“Feminism.”
One word. Four syllables. And yet, it has the power to ignite more male meltdowns than a low phone battery at a RCB VS CSK match. Suddenly, it’s not just a movement — it’s a threat. A villain. A disease. “Over-feminism,” they cry. “Feminists are ruining society,” they wail — from their ergonomic gaming chairs, no less.
Why? Because a woman dared to speak. To question. To ask for what was hers. And nothing terrifies a fragile ego more than a woman who stops asking nicely.
God forbid she asks for her rightful share of the property she grew up in. Or equal pay at the job she worked harder to get. Or maybe just the revolutionary right to exist in public without being groped, stared at, followed, silenced, or murdered.
But when she speaks, suddenly she’s “too loud,” “too bitter,” “too much.” And the men? They’re “tired.” Oh, poor things. So exhausted by accountability.
Let’s call this tantrum what it really is: the last-ditch panic of power slipping out of hands that never should’ve gripped it alone in the first place.
The Convenient Fiction of “Over-Feminism”
Ah yes, “over-feminism” — that mysterious, undefined monster men summon like a protective spell whenever equality starts feeling a little too equal.
It’s the “but what about men?” rallying cry, the “nowadays women have all the power” sob story, the Insta boys clutching their pearls because a girl dared to say “no.” It’s not a real problem. It’s a mirror. And they’re just not ready to see their reflection.
Let’s break it down.
When women were begging for voting rights, they were “too emotional.”
When they wanted to work, they were “neglecting their duties.”
When they wanted safety, they were “playing the victim.”
And now, when they’re demanding rights — property, privacy, freedom — they’re suddenly the villains of this plot?
No, darling. Feminism isn’t the problem. It’s your entitlement choking on its last breath.
You say women want too much? Here’s a revolutionary concept: maybe they were given nothing to begin with.
But the most ironic part? When women demand equality, some men act like they’re being robbed. Like her success means his eviction. Like if she gets 50% of her father’s house, his manhood will disintegrate into ash.
“She just wants the money.”
Yes. Because it’s hers. That’s how inheritance works, not a bloody birthday gift you get to keep on a whim.
But no — she’s labelled greedy. Gold digger. Manipulative. While the brother who contributes nothing and still inherits everything? A true son of the soil.
And let’s not even start on how quickly “modern women” become “too modern” the second they stop tolerating abuse, cheating, or unpaid emotional labour.
Newsflash: asking for basic rights isn’t extremism. It’s math. And you’re just mad the equation doesn’t revolve around you anymore.
Oh No, She Asked for Her Rights? Burn the Witch!
Let’s talk about the news. Or as it should be called: the greatest hits of fragile masculinity.
A woman in India dares to claim her legal share of the family estate after years of unpaid labour—raising kids, running a house, tolerating a husband who thinks “respect” is a gendered luxury—and suddenly the headlines scream “Feminism gone too far.” Sorry, did the mere mention of property rights bruise your manhood? Should we get you a Band-Aid and a fainting couch?
Or that CEO who finally got canned after a sexual harassment claim. Decades of groping interns like it’s part of the onboarding process, but the moment someone dares whisper accountability, he’s the victim of a “vindictive feminist witch hunt.” Cue the crocodile tears: “Men can’t even compliment women anymore!” Yeah, buddy, maybe stick to compliments that don’t come with a hand up her skirt.
But the real circus comes alive every time a woman files a rape complaint. The courtroom isn’t where the trial begins—it starts online, in drawing rooms, on WhatsApp forwards. Out come the magnifying glasses and moral compasses: “Why was she out so late?” “What was she wearing?” “Did she smile at him?”—as if consent is hidden in a hemline. Flip the script, though, and a man accused becomes a saint. “Innocent until proven guilty!” they cry. Except when it’s a woman who’s bleeding—then she’s guilty until silenced.
And the classic rebuttal: “What about false accusations?” Sure, they exist. But you know what’s far more common? The 90%+ of women who don’t report sexual violence because they already know the system will eat them alive. But somehow, it’s that minuscule percentage of false cases that keeps men up at night. Not the fact that 1 in 3 women globally will face violence—mostly from the men they know.
Because that would require introspection. And we all know fragile egos would rather throw tantrums than self-reflect.
Alright, let’s be honest—some women weaponise the system. Fake dowry cases. Lies to ruin reputations. That shit’s real. It’s ugly. And it screws over decent men who absolutely didn’t deserve it.
But newsflash: that’s not feminism. That’s manipulation dressed up in faux empowerment. And let’s not pretend patriarchy has a spotless track record either. Remember when “tradition” meant burning widows alive on their husband’s pyres and calling it sati? Or when women were labelled hysterical for speaking their minds, locked away, or accused of witchcraft for daring to be different? Entire empires were built on policing women’s bodies, silencing their voices, and gaslighting them into submission—all while calling it culture, duty, or family honour.
Feminism didn’t invent toxic people. It just gave women enough voice for their toxicity to finally show. And now that they’ve got a sliver of power, a few are swinging it like a sledgehammer. You think women are dangerous now? Imagine how pissed they are after centuries of silence.
Still, the ones crying “toxic feminism!” the loudest? They’re not scared of those outliers. They’re scared of the norm. They’re scared that women no longer need their permission to exist, to speak, to fight. They’re angry that their wives, daughters, coworkers no longer smile politely when interrupted, or bow their heads when shouted at.
“Equality is fine, but this is too much!”
Too much what? Backbone? Volume? Audacity?
What really terrifies them is that feminism is working. That women are getting loud, smart, bold—stronger. And why the hell shouldn’t they? Men have had millennia to mess up the world with their unchecked power—wars, laws, patriarchy, the whole buffet. Women demanding a turn isn’t some tragic overcorrection. It’s long overdue justice.
But to the guy who still thinks “making tea” is a wife’s love language, justice feels like a personal attack. Good.
So, gentlemen—scared of this new world where women can ruin your life with a mere accusation? Great. Let’s help you out with some advice:
- Cover yourself. Don’t wear anything suggestive like a tight shirt or branded watch—don’t tempt those hungry feminists.
- Stay indoors after 9 p.m. Who knows which woman’s ready to ruin your career with a phone call?
- Don’t smile too much. It could be mistaken for flirting. Or harassment. Or both.
- Don’t drink around women. One beer in, and suddenly you’re a predator in a Facebook post.
- Always walk in groups. Preferably with a lawyer on speed dial.
- And if she accuses you? Don’t argue. Don’t defend. Just take it. Resistance only makes you look guilty.
Sound familiar? It should. It’s the laundry list of “advice” women have been force-fed forever to avoid getting raped, assaulted, or killed. But when it’s your turn in the hot seat, suddenly it’s outrageous, isn’t it? Suddenly it’s unfair to live like a prisoner in your own skin? Welcome to the club, assholes. Women didn’t write these rules—men did, to keep them small and scared. Now that the tables are twitching, you’re clutching your chests like it’s the end of days. Cry me a river.
Objects on the Wall: Because it’s safer that way—for them.
Because here’s the truth they can’t swallow without choking on their own entitlement: they still don’t see us as people. We aren’t meant to speak. We are meant to sparkle. Dress up nice, cross our legs, smile politely, and stay the hell out of the way. We’re things. Pretty little trinkets. Decorations to hang on their arm, stroke their ego, and keep their damn mouths shut. A silent accessory to their greatness. A toy. A trophy. A fucking ornamental lampshade they dust off when company’s over and forget exists the rest of the time.
It’s 2025, and we’re still being told to smile, be grateful, look pretty, and stay in our fucking place. Still expected to nod politely while uncles leer across dinner tables, while bosses undress us with their eyes, while husbands treat wives like glorified sex robots with just enough brainpower to cook dinner and shut up. It’s not subtle. It’s not new. It’s the same crusty, tired script that’s been copied and pasted for centuries. Women as props. As packaging. As background noise.
And god forbid we deviate from that script. God forbid we dare to say, “Actually? Fuck that.”
The second we speak up—no, breathe—outside their fantasy, it’s an apocalypse. “Feminism is destroying society!” they cry, like society was some utopia when women were being burned, beaten, bartered, and buried alive in silence. Don’t kid yourselves. You’re not scared of destruction—you’re scared of disruption. You’re terrified of women who won’t kneel, won’t flatter, won’t fade into the fucking wallpaper. Because when we stop being your props, your property, your playthings—suddenly you’ve got no one left to dominate. No one to clap while you perform your sad little power trip.
So you spiral. You lash out. You call us sluts, bitches, witches, man-haters, feminazis. You whine about how “you can’t even compliment a woman anymore,” like harassment is some sacred rite you’re mourning. You don’t want equality—you want obedience. And when you don’t get it, you throw tantrums the size of your fragile-ass egos.
Look around. The media’s still selling us like meat—films where the “strong female lead” is just a dude’s fantasy with a tight waist and a tragic backstory, ads where tits sell toothpaste, influencers babbling about being submissive wives like it’s 1952. You’re still clutching pearls over women asking for a raise, a room of their own, a world that doesn’t punish them for fucking breathing.
Overreach? Are you serious? Overreach?
Motherfucker, we haven’t even stretched yet.
The Chai-Making Slave: A Man’s Wet Dream
It always starts small. A snide comment here, a dismissive glance there. A girl’s voice is too loud, her laugh too open, her walk too confident. “Tone it down,” they say. “Be softer. Be nice.” Be anything but you.
So you shrink. You fold yourself into something easier to digest, something that won’t bruise egos on impact. But even then—it’s never enough. Because eventually, your worth is boiled down to one question: Can she make chai everytime she is told to? The steaming symbol of a woman’s worth in a man’s world. You’re born, you’re raised, you’re married off, and your entire existence boils down to whether you can pour a cup of tea fast enough when he snaps his fingers. Too slow? Too cold? Too bitter? That’s your failure, your shame, your mother’s disgrace for not drilling servitude into your skull. Never mind that he can’t boil water without burning the house down—his job is to demand, yours is to deliver. That’s the deal, right? He brings home the bread (or at least pretends to), and you’re the live-in maid, cook, and concubine, all rolled into one smiling package.
It’s not just the chai—it’s the whole rotting carcass of expectation. Clean his mess. Raise his kids. Nod at his rants. Spread your legs on command. And if you falter—if you burn the rotis, if you talk back, if you dare to have a spine—it’s not just your fault, it’s your lineage’s. “Your mother didn’t teach you right!” they sneer, as if raising a daughter is just prepping a lamb for slaughter. Meanwhile, his mother’s over there cooing about her perfect golden boy, who can’t wipe his own ass without a medal, let alone help you carry the load. The irony is so thick you could choke on it: she failed at raising a man, but somehow you’re the defective one.
This isn’t some quaint tradition—it’s a prison sentence. And when women break out, when they say, “Make your own damn chai,” the world loses its mind. “She’s lazy!” “She’s disrespectful!” “She’s emasculating!” No, she’s just done—done with being a servant in her own life, done with bowing to a king who’s too lazy to lift a spoon. But that’s the rub: they don’t want a partner. They want a slave. And feminism? That’s the jailbreak they can’t stomach.
“Not All Men”—The Rapist’s Favorite Alibi
Here’s where it gets vile. “Not all men,” they chant, like it’s a magic spell to absolve them of everything. Not all men rape. Not all men hit. Not all men treat women like dirt. Sure, fine—congratulations on meeting the bare minimum of human decency. Want a cookie? Because while they’re busy patting themselves on the back, the bodies keep piling up. One in three women assaulted. One in five raped. Millions harassed, stalked, beaten, killed—almost always by men. But “not all men,” right? So we’re supposed to tiptoe around their feelings instead of calling out the plague staring us in the face.
And the kicker? Some of these “not all men” clowns are the worst of the lot. The guy who says it loudest might be the one slipping his hand where it doesn’t belong, the one forcing his wife while she stares at the ceiling, the one laughing it off with his boys later. “Not all men” is a shield—a way to dodge accountability while the blood’s still wet on their hands. They’ll rape you, then lecture you about how unfair it is to generalize. They’ll break you, then cry about their bruised reputation. It’s not a defense; it’s a confession.
You brought up the rapist husband—let’s lean into that. Picture him: smug, entitled, pinning her down while she bites her tongue to survive, then turning around to his buddies with a shrug: “Not all men, bro.” He’s not some cartoon villain—he’s your neighbor, your coworker, your “nice guy” uncle. And when she finally snaps, when she drags his ass to court or puts him behind bars, he’s the martyr. “She ruined my life!” he sobs, while the world nods along, forgetting the life he already torched. That’s the game: he destroys her, but she’s the villain for fighting back.
The Iron Bars Await
So, Mr. Not-All-Men, next time you cross that line—those comments, those grabs, those non-consensual power trips—don’t be shocked when the women of this century don’t flinch. We’re not here to coddle your ego or kiss your mother’s feet while she defends her precious boy. We’re here to kick down the doors you’ve locked us behind, and if that means you end up staring at iron bars, so be it. You don’t get a vote on our rage anymore. You don’t get to decide what’s “enough” for us to survive. We’re not asking for your permission to live—we’re taking it, and if your ass catches fire in the process, that’s your problem.
We’re not your punching bags, your backup plans, your unpaid therapists, or your legacy projects. We’re not here to fix you, forgive you, or explain basic human decency to grown-ass men with god complexes. We’ve done our time in the shadows—you don’t get to drag us back.
Society can clutch its pearls all it wants—call us loud, call us shrill, call us dangerous. Good. We are. We’re the daughters of women who swallowed their screams, and we’re done choking on silence. Your mother can wail about her “good son” all she likes; we don’t give a fuck. The rules have changed, and the only thing you should fear more than a woman who knows her worth is a world full of them ready to collect.
So when we march, when we scream, when we reclaim what you tried to break—we’re not asking. We’re warning. You had centuries. Now it’s our turn.
And we’re not coming quietly.
For more such unfiltered takes on gender, power, and justice, follow my corner at Her Campus at MUJ.