I would like to dedicate my first article to the woman I deeply respect—my Aaji, my grandmother. A woman who sparked a quiet revolution in our family’s history.

I still remember her face. Time had etched its story across every inch of it, wrinkles like soft rivers of experience flowing gently over her skin. And yet, even in her old age, she was undeniably beautiful. She was pale like worn moonlight, softened by time, and her eyes, a rare sky blue, still held the quiet strength of all she had seen. They weren’t just eyes; they held stories, silences, and strength. Looking into them felt like stepping into another time: calm, vast, and quietly powerful.

Yep, that’s her, my gramma 🙂

She was the storm disguised as still water.
With every thread of her saree, she stitched defiance into tradition. My Aaji, fire wrapped in grace, rebelled not by breaking rules, but through acts of quiet courage that rewrote the fate of generations..

She has now merged back into the universe, but what she ignited was the beginning of our evolution. If it weren’t for her, I might not even be writing this today. I might have followed the quiet fate of our ancestors, lived and disappeared, unheard, unseen, doing all the things society has long taught women to do: shrink, serve, and silently endure.

My family comes from a long line of farmers, where working the land wasn’t just a way of life, it was the only way to survive. But my father, somehow, broke that cycle. He became the first educated person in our family’s history. He chose the path of education, left the village, moved to the city, and carved out a different life, one that rewrote our story and set a powerful example.

But did he do it all on his own? No. He didn’t walk that path alone; it was her. My Aaji, my grandmother. If he’s considered a successful man today, the credit belongs entirely to his mother. It was her wish, her strength, her sacrifices, and her quiet rebellion against the rigid societal norms of that time, when untouchability still shadowed the community.

It wasn’t as easy as it might seem now. When earning daily bread was a battle in itself, how did she even manage to pay for his education? Yes, it was all her. She lost her husband at a very young age, when my father was just a newborn. With four children in her arms, she left her husband’s home and returned to her parents’ house, though they had already passed on. As their only child, she began farming the land she had inherited from them, all alone!

I’m not entirely sure why she chose to leave her husband’s home. But one thing I do know: she was a rebel in her own right. She was a quiet storm, defiant in ways the world didn’t expect from women back then. She did every kind of work that, back then, was believed to be “not meant” for women. Tasks considered too tough or too manly, she took them on without hesitation, leaving people stunned.

She would venture deep into the woods, climb steep hills with aching feet to collect firewood, tie them into bundles, and walk miles to the weekly market, just to earn a little extra so she could feed her children, send my father to school, and pay his fees.

My Attu (my father’s sister) stood beside her through it all, sharing the load, witnessing the struggle, and carrying a quiet strength of her own. Even now, her eyes well up when she speaks of those times with me. Those were the hard days, marked not just by poverty but by the cruel sting of caste-based humiliation. It wasn’t just about earning enough to survive; it was about enduring the shame, the glances, the unspoken rules that told them they didn’t belong. They weren’t just fighting hunger; they were fighting to be seen as human. To be treated with even the most basic dignity.

But the rebel in her never let her stop. She fought, tirelessly, fiercely, through every storm, just to see the world she had once only dared to dream of… not for herself, but for her children.

Maybe the first seeds of those dreams were sown in her heart by none other than Dr. B. R. Ambedkar—the torchbearer of a revolution—when he visited her home during one of his movements.
She would often recount that day, her voice trembling with a reverence that never faded. How, in their mud-walled house with barely anything to offer, she welcomed him with what little dignity they could hold on to: a small handful of groundnuts and a piece of jaggery. That was all they had, beyond the usual leftover, dried bread and chutney. But to her, it was no less than a royal feast, because it was offered with pride, love, and trembling hands that knew the weight of history sitting before them.

That moment never left her. And perhaps, without knowing it, he had handed her more than just hope, he had handed her a reason to fight, to dream, and to rewrite the story for those who would come after her.

My father, he had watched every moment of her silent battle. He had grown up in the shadow of her sacrifices, witnessed the strength behind her cracked hands, the defiance in her silence, the pain she never named. He saw the rebel in her, not loud, but unbreakable. And somewhere in the soft, unspoken corners of his heart, he made a vow. A sacred promise to honor every drop of her sweat, every tear she buried, every dream she never dared speak aloud.
He wasn’t just trying to make a better life; he was trying to give meaning to hers. To live in a way that would make her look at him and know that her fight wasn’t in vain. That the world she once only dreamed of for her children… was finally becoming real through him.

And he did justice to his silent promise. Everything he became, he learned from her. He gave us the best life he could, quietly carrying forward her legacy. And perhaps the most radical thing he did—he gave more opportunities to his daughters than even to his son. As if, through us, he was still fulfilling the revolution his mother once began.

Where did all of it come from? This sensitivity, this sense of justice, this deep-rooted respect for women?
It came from her. From his mother. Not because she sat him down and taught him these things with words—but because she lived them. Her actions spoke louder than any words ever could.

He had watched her rise, every single day, from the ashes of grief and poverty.
He saw her lead with strength, survive with dignity, and rebel without ever needing to raise her voice, She carved her path through silence and struggle, with no hand to hold but her own. Without the shadow of a man beside her, alone, she stood—unshaken, unyielding—a storm in a woman’s skin. She carved her path with bare hands, weathered storms without shelter, and stood tall without applause.

And somewhere in those quiet observations, he understood something profound:
When a woman is given freedom and power, she doesn’t just uplift herself; she carries generations forward. She holds within her the ability to shift the course of a family, a community, even the world. Because her rise is never hers alone. It becomes the rise of everyone who follows.

If my grandmother, an illiterate woman, could do it in an era when women were bound tightly by rigid societal norms, then look how far we’ve come. We live in a time of greater freedom, more opportunity, and far greater awareness.

To every woman reading this—

You may not know it, but you hold that same fire.
The kind that doesn’t just light a room but can set stagnant worlds into motion.

The world may still try to silence you, still try to shrink you.
Don’t let it. Because when you rise, you rise for many.

You are your mother’s wildest resilience.
Your grandmother’s unheard voice.
Your daughter’s growing dream.

You don’t need to be loud to be powerful.
You don’t need a title to be revolutionary.
Your everyday acts: of love, of strength, of saying no when it’s easier to stay silent, are enough to shift the course of history.

So walk boldly.
Dare to dream, even when the world says you shouldn’t.

Because you are not just one woman.
You are a turning point.
You are a legacy in motion.
And you are the beginning of a world that only becomes possible when you believe in your own power.

My dear women,
Only you have the power to build the world we dream of today.
Raise your children not just through words, but through the weight of your actions.
Let them learn respect not from instruction, but by witnessing the way you carry your truth, your strength, and your worth. Because you are not just raising children,
You are raising a future.

With love and fire,
A granddaughter of a rebel.