During my fieldwork at the Martha Farrell Foundation, I got the opportunity to work with both groups of adolescent girls and women domestic workers. And there was this one observation that I just couldn’t unsee. Among the girls, there was a noticeable difference. Not one of capability, but of attitude. Of how they approached themselves. There was an ease, a kind of unfiltered confidence. Was it delusional confidence at times? Yes. But was that necessarily a bad thing? No.
While practicing Nukkad Natak with the girls, one of them would casually say, "Ye chaar line hi bolni hain na mujhe? Ye toh main bol lungi, aaram se," (I can speak these four lines confidently) with complete certainty. And then she would go on to deliver those lines with incorrect word ordering, uneven intonation, and a flat pitch that did not quite land. But somehow, that didn't seem to matter. What stayed with me wasn't the performance itself, but the confidence with which she stepped into it. The willingness to try without first worrying about whether she would get it perfectly right.
With the women, it was different.
There was hesitation. While the girls would say, "Main pehle karungi," (I would go first) the women were more likely to respond with, "Main pehle nahi jaungi, aap pehle kariye," or "Mujhe nahi aata, aap karke bataiye." ( I will not go first, you can go ahead or I don’t know can you help me do that) The irony, however, was that when they eventually did the task, they often did it correctly. Better than expected, even. Their hesitation had very little to do with competence and much more to do with how they perceived their own ability.These women and these girls come from the same community context. So what made the difference?
It certainly cannot be explained by schooling alone, although that is undeniably a part of the story. Many of these women did not have access to education growing up. But even that explanation feels incomplete. What causes this gap?
What happens between the fifteen-year-old Mehak who confidently says, "Main kar lungi," (I will do it) and the thirty-year-old Mehak who quietly says, "Mujhse nahi ho payega"? ( I can’t do it). I found myself sitting with that question for much longer than I thought I would.
When I was working with these adolescent girls, what I mostly felt was joy, with just a tinge of dull pain. Watching them often felt like watching a version of myself I had almost forgotten. That easy willingness to try. To go first. To be wrong without that mistake becoming a statement about who you are. Like every individual, I too have been shaped by my socialisation.
Quite early in my life, I decided that I did not want to work with children. My reasoning seemed practical enough. Children are vulnerable, and I believed they require a great deal of patience, something I felt I personally lacked. But over time, I realised that this decision wasn't shaped only by my temperament. It was also shaped by voices that had quietly settled somewhere within me. The eighth-grade mathematics teacher said, "Tum toh pass bhi nahi ho paogi." (You will not even get passing marks) Or even earlier, my music coach in fifth standard suggested that perhaps I should try something other than music and discover where my "natural talents" lay instead. Then there were the smaller voices. Parents. Relatives. Neighbours. Passing comments that seemed insignificant at the time, yet somehow stayed. It still surprises me how long such ordinary moments can linger.
Which is perhaps why, when I was eventually left with no option but to work with a group of adolescent girls, I found myself becoming unusually aware. Aware of my words.
My tone. What I said. And how I responded. I found myself doing something very intentional. Holding back. Not avoiding corrections altogether, but thinking carefully about how I corrected them. Encouraging them without letting things go haywire. Letting them try, even when I knew it might not land perfectly. Resisting the urge to fix things immediately. Allowing them the freedom to fail. Choosing words that would not shrink them. Because somewhere, I kept thinking that this is where it begins. Not through one dramatic incident, but through repeated, ordinary interactions.
The gradual shift from "I'll go first" to "Not me, someone else should try." And many of these ordinary interactions are institutionalised. Classrooms are often the first spaces where authority is experienced not as dialogue, but as hierarchy. Teachers themselves work within systems that reward discipline, correctness, and control far more than curiosity, experimentation, or expression. Respect, in such spaces, often becomes one-directional. It is expected from students, but not always extended back to them. The teacher's role remains centred on ensuring learning outcomes, while the emotional environment in which that learning happens receives far less attention. Of course, many teachers actively resist this pattern, but the structure itself often leaves little room for nurturing confidence alongside competence.
I have also seen glimpses of what comes later, outside the schooling system.During one of my previous internships, I remember women saying about their daughters,
"Ye abhi chhoti hai isliye itni bold hai aur strong opinions hain. Badi ho jayegi, samajhdari aa jayegi. Tab isko bhi zimmedari uthani hogi, sahi se rehna hoga." (She is young now, so she is outspoken and has strong opinions. As she grows older, she will become more mature. Then she will also have to take on responsibilities and behave appropriately)
There is something about that phrase, "sahi se rehna hoga",(You have to be in your limits) that has stayed with me. It carries the weight of adjustment. Of shrinking. Of becoming appropriate. Of slowly learning which parts of yourself should be made quieter so that you fit more comfortably into the world around you. And I wonder, at what cost does that samajhdari (understanding) come?
I think of Muskan, Offida, Sana, Khushbu, Alima, Hasna, and Luspika.And I hope none of them ever feel the need to "sahi se rehna" in a way that asks them to give up a part of themselves.I hope they carry this carefreeness on their sleeves for as long as they can. I hope their confidence is not like mine thick-skinned, built slowly after years of criticism, after learning to shrug things off and say, "Logon ko kuch toh bolna hi hai, bolne do." (People will always have something to say. Let them talk)
I hope theirs is lighter. Not like armour, but like a wildflower. Growing without asking. Without apology. Something that does not need to defend itself. Something that simply exists, unafraid, unquestioned, and enough.
