The surge of “tradwives” in India may look like just another glossy Instagram-aesthetic — but dig deeper, and it reveals a tangled web of aspiration, privilege, and cultural politics. Young married women in saris or simple kurtas, lovingly kneading dough on spotless marble countertops, whispering sweet “good morning”s to husbands, lighting diyas (lamps) in clean kitchens — these images have flooded feeds. The search term “tradwife” alone has seen a sharp uptick in Indian social-media circles in 2024–25, echoing a global revival of traditional-housewife nostalgia with a desi twist. Such content is often tagged as #tradwife #desiwife #homemaking, drawing thousands of likes — but behind the likes lies a charged debate about what it means for Indian womanhood today.
The noun “tradwife” means a portmanteau of “traditional” and “wife” and was originally coined in Western social-media spaces, where it referred to women romanticizing 1950s-style domesticity: homemaking, cooking from scratch, child-rearing, and relegating paid work outside the home. In the Western context, it often came with Christian-conservative values or even far-right overtones, but India’s take on the phenomenon is quite different — and arguably more complex. As noted by feminist commentators (Feminism in India), the Indian version often drifts away from religious justification and instead leans into aestheticised domesticity and subtle (but potent) class and caste signalling.
In many of these reels and posts, creators — frequently upper-caste, middle- or upper-class women — present domestic chores as art: perfectly filtered kitchens, slow simmering dals, neatly folded laundry, children being bathed or taught, and tikas or sindoor (traditional sindoor powder on foreheads) marking married status. According to recent analyses, such “domestic influencers” often frame homemaking as a form of choice feminism — a deliberate rejection of “hustle culture”, corporate rat race and modern stress, in favour of “ghar ki shanti” (home’s peace) and “parivaar ka pyar” (family love). Their motivations vary: for some, it is a nostalgic aesthetic or a way to reconnect with “roots” (jāti/varna, caste belonging, regional culture); for others, a marketing-savvy method to monetise domesticity through brand deals on kitchenware, ethnic wear, baby products or home décor.
Yet this trend stirs discomfort, especially among feminist thinkers and gender-equality advocates. Critics argue that by presenting domestic labour as glamorous — while obscuring the hard grind, the exhaustion, the unpaid burden, and the social inequalities that underpin it — such content sanitises and romanticises patriarchy. In a country where female labour-force participation remains low and many women remain economically dependent on men, glamorising early marriage and unpaid homemaking risks reinforcing regressive gender norms, even under the guise of personal choice.
Moreover, access to the kind of lifestyle portrayed in many tradwife reels — a neat kitchen, ceramic pots, aesthetic home décor, enough time for cooking elaborate meals — is limited. As noted in a detailed recent survey of Indian tradwife influencers, these lives are almost always shaped by caste and class privilege. Women from working-class backgrounds, or those without domestic help, are rarely able to produce — let alone monetise — such content. This exclusion effectively turns “homemaking as aesthetic” into yet another marker of social status, rather than a universal aspiration.
It’s also important to emphasize that Indian tradwife influencers diverge in significant ways from their Western counterparts in ideological tone. Where Western tradwives often embed their content within overt religious or far-right frameworks — invoking biblical submission or Christian family ideals — Indian creators rarely do. Instead, they often repurpose the tradwife label in a more secular and market-oriented language: cooking videos, parenting reels, home décor tips, all neatly wrapped in pastel filters and soft background music.
Yet the absence of religious or political framing does not make the trend harmless. On the contrary, by packaging domestic labour as aspirational choice, the trend can stealthily normalise traditional gender roles, and even contribute to a broader pushback against feminist gains. As one recent article argues, this aesthetic is “more political than personal,” because it reinforces patriarchal gender norms and erases the structural inequalities—of gender, caste, class—that continue to shape women’s lives in India.
For many young women and couples navigating India’s rapid modernization, rising living costs, and uncertain job markets, the tradwife trend offers a comforting, clean, and stable “home-first” fantasy. The soft glow of a well-lit kitchen, the clinking of metal cookware, the simmering aroma of dal on a rustic stove — it conjures nostalgia, security, and a return to roots. But the danger lies in universalising that fantasy — in presenting it as a neutral, aspirational default, rather than a choice loaded with social privilege, historical baggage, and deeply unequal power relations.
In a society where women are still fighting for property rights, equal economic opportunity, safe mobility, and bodily autonomy, it is worth asking: should motherhood and homemaking be aestheticised, celebrated and monetised — or should we ask instead who gets to afford that luxury, and who gets left behind?
Let me take a slow, resigned sip of my masala chai before I start, because honestly, this whole tradwife shtick in India leaves me somewhere between a sigh and a facepalm. Sisters — upper-caste, well-moisturised, marble-countertop-owning sisters — what on earth are we doing? You’ve surrendered to patriarchy with the enthusiasm of someone accepting a luxury gift hamper. For what? A little status? A few extra likes? A husband who claps because you folded the laundry into aesthetic triangles? Please.
I watch these reels where women perform domestic labour like it’s a spiritual calling — but only as long as it matches the colour palette of their home décor. They’re kneading dough, but with ring-light lighting. They’re sweeping floors, but the floor is Italian marble and the maid has already cleaned it. They speak of “traditional values” (cue the violins), but everything is curated, sponsored, or delivered next-day from Amazon. Apparently, patriarchy tastes better when it’s served in a copper pot with Himalayan salt.
And don’t get me started on the caste and class perfume lingering in the background. Most Indian women don’t have the luxury to “choose homemaking.” They are homemakers — whether they want to be or not — because economic inequality and social norms leave them no alternative. Meanwhile, these glossy tradwives romanticize housework that, for millions of poorer women, is backbreaking and invisible. They sell it as “self-care,” but it’s really “soft-focus servitude.”
What worries me — and yes, Auntie gets discouraged sometimes — is the quiet regression hidden in all this pretty domesticity. These women think they are “reclaiming femininity,” but the only thing being reclaimed is patriarchal comfort. For men. Men who already benefit from a system that treats their wives like a personal HR department: cooking, cleaning, caregiving, conflict resolution, hospitality, emotional support. Add a bindi and a pastel sari, and suddenly it’s empowerment?
I’m not buying it. Neither should you.
If you’re wealthy, educated, urban, and connected — you can choose anything. A career. A business. Travel. Pleasure. Freedom. And you choose… ironing your husband’s shirts on camera? My angels, my orchids, my dearly deluded betis — you deserve better. India deserves better. Your daughters especially deserve better.
Auntie is not judging homemakers; I am judging the performance of submission disguised as empowerment. Don’t gift-wrap patriarchy and call it a lifestyle. It was stale in 1950 and it’s stale now.
Please — put down the ring light, pick up your freedom, and walk out of the algorithmic trap. Real empowerment doesn’t need a filter.