“Humara Ashirwad Hai: Ladka Hi Hoga” — Wrapped in Love, Drenched in Patriarchy

A personal reflection on patriarchy, internalised norms, and the quiet unease we carry...

Recently, at a family gathering, I heard a common blessing being offered to a newly married couple: “Humara ashirwad hai: ladka hi hoga.” (“Our blessing is: you will have a son.”)

It wasn’t just a simple wish for a child—it was a specific and pointed desire for a male child. This was not the first time I’d heard such a thing, but that day, something in me stirred differently. I felt a rush of emotion—my body tensed, and an intense energy surged through me, especially around my mouth and head. My blood was boiling, and I felt angry.

As I sat with that anger, giving it space, I noticed what lay beneath it was a deep sadness, hurt, and disappointment... a quiet grief. I found myself wondering why such statements are still so commonplace—why we still live in times where this kind of gendered discrimination can be so casually expressed, even wrapped in the language of love and blessing.

I also began to wonder about others who heard that statement that day. I noticed subtle discomfort in some of the other women around me. But none of us spoke up—not even me. And that made me ask: Why? Why do we gulp down that energy? Why do we choose silence?

The answer, for me, lies in patriarchy—in how it becomes normalised and internalised. I was able to name this discomfort, to locate the problem not within myself but in the broader social structure, because of my training in Narrative Therapy. It has helped me shift the gaze away from blaming individuals and instead examine the powerful systems—like patriarchy—that shape our experiences and responses.

But I also understand that many around me haven’t had access to these frameworks. For them, patriarchy is not a structure to question—it’s just the way things are. I realise that not long ago, I too would have accepted and not questioned that blessing outright. Yet, here’s what stayed with me: even without knowing the word or the theory, I noticed many people felt the discomfort and unease when they heard those words.... Why? Because our bodies carry wisdom. Whether or not we have the language for it, we can feel when something is off. When we’re unseen, unacknowledged, or devalued—our bodies know.

Everyone in that space—women, men, and people of all genders—might have felt a tug of discomfort. Some may have felt anger or hurt, while others may have brushed it aside, laughed, or gone numb. Our responses vary depending on how much we’ve internalised patriarchal values and where we are in our journeys of unlearning.

What unsettled me even more was that some of the people offering this “blessing” were women themselves. And that forced me to confront something even more painful: patriarchy doesn’t just live in men. It is upheld, reinforced, and passed on by women too. Such deep is our conditioning and internalisation.

To give a blessing—something so sacred and heartfelt—laced with gender discrimination shows just how deeply misogynistic ideas can seep into our everyday expressions of care. It’s not always hate that keeps patriarchy alive. Sometimes, it’s tradition. It’s love. It’s silence.

And so, I write this not as a callout, but as a call inward. To notice. To feel. To name. To gently ask ourselves: What are we blessing when we bless a boy over any other gender? What parts of ourselves are we silencing to keep the peace? And how might we begin to bless or speak differently?

What unsettled me even more was that some of the people offering this “blessing” were women themselves. And that forced me to confront something even more painful: patriarchy doesn’t just live in men. It is upheld, reinforced, and passed on by women too. Such deep is our conditioning and internalisation.

To give a blessing—something so sacred and heartfelt—laced with gender discrimination shows just how deeply misogynistic ideas can seep into our everyday expressions of care. It’s not always hate that keeps patriarchy alive. Sometimes, it’s tradition. It’s love. It’s silence.

And so, I write this not as a callout, but as a call inward. To notice. To feel. To name. To gently ask ourselves: What are we blessing when we bless a boy over any other gender? What parts of ourselves are we silencing to keep the peace? And how might we begin to bless or speak differently?