Unseen, Unloved, Unhealed: What Hypermasculinity Conceals in India’s Homeless Men

In a men’s recovery shelter I work at in Delhi, I sat across from a man whose humor was hollow. With a laugh, he told me:  “Rone ka kya faida? Rona kamzoron ki nishani hai… rona hota toh choodi pehente.” When I gently asked him how he copes with tension, he shrugged and said, “Ek quarter maar lo, sab tension door ho jaega.”

That laughter masked a deeper ache. These men—broken by loss, addiction, and social abandonment—rarely speak of their pain. They show up in the first few counseling sessions looking tough, emotionally sealed, fiercely resilient. But over time, cracks appear: a silence held too long, anger at meaningless things, sudden tears. I wonder: what does masculinity offer someone who has nothing left—yet still feels compelled to act like they don’t?

The Nirbhaya case of 2012 catalyzed a national conversation on gendered violence. India enacted stronger laws, but the annual reports of rape rose from 20,000 in 2010 to nearly 40,000 in 2016. Instead of prompting societal self-examination, the conversation frequently scapegoated rural male migrants. Stories portrayed them as inherently dangerous—convenient villains in a larger narrative.

Scholars such as Govinda (2020) and Phadke (2013)have argued that public debates around women’s safety in Delhi often equate safety with the removal of lower‑class male bodies from public spaces. The men I work with—labourers from UP, Bihar, Bengal—are stigmatized by media, policy, and public imagination even before they step foot in the city. Their presence is marked by suspicion, their bodies framed as threats.

Connell’s theories of hegemonic masculinity and marginalised masculinities help us understand why these men double down on masculine performances. Hegemony isn’t absolute dominance—it’s maintained through societal consent. Many men, even when they have no real power, feel compelled to conform to the dominant ideal. As Kimmel (1997) writes, masculinity is often defined in opposition—by what men are not, especially women.

Throughout history, Indian men belonging to the lower class of society faced various issues that threatened their ability to affirm their manhood. Unlike their middle and upper-class counterparts, lower-class men are disproportionately impacted by systemic inequalities that exacerbate feelings of emasculation and marginalisation (Nonn 1995). Latest figures from The Times of India highlight that a September–August 2024 headcount found 156,369 people sleeping outdoors in Delhi overnight, estimating the total urban homeless population exceeds 300,000 (3 lakh).

The internal labour migrant population in Delhi represents a unique social cohort often structurally stigmatised and viewed as failures within society. According to a 2021 report by the Ministry of Housing and Urban Affairs, over 70% of the urban homeless population in India are men, a majority of whom are inter-state migrants. Despite this, discourse on male marginalisation remains disturbingly silent. These men migrate to the city in search of a livelihood but find themselves in precarious living conditions, face discrimination and lack of access to resources and social support. Moreover, the pervasive societal perception of these men as inherently dangerous (for other people on the street, especially women) further compounds their marginalisation (Govinda 2020).

For those refused access to education, jobs, or welfare, hypermasculinity becomes their last visible resource. Even as their lives unravel, they are expected to embody resilience, stoicism, provider‑hood. Because society demands it, and because failing to meet that demand would feel like vanishing entirely.

In therapy rooms, I’ve observed how anger, silence, and bravado are not signs of strength—they’re shields. These men hold emotional trauma so tightly that they don’t know vulnerability is an option. Attempts to cry, ask for help, or feel sadness result in mockery or shame—even from their own peers.

A patient once said, “For whom I should work and earn… it would be more motivating and meaningful if someone waited for me.” Many have families they’ve lost contact with, but still cling to an invisible pact: never reveal weakness. When that pact cracks—by grief, mental illness, or addiction—it can lead to violence, either directed inward (self-harm, despair) or outward (substance abuse, aggression).

This is not about blaming men for violence—it’s about recognizing how hypermasculinity isolates them and worsens their pain. Masculinity is often taught as armor, but armor can suffocate.

Poverty is closely linked to self-medication and addictive behaviours. Studies like Pollack (1998) and Lomas (2013) show that men often externalize distress through aggression, substance use, or risk-taking—not sadness. At the shelter, many men start using drugs to numb shame and exhaustion. Those with familial responsibilities try to ration usage, but isolated men quickly spiral.

As addiction takes hold, shame grows. Shame about being a failure, shame about lost affection, shame about being unproductive. The fear of being “not man enough” becomes internalized violence. The man who may have once earned a daily wage ends up pricing self-worth in quarters of alcohol and days lost to cravings.

It’s a heartbreaking cycle: poverty leads to addiction, addiction deepens shame, shame demands more performance. Every rugged joke is a plea not to look closer.

Despite this isolation, I’ve found that men will speak—if someone truly listens. Many told me they crave recognition, not in lectures or charity, but in quiet, empathetic presence. If they dare to open up in sessions, they risk being ridiculed. That sense of rejection drives them back into silence or self-destruction.

They don’t need ideological pity—they need compassionate space. They need mental health that understands airlessness and abandonment. They need social structures that view them not as treatable objects, but as human beings scarred by trauma and expectation.

Patriarchy shapes men and women, injuring both without mercy. To dismantle it, we need to see that even perpetrators of violence are often prisoners of rigid scripts. This doesn’t excuse violence—it contextualizes pain. When marginalised men perform violence, it is often not just aggression but assertion—an attempt to regain self in a world that refused it.

Any effort to critique hypermasculinity must be feminist, anti-caste, and trauma-aware. Feminism isn’t about erasing men—it’s about upholding accountability and justice. And that justice must include emotional healing—even for those we fear.

I still think of the man who asserted, “Rona kamzoron ki baat hai…” He never cried in therapy—but one day he stopped laughing. He went quiet. In that silence, something shifted.

Healing for these men might not look like tears. It might look like choosing to talk one night instead of drinking. A refusal to lash out. A question rather than a punch.

India’s recovery must include the invisible, the hurt, the damned. Men who are unseen, unloved, unhealed are not just social failures; they are casualties of a rigid script. We may never heal them by policy alone—but we begin to heal ourselves when we see them again as human.