On the day of Raas Purnima, I gave birth to my son A. While being wheeled out of the OT, I faintly remember two families lamenting — one of them practically crying over why Krishna had come to my family and not theirs. The babies wrapped in tiny pink blankets made me realise what they meant: They were taking a girl child home— unwanted and unwelcome.
Since A’s birth, we had been particular about colours. Growing up in ’80s Kolkata, the idea of blue for boys and pink for girls was unknown to us, and we wanted to remain blissfully ignorant while raising our son. We were equally careful about choosing his toys. But society soon crashed into our little world — showering him with blues, followed by racing cars, cricket sets, footballs, and everything else from the adrenaline-driven world of little men.
As he started walking, running, cycling, and swimming, we discovered that he wanted to be a Big Man.
In school, more than learning alphabets, he learned about Transformers and Avengers. As parents, we were forced to explore the world of Avengers even as the alpha males — Iron Man, Hulk, and of course Thanos — became his icons.
Once, returning from school, he spent an afternoon lamenting why his father couldn’t drive — apparently, one who can’t drive is not man enough. He was equally upset that a few of my female friends could drive. How is that possible? He had arrived at this conclusion after discussions with his friends.
That wasn’t the end of it.
In his Hindi textbook, he learned that his mother is a great cook, while his father goes to work every day and she prepares sumptuous meals for the family. This confused him further. At home he had seen his mother rushing to office, cooking occasionally, while his father mostly stayed at home. A prominent face in Kolkata’s music and film scene, his father often goes out to sing at concerts, sometimes to shoot films. Sometimes, he writes stories — but to A, these couldn’t possibly be work. They were simply “fun”.
It took us time to realise that the cocoon we had created for him was fraying under the assault of institutions called school, housing society, and the virtual world. We understood that we would probably never be able to fully protect him from the projections of gender stereotypes.
When we moved cities, we chose a co-educational school for him. To my surprise, I found that girls and boys sat separately. A started receiving invitations only to boys’ birthday parties. Once, I discovered a group of mothers planning to take the children to watch Frozen. I expressed interest in joining, only to realise it was meant only for girls. To them, the Disney film was exclusively for girls.
A began to think the same.
No matter how Disney attempts to erase its legacy of damsels in distress — by tweaking old storylines and portraying girls who can take charge of their lives — it continues to percolate. Once, A asked me why Disney mostly makes films about the bravery of girls. Why don’t they make films for brave boys?
Working as a television executive for over a decade, I’ve witnessed how female characters have evolved from silent sufferers to women who speak up, fight back, and claim space. This shift was necessary and long overdue. But somewhere in this correction, we seem to have forgotten the boy.
While cinema continues to glorify toxic alpha masculinity, television tells a different story. Women — without overtly challenging the patriarchal family structure — are portrayed as confident, articulate, and in control of their lives. Wherever we go for research, we find women emerging as multitaskers and overachievers — earning, managing households, and carrying emotional labour — yet receiving little appreciation or sustained support from men.
Advertisements, especially for detergents and washing machines, show men sharing domestic responsibilities. But in reality, this remains visible only at a micro level. Outside the screen, men are struggling in a world where women can earn, fund their own needs, and run households independently. The traditional role of the male provider is being questioned every day, and many men no longer know what to provide — or how.
And yet, no one is teaching them how to be gentle without shame, how to admire strength without feeling diminished, how to grow without constantly proving their manhood.
A stands at the crossroads of these narratives — between what we try to show him and what the world insists on teaching him. Perhaps the real question is not how we raise our sons or daughters differently, but why courage, care, ambition, and vulnerability still need to be assigned a gender at all.
The writer is senior creative director, Colors TV
No one is teaching boys how to be gentle without shame, how to admire strength without feeling diminished, how to grow without constantly proving their manhood. 
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