Sari Not Sari

An unapologetic reflection on Indian women rising through the smoke and mirrors of patriarchy

By Sunita Sehmi

There’s a strange, inherited guilt haunts many Indian women as they advance. It’s the silent partner in boardrooms, families, and communities. A ghost in a sari whispering, “Don’t shine too brightly.” Even in my own experience, I believe the gender odds were stacked against me the day I was born. Convinced I would be a boy, my mother had even chosen a name, Sunil, but unfortunately for her, Sunil became Sunita—and that is where my struggle began. The messages I received were brutal and unrelenting.

“Just study enough so you get a good husband.”

“Don’t shine too much that you make the boys look unimportant.”

“Behave like a girl” (whatever that means).

These “innocuous” comments were subtle but relentless, hailing from my parents, aunties and uncles, communities, and neighbours. For some reason, nobody showed much discretion when it came to gender prejudice.

And yet — we rise.

I’ve lost count of the number of brilliant, qualified, emotionally intelligent Indian women I’ve coached who are still battling the same two-front war: one against outdated patriarchal expectations and the other against their own conditioned self-doubt. The latter is often the bigger enemy. The voice that says, “Is it okay to want more?” or “Am I abandoning my culture if I don’t comply?”

Here’s the thing: cultural identity and patriarchy are not the same thing. A sari can be a symbol of strength, elegance, and heritage — but it can also be a straitjacket if it’s laced with the weight of “know your place.”

We were taught to be good girls.

• Good daughters.
• Good wives.
• Good mothers.

But rarely were we taught how to lead, challenge, or own the damn table without being labelled difficult, too Western, or ambitious in a bad way.

I tell the story of Radhi (her name has been changed) — a senior leader in a global FMCG company, born and raised in Mumbai. On paper, she had it all: a VP title, a loving family, and her business acumen that could shift from the factory floor to the boardroom. But behind closed doors, she was exhausted. She led global teams by day and bore the emotional labour of being “the good Indian daughter” by night.

In one coaching session, she looked at me and said, “I feel like I have to shrink myself to fit into every version of who I’m supposed to be.” And there it was — the exact dilemma so many of us face. Not the inability to lead. But the pressure to shrink while leading. What she named is the core of the leadership paradox for so many women — not whether they can lead, but whether they can do it without compressing themselves into acceptable sizes for the comfort of others. I told her that shrinking is costly. It robbed her of energy, eroded her self-trust, and sent an unspoken permission slip for others to do the same.

“Let’s clarify: this isn’t about your ability. You possess the skills, the track record, and the credibility. The real challenge lies in navigating systems that are built to reward compliance rather than full expression. And those systems are subtle. They appear in boardrooms, at families, communities, in discreet slights disguised as “feedback,” and in the quiet ways we learn to edit ourselves before speaking.”

Here’s the coaching lens I encouraged her to focus on :

• Spot the pattern in real-time. Every time you feel that impulse to shrink, pause. What’s the trigger? Whose approval are you chasing or avoiding?
• Decide where you want to play the long game. There’s a difference between strategic adaptability and chronic self-erasure. The former is influence. The latter is burnout.
• Model expansion. Every time you refuse to shrink, you shift the norm for whoever’s watching — your peers, your team, your family. That’s leadership impact.
• Here’s the truth: shrinking is not a leadership skill. It’s a survival strategy we’ve learned in systems that reward compliance over authenticity. But survival is not the same as thriving.
• Every time you catch yourself making yourself smaller to fit a room — pause. Whose comfort are you protecting? What truth are you editing? What example are you setting for the women watching you?

So, here’s my challenge to every woman reading this: stand tall and lead at your full height — even when the ceiling feels low. Especially then. That’s how we change the room. What would it look like to lead confidently at your full height, even when the room’s ceiling seems low? Because that’s the version of you that’s not just leading — she’s changing the rules of the game. Certainly, patriarchy is not just an ancient relic. It’s alive and well in families, the workplace, and in our communities.

And we rise

We rise in boardrooms and by lanes. In saris and power suits. We are building empires and burning rulebooks, often quietly, often invisibly, but with ferocity.

Being an Indian woman who strives for success without apology is still perceived as a form of rebellion. However, we no longer require permission. We need power, and power begins with belonging to ourselves first.

The next generation isn’t waiting for a seat at the table. They’re building new tables altogether. And if a few teacups rattle in the process? So be it—Sari not sari.

And they rise!