Divija Bhasin has received both bouquets and brickbats for her campaign.
When a slur used solely to shame, punish, and demean women suddenly starts getting reclaimed as a banner of defiance, it does something louder than spark debate.
The word in question is ra**i. Though its meaning, rooted in Urdu and Hindi languages, never just meant ‘sex worker’, the word has been used as a catch-all accusation for any woman who steps out of line that the patriarchy draws for her. Too loud, opinionated, visible, too free — ra**i has been used to cover all of it.
So, what does it mean to reclaim such a charged term? And who holds the power to decide whether it empowers or hurts?
Behind the surge of the online campaign #ProudRa**i is Divija Bhasin, a psychotherapist and content creator who says she did not plan any of this. The hashtag, she says, was not crafted as a movement or a provocation — it was a way to name something women deal with constantly. “My intention has always been to create conversations around the subtle, harmful things in our culture that we shy away from.”
For her, the word isn’t abstract; it appears in her inbox every day. The tipping point was not feminist theory or shock value, but the number of young girls writing to her about being called the slur long before they even understood what it meant. “Young girls start getting called the word at the age of eight and even younger,” she says. “This whole conversation has been exhausting to witness as someone who has been getting all these messages from girls.” Some of these girls even began using the hashtag in their bios and posts.
She keeps many of these messages — often sent late at night, in panic or shame — in a folder on her phone she calls the “Sparkle folder”, filled with stories from women called ra**i by strangers, partners, relatives or classmates.
“In a patriarchal society, the ultimate insult for a woman who crosses boundaries is to question her character"
AI generated image
Shift in tone
Initially, the conversation stayed within her regular audience, familiar with her work on mental health and everyday misogyny. But once her reel began circulating beyond that circle, the tone shifted. “It went to people who don’t know my page and don’t care for feminism. They started making conversation about other topics.” FIR threats followed, along with accusations that she was being irresponsible and corrupting minors.
But for her, the backlash did not undermine the point — it highlighted it. “People were quick to realise I’m not the villain in this story,” she says. “The backlash exposed how deeply misogynistic we are as a society because we end up victim-blaming women every time they try to speak against any form of abuse.”
Cultural load
If the hashtag felt jarring to many, psychologist Divyashree says that has less to do with the campaign itself and more to do with the cultural load the word already carries.
“In a patriarchal society, the ultimate insult for a woman who crosses boundaries is to question her character,” Divyashree says. “Being bold, opinionated, or loud is enough to earn the slur.” The slur, she explains, is not just a descriptor but a disciplinary tool that condenses centuries of control into a single word. “The shame and disgrace it carries make it almost impossible to have a reasonable discussion about sexuality, choice, consent, or boundaries.”
This is also why, she says, the emotional impact of the hashtag varies sharply across age, class, and community lines — from daily trolling in comment sections to childhood trauma, family conflict, public humiliation, and, for sex workers and women from oppressed castes, generations of violence.
“It is important to keep in mind the collective lived experience of the group you are speaking to,” she says. “Otherwise, a campaign — however well-intended — can end up polarising instead of creating meaningful change.”
These voices echo what linguistic and gender studies research has stressed: slur reclamation is rarely simple. Whether it is ‘s**t’, ‘queer’, or caste-based slurs, reclamation from outside that group often splits the meaning — empowering for some, re‑traumatising for others — while the original injury does not vanish just because the word sounds different in a new context.
Resistance from activists
If the hashtag began as a personal reaction to verbal abuse, it quickly grew into something far more polarising. The sharpest resistance came from activists working with communities for whom the word is not an abstract insult but a daily threat.
“The hashtag is absolutely unacceptable,” says activist and Director, Global Concerns India, Brinda Adige, who works with survivors of gender-based violence. “This is a misogynistic term coined by patriarchal men to reduce women to their sexuality. Why should any woman want to own a word that was never authored by her?”
Another activist and India Managing Director of AnitaB.org, Shreya Krishnan, agrees that slurs targeting women need reframing, but questions the method. “The intent was right,” she says. “But it didn’t land in the right manner. The attention stayed on the derogatory word, not the larger issue.” She adds that campaigns involving stigmatised terms must meaningfully include sex workers and communities who have historically borne the worst consequences of that language.
'Takes the assault head on, but...'
Divyashree acknowledges that the campaign tries to “take the assault head on”, but cautions that it might retraumatise those already living with stigma. “Provocative campaigns can polarise instead of creating a reasonable discussion,” she notes.
The word lands differently for different women depending on the context.
A 19-year-old college student said, “I’ve been called ra**i outside my PG just because a shopkeeper saw my guy friend dropping me off. So when I saw the hashtag, I didn’t feel proud, but I did feel seen for a second — like someone finally said this is happening to all of us.”
For others, the discomfort outweighed any sense of solidarity. A 34-year-old IT professional said, “The word scares me. I don’t want it reclaimed. But I appreciate that someone is finally calling out how casually it’s used. I’ve never told anyone my manager muttered it at me once for disagreeing with him.”
A 47-year-old homemaker said, “That word could destroy a woman’s future at one point. I still flinch when I hear it. I can’t understand reclaiming it, but maybe younger girls see something I don’t.”
The #ProudRa**i debate sits exactly in that divide. While for some, it has exposed the everyday violence of language, for others, it has felt like reopening a wound without any support to heal it.
What does the law say
The legal questions around #ProudRa**i movement grew almost as fast as the hashtag itself, especially once minors, school environments, and FIRs entered the conversation. But lawyers say the online panic did not always align with what the law says.
According to Ashok G V, a partner at Allied Law Practices, Indian law distinguishes distasteful from unlawful expression. “When a woman uses a stigmatised term in a self‑referential or political way, courts will usually look at the context and intent,” he explains.
Child safety, however, is treated differently. Sireesha P M, an associate at the same firm, notes that “mere access by a minor to adult language does not constitute a POCSO Act violation.” The law intervenes only when sexualised or abusive language is directed at a minor, or when a minor is specifically targeted. A hashtag existing in public is not enough.
Both lawyers emphasise that influencers do have responsibilities, but those responsibilities are grounded in existing laws — not in shifting public sentiment. “If content crosses into obscenity, harassment, or child-related offences, liability arises,” Ashok says. “But provocation alone is not a crime.”
At the same time, they acknowledge that India’s legal framework hasn’t kept pace with the scale of digital activism. “There is room for clearer policy guidance on age-appropriate communication and platform duties,” Sireesha says, “but without undermining constitutionally protected speech.”