The new Telugu film The Girlfriend, starring Rashmika Mandanna, has earned praise for its portrayal of an abusive relationship. But what makes it truly unsettling is how ordinary the abuse feels. The man isn’t a monster, he’s a “nice guy.”
It captured something most women in India understand instinctively: That the men who hurt us don’t always start as villains. They’re often the “nice guys.” The ones who open doors, send good morning texts, tell you they worry because they “care.” They’re attentive, polite, and gentle. Until they aren’t. Until you realise that the care was just control in disguise.
The story follows a girl falling for a seemingly gentle, sensitive man who slowly starts controlling her life. To me, it wasn’t just a movie, it was real. Too real. I’ve seen versions of it play out around me for years, sometimes in my friends’ relationships, sometimes in my own.
We grew up being told that good girlfriends are understanding, patient, and forgiving. That love is sacrifice, and a woman’s ability to endure makes her strong. A “good” girlfriend doesn’t argue too much, doesn’t dress “provocatively,” doesn’t make her boyfriend insecure. She helps him become a better man, even if it means shrinking herself in the process. I’ve watched women wear that badge of endurance like a crown, even as they disappeared inside their relationships.
And it’s not just something we see in life; it’s something our films have drilled into us for decades. Kabir Singh, Animal, Aashiqui 2, take your pick. Stories where love means possession, where a man’s rage is romantic, where violence is passion. What The Girlfriend does differently is show how this control starts quietly. It’s not the slap or the scream. It’s the constant checking in, the guilt-tripping, the “I don’t like your friends,” the “you’re not like other girls.” It’s the emotional coercion that makes you question your own judgement.
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The nice guy trope
In a country where physical abuse is often brushed aside, emotional abuse barely even registers. A bruise might be visible, but what about the self-doubt that lingers long after someone has convinced you that you’re too sensitive? That’s harder to explain. That’s why so many women are stuck. Because it doesn’t “look” like abuse.
And in India, where sex remains cloaked in shame, intimacy often becomes another tool of control. Many women stay in abusive relationships not out of love, but out of fear. The fear of being “found out,” judged, or blamed for crossing invisible moral lines. Men, especially the so-called “nice guys,” exploit this silence. They weaponise closeness, using sex not as an act of mutual desire, but as proof of loyalty. They coax, guilt-trip, or emotionally manipulate women into consent, and then use that intimacy to bind them further. It’s coercion disguised as affection, made possible by a culture that still teaches women to feel dirty for wanting, and dishonoured for leaving.
The “nice guy” thrives on this moral ambiguity. He’s not like those other men. He’ll tell you he reads, he listens, he even calls himself feminist-adjacent. He says he respects women. He just doesn’t like when you go out too much, post too many selfies, or make him “feel unwanted.” He doesn’t like when other men look at you because he knows how men think. He’s the man who uses vulnerability as a weapon and guilt as a leash. And because we’ve been taught that love means forgiveness, we keep making excuses for him.
I’ve seen this up close; men who weaponise softness, who say they’re “overprotective” but really mean “possessive.” I’ve seen women around me shrink, second-guess, apologise for taking up space.
And I’ve seen how society rewards this dynamic: she is the “good girlfriend” for tolerating, he is the “good man” for not hitting her. The bar is so low, it’s practically buried underground.
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No man is immune
Films like Thappad and Mrs. have shown us how marriage can trap women in cycles of control and silence. But we rarely talk about how it starts before marriage. How young women are taught that a boyfriend’s jealousy means love, and that compromise is maturity. Emotional abuse doesn’t always come with raised voices; it often comes with a lowered tone, a disappointed sigh, a guilt trip.
What makes it all so dangerous is that it’s dressed up as care. Indian men are raised to believe that their role in a woman’s life is to protect her; from the world, from herself. They mistake submission for devotion. And we, conditioned to be grateful for attention, often mistake control for love.
Even the so-called progressive men aren’t immune. They post feminist takes online but expect women to be their emotional caretakers. They know the right language but not the meaning behind it. I’ve met those men too, the ones who say all the right things but disappear the moment you stop being impressed. And now the “nice guy” disorder goes hand in hand with the “performative male” epidemic but that is a discussion for another day.
The Girlfriend reminded me that abuse doesn’t always announce itself. It can look like flowers, texts, promises. It can sound like “I just want what’s best for you.” It’s quiet, gradual, suffocating. And it’s everywhere.
We need to start calling this out for what it is; a systemic disorder of masculinity that thrives on control disguised as love. The “nice guy” doesn’t need to be rehabilitated; he needs to be unlearned. Boys need to grow up seeing women as people, not projects.
Indian women, too, need to unlearn their conditioning. Emotional labour isn’t their duty. Peace isn’t worth more than self-respect. They mustn’t earn tenderness by enduring neglect. Girls need to know that love doesn’t feel like walking on eggshells.
The problem isn’t that women fall for “nice guys.” The problem is that we were taught that’s the best we can hope for. The real cure for the “nice guy disorder” isn’t women learning to love better, it’s men unlearning what they think love means.
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(Edited by Theres Sudeep)