Priya writes

Ask any Indian woman if she has ever been stared at and I am certain almost everyone will say that they have been. I became hyper-aware of the male gaze when I was 11-years-old. I remember traveling by bus to my aunt’s town and being stared at by a man who was probably twice my age. Something about the way he unflinchingly kept staring at me made me so uncomfortable. I remember squirming in my seat and averting my gaze and watching endlessly outside the window till sleep took over. And it never stopped after that.

Puberty meant development of breasts which only worsened the situation for me. Dupattas, baggy clothes became the norm; My over-protective dad ensured I was adequately and appropriately dressed all the time and he did tell me when i was slightly older it was not because he didn’t trust me or want me in “western clothes” but because he didn’t trust boys and men. A damning indictment of half the world’s population who don’t seem to understand(nor care) about the discomfort they seem to cause to us the women. Anyway, that’s s rant for another day!

Back to the male gaze; This male gaze also meant I didn’t have the confidence I needed in my own body for years. I avoided group sports and activities because I didn’t want to be “looked at” a certain way. The freest i felt as a teenager was when I moved abroad to live in the beautiful island nation of Trinidad & Tobago. As a 13yo, it was the best thing to happen for my confidence. Suddenly, sports wasn’t daunting because the boys didnt look at me; Suddenly being at the beach and getting wet in my clothes didn’t seem “wrong” because the dreaded male gaze wasn’t there. I am not saying it is all hunky-dory but somehow, the concept of personal space seems to be almost understood and unsaid abroad.

Indian men, like men everywhere, grow up in a society that often normalizes the act of staring at women, making the male gaze an ingrained part of everyday life. Many men do it unconsciously, some out of curiosity, and others with deliberate entitlement, rarely considering the discomfort they cause. The normalization of this behavior is reinforced by media, where women are frequently objectified, and by cultural conditioning that rarely holds men accountable for the way they look at women.

For some, the gaze is a form of power, a silent assertion of dominance over public spaces, subtly reminding women that they are being watched and judged. Even well-meaning men who don’t engage in overtly predatory behavior often fail to recognize how their gaze contributes to an environment where women feel unsafe or unwelcome.

The male gaze in India isn’t just about individual men—it’s about a larger system that teaches men they have the right to look while teaching women they must endure it. True change will only come when men become self-aware enough to question their own behaviors and challenge the norms that allow this gaze to persist.

I avoided gyms after many failed attempts at going to some- because I couldn’t handle the men staring at me. As a 21yo, a gym experience in Hyderabad left a bad taste in my mouth. Enough to swear me off going to a gym for nearly two decades until this year.

It’s no fun being stared at by men while you are trying to exercise; hit on & when male trainers use “training” as an excuse to violate your personal space and “show” how to exercise by touching you non-consensually. I went to exercise and left with uncontrollable rage.

Far away in Brisbane, at 38yo of age, i am suddenly experiencing the freedom from this male gaze. From beach to swimming pools to parks to gyms, people dont stare. Men don’t stare. No one gives two f***ks for lack of better expression and for emphasis. And that experience is truly freeing. It’s just the boost someone like me who is battling multiple insecurities needs. But most importantly, it feels like, only now I can own my space with confidence and not feel violated by.

The male gaze in India is more than just an inconvenience—it is a deeply unsettling experience that conditions women to constantly be on guard. From an early age, Indian women learn to modify their behavior, their clothing, and even their movements to minimize the discomfort that comes with being watched. The discomfort is not just in the act of being stared at but in the implicit entitlement behind those stares. It forces women to shrink themselves, to avoid eye contact, to walk faster, to adjust their dupattas, and to second-guess their choices—whether it’s about what they wear or where they go. The weight of this gaze is exhausting, and its persistence can erode self-confidence over time.

What makes the experience worse is the normalization of this discomfort. Women are expected to accept it as part of their reality, with phrases like “That’s just how men are” or “You should be careful” serving as thinly veiled warnings rather than solutions. The blame subtly shifts onto women, making them responsible for preempting and preventing male attention rather than questioning why men feel so entitled to look, comment, or invade personal space in the first place.

This ever-present discomfort is why so many Indian women find a sense of relief when they step into spaces where they are not constantly watched, evaluated, or made to feel like they exist for male consumption. True freedom is not just about what women can wear or where they can go—it is about finally being able to exist without fear of being scrutinised.