The Hidden Shame of Not Living Up to Cultural Expectations.

I am a Pahadi. I was born in a remote village of Uttarakhand where my father, grandfather, and great-grandfather took their first breaths and spent their entire lives.

My great-grandfather was a farmer who lived a peaceful, quiet, grounded life in the hills of Uttarakhand, close to his traditions and to nature. Our home was made of stone and wood, with a roof of flat slate tiles and a floor made of mud, standing strong on the edge of a green mountain. He would start his day early with prayers and a cup of chai, welcoming the crisp mountain breeze before tending to his fields of mandua (finger millet) and jhangora (barnyard millet). My great-grandmother would cook food on a mud stove, take care of the children, and help in the fields.

Our family lived close to nature, drinking water from mountain springs, eating what we grew, and breathing fresh air every day. Life in the village was full of tradition and togetherness. Festivals like Harela, Bagwal, and Phool Dei were times when everyone came together to sing, dance, and offer prayers. At night, people would sit under the stars and listen to elders sing jaagar—ancient songs that told stories of gods and ancestors. There was no electricity, no machines, and not much money, but there was love, respect, and a deep connection to the land and the people around them. Life felt slow, but it was full of heart.

Tradition and culture weren’t things that had to be scheduled—they were part of everyday life. My great-grandfather never had to worry about whether his children would learn and carry forward their culture; it was simply lived and passed on. 

But as generations moved away from the soil, that cultural rhythm began to face disruption. Even though the newer generation was physically distant from the land, they were never truly disconnected—the bond was simply reimagined. Yet society often fails to recognise or honour this evolving connection. It expects tradition to be followed by the book, overlooking the quiet ways in which culture still survives—adapted, remembered, and deeply felt.

Service and Sacrifice: The Invisible Trade-Off

During India’s independence movement, my grandfather chose to join the Indian Navy. His decision changed the trajectory of our family. His oath to serve the nation meant leaving behind his parents, his birthplace, his customs, and his traditions. Even though he was miles away from the hills, his heart held on to his Pahadi pride through memories, stories, songs, and values. His wife, my grandmother, stayed back in the village. She performed every ritual and upheld the traditions with quiet devotion. She ensured that even in his absence, culture was preserved and passed on to the next generation. Though they were apart, they kept the heritage alive together, yet in different ways.

Years later, my father followed in his father’s footsteps and joined the Indian Army, once again leaving behind his roots, his customs, and the soil that shaped him. We lived in army cantonments and military quarters scattered across India. Most family functions were missed due to duty, and festivals were celebrated in unfamiliar cities, far from the hills, but always with love. My mother, a Pahadi woman herself, was married to my father at the age of 18. Soon after, she left her mountain home to join him. Though physically distant from the hills, she carried their spirit in her heart. Yet, often she lacked the time, resources, or a like-minded community to express that culture outwardly.

And here lies the paradox—our love for our culture remained unwavering, alive in our memories and values, yet its visible expressions slowly faded in the eyes of those who stayed behind.

The Silent Burden of Societal Judgment

Once my father retired from the Army, that military chapter of our life closed—and we moved back to a place closer to our people, to where we belonged. But another chapter opened quietly. The chapter of judgment.

People around us—mostly relatives and villagers—began to question us:
“Why don’t you observe traditional rituals like others?”
“Don’t your children know the local customs?”
“Oh? your children don’t speak Pahadi?”

These questions were not always harsh, but they carried an unspoken shame—an implication that in choosing service and mobility, we had let something sacred slip through our fingers.

My mother, especially, bears this burden. She was just 18 when she married my father, stepping into a life where tradition had to coexist with practicality. She adapted. She preserved what she could. She created a home rooted in values.

And yet, because she cannot replicate every ritual with perfect precision, she too is quietly criticized—for being “not Pahadi enough.”

The Narrow Lens of Cultural Authenticity

In many cultures, including ours, tradition is seen as a performance—something that must be acted out visibly and consistently. But when tradition is boxed into rituals alone, it becomes exclusive, rigid, and unfair.

Our connection to culture goes far beyond wearing regional attire, cooking local dishes, or participating in festivals. It lives in the stories our elders whisper, the language we speak at the dinner table, and the tears we shed for a homeland we rarely visit but deeply miss.

Is it fair to measure someone’s cultural worth based solely on their ability to perform rituals?

This question is especially important in an era of migration, global mobility, and digital life. People move—across cities, states, and continents—not to abandon their roots, but to seek growth, opportunity, or, as in our case, to serve something larger than themselves. In doing so, they do not lose their culture; they evolve it.

Redefining Belonging

To belong is not just to perform, but to remember. Not just to replicate customs, but to carry their spirit forward, even when the form changes.

My grandfather never forgot his pahadi identity even when wearing a naval uniform. My father didn’t stop loving his land when saluting under a national flag. And my mother, despite the distance, keeps her culture alive through the values she instils, the recipes she cooks, and the lullabies she sings to her grandchildren.

Belonging is a spectrum. For some, it looks like living in the same house their ancestors built. For others, it’s narrating their culture to children in cities where their language isn’t spoken. Both are valid. Both are worthy.

Honouring Modern Traditions

Modern families are redefining what it means to be culturally grounded. In WhatsApp groups, families exchange recipes, mantras, and blessings. In video calls, grandparents teach grandchildren the local dialect. On social media, young people rediscover and celebrate their heritage in digital formats.

This isn’t dilution; it’s adaptation. The culture that doesn’t adapt risks becoming a museum artifact. Living cultures breathe, shift, and grow. They make room for the farmer and the sailor, the homemaker and the professional, the ritualist and the storyteller.

A Call for Empathy

We must create space for multiple expressions of tradition. Not every pahadi will sing folk songs in the morning mist. Some will hum them under fluorescent lights in high-rise apartments. Not every child will perform traditional dances. Some will retell those stories in poetry, prose, or pixels.

Let’s stop shaming those who carry culture differently. Let’s ask: What memories shaped your roots? Rather than How often do you visit your village?

The shame of not living up to cultural expectations is often a silent burden—one that military families, migrant workers, urban dwellers, and many others carry. But it’s a shame born not out of failure, but out of a limited definition of culture.

Our ancestors passed down tradition not as a rulebook, but as a living inheritance. One that we’re allowed to interpret, grow with, and pass on in our own way.

Cultural pride isn’t about perfection. It’s about presence.
And in our case, that presence is everywhere—in our choices, in our sacrifices, and in our unwavering love for the hills we never stopped calling home.