In Indian households, we are taught one lesson from the very beginning: **Endure.**
Endure the harsh words of elders—because “respect” matters more than truth.
Endure an unhappy marriage—because “family honor” is more important than happiness.
Endure silent struggles—because “good children don’t complain.”
But we ask you—is this endurance, or is it just repression wrapped in culture?
We glorify silence, but why is this hush celebrated more than truth? We glorify sacrifice, but why is this compromise praised more than courage?
Here is what we need to realize
The irony around endurance in our households runs deep when we notice how selectively it is applied. We are urged to endure inequality within the home, but we never extend that endurance to traffic jams, bureaucratic inefficiency, or the failures of governance.
We erupt in anger on the streets but remain docile in our living rooms. Is this not hypocrisy?
This selective application of endurance highlights a deeper societal issue, where conformity within the family is valued above all else, even when it leads to internal conflict and suppressed emotions.
The sad thing is that the Irony runs even deeper
In Indian households, endurance is not just encouraged — it is practically woven into the DNA of family life. Silence is dressed up as “respect,” and unquestioning compliance is disguised as “values.” Children learn very young that disagreeing with elders is “disrespectful,” that crying too much is “drama,” and that talking openly about mental or emotional pain is “weakness.”
Strangely, the less you say, the more “mature” you are considered. The child who suffers quietly is praised as “sanskaari,” [well mannered] while the one who dares to argue is branded as rebellious or, worse, “too modern.” Quite ironical, is it not? Endurance, then, is not just a personal trait — it is a survival skill in families where adjusting is glorified more than living.
A symbolic representation of sacrifices passed down through generations.
But when does this Glorification begin?
Well, glorification of suffering and enduring begins subtly to say the least. A daughter who sacrifices her education for her brother’s future is called the pride of the family. A young man who gives up on his dream job abroad to stay close to his parents is praised as “responsible.”
And when a daughter-in-law “adjusts” with in-laws who treat her poorly, she is applauded for being “strong.” In these stories, strength is never about thriving — it is about suppressing your own voice so that others remain comfortable. The sarcasm here almost writes itself: apparently, the gold standard of resilience in Indian households is how well you can silently swallow pain with a smile.
The hypocrisy is glaring:
We protest against corruption in politics, but never question corruption inside our homes. A father’s harsh words are to be “endured”; a mother’s unfulfilled ambitions are to be “forgotten”; a child’s desires are to be “sacrificed.” If endurance is truly a virtue, why is it demanded only within households, where questioning could challenge tradition and power?
Take the facts:
- 30% of Indian women experience domestic violence (NFHS-5, 2021); yet society tells them to “endure for the children.”
- Over 23% of girls are married before 18; yet families justify it as tradition to be silently accepted.
Why do we call this strength, when it is clearly injustice?
We hear you asking, “It stops eventually, right?”
It doesn’t because it is not as simple as growing out of the culture. To be more precise this doesn’t stop when children grow up; it only shifts in shape. Even as adults, many Indians live under the constant weight of parental involvement in decisions that should belong to them alone. A 27-year-old man may be told, “We raised you, now it’s your duty to marry where we say.” A woman in her 30s with a flourishing career may be constantly reminded, “What is the use of your success if you can’t give us grandchildren?” The emotional manipulation is often coated in love — “We only want the best for you” — but the best somehow always aligns with the family’s comfort, not the individual’s desire.
The real irony is how this culture of endurance is passed down as if it were an heirloom. Parents who were once silenced by their own elders unknowingly silence their children, calling it discipline. A boy watches his father tolerate insults in the name of family honor and grows up believing this is what strength looks like. A girl sees her mother swallow years of dissatisfaction and interprets that as love. Thus, the cycle continues: endurance packaged as strength, silence mistaken for dignity, and emotional manipulation disguised as care.
So what’s the conclusion?
The contradictions are glaring. We celebrate resilience but punish resistance. We glorify patience but dismiss honesty. Families say they want their children to be “happy,” but define happiness as obedience and endurance. The result? Adults who look successful on paper but feel trapped in their own homes, carrying guilt when they choose themselves over the family’s script.
Endurance without choice is not virtue; it is captivity dressed as culture. It is time to replace silence with dialogue; endurance with dignity; obedience with individuality. Only then can Indian households truly claim to value strength—not the strength of suffering, but the strength of living fully and freely.