In Search of India’s Bourbaki: The Invisible Economist We Need

 

    Why do people still hold on to neoclassical and New Keynesian ways of thinking in economics education? Why don’t we adopt alternative models even when they might be more realistic or efficient?

This was a question I asked in 2025. Sometimes the answers I received were so unsatisfying that I kept asking more and more people—searching, debating, probing—until finally, one detailed explanation from my professor left me genuinely contented. And yet, the question stayed with me.

A few days later, another conversation with him helped me dig deeper into that intellectual itch. I began to realise that this wasn’t just about economics—it was also about power, tradition, identity, and sometimes even gatekeeping. Just like democracy isn’t always democratic, academia isn’t always open to change.

In the middle of reflecting on this, I came across one of the most intriguing stories in modern mathematics: the story of Nicolas Bourbaki.

Nicholas Bourbaki wasn’t a real person at all. He was a collective pseudonym created by a group of brilliant French mathematicians in 1935, many of them alumni of the École Normale Supérieure. The idea took shape when André Weil grew frustrated watching his friend Henri Cartan teach a calculus course that focused more on physics applications than on pure mathematical rigour. At the same time, several mathematicians were unhappy with the scattered, inconsistent textbooks that dominated the field.

This shared dissatisfaction brought Weil, Cartan, Chevalley, Dieudonné, Mandelbrojt, de Possel, Coulomb, Ehresmann and others together. Their mission was simple but revolutionary: to rebuild mathematics from the ground up, using clear axioms, rigorous structures, and absolute precision. What began as a plan to write a single textbook on analysis soon expanded, and the project grew into the monumental Éléments de Mathématique, spanning nearly 7,000 pages of definitions, lemmas, corollaries and theorems.

What fascinated me most was not just the mathematics but the psychology of the group itself. A dozen scholars voluntarily hid their identities. They erased individual authorship and made anonymity their signature. Their meetings were private, their rituals secretive, their internal culture a strange yet beautiful mix of deep intellectual seriousness and playful pranks. They even built a myth around Bourbaki, publishing humorous notices—like “Bourbaki’s daughter is getting married”—as if he were a living eccentric mathematician.

It was an unusual and ambitious social experiment. Could knowledge be created without ego? Without personal recognition? Could a collective identity produce work as coherent and authoritative as that of a single mind? Bourbaki proved that it was possible, even radical. In a world where academic prestige depends on names, visibility, and citations, they showed that ideas could stand on their own.

This reflection brought me back to economics. Economics education and policy-making desperately need heterogeneity, but they also carry layers of politics, hierarchy, and inertia. Even with this awareness, I find myself increasingly curious. Sometimes I wonder when India will have its own “Bourbaki”—not a mathematician this time, but an economist. A collective of thinkers who work together, anonymously or otherwise, to produce rigorous textbooks and frameworks built for the Indian economy and written for Indian students, reflecting Indian realities.

When will that happen?

When will students of economics in India feel a direct connection between what they learn and what they observe around them?

When will our models finally reflect our markets, institutions, behaviours and diversity?

Unlike my other questions and blogs, I don’t end this one with an answer. I end it with curiosity—and a deep yearning to see things unfold positively, meaningfully, and in ways that finally resonate with who we are.

Sreya.

A Calendar, Goa, and Illich: Unlearning the Institutions Within

 As I write this blog, I’m on the way to Goa with my peers. It isn’t exciting — it’s unusually frightening. Fear can be hard to express, and sometimes it stands alone, without any reinforcement from the outside world. I’ve always believed in dreams and premonitions; maybe something from my stressed sleep brought these feelings to the surface. Feelings don’t always show up as pessimism, but today they did.

My morning began with a piece written by Dr. John Kurien, former professor at CDS, on the brilliant Austrian philosopher Ivan Illich. I read it during what feels like one of the most uncertain moments of my life, simply because it was shared by two people I deeply revere. Illich has undoubtedly enlightened countless minds — but today, he stirred something deeper within me.

His ideas on deschooling resonated intensely. I’ve always been an ardent supporter of institutionalism. I used to believe institutions could transform nations. But Illich offered a perspective I had ignored — institutions can also destroy the most tender human feelings. Schools, offices, and even families often teach us to hide emotions, tolerate disrespect, and cry in silence.

A memory from January 14, 2025 surfaced. My dad had proudly shown a student-created CTK calendar — something I coordinated and poured myself into — to one of my older cousins. That calendar is precious to me. Yet, he tossed it aside carelessly. I wanted to speak up. I wanted to defend the work my teammates, my professor, and I had done. But family, as an institution, has trained me otherwise.

Because I am a girl.

Because I must be “good”, modest, humble, soft-spoken.

Because respect, for some reason, is something I’m expected to give but not claim.

So I stayed silent. I locked my room, hugged my pillow, and waited for him to leave. When he was gone, I took the calendar in my hands, hugged it, kissed it, signed it, and held it tightly until the pain settled.

While reading Illich today, I realised something painful: my desire for recognition didn’t start at home — it started at school. The race for marks, class ranks, teachers’ appreciation, being the favourite student… somewhere in that chase, I forgot how to recognise my own work.

It reminded me of The Power of Now by Eckhart Tolle — a book I couldn’t understand when I was fifteen. I barely crossed a chapter back then. But today, after reading Illich, I finally understand what Tolle was trying to point at. I have been schooled too deeply to accept things imposed on me, too conditioned to seek recognition from outside.

And now, as the Goa trip unfolds with its own institutional constraints, interpersonal chaos, and emotional pressure, all of it is confronting the very design of who I have become. I am stressed by my work, warned by the people I love, unable to always blend with my peers, and torn between holding on to my principles or trading them for belonging.

My Goa trip is both frightening and strangely revealing.

I hope Illich guides me.

I hope his ideas help me stand stronger.

I hope they teach me how to stand alone — without fear.

The Silence of Gratitude: Lessons I Could Never Say Aloud

Love has many definitions. Gratitude has different dimensions. The expression of love and gratitude is always subjective.

Yesterday, the 5th of September, was Teacher's Day. I don’t usually believe in these special days or ceremonies. But still, I found myself deeply immersed in the memory of a beloved teacher.

I met this beautiful lady when I was just nine years old — a woman beaming with energy, radiating joy to every soul she met. She was around five feet tall, of moderate build, and loved wearing matching earrings. The sound that defines my pre-teen years is her loud, infectious laughter.

At that time, I was performing very poorly in math, possibly inheriting my dad’s math anxiety. My mom found this wonderful lady who was teaching abacus, and I joined her class in 2014. I entered without belief or expectation — after all, what more could a nine-year-old child hope for?

But soon I realised that what I was learning was more than just numbers. I was becoming a better human being. She taught me not only mathematics, but also values, virtues, and the joy of embracing life.

I still remember the rhythm of our two-hour abacus class. It always began with a proverb, which she would explain so gracefully. Then we would practice, and finally, we ended with a rapid arithmetic test. One day, I scored 24 out of 25. I was just 10, but to me, it felt like the world. She gifted me a small orange-coloured plastic box with a fresh scent. It might sound simple, but to me it was a treasure. I carried it home proudly, hugged my father, and felt the warmth of her love for me as a student.

But she was more than just my teacher — I admired every bit of her. I even started imitating her style, wearing matching earrings like she did. Life went on, and by the time I was 11 years old, I had completed the abacus course. After that, I barely met her. Yet, my love and respect for her stayed deep in my heart — though I never expressed it out loud.

In November 2024, I met her husband and conveyed my regards to her. He warmly invited me home, but I never went. Deep inside, I believed she would always be there — as fresh, bubbly, and joyful as ever.

But life had other plans. As academic pressure mounted, I barely had time to relax. One tired Friday evening, when I returned home, my dad said, “Ma’am had a stroke, complications followed, and she passed away this afternoon.”

The words didn’t hit me immediately. At that time, I was struggling with my own failures, trying to pull myself up and organise an event. But months later, when I finally found time to sit quietly with myself, the truth hit me hard.

I couldn’t believe that the lively soul so close to my heart was gone. I was haunted by the thought that I could never again see her, hear her laughter, or feel her presence. I couldn’t imagine her, a spirit so alive, lying still in an ice-box — emotions frozen.

That was the day I realised my worst habit — procrastination — had cost me something irreplaceable. I had become so caught up in chasing instant gratification and shallow achievements that I forgot the essence of gratitude. That realisation hurt deeply. It broke not only my ego, but also my heart.

I don’t know how I will ever thank her for what she gave me. I don’t know. It feels like wanting to cry out loud but being unable to. It’s a kind of silence that suffocates the heart.

A few days back, on the day of Onam celebration in our college, my roommate forced me to break my minimalist principles and wear matching earrings. When I dressed up and tied my hair into a high ponytail, I looked into the mirror and smiled. For a moment, I saw her. I remembered the very first proverb she taught us in class: “Laughter is the best medicine.” I smiled through my tears. Maybe she still wants me to smile.

Love for teachers, from a student, is unconditional. Love, in its pure form, is non-judgmental. Any love without respect is flawed.

Today, love for teachers might have lost its innocence. Many times, it is even misinterpreted. But for me, if love is divine, then love for a teacher is supremely divine.

Teachers leave behind more than lessons — they leave behind pieces of themselves in their students. My teacher may no longer be here in person, but her laughter, her proverbs, and her spirit live on within me. Every time I smile through tears, wear matching earrings, or remind myself that “laughter is the best medicine,” I feel her presence.

Love for a teacher never fades with time or distance; it only grows deeper in memory. And if I had one more chance, I would simply say: “Thank you, Ma’am, for teaching me not just abacus, but the true meaning of love and gratitude.”

If there is one lesson she left me with, it is this: love and gratitude should never be postponed. Because sometimes, when we wait for the right moment, life takes away the chance. And so, in my silence, I carry the loudest truth of all — a student’s love for a teacher is eternal.

By Sreya.

Unmasking shadows in the classroom : A story my classmates never forgave

 It’s been a while since I first began hearing about women reporting harassment complaints against teachers. Every time such a case comes up, we are triggered, and we feel strongly that the teacher must be punished. For a few days, these cases dominate headlines, then slowly vanish. Only a few are followed by the public until the court announces its verdict.

But most times, we fail to hear the victim’s side of the story. The victim hides behind the mask of confidentiality.

Today, I want to share an incident I personally witnessed—an incident that broke and rebuilt me. It happened in a place where I once felt the most comfortable and protected: my school.

I don’t know if what I went through would legally be considered “harassment.” But I do know this—it made me feel uncomfortable.

A Flashback

It was September 2021. I returned to school after months of being away due to COVID-19 lockdowns. Class 11 felt special. I was in the Commerce group, something I had chosen wholeheartedly, dreaming of becoming an entrepreneur (back then).

We had a young, energetic teacher—charming, different from others, almost a Gen-Z kind of teacher. He spoke in Tamil, our mother tongue, and his classes were interactive and lively. Out of 42 students—16 girls and 26 boys—almost nobody disliked him. He was popular not just in our class, but across the school.

Things went well until Class 12.

Favourite child

Ms X and I were his favourites in the class. We sat right in the first row, and over time, he started sharing his personal stories. I don't and didn't find anything wrong in that. But over time, he started sharing his love stories with his girl students in the previous batches. An air of discomfort started surrounding me then. Sometime later, there was a doubt if he was flirting with both Ms. X and me. Once he had consumed alcohol and came to class, and asked Ms. X if it was evident from his looks that he was intoxicated. That was August 2022. As a child open to her parents, I told my parents, who later made a complaint to the principal. After the investigation, I was proved right and the teacher was suspended.

 

Image generated using OpenAI’s DALL·E via ChatGPT

Alienation and the Yearning for Acceptance

After his suspension, the teacher entered the class and said, “The girls in the first two benches have broken my trust and ditched me.” Though the school tried to protect my confidentiality, my classmates soon figured out that I was the one who complained. The same classmates who once hailed me as "the princess of the class called me a 'stray dog'. Few cursed me. The entire class alienated me. Anything could be tolerated, but for the very first time in my life, I endured what was called ‘caste-based assault’. Words might not be sufficient to communicate the complexity of emotions that such behaviour triggered in me. After this incident, my other teachers respected me more than ever. But my peer group never accepted me. I yearned for social acceptance. Words like ‘disloyal', heartbreaker', and Immature’ made me feel guilty. Let me be frank, I was broken internally, and I believed that I broke someone’s trust. This incident, in fact, eroded my innocence, teenage charm, confidence, and my gracious smile.

Appreciation

Days passed with anxiety and loneliness. I finally passed out from my school with high marks, and when I was felicitated, our correspondent, principal, and vice-principal appreciated my parents for nurturing me with ‘good character’ [I don't boast here]. But I learnt something deep from it. We all talk about character-building, but honestly, a good character isn't enough to survive this world of snakes. It is a character strength, I believe, that is important to survive. It took me 18-20 months to realise that it is not most Important to be a ‘good girl' to the world, but the difficult, yet significant thing is to be honest to ourselves, after all, the only person we'll be with forever. To call a spade, a spade needs courage, and the best part is that it is embedded within our inner selves.

Men are not bad.

Let me be clear that I don't mean men are bad, and male teachers are demons. Even now, the best teachers I have had included men who gave me the space and dignity I deserve as a student.  I just meant that every teacher who makes a kid laugh and enjoy is not a hero, and every teacher who asks a kid to read and do assignments is not a villain. Every generation might have its own style, but teaching must never lose its traditional traits. A teacher should be strict and friendly. And modern-day philosophers, kindly stop preaching stupid facts, that teachers must suit the generation by making classrooms fun-filled and serving what students ask for. Remember that teachers generally are more mature and experienced than students, and they ‘good teachers’ know how to serve a good cup of tea. Creative learning, which my teacher promised to cultivate in our classroom, failed miserably because discipline was nowhere in the picture.

How would it affect women's education?

I grew up in a city with progressive parents and a school that protected me and my student rights. I am blessed to have a principal who guarded me like an infant in the uterus.. But what if such an incident happens in a village where education is a dream for girls, what if the accused faculty is from a dominant caste and the victim is from a not-so-dominant caste? The answer is scary. And this honeytrap is scarier than you can imagine.

Why did I write it now?

After this incident and a subsequent verbal harassment in college, I began to become more reclusive and observant. As I walked farther and longer from this haunting incident as a teen, I now feel the urge to unmask myself. I now tear all these masks I’ve been wearing in the name of confidentiality and protection. I can now show my face to the world, and I know it is not beautiful. I know, I have scars. But I wear them, I don't have an identity crisis. I don't write this blog to gain sympathy or attention, but to urge girls around to weed out those uncomfortable weeds when they are young. I still respect him for the ‘human’ he is, may not be for the ‘teacher’ he was. For now, I know what it takes to be a ‘human’, after all, feminism or women's rights is nothing but humanism. My story might not be scary for some people; it might be silly and stupid. But folks, incidents can be judged, but not scars.

By Sreya.

CTK’s Retro Curriculum: Iconic or Overrated? A Gen Z Reflection

As I prepare for a teaching career, I’ve started asking a fundamental question: What did the teachers before me believe about economics and how it should be taught?

That curiosity led me to the undergraduate economics curriculum framed by Dr. C. T. Kurien at Madras Christian College (MCC). This blog post offers a Gen Z reflection on a syllabus created over half a century ago—with the humility to admit I can’t fully judge it through today’s lens.

 Syllabus Born During Protest

During the mid-1960s, when the anti-Hindi agitation was at its peak and protests were happening across Tamil Nadu, colleges were shut for a brief period as students actively participated. That’s when the faculty members of the Economics Department, under the leadership of then HoD Dr. C. T. Kurien (CTK), sat together to draft a curriculum that was bold and unconventional. It's important to note that MCC did not yet have academic autonomy. They created the syllabus in anticipation of implementing it once autonomy was granted. Dr. CTK, deeply dissatisfied with the prevailing syllabus, aimed to expose students to schools of thought beyond the mainstream neoclassical framework. The syllabus was implemented in 1978, when MCC finally gained autonomy. Interestingly, by that time, Dr. CTK had moved to MIDS and taken over as its director, so he wasn’t at MCC when the syllabus was actually rolled out. A decade later, in 1988, the students themselves reviewed the curriculum as part of the department magazine Economique, with Dr. Selvaraj as staff-in-charge, Mr. Vijay R. as the editor, and Mr. Balasubramaniyam as the sub-editor. 

The syllabus opens with a preamble that frames its objective clearly: “skills to recognize and analyze the working of actual economics and specific economic problems within the context.” The ambition is admirable and signals a shift from rote and abstract learning toward real-world engagement with economic ideas—something still relevant and impressive today.But vision is one thing. Execution is another.

Many students at MCC during the 1970s weren’t fluent in English and struggled with access to the prescribed textbooks. So while the preamble was ambitious, its impact depended heavily on who was learning—and what support they received.

Credits: Ms. Cyra Tony 

 

Did It Fulfill Student Aspirations?

This is a more difficult question to answer definitively. I didn’t live through the curriculum. I didn’t study under it. And so, I hesitate to speak for the students of that era.

What can be said, though, is this: the curriculum tried to engage students in a deeper, more meaningful study of economics. It wasn’t afraid to include complex tools and emerging frameworks, such as game theory and systems analysis. It introduced programming languages—COBOL and FORTRAN IV—at a time when computers were virtually nonexistent in Indian classrooms. It devoted three full semesters to studying the Indian economy in depth. These choices suggest that the creators had high expectations of their students and wanted to stretch their intellectual capacities.

Whether students felt supported in meeting those expectations is another question altogether.

Did It Align with Other Indian Universities?

This is where CTK’s curriculum struggled the most—and, arguably, where it ultimately failed.

The program failed to train students rigorously in traditional microeconomics, macroeconomics, and econometrics, the key papers in economics. This hindered the students when they transitioned to leading academic institutions in India, like the Delhi School of Economics or the colleges in Delhi University. The syllabus was innovative, but it didn’t align with the dominant academic framework of Indian economics education. As a result, it lacked portability. What made it unique also made it isolating. While Indian universities updated their offerings to reflect changes in the discipline, CTK’s remained frozen. The initial vision was bold, but its custodians failed to carry that momentum forward. What started as a progressive model eventually became outdated. A paper that stood out was “Development of Economic Ideas,” which appeared in semesters III and V.  The course intended to expose students to Classical, Marxian, Neoclassical, Keynesian, and socialist schools os economic thought, which was rare and commendable. However, these were neither rigorous nor application-oriented. If this course had oriented students to apply the theories to analyse macroeconomic issues from multiple lenses, it would have been a remarkable milestone in the teaching of economics.

Was the Curriculum Internally Consistent?

It is important to note that the syllabus was internally consistent and coherently structured. The course Quantitative Analysis, in particular, followed a logical progression. However, the question of which school of thought this mathematical framework was aligned with remains debatable. Dr. C. T. Kurien’s dissatisfaction with the neoclassical school—and his intent to move away from it—seems to be in tension with the syllabus’s reliance on mathematical tools typical of neoclassical economics. On the other hand, the Institutional Analysis paper demonstrated strong continuity and was thoughtfully developed across the program.

Were the Contents Adequate and Up to Date?

Adequate? Not quite. The syllabus had vision, but it lacked full execution. It introduced powerful ideas without always giving students the tools to wield them effectively. It balanced precariously between being too radical for the mainstream and too incomplete for the truly alternative. It could have become a model for heterodox economics education in India—but only if it had gone further.
Up to date? The curriculum definitely was up to date and it was in fact visionary. The inclusion of advanced topics like systems analysis, game theory, and electronic data processing in economics  are admirable and was fore sited for Indian context at that time. The integration of such cutting-edge tools in the 1970s and 1980s made the undergraduate curriculum exceptional.

Conclusion: A Curriculum With a Vision, Not a Map

CTK’s economics curriculum wasn’t overrated. It was iconic in intent, and in many ways, courageous. It broke away from the safe, standardized models of Indian economics education and tried to do something different. It wanted students to think critically, use data meaningfully, and engage with India’s economy in real, grounded ways. But vision without infrastructure is rarely enough. Without consistent revision, pedagogical support, and alignment with broader academic pathways, the curriculum faltered. As a Gen Z student looking back, I see a curriculum that tried to do what we’re still asking for today: more relevance, more tools, more critical thinking. It didn’t fully succeed—but it dared to try.

Gratitude:

I extend my sincere thanks to Mr. Arun Koshy, whose guidance and support were invaluable to this work. His insights, assistance, and efforts to trace archival details greatly enriched my understanding of the curriculum.

Dr. Marilyn Grace Augustine, for facilitating access to the college archives, which provided essential material on the syllabus and its review.

Ms. Cyra Tony, for graciously allowing me to use her abstract artwork inspired by the syllabus, which adds a thoughtful visual dimension to this blog post.

By Sreya.

Remembering Dr. C.T Kurien: A Teacher Who Thought and Taught Differently

It was a cozy Wednesday morning, an engaging Macroeconomics class where we were relishing the idea of causal ordering. Just a minute after the lecture, our professor conveyed the sad message about the demise of Dr. CTK and asked us to attend his memorial service in one of the old gallery classrooms in MCC. While the sun played hide and seek behind the clouds, we were busy creating chaos—fixing cables, correcting the PPT, searching for connection boxes, carrying a friend’s bag, and finding a place in the front row.

After condolences and prayers for the eminent economist, we finally got to hear his life story from Prof. Arun Koshy. It felt like time travel into the baby boomer generation. If there were a few things that excited me about Dr. CTK, it would be these:

 “There was an MCCian who got into Stanford.
There was an MCCian who worked with Kenneth Arrow.
There was a Stanford grad who had the courage and wish to return to MCC,
Who surmounted brain drain,
Just to train
The Indian brains.”

That might have been a commemoration speech, but Prof. AK’s words sparked something in me. A few days later, Prof. AK summoned me to the department and gave me a book: On Markets: In Economic Theory and Policy. I flipped through the first few pages, thinking I would discover the kind of economist Dr. CTK was. Instead, I discovered a teacher who thought and taught differently. He conveyed more in the first chapter than two years of high school economics ever did. The book began with a common confusion among students—the differing languages of discourse in economics. It explored the views of Adam Smith, Karl Marx, Karl Polanyi, and J.R. Hicks, before trying to bridge the gap between theory and policy. As an undergrad, it was a refreshing and eye-opening read.

For Dr. CTK, economics was for the lay man—it had to be presented in that language. He critiqued the over-mathematisation of economics. What inspired me most was his passion for teaching—especially at MCC, and especially beyond the boundaries of the syllabus. As the Head of the Department, he organized exhibitions and student-led surveys with the college’s Planning Forum. That was real economics—active, grounded, and connected to society. Sometimes, I feel guilty that as Gen Z students, with so much technological advancement, we fail to exploit resources and learn things practically.  His teaching legacy stands out in the curriculum he developed for undergraduate economics at MCC. Though implemented in 1978, after MCC gained autonomy, the curriculum itself was revolutionary and placed MCC on the national map. The critiques it drew are for another discussion—but creating something so bold requires both courage and conviction.

Interestingly, while we were working on the calendar, both the Vice-Chairpersons of the Tamil Nadu and Kerala State Planning Boards were his former students. One detail that struck me was his early interest in complexity economics—back in the 1990s, when complex systems science hadn’t yet gained traction. When asked by the World Economics Association which school of economic thought he considered the best, he responded that none were. Instead, he believed that approaching economics through an interdisciplinary lens—particularly complex systems science—could help solve real societal problems. He dealt with problems that were people’s problems, not those of a typical armchair economist. Even while managing his responsibilities as HoD, he ensured that he continued to teach undergraduate students.

As a teacher, he extended grace and kindness to his students beyond the classroom. I remember getting a surprise call from Dr. Suresh Dhass after he received the calendar. He warmly recalled his student days and the 4 a.m. conversations he used to have with Dr. CTK.  Prof. AK once shared an incident from a meeting with Dr. CTK at the International Guest House, where they had an insightful three-hour conversation. Dr. CTK spoke at length about his experiences in teaching and learning at MCC. That blend of principle, empathy, and openness—that’s rare. It reminds us that Dr. CTK wasn’t just an economist—he was an educator who believed in real dialogue, gentle boundaries, and deep, human-centered thinking.

Gratitude

I extend my sincere thanks to:

Prof. Arun Koshy, for always making time for meaningful and thoughtful conversations, for generously sharing all the works of Dr. CTK in his possession, and for his continued encouragement and guidance in helping me explore the kind of economics my heart resonates with.

Dr. Suresh Dhass, for his unexpected yet heartfelt call, his kind words of appreciation, and for sharing his personal memories and time spent with Dr. CTK.

Dr. Marilyn Grace Augustine, for granting us access to the College archives and supporting our efforts in preserving and reflecting on Dr. CTK’s academic legacy.

For further insight into Dr. CTK’s thoughts and contributions, refer to his interview with the World Economics Association:

https://www.worldeconomicsassociation.org/newsletterarticles/interview-with-c-t-kurien/

By Sreya.

Ambition, Rejection, and Resistance: Turning 20 as an Indian Woman

What Does an Average Indian Woman Live For?

Today, I turn 20. 

This milestone should feel simple—it marks the start of adulthood, ambition, and independence. But instead, I am filled with questions. 

Years ago, I flipped through a few pages of Chetan Bhagat’s *What Young India Wants*. He began with a question: "What should an average Indian citizen live for?" Now at 20, with more experiences, more wounds, and deeper questions, I ask: *What does an average Indian woman live for?*

Ambition Under Audit

After facing rejection—from Ivy League dreams to unspoken love—I started to wonder: What are we meant to live for? What defines a woman's ambition? What will people say about her when she’s gone? What should she be remembered for?

Turning 20 in India as a woman doesn’t feel like a new chapter. It feels like an evaluation. Of your ambition. Of your obedience. Of your worth.

My story might feel personal, but it’s anything but uncommon. It resonates with the lives of countless young women across the country—shaped by expectations, resistance, and the quiet violence of being underestimated.

Growing up, I was always motivated to study. My parents wanted me to succeed, and I did. As a state board student in a school that welcomed children from all backgrounds, I saw what diversity looks like. That environment grounded me in reality.

I dreamed of studying at the London School of Economics. Then Harvard. I worked tirelessly. But chasing dreams in India isn’t just about money. It involves access, awareness, and cultural acceptance. I faced rejection from every Ivy League school I applied to. When I finally received an offer from the University of Melbourne, my parents said no.

Not because they didn’t love me. But out of fear. Fear that tightly binds every Indian girl’s future: safety, judgment, cost, reputation. These fears aren’t unfounded, but they create invisible barriers around our hopes. That rejection wasn’t just about a university—it was about a life. It took me eight months of counseling to find myself again.

Strangely, I encountered more resistance from my family than from the outside world. A much older cousin often seizes opportunities to undermine my ideas. Once, during a conversation about gender equality, I mentioned that modern men also share kitchen responsibilities. He couldn’t argue, so he walked away. That silence wasn’t a loss. It was dismissal.

Somehow, the men who have the least to say often feel the most entitled to be heard.

But their contempt only fuels me. The more they doubt me, the more I trust myself.

The Economics of Suppression

We frequently hear about unpaid labor and invisible work in economics. But how do you measure the emotional cost of being devalued? How do you assign value to *lost potential*?

Women in India are getting educated in record numbers. Yet, our participation in the workforce remains alarmingly low. We are trained to be suitable for marriage, not prepared for the market. Our success is tolerated—not celebrated. Our ambition is always conditional.

Economics is about making choices under constraints. For Indian women, those constraints are cultural, psychological, generational, and deeply tied to gender.

Economics teaches us how to measure value. Society teaches women to give it away for free.

And this isn’t just about income. It’s about having choices. Without financial independence, a woman’s ability to make decisions shrinks. Whether it’s escaping a toxic marriage, starting a business, or even just traveling—everything relies on whether she can afford to say no.

And most cannot.

 Solitude: My Greatest Inheritance

Today, I walk alone through corridors. Not because I dislike being with others, but because I carry dreams few comprehend. My solitude isn’t sadness. It’s resistance. It’s discipline. It’s power.

Even today, on my birthday, I was alone. Quarantined. No crowd. No celebration. Yet, it felt right. I take pride in that silence. It’s honest. It’s mine.

My Story Isn’t Unique. That’s the Problem.

In college now, I study economics with the same focus I once reserved for my Harvard dreams. But I carry that past rejection with me. It taught me how much harder girls have to fight—not just for opportunities, but for *permission*.

People sometimes describe me as outspoken. Sometimes they try to silence me. And often, I think of all the girls who didn’t even make it this far.

 So, What Does an Average Indian Woman Live For?

For approval.  

For survival.  

For maintaining peace.  

For being "good."

Rarely for herself.

This needs to change. Not with slogans. But with structure. With support. With systems that see women not just as caregivers or dependents, but as individuals with economic value, professional ambitions, and personal dreams.

Maybe we need a new equation. One that counts her time, her choices, her voice. One that stops asking her to prove her worth and starts asking what she *wants*.

Here’s my answer:

An average Indian woman doesn’t live for survival. She survives so that one day she might live—truly, freely, and fully.

And until that day comes, she walks alone.

Not out of weakness.

But because that path, though lonely, is finally *hers*.

By: Sreya