In viral interview snippets from the Twisha Sharma case, her mother‑in‑law, Giribala Singh, is reported to have said something that has become a cruel shorthand for modern–day bahu policing: “She didn’t even water the plants.” It sounds like a trivial complaint about a wilted balcony plant. Beneath it lies a much heavier question: why is a woman’s value still measured in cooking, cleaning, and ‘plant‑watering’, even when she holds a job, an income, a life outside the kitchen?
In another call with Twisha’s brother, her mother‑in‑law is heard discussing the “question” she had raised about her bahu’s previous relationships. This conversation, shared widely on social media, did not merely expose a private family dispute; it laid bare how a woman’s
past love life can be turned into ammunition by the very people who are supposed to support her.
For many middle‑class urban women, Twisha’s story hits home. It is quite like a distorted mirror of their own marriages. They clock in at offices, chase promotions, and manage clients, yet they return to homes where their “performance” is still scored on whether the dal is made right, the bed is neatly made, kids are taken care of, or the potted plants are watered. Domestic incompetence is no longer just a joke; it has become a weapon of moral judgment, especially when wielded by a mother‑in‑law who sees herself as custodian of tradition.
In Twisha’s case, this critique of “capability” was layered with something even more invasive: the mother‑in‑law is also reported to have blamed her for taking medication abortion (MTP) pills to end an early pregnancy. In India, abortion is LEGAL. Every woman has the autonomy to choose for her body, and decide whether she wants to take the pregnancy to term. But as is the case in most Indian households, a woman’s body and her choices must first pass the filter of her in‑laws’ approval. If she makes a decision that disrupts domestic plans, she is no longer “virtuous” or “dedicated”; she is “selfish,” “unstable,” or, in the language of gossip, “difficult”.
There is also the uncomfortable, often unspoken context: mental health. Twisha’s messages and the family’s account suggest she was deeply distressed, doubting herself, and pleading to be taken home. Yet instead of treating her anguish as a cry for support, parts of the narrative have been twisted to imply that her alleged mental‑health struggles made her “unfit”. It could be true. She could have had mental health concerns. But this public character assassination is also exactly how patriarchy protects itself: it pathologises women who refuse to adjust. Who cannot gracefully perform the juggling act of career, marriage, and domestic duty demanded of them.
Why Women Become The Enforcers of Patriarchy
You can think of it like “bargaining with patriarchy,” a survival mechanism where women, possessing zero systemic power of their own, find power by enforcing the rules on the generation below them.
This is why, cliches and tropes aside, that is often women—mothers‑in‑law and sisters‑in‑law—who uphold this patriarchal logic most fiercely. For generations, they have been taught that their honour lies in running a perfect household and producing a “perfect” daughter‑in‑law. When they find themselves in the same role one day, they turn into the same gatekeepers who once judged them.
Audio recordings and family testimonies emerging from the ongoing investigation into Twisha’s case paint a horrifying picture of the verbal and psychological degradation she allegedly endured in her five months of marriage. Yet, the matriarchal response remained focused on domestic compliance, on the alleged ‘loose’ character of the bahu, who did not want to ‘have a child’.
When a mother‑in‑law, or any individual, reduces a woman’s worth to plants she hasn’t watered or a pregnancy she chose to end, she is not defending “tradition”; she is exposing how fragile that tradition is when it cannot accommodate a woman’s autonomy.
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