finstas for freedom

How does auntie gaze shapes South Asian women's digital alter-egos?

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“My cousin asked me to delete all Instagram pictures in low-cut blouses.” This was the opening statement of a call I received from one of my girlfriends last week. “Why is your cousin added to your Instagram?” I asked. Yes, not “Wtf. He can’t dictate your life; you are an adult.” Not “ Ask him to f*** off. You do you, girl.”

My natural reaction to her predicament wasn’t to console or support her in this obvious violation of her bodily autonomy. It was to be disappointed in her stupidity to disregard the first commandment of being an urban, independent, South Asian woman online – always maintain two social media profiles; one for the public (even if it is a private account), and one for the chosen ones.

Let me explain a bit more:

If you are a “post every picture to the feed” kind of girl, then you maintain a main (still private) account with a curated, sanitised, sanskari (translation: cultured, well-mannered; read: naive, easy to manipulate, infinitely self-sacrificing) feed. This is the account you give to your distant relatives, nosy aunties, and neighbourhood uncles (because they won’t believe you are a 21st-century, Gen Z lass without a social media presence).

The other account is the finsta. The key to your true digital self. While in the main account, we think twice about what to post, on our finstas, we are more careful about who to add. If you are a “post only to stories” kind of girl, then a carefully curated Close Friends list should also suffice. But double-checking if you have pressed the magical green button before broadcasting your life to the public will have to become your second nature. Otherwise, there will be dire consequences, ranging anywhere between being asked to delete certain pictures to having your devices taken away and being forcefully married off.

For many of us, this intentional splitting of our selfhood to protect our digital expression began in our teens, when ordinary teenage antics — sleepovers, parties, dating — often collided with parental and community expectations. For instance, let me introduce you to Snigdha, a 23-year-old Marketing Strategist based in Bangalore, India, who has been running her finsta since the 11th grade.

Snigdha started her finsta as a space to share about her high school life (normal things like hangouts with friends, parties, trips, and romantic partners), and memes vocalising her everyday frustrations (like done with life, bunking classes, done with parents) that wouldn’t have been approved by her parents, siblings, or relatives. “They were added to my main account, and I couldn’t remove them without being confronted by them. So, I created my finsta,” she explains.

Snigdha says that even though her parents wouldn’t have been shocked that her beliefs and the life she wanted to lead were significantly different from theirs, she agrees that they certainly wouldn’t like what they would have seen on her finsta. As Snigdha has gotten older, she has gotten more intentional with her finsta. Now it is a space for everything that could initiate one of “those” conversations with her parents. You know what “those” means.

Those conversations about dreams, ambitions, freedom, and autonomy. The conversation that taking a small break doesn’t mean I will never open my textbooks again. The conversation that wearing what made me feel beautiful didn’t mean I was a slut. The conversation that hanging out with friends didn’t mean that I had lost my way.

Snigdha has been doing this for so long that she doesn’t even have to sit and think about what to post where. She just knows which of her dual digital selves a certain picture or meme will suit better. “The only time I have to think about these two identities is when I befriend new people, start developing a strong connection with them and need to decide whether they should be added to the finsta or not,” she confesses.

Now, ladies, that is a very important decision. The kind of decision that could change the entire trajectory of our lives. The kind that decides whether we will be ostracised as wayward girls.

Case in point: Athena*, a 25-year-old Filmaker based in Vancouver, Canada. “I’m very careful about my online presence. I post only what I think won’t get me in the scrutiny of my relatives and extended family,” she confesses. Athena is talking about the infamous “auntie gaze” that all of us learn to navigate even before our prefrontal cortex fully develops.

In most “progressive” South Asian households (like mine and Snigdha’s), with a don’t-ask-don’t-tell policy, most (legal) activities we enjoy partaking is okay as long as it doesn’t get to the auntie collective. Because if it does, that will bring shame to the family. So you have to be very careful with your digital identities and be picky about who you give access to your “unfiltered“ self.

For Angelin, a 28-year-old Editor from Kerala, India, it means letting none in: “I have accepted only one follower to my list, and that's my main account on Instagram.” Angelin’s finsta is an extension of herself, a digital diary of sorts, deeply personal, to be seen by her eyes only.

“Why?” I ask her.

“I started this private account to track my daily runs. I posted a reel where I wore a bikini on my private account with a sexy song as the background. I don’t think I’d feel confident about posting it on my public accounts,” she answers.

Angelin’s finsta is for her unfiltered self. Athena’s is for her relaxed, humorous self. Snigdha’s is for her social self. Abha’s is for my queer, nonconforming self. Gul*’s (a 25-year-old Researcher from Karachi, Pakistan) finsta is for her “raw poems, experimental writing, personal reflections, and posts she wouldn’t want strangers to misinterpret.”

For all of us, our digital alter egos are a curation of personality traitst we least expect our loved and not-so-loved ones to accept. A silent negotiation with the people responsible for us. A negotiation to maintain our autonomy, freedom and independence. Its our way of saying we will make sure the grave sin of being ourselves will never affect our value in the marriage market.

By now, the maintenance of two digital egos is second nature to us. From the time we are pre-teens, South Asian women (women worldwide, tbh, but for the sake of this article, let’s focus on our main subjects), are reminded daily of what behaviours are accepted and what is not. Smiling politely is appreciated. Laughing out loud is not okay. Modest dressing is the default. Showing your curves makes you promiscuous. Doing well in school is expected. Being proud of your achievements is showing off.

In short, we have a constant (rather conservative) mental checklist for what can be shared publicly and what can’t be. Because if you aren’t careful with who to add where, you can end up like my girlfriend, in agony, wondering when her scandalous possession of a low-cut blouse will be made public to her mother and others. Meanwhile, she deactivates her social media profiles, hoping that her male cousin didn’t take a screenshot of her picture.

The rest of us continue to thank the women who came before us for never giving up the dream of living as their most authentic selves, and for showing us ways to document the unacceptable parts of our existence, even if the receipts of our lives-well-lived are confined to a private corner of the web.