Netflix's Qala: Why we need to upend the imposter syndrome that every woman carries

The other week I was invited to speak at a fabulous festival filled with actors, mega-influencers, celebrity chefs and performance artists. At the VIP lounge, where I sat awkwardly, waiting to be shooed away, a woman with hair the colour of the sky entered and said, “I. Love. You!” I turned around to see whom she was talking to. It took me a few seconds to reconcile as to why she’d single me out to dote on in a tent filled with actual celebs!

As I spend this weekend subsumed by Qala, the picturesque film by Anvitaa Dutt (whom I’m guilty of becoming mildly obsessed with), I was once again reminded of this Imposter Syndrome that I often find myself afflicted by. Manjushree floundering for even a pittance of her mother Urmila Devi’s love, shows how our need for validation has consumed and destroyed us. Because those who are not fully loved, by their own and by society, can never fully love anyone, even themselves. Because despite our successes, our many victories, we are ultimately brittle, defining ourselves with only our many failures, the way we fail and fall every single day, in the many seen and unseen ways. Women, in particular, are so accustomed to this self-flagellation that the brilliant performance by Tripti Dimri felt less revue and more fruition. Because isn’t almost every woman carrying the miasmic weightage of doubting her achievements, no matter how far she’s come?

Try telling a woman that she deserves that promotion and her answer will be, “But I don’t think I deserve it, ya.” Try telling a woman she’s lost weight and her answer will be, “But I’m so fat, ya!” Try telling a woman you love what she’s accomplished and she’ll say, “But that’s nothing compared to what you’ve done, ya!” Try telling a woman she’s a great mother and she’ll say, “But I’m always feeling so guilty about not doing enough, ya!” Try giving a woman any sort of compliment and watch her deflect, squirm and devalue herself. As a woman I can rightly state this––women cannot take compliments! Why? Because we’ve been taught we don’t deserve them. Instead, we find solace in putting ourselves down. That’s our safe space. To be reduced, diminished and ‘kept in place’ at all times. Women are born on the periphery. We live on the fringes. And this statis defines our entire existence.

And, of course, society exploits this to the fullest. They make a woman feel like a fraud no matter how much she’s achieved privately, or in public. Over the 70 years since our independence we women believe that progress has come our way. That we’ve fought back. That we’re here today because of our clamour for equality. From Sarojini Naidu fighting for our right to vote, to Savitribai Phule fighting for our right to an education, we are the result of the collective consciousness and battles of our foremothers. We like to believe that we are equal to men. That society treats us as equals. But are we truly equal? More importantly, are we truly free from being the gatekeepers to our own validation?

Here’s the truth: in the name of equality we women have kind of screwed ourselves over. We have gone from being the ‘perfect housewife’ to the ‘perfect working wife’. We want to look like Deepika Padukone, earn like Indra Nooyi, cook like Sanjeev Kapoor, have followers like Uorfi Javed, and be as nurturing as Mother India. We want to have it all. We want a career, a nice husband, children, friends, house help, a thin body, the best clothes, the perfect manicure, the most expensive purse, the perfect online life, and the perfect selfie. We want to establish our power and, more importantly, the nonchalance in this power. We want to be loved, respected, admired, envied, felicitated, promoted and … sane. In an effort to have it all and please everyone, we are doing too much. We are trying to become superwomen. And society today is reinforcing the notion of a woman as the overachieving CEO, the overwhelmed mother, the overworked wife, the admired influencer, and the sexy doyen, such that a woman is conveniently contained in a constant state of perfection. Having women do more without letting them realise it. If this isn’t patriarchy, I don’t what is? Only now society has cleverly disguised regression and called it progression.

And who can we blame for this? Only ourselves. Because we ourselves are guilty of creating the notion of ‘superwoman’ and then trying to live by it. This force field of unrealistic expectations is exhausting. It’s unhealthy. It’s not even worth it. Being a superwoman is not super. And it’s time we realised that. It’s time we changed the narrative and stopped trying so hard to be ‘perfect’. It’s time we took stock of our lives and thought about what ‘having it all’ really means for us.

Drop the illusion of a perfect life or a perfect you. That is not real. Tell yourself: I do not have to be a Deepika Padukone, or Indra Nooyi, or Mother India, but I have to be myself, and that’s enough. Tell yourself that you are super without being a superwoman.

It’s also time we accepted the compliments, the accolades, the positive strokes, as rightly deserved and long overdue. So the next time someone tells you, “You’re amazing!” tell them, “I truly am!”

I decided to do just that. A little later at the festival I mentioned earlier, I went on stage with two famous actors. The clapping waned when my name was announced, till I said, “Yeah, I know authors are not celebrities, but do we not deserve applause?” The audience burst into tenacious cheering. And kept on applauding. For that’s what we deserve––the Poster Syndrome––the ability to ask for a celebration of who we are at our most glorious and inglorious selves.

In an era where we fetishize opinions we don’t own, the weekly ‘Moderate Mahila Mandate’ presents unadulterated and non-partisan views on what’s happening to women in India today.

Meghna Pant is a multiple award-winning and bestselling author, screenwriter and columnist, whose latest novel BOYS DON’T CRY (Penguin Random House) will soon be seen on screen. You can Insta her @Meghna.Pant.