Families poured into jam-packed stadiums awash with blue and orange as the Indian women's cricket team lifted the World Cup, a moment that felt less like a single victory and more like a turning point in how South Asia raises its daughters. In the stands and across millions of living rooms, fathers and daughters celebrated side by side, rewriting quiet family scripts that once kept girls' ambitions politely in check and kept fathers at an emotional distance.
Popular culture has long painted the South Asian father as stern, stoic and slightly removed, the provider who measures success in marks, marriage and money while mothers carry the emotional load. Cinema from Mumbai to Multan and Kathmandu has normalised fathers who love their daughters in private but rarely say so out loud. Too many girls grew up as "someone else's future responsibility", reminded that investment in them had limits, especially when set against a brother's dreams. Affection was present but often disguised as rules, warnings and worry.
Change has arrived, not as a policy speech, but as a thousand early morning alarms. Across India, Bangladesh, Sri Lanka and Nepal, a new chapter of fatherhood opens each day on neighbourhood grounds, in dusty gullies and on makeshift nets. Farmers sell a tractor to buy a kit. A Sikh fathers cycle through winter fog so their daughters are not walking alone. A Muslim and a Christian father quietly negotiate with coaches to let "one more girl" join the boys' nets. Once, such fathers were lonely outliers. Now they are finding one another in the stands.
Nepal's story carries its own Himalayan texture. The national women's team only began international cricket in 2007 and still fights for consistent fixtures, decent facilities and fair contracts. Many players juggle other sports, studies or jobs to keep the dream alive. Yet even here, fathers walk their daughters to grounds in Bhairahawa or Biratnagar, argue with relatives who think cricket is "for the boys," and hold their phones high to stream matches to grandparents in the village. When Nepal's women push regional giants in tournaments, the cheers echoing through Chiyaa shops and buses are also tributes to those families who keep turning up despite long odds.
No father makes this journey alone. For every blue or orange shirt stamped with a star batter's name in India, and every red and blue jersey worn by a Nepali fan, a mother shoulders extra chores. She deflects another round of neighbourhood gossip about why her daughter is not at home. Across South Asia, women who rarely had the chance to chase their own sporting dreams are choosing not to pass that limitation on. They rearrange shifts, cut household expenses and quietly absorb the criticism so that their daughters can sprint between wickets or dive in the covers without apology. In doing so, they are redefining what maternal love looks like in a region where sacrifice has long been demanded of women, but rarely on their own terms.
On paper, the case for engaged fathers is already clear. When girls grow up in homes where both parents are present and encouraging, they are more likely to stay in school, delay early marriage and develop the confidence to navigate daily risks. Public health research links nurturing parenting from fathers and mothers to better nutrition, lower depression and reduced school dropout and that sport lifts entire economies. These numbers give language to what families in the stands already know. A father who believes in his daughter's game is rarely just cheering for cricket; he is betting on her whole life.
Cricket turns these quiet shifts into public theatre. It is harder to dismiss girls as "tomboys" or "distracted from their studies" when stadiums swell with fans wearing jerseys printed with women's names. Nepal too has begun to taste this energy, with growing digital fan engagement and online communities rallying around women's fixtures that once would have gone unnoticed.
There is another revolution inside team sheets and support staff lists. Across the region, more women are appearing behind the scenes as umpires, analysts and journalists. Each of these journeys is usually powered by a family willing to ignore a few raised eyebrows, a father agreeing that his daughter's place might be in the press box or dugout as much as in a classroom.
Yet the work is far from done. In many homes, especially those marked by migration, conflict or deep poverty, a father's support remains an unreachable luxury and mothers are left defending their daughters' aspirations almost alone. Safety concerns, a lack of safe transport, and the absence of basic facilities still prevent girls from staying late for practice or travelling to tournaments. Nepal's women's team, for all its flashes of brilliance, has also struggled with irregular fixtures and administrative setbacks, a reminder that individual courage needs institutional backing to endure.
At heart, the most profound change will remain personal. In Nepal and across South Asia, every time a father ties his daughter's shoelaces before dawn, or a mother ignores one more comment and packs an extra snack, they are doing something larger than sport. They are sketching a new picture of the South Asian family, one where a daughter's dreams fit easily beside a son's and where the field of play is simply another place to love your child well.
Dr Sunoor is the Honorary President of The Himalayan Dialogues and an international expert in leadership & strategic communication and global health diplomacy. More on www.sunoor.net