Rooms of Their Own

For long, women have fought for visibility in male-dominated spaces—whether in boardrooms, music studios, sports fields, or even in creative and intellectual circles. Their voices have been sidelined, their contributions dismissed, and their presence often tokenised. Yet, despite decades of gender inclusivity discourse, many women continue to face barriers that limit their freedom, autonomy, and access to opportunities. But across India, a quiet but powerful movement is unfolding—one where women are no longer asking for space. They are creating their own.

From the gritty underground of Mumbai’s hip-hop scene to Bengaluru’s experimental art collectives and sports communities, women are reclaiming space in new ways.

At a hip-hop cypher in Mumbai, a group of men stand in a circle, their voices bouncing off the concrete walls as they freestyle, trading bars with swagger. The energy is electric, the competition fierce. But the moment a woman steps into the circle, the atmosphere shifts. Eyes widen, some sceptical, some amused. The unspoken challenge hangs in the air: prove yourself.

For the women of Wild Wild Women [Krantinaari, Hashtag Preeti (Preeti N Sutar), MC Mahila (Shruti Raut), J Queen (Jacquilin Lucas), and Pratika Prabhune] this moment isn’t new. They have spent years walking into spaces where they weren’t expected, where the assumption was that hip-hop wasn’t for them. They’ve seen the arched eyebrows, the dismissive glances, the patronising nods. And every single time, they have done what they do best. They take the mic and destroy every doubt in the room.

“People always act surprised when they see us rap,” they say. “At first, it’s like, ‘Oh, this is interesting.’ Then we start spitting bars, and you can see it on their faces—they weren’t expecting us to be this good,” they say via email.

“When we started, there were barely any women in the scene,” they say. “If there were, they were being pushed to the side. We saw it happen over and over—women being questioned, dismissed, or just not considered part of the ‘real’ hip-hop world.”

Instead of waiting to be included, they created their own movement. The collective, formed by female rappers, lyricists, producers, and graffiti artists, wasn’t about demanding space in an industry reluctant to give it. It was about taking it.

“We realised early on that if we wanted space in hip-hop, we couldn’t just wait for the men to make room for us,” they say. “We had to make room for ourselves.”

But making room didn’t mean the battles stopped. Even as their music gained traction, the scepticism remained. “The biggest challenge is being taken seriously,” they say. “People assume hip-hop is just for men. There’s this ingrained idea that if a woman is rapping, it must be some kind of gimmick.” Live performances have become a battleground of their own. At shows, promoters often assume they need a male performer alongside them. “They’ll ask things like, ‘Who are you performing with?’” they explain. “As if our set isn’t complete unless there’s a guy on stage with us.”

And then there’s the gender pay gap. “We’ve played shows where we found out later that the male performers were getting paid more—even when we were bringing in bigger crowds.”

But the beauty of hip-hop is that it rewards skill over status. At the end of the day, no bias, no industry gatekeeper, no old-school mentality can stop pure talent. “We’ve seen it happen—when we start rapping, the whole vibe of the room changes,” they say. “At first, people were sceptical. By the time we’re done, they’re speechless.”

One of the most frustrating parts of being women in hip-hop is the expectation to fit into a box. “If you’re a female rapper, people expect you to rap about certain things—either you’re doing ‘girl empowerment’ anthems, or you’re playing into what men think female rap should sound like.” They refuse to do either. Their music is raw, unfiltered, and unapologetic. They rap about grit, ambition, heartbreak, anger, resilience, money, survival—the things that hip-hop is built on. “Yes, we rap about being women. But we also rap about the hustle, about family, about love, about rage, about everything that makes us who we are.” And they refuse to water it down.

“We don’t make music that’s designed to be ‘acceptable’ or ‘safe.’ We make music that’s real.” For Wild Wild Women, the ultimate success isn’t streams or industry recognition—it’s representation. “We’ve had girls message us saying, ‘I never thought I could rap until I saw you perform,’” they say. “That’s the biggest reward.” They know what it feels like to grow up without seeing yourself in the art you love.

“Hip-hop is such a powerful tool, but if you don’t see women doing it, it’s easy to think you don’t belong,” they say. “We want to change that. We want young girls to grow up knowing that hip-hop belongs to them, too.”

Founded by Shiva Pathak and Nimi Ravindran, Sandbox Collective was built with a singular mission: to create a space where women and queer artists could exist without compromise. It wasn’t just about increasing representation. It was about creating a new way to engage with art and storytelling.

“We wanted to build something that allowed artists to take risks without constantly worrying about whether their work was ‘marketable’ or ‘safe’ enough,” says Charulatha Dasappa, Editorial and Archives Manager at Sandbox Collective. “A lot of the art we see in mainstream spaces is art that has been sanitised, softened, or altered to fit within traditional expectations. We wanted to challenge that.”

One of the biggest problems for women in the arts is the unspoken expectation to be grateful. They are expected to be thankful for whatever small space they are allowed to occupy, rather than demanding full creative autonomy. Sandbox Collective refuses to play by those rules.

“In our spaces, women don’t have to be grateful just for being included,” says Raabiya Jayaram, Administration and Finance Coordinator at Sandbox Collective. “They don’t have to justify their work, or explain why it matters. They don’t have to adjust their voices to fit into an existing mould. Here, they are the mould.” The goal is not simply to give women a platform. It is to ensure that the platform is entirely on their terms.

And that philosophy is best reflected in one of Sandbox Collective’s prime projects: Gender-Bender. Gender-Bender is not a traditional arts festival. It does not prioritise audience appeal, nor does it seek approval from cultural institutions that dictate what kind of art is “worthy” of funding. Instead, it funds and showcases work that disrupts, challenges, and provokes.

“The kind of work we’ve supported over the years has been incredibly diverse,” says Dasappa. “We’ve had performance art, installations, films, and movement-based projects that explore gender in ways that mainstream institutions wouldn’t fund.”

But challenging norms comes with its own set of struggles. “We’ve had people tell us that Gender-Bender is ‘too niche’ or ‘too radical,’” says Dasappa. “That somehow, the work being created here is not ‘universal’ enough. But what’s more universal than gender? What’s more universal than the human experience?” The pushback has only strengthened their resolve. “It proves why we need these spaces,” says Jayaram. “If people still think feminist and queer art is too radical, then we are still not having the right conversations.”

Beyond performance, Sandbox Collective is also preserving the stories that have been erased or ignored through their Feminist Library. It is not just an archive—it is a declaration of which voices deserve to be heard. “The books we collect are by women, queer writers, and other marginalised voices that have historically been left out of mainstream literature,” says Dasappa.

Many of these books are difficult to find, especially in commercial bookstores or traditional libraries. The idea is to create a space where people can engage with literature that speaks to them, represents them, and reflects experiences that aren’t always part of dominant narratives.

“The goal is not just to exist in this space,” says Jayaram. “The goal is to change the entire way art is made, funded, and experienced.”

Sports in India is a privilege most often reserved for men. Even though young girls may play in school, once they reach adulthood, the expectation is that they will stop. Sisters in Sweat, cofounded by Swetha Subbiah and Tanvie Hans, exists to undo that conditioning. “For most women, sports end in childhood,” says Saachi Shetty, Head of Brand Relations and Events at Sisters in Sweat. “We grow up thinking that sports are for boys, and if women engage in fitness, it should only be about weight loss. We wanted to change that.”

Sisters in Sweat, founded in Bengaluru in 2017, didn’t start as a formal organisation. It began with a group of friends who simply wanted to play football. They were women in their twenties and thirties, balancing jobs, families, and personal commitments, but there was one thing missing: a place to just play, with no pressure, no expectations, and no judgment. From that modest start, they now hold events in Delhi, Mumbai and Hyderabad.

“There are so many sports leagues and clubs in the city, but very few of them feel welcoming to women—especially if you’re not a professional athlete,” says Shetty.

For generations, women in India have been discouraged from engaging in sports. Some are told that sports are unladylike, that playing outside will make them too dark-skinned or too muscular. Others are made to feel guilty for prioritising something as ‘selfish’ as play when they could be focusing on their families, careers, or household responsibilities. And then, there are the logistical barriers—a lack of safe spaces, societal expectations, and the simple reality that most sports facilities are designed for men.

As more women joined, it became clear that there was a demand for a variety of sports and fitness activities. Now, Sisters in Sweat isn’t just a football collective. It has expanded to include basketball, running, swimming, badminton, pickleball, and paddle sports. “We wanted to create a space where every woman—regardless of her background, fitness level, or experience—could find a sport she loved,” says Shetty.

Shetty narrates a story about a young boy who had grown up watching his mother play football every weekend. “He saw her getting ready for a game one morning and asked, ‘Mama, do boys play football too?’” she says, laughing. For this little boy, football was a women’s game. He had never questioned it. “That’s the shift we want to see,” she says. “A world where girls don’t have to fight for space in sports, because it was always theirs to begin with.”

For many women, joining Sisters in Sweat is about more than just sports. It is about finding a community, a space where they are encouraged, supported, and celebrated. The atmosphere is one of collaboration over competition, where every woman—regardless of skill level—is cheered on, lifted, and given the chance to grow. “Our goal is to bring Sisters in Sweat to as many women as possible,” says Shetty. “We want to see sports collectives like this in every city, every town, every neighbourhood.”

As gender inclusivity discussions evolve, some question whether women-only spaces should integrate into mainstream culture. But for these collectives, the purpose was never exclusion—it was empowerment. “We’re not hiding from the world,” says Wild Wild Women. “We’re redefining it.”

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