita was the quiet flame—black aesthetic, top of the class, poised and elegant.
It didn’t take long before their parents started comparing them.
“Why can’t you be more like Banita?” Shreya would hear.
And Banita? She heard, “Don’t you wish you had Shreya’s confidence?”
They laughed off the comparisons. But deep down, they began measuring themselves against one another.
Who wore the look better?
Who had the better grades?
Who would get the guy?
They both liked the same boy once.
Shreya got him.
Banita, despite being smarter, kinder, and the one who noticed him first, lost him to her best friend. It stung—not because she thought she owned him—but because she always thought effort and goodness would win.
What she didn’t know was that Shreya’s home life was far from stable.
Her mother—a wealthy, glamorous woman—had a different man in the house every week.
“You don’t need love, you need options,” she’d tell Shreya.
So Shreya chased attention, confused it for affection, and tried to be like her mother… even though it left her feeling hollow.
Banita once sat her down and said:
“Shreya, boys come and go. They don’t define you. You define you.”
And Shreya listened—slowly, deeply
One day, Banita met a guy who was kind, present, and saw her for her worth. He didn’t play games, and most importantly, he didn’t chase Shreya.
Instead, he helped the two friends find harmony again.
He saw their differences as strengths—not threats.
Shreya even said,
“He’s more of a brother to me than my real one. At least he treats women with respect.”
Because truth be told, her own brother was no role model.
Her bhabi, Akira, had just given birth and was struggling. Postpartum depression had taken its toll. Shreya’s brother brushed her off, saying “She’s just being dramatic.”
Until the day Akira locked herself in the bathroom.
Shreya banged on the door, screaming her name, until it finally opened.
Akira collapsed into her arms, crying that she didn’t want to live like this anymore.
That’s when it clicked.
Shreya had once been in that same space, after Aditya cheated on her with his ex, Tara.
He blamed her. Said she was too intense.
Shreya believed him. For a while.
But now? Watching Akira unravel under the weight of a loveless marriage, she knew:
“No woman deserves to be broken just to be loved.”
She got Akira professional help. She stood by her through the divorce.
She didn’t care if her family whispered about her being a bad daughter or a corrupt sister.
Because for the first time, Shreya was a woman another woman could lean on—not compete with.
Today?
- Banita is still with the man who respects her and values her.
- Shreya is pursuing her creative passions, far away from the noise of comparison and chaos.
- Akira is living her own life—free, empowered, and healing.
And the two friends?
No longer opponents.
No longer trying to be the “better South Asian girl.”
Because as Banita once said, holding Shreya’s hand:
“You’re not better. You’re not worse.
You’re just you. And that’s more than enough.”
Moral of the story:
South Asian women don’t need to compete to rise. There is space for all of us to shine—on our own terms, in our own truth.