A few days ago, I was traveling with a friend through a stretch of forest at night. The road was wide and wrapped in silence, with trees leaning in from both sides.
He suddenly asked, “Would you be willing to get out of the car at night, in the middle of this forest road?”
I said, “Yes, I can.”
He smiled mischievously. “Then do it now.”
I opened the door and stepped out. The night air was cold. The forest was breathing. For a moment, I stood alone under a sky that did not care about my existence.
Later, I got back into the car. He laughed and asked, in a very casual, almost playful tone,
“Then what is it that really, really scares you?”
I said, “A female.”
You might be wondering why I said that. As a daughter, sister, mother, and partner, there are females around every human, including me, so why am I scared of a human female?
Let me explain. Before you misunderstand me, let me make something clear: fear does not always come from physical strength. Sometimes it comes from power, social power, legal power, or emotional power.
In India, we have built a system that, with good intentions, is heavily inclined toward protecting women. Protection was necessary, and the same applies to every individual. There is no denying that. Women have faced harassment, violence, and injustice for centuries. Laws were strengthened to correct this imbalance.
But somewhere along the way, the correction has started creating a new imbalance.
There are laws related to dowry harassment, domestic violence, workplace harassment, sexual harassment, stalking, and emotional abuse. Many of these laws are stringent, many non-bailable. The intention was noble.
But intention and execution are not always the same when people purposely manipulate the laws.
In Kerala, we have seen numerous cases where entire families, aged parents, sisters, even distant relatives, were dragged into dowry harassment complaints by women. Later, investigations reveal exaggerations, sometimes complete fabrications. But by then, the social damage is done. The man has been branded as bad. His parents have been humiliated. His job may have been affected. In many cases, his life too.
In urban Kerala, especially in cities like Kochi and Thiruvananthapuram, relationship disputes increasingly enter police stations as criminal complaints. Breakups become harassment cases. In some instances, false promises of marriage are used as tools for revenge when relationships collapse.
Again, let me repeat: I am not denying real crimes. They exist. They are serious. They must be punished. But what about the other side?
In marriages where the woman is extremely toxic, manipulative, and emotionally abusive, where she isolates the husband from his family, threatens false cases during arguments, and uses the fear of the law as a weapon, where does the man go?
In many households, men suffer silently. Not because they are weak, but because society does not recognize their suffering.
If a man says, “My wife hits me,” people laugh.
If a man says, “My wife mentally tortures me,” people say, “Be a man.”
If a man says, “She is threatening to file a case against me,” people say, “Adjust.”
There is no public outrage. No trending hashtags. No emotional sympathy.
If a man comments on a woman’s dress without consent, stalks her, or irritates her repeatedly, she can approach the police. Rightfully so. It is harassment. It is unacceptable. The system will react.
But what if a woman repeatedly calls, messages, emotionally manipulates, publicly shames, or threatens a man after a breakup? If she stalks him? If she creates scenes in his workplace? If she files complaints out of nothing?
When a man approaches the police in such situations, often the seriousness is not seen. The urgency is missing. This is something I am quoting from situations I have witnessed firsthand.
Why? Because somewhere we have collectively decided that vulnerability belongs only to women.
Kerala, ironically, is often projected as a progressive state, high literacy, social awareness, gender conversations. But beneath the statistics, there is a truth: male suicide rates in Kerala are significantly high. Many are linked to family disputes, marital stress, financial pressure, combined with emotional isolation.
But when a man takes that final step, we discuss financial debt first. We rarely ask: Was he emotionally cornered? Was he legally threatened? Was he unheard? The narrative is incomplete.
Apart from all this, from my personal experience: when a woman has taken a personal loan, we can’t ask her to return it, and she can simply switch off the phone or deny payment; we can’t do anything.
This blog is not anti-women. It is anti-injustice, irrespective of gender. If a woman is harassed, she must be protected. If a man is harassed, he must also be protected. If a woman misuses the law, that misuse must be acknowledged. If a man misuses power, that must also be punished. Equality cannot be biased.
The forest that night in Wayanad did not scare me because it was honest. If there was danger, it would come openly, in the form of an animal, a sound, or a movement.
What scares the man in me today is invisible danger: a complaint that can appear overnight, a statement that can destroy reputation instantly, a social judgment that does not wait for evidence.
Fear does not always come from darkness. Sometimes it comes from imbalance. If we truly believe in justice, we must be brave enough to talk about uncomfortable truths. We must build systems that protect without empowering misuse. We must allow men to speak without mocking them. We must create safe spaces for everyone.
The night in the forest was silent. But the silence in many men’s lives is louder.
I fully support your compression
Fantastic.
Perfect!