You’ve survived the shaadi. You’ve smiled through thirty-seven outfit changes, cried during rukhsati (half real, half dramatic pressure), and posed for photos you will only ever see in WhatsApp groups titled “Familyyy❤️👨👩👧👦💫.” But now that the music’s faded, the makeup’s off, and you’ve finally changed out of that bejeweled torture device they called a bridal dress — you are no longer the bride. You’re something more layered, more scrutinized, more… exhausted.
You are now the daughter-in-law. Or as your sasu maa’s cousin puts it: “Hamari ghar ki izzat.” Sounds romantic, right? It’s not. It’s code for unpaid labor, invisible boundaries, and endless emotional gymnastics.
You Don’t Move In, You Get Absorbed
From the moment you step into your new home or rather, your new universe you realize you’re not just joining a family; you’re being slowly absorbed into a centuries-old culture of expectations. You’re expected to “adjust,” smile, stay quiet when elders talk, speak when guests arrive, and never under any circumstances show you’re overwhelmed. Because “beta, sab ko karna parta hai.”
Every corner of the house whispers rules you weren’t given a chance to read. Don’t sit on that couch it’s Dadi’s favorite. Don’t take that last kebab that’s Chachu’s. Don’t sleep past 9 what will the maid think? You quickly learn that your comfort is optional, but your presence is required.
Privacy? LOL. It Died at the Wedding
Once upon a time, you had personal space. Now? Your room is more like a community center. People barge in without knocking not because they’re rude, but because they don’t see it as your room. It’s still part of their house. You’ll be mid-text with your best friend, and your nand will walk in looking for her lost chappal like it’s a CSI mission.
You try locking the door once just once and suddenly the whole khandaan thinks something is wrong. “Sab theek hai beta?” No, Ammi Ji, sab theek nahi hai. I just wanted to cry for 10 minutes without an audience.
The Roti Test: Round = Respectable, Abstract = Shame
You could have graduated top of your class, won a gold medal, or cracked corporate glass ceilings — none of it matters here. Your true worth will be measured by the geometry of your rotis. They must be soft, hot, gol, and served before Abba Ji sneezes for the second time.
If your roti comes out shaped like Australia, you will be politely reminded of how “Hamari Dadi tou 12 ki 12 rotiyan ek jaisi banati thi bina chakla belan ke.” Meanwhile, your nanad hasn’t touched flour since 2012 and still gets treated like royalty because she once made instant noodles without burning them.
You’re “Like a Daughter,” But Definitely Not a Daughter
The line is always the same: “Tum tou hamari beti jaisi ho.” But let’s break that down, shall we? Real daughters get to sleep in. Real daughters can say “nahin” without causing a generational crisis. Real daughters can eat the last samosa and still be kissed on the forehead. You, however? You need to earn every privilege with a smile, a roti, and exactly the right level of emotional obedience.
The phrase “just like a daughter” is sweet until you realize it comes with daughter-level responsibility but zero daughter-level entitlement. You’re a hybrid: equal parts family member and full-time PR manager. It’s exhausting.
The Chai You Serve Carries Generational Expectations
Forget tea bags and mugs. You are now the official Minister of Chai Affairs. You must know exactly how strong each cup should be, who takes sugar, who lies about taking sugar, who likes Lipton but pretends to like Tapal when guests are around. Oh, and serve it on the fancy tray the one wrapped in bubble wrap since 2005.
Too kadak? They’ll say it with a smile and a micro-aggressive laugh: “Beta zyada stress tou nahi le rahi?” Too watery? “Tumhare ghar mein chai aise banti thi?” You get it right? No comment because perfection is the bare minimum for a bahu.
Fashion is Freedom, But Only If You Follow the Dress Code
There’s an unspoken dress code, and it’s a constantly shifting target. Wear jeans at home? Suddenly you’re the bold one. Put on lipstick to feel alive? “Kisi ke liye lagaya hoga.” Wear something plain? “Shaadi ke baad thak gayi lagti ho.”
You’re expected to be trendy but not too modern, modest but not frumpy, beautiful but not trying. God forbid you show up to Sunday brunch in mascara and open hair the entire extended family will discuss it before the aalu parathas are even served.
You’re the Emotional Trash Can No One Talks About
Here’s the thing about being the desi daughter-in-law: people think you’re made of steel. But you’re not. You’re just constantly stretching yourself so everyone else feels seen, heard, loved, and comfortable while you quietly disappear in the background. You cry in silence, listen in patience, smile on cue, and when you’re really tired, you just say: “Main theek hoon.” Because that’s easier than explaining why you’re not.
You’ll hear Ammi Ji’s problems. You’ll help Dadi with her WhatsApp. You’ll manage groceries, guest lists, birthdays, and blood pressure medicine and you’ll do it while being told, “Beta, tum thora zyada sensitive ho.” No. You’re just tired. And no one sees it.
Hosting Guests Turns You Into a Butler in Bangles
When guests show up, you become a one-woman catering service. You juggle snacks, gossip, outfit changes, and emotional buffering. You must smile, serve, agree with everything said, and look like you just love making seviyan for twelve people in 43° heat. God forbid you forget to refill the chutney you’ll never hear the end of it.
And if you talk too much, you’re “too bubbly.” If you talk too little, you’re “a bit off.” If you sit, they’ll say you’re lazy. If you stand too long, they’ll whisper you’re showing off. It’s not a visit. It’s an audition. And you’re the lead actress, backup dancer, and light technician all at once.
And Yet… You Keep Going
Here’s the part they don’t say out loud: despite everything, you show up. Every single day. You put on the dupatta, the smile, the self-control. You check on people who never check on you. You make sure the house runs, even if your heart’s been running on empty. You celebrate others while secretly wishing someone would celebrate you.
No one claps. No one notices. But that doesn’t mean it doesn’t matter. You are the emotional engine behind the whole show, and without you, everything would fall apart.
Final Sip: You’re Not “Just” a Bahu — You’re a Damn Powerhouse
If you’re a Pakistani daughter-in-law reading this, I want you to know: you are doing enough. You are more than enough. You are not defined by the shape of your rotis, the perfection of your chai, or how early you wake up on a Sunday. You’re defined by the grace with which you carry the load no one sees, and the quiet strength you summon every time someone says, “Beta, bas adjust kar lo.”
Adjust, sure. But don’t shrink. Don’t forget who you are just to become who they want. And next time someone tries to wrap your entire identity in the phrase “beti jaisi ho,” remember even real daughters get to rest.
