In late 2025, a single Hindi word – randi – detonated across Indian social media feeds, igniting a debate about feminism, language, shame and power that refuses to die quietly. The “Proud Randi” movement, sparked by viral Instagram videos and hashtags, has forced India to confront an uncomfortable question: can a word historically used to humiliate women ever be reclaimed as a badge of defiance, or does trying to do so merely expose deeper fault lines around misogyny, class and privilege?
The term at the heart of the storm, randi, literally translates to “prostitute,” but in everyday usage it functions as one of the most common and vicious gendered slurs in Hindi and Hinglish. Women are called randi for posting selfies, speaking openly about sex, rejecting men, or simply existing too loudly online. The word is designed to shame, to reduce a woman’s worth to sexual availability and moral “impurity,” what many feminists describe as izzat (honour) policing in its rawest form. When psychologist and influencer Divija Bhasin urged women to add “Proud Randi” to their bios, she framed it as an act of linguistic rebellion: if men weaponise the word to hurt women, why not seize it and drain it of its power?
The idea travelled fast. Instagram Reels explaining the concept racked up millions of views, and young women began posting about years of abuse they had endured online. For some, declaring themselves “proud” felt cathartic, a way to say “tum mujhe sharminda nahi kar sakte” (you cannot shame me). Supporters compared the campaign to earlier global movements like SlutWalk, arguing that confronting slut-shaming head-on was long overdue in a society still obsessed with “good” versus “bad” women. In this reading, Proud Randi was less about the word itself than about exposing how casually misogyny hides inside everyday language.
But the backlash was swift and ferocious. Critics, including feminists, sex worker advocates and legal commentators, questioned whether reclaiming randi is even possible in the Indian context. Unlike some English slurs that have been reappropriated by the communities they target, randi carries heavy class, caste and occupational stigma. Sex workers pointed out that the word is not an abstract insult for them but a label tied to real violence, police harassment and social exclusion. Seeing relatively privileged influencers “play” with the term online, they argued, risks erasing the lived realities of those who cannot simply log off when the slur turns dangerous.
Another flashpoint was age. As the hashtag spread, minors and teenagers began adding Proud Randi to their profiles, often without fully understanding the term’s sexual meaning. This triggered alarm among parents and educators and led to police complaints and FIRs, with critics accusing the campaign of being irresponsible in a digital ecosystem where context collapses and virality outpaces reflection. Supporters countered that the outrage itself revealed India’s discomfort with honest conversations about sex, consent and gendered abuse, but the legal scrutiny ensured the movement stayed controversial rather than celebratory.
The debate also exposed a broader unease about influencer-led activism. Is reclaiming a slur via Instagram a meaningful feminist intervention, or a product of the attention economy, where provocation equals reach? On X and Reddit, users dissected whether the campaign challenged patriarchy or simply courted shock value. Some noted that dismantling misogyny requires structural change — better laws, safer platforms, accountability for abuse — not just symbolic gestures. Others insisted that symbols matter precisely because language shapes how violence is normalised.
What Proud Randi has undeniably done is force a reckoning with how deeply misogyny is woven into Indian speech. Words like randi, characterless, badchalan (immoral woman) or loose are deployed casually, often defended as “just words,” yet they police behaviour with remarkable efficiency. By dragging one such word into the spotlight, the movement has made many Indians uncomfortable — and that discomfort may be its most lasting impact.
Whether Proud Randi will be remembered as a brave attempt to reclaim agency or a cautionary tale about the limits of online feminism remains unresolved. What is clear is that the argument it sparked goes far beyond a hashtag. It touches on who gets to speak for whom, whose pain is prioritised, and whether empowerment can be crowdsourced in an unequal society. In that sense, the controversy says less about a single word and more about an India still struggling to decide who controls women’s bodies, voices and meanings — online and off.
Hey, India. Pull up a chair. This Auntie has something to say, and no, I’m not lowering my voice. I’m a Proud Randi. There, I said it before you could spit it at me in a comment, whisper it like a threat, or throw it like a stone from behind a fake profile picture of a flag, a god, or a gym selfie.
Let’s be honest for one hot second. In this country, “randi” has never been about sex work. It has been about control. You call a woman randi when she talks too much, laughs too loud, dresses wrong, refuses marriage, leaves a bad husband, enjoys her body, or simply exists without asking permission. It’s shorthand for “how dare you not be afraid of us.” It’s patriarchy’s favorite multi-purpose weapon, conveniently portable and endlessly reusable.
So when women started saying “fine, if you’re going to call me that anyway, I’ll own it,” suddenly everyone clutched their pearls. Laws, FIRs, outrage, think pieces, moral panic. Ah yes, India’s sacred tradition: men can abuse women daily with zero consequences, but women flipping the script is a national emergency. Incredible efficiency.
Now, let me be clear, because Auntie doesn’t do lazy feminism. This word carries real weight. For sex workers, randi isn’t a metaphor; it’s a word that follows them into police stations, hospitals, courts, and homes. Their anger at this movement is valid. Reclaiming language is never clean, never simple, and never equally safe for everyone. Anyone pretending otherwise is either naïve or lying for likes.
But here’s the part that makes people uncomfortable. The rage directed at Proud Randi isn’t really about protecting sex workers or children or culture. It’s about fear. Fear of women who stop flinching. Fear of language losing its power to wound. Fear that shame, that most reliable leash, might finally snap.
Because once a woman is no longer afraid of being called a randi, what do you have left? You can’t silence her. You can’t scare her back into line. You can’t make her smaller with one ugly word. That terrifies a society built on izzat, control, and selective morality.
So yes, I’m a Proud Randi. Not because I romanticise a slur, but because I refuse to let it police me. Because I’ve watched too many girls shrink themselves to avoid it. Because I know patriarchy hates nothing more than women who stop begging for respect and start defining themselves.
India, the word isn’t the real problem. The hatred behind it is. Deal with that — and Auntie might finally lower her voice. But don’t count on it.