When we talk about reimagining the family, one of the most urgent tasks before us is to rethink masculinity — not as an attack on men, but as an invitation to reflect on how both men and women are shaped by inherited ideas of what it means to be strong, caring, or capable.
At Manzil, a learning community I co-founded 25 years ago, I have had the privilege of working with thousands of young people. In many ways, Manzil has grown to become an extended family — a space where both learning and unlearning happen together. Over the years, I’ve seen how boys and girls come to us as open, curious children, but as they grow older, certain walls begin to rise. Girls begin to disappear from our programmes; their brothers, once playmates, start to police their freedom. This control is often justified as “protection,” but it is really about fear — fear of ridicule, of breaking social codes, of being laughed at for having a sister who talks too freely or walks too far.
I grew up with a very strong mother, a woman far ahead of her time. She worked outside the home in the 1950s — not for money, but as a volunteer. From her, I learned two vital lessons: that the value of one’s work lies not in what it earns but in what it contributes; and that strength has many forms, not all of them loud. When we founded Manzil together, she reminded me daily that change begins in the relationships we nurture.
In my experience, we cannot teach values — we can only create experiences that allow them to be caught. I once sat in a village meeting where all the men took chairs and all the women sat on the floor. I quietly sat down on the ground myself. The discomfort in the room was palpable. But small gestures like these can open up powerful conversations — about fairness, about dignity, about how our social patterns hurt not just women but the entire community. If mothers eat last, the nutrition of their children — boys and girls alike — suffers. Inequality, when normalized, poisons everyone’s growth.
Rethinking masculinity, then, is about questioning not only how men treat women but how men treat their own humanity. I’ve often seen boys apologizing for crying, as if tears were a flaw. Yet nature gave all of us tear glands — surely for a reason. If boys can’t cry, how can they truly feel?
Even in my own home, I see how deeply these patterns run. My wife, a strong and compassionate woman, will sometimes snatch a heavy box from me saying, “Yeh zyada bhaari hai, mujhe de do.” It’s a gesture of love — but it also reminds me how tangled care and conditioning can be.
When our daughter was born four years ago, my wife and I were both delighted. We were also determined — determined that we would raise a human being, not a stereotype. Kabir’s words have guided me since:
“Nar naari mein ek viraaje, duniya mein do dekhe kyun?”
(The same essence dwells in man and woman — why do we see them as two?)
If masculinity means strength, let it also mean the strength to listen, to nurture, to question oneself. In our families, schools, and communities, rethinking masculinity is really about rehumanizing ourselves — freeing both men and women from the small cages of expectation so that we can grow into larger, more loving selves.
