The Indian Family in Transition

The Indian Family in Transition

2 The Indian Family in Transition

Contents 3

The Indian Family in Transition Reading Literary and Cultural Texts

Editors

Sanjukta Dasgupta Malashri Lal

Copyright © Sanjukta Dasgupta and Malashri Lal, 2007 Copyright © Meena Alexander for ‘Hunting for Fish’, 2007 Copyright © Shashi Deshpande for ‘Looking Back’, 2007 Copyright © Makarand Paranjpe for ‘Small-Scale Reflections on an Ancestral Home’, 2007 All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. First published in 2007 by Sage Publications India Pvt Ltd B1/I1, Mohan Cooperative Industrial Area Mathura Road New Delhi 110 044 www.sagepub.in Sage Publications Inc 2455 Teller Road Thousand Oaks, California 91320 Sage Publications Ltd 1 Oliver’s Yard, 55 City Road London EC1Y 1SP Sage Publications Asia-Pacific Pte Ltd 33 Pekin Street #02-01 Far East Square Singapore 048763 Published by Vivek Mehra for Sage Publications India Pvt Ltd, typeset in 10/12pt Calisto MT by Star Compugraphics Private Limited, Delhi and printed at Chaman Enterprises, New Delhi. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Available Culture and the making of identity in ation—1947. 2. Feminism—India. 3. India—Historiography. 4. Science— Study and teaching—India. I. Ganesh, Kamala. II. Thakkar, Usha. III. Asiatic Society of Mumbai. DS428.2.C87 306'.0954'09045—dc22 2005 2005003590 ISBN: 978-0-7619-3568-1 (Hb)

978-81-7829-728-6 (India Hb)

The Sage Team: Sugata Ghosh, Janaki Srinivasan and Sanjeev Sharma

Contents Acknowledgments Introduction by Sanjukta Dasgupta and Malashri Lal

10 11

PART 1: COLONIAL FAMILIES: RE-VISITING TRADITION CHAPTER 1 As the Husband, so the Wife Old Patriarchy, New Patriarchy and Misogyny in One Late Nineteenth-Century Domestic Science Manual Judith E. Walsh

35

PART 2: POSTCOLONIAL FAMILIES: SOCIO-ECONOMIC PERSPECTIVES CHAPTER 2 Women and Agency Vignettes from Indian Families Mukul Mukherjee

61

CHAPTER 3 Modern Families and Independent Living Reflections on Contemporary Aging Sarah Lamb

81

6 The Indian Family in Transition CHAPTER 4 Women and the Naga Family Today Communitarianism in Practice Bonita Aleaz

103

PART 3: LITERARY REPRESENTATIONS CHAPTER 5 Society, Family and the Self in Indian Fiction Jayita Sengupta

125

CHAPTER 6 Imagined Family Pangs of Transition Esha Dey

145

CHAPTER 7 The Politics of Home and Food in Jhumpa Lahiri’s Interpreter of Maladies Irma Maini

157

CHAPTER 8 Representation of the Family in Marathi Autobiography Written by Dalit Women Pushpa Bhave

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CHAPTER 9 Real and Imagined Gujarati Families Shifting Positionalities of Gender in Contemporary Gujarati Women’s Writings Sutapa Chaudhuri

174

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CHAPTER 10 Hypocrisy and Hollowness in the Indian Joint Family System A Study of Mahesh Dattani’s Plays Arpa Ghosh

188

CHAPTER 11 Reflections of Family and Women in Telugu Literature A Look at Women’s Fiction N. Venugopal Rao

203

CHAPTER 12 Globalization and Diasporic Family Dynamics Reconciling the Old and the New Mary Mathew

213

CHAPTER 13 Food, Family, Widowhood in Ashapurna Devi’s Short Fiction Naina Dey

221

CHAPTER 14 The Self and the Family in Telugu Women’s Poetry M. Sridhar and Alladi Uma

231

PART 4: CULTURAL REPRESENTATIONS CHAPTER 15 The Family in Flux The Decimated Family in Rituparno Ghosh’s Films Shoma A. Chatterji

243

8 The Indian Family in Transition CHAPTER 16 The “Reel” Indian Family Reflections from Celluloid Meghna Gulzar

280

PART 5: MEMOIR CHAPTER 17 Hunting for Fish A Poem Meena Alexander

295

CHAPTER 18 The Family As I Saw it, as I See it Vidya Bal

297

CHAPTER 19 Thoughts on Home… Nonda Chatterjee

309

CHAPTER 20 Looking Back Shashi Deshpande

322

CHAPTER 21 Small-Scale Reflections on an Ancestral Home Makarand Paranjape

331

CHAPTER 22 Indian Families in the World Forty Years in Manitoba Uma Parameswaran

339

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PART 6: DIALOG CHAPTER 23 A Dialog with Amartya Sen Sanjukta Dasgupta and Malashri Lal About the Editors and Contributors Index

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360 366

Acknowledgments A number of the essays included here were published in the last four issues of Families: A Journal of Representations (2002–2004). However, on request, most of the contributors meticulously revised their essays. We also wish to thank those who have written specifically for this book, despite the constraints of time. We wish to acknowledge our deep gratitude to all our distinguished contributors and the subject experts who gave us advice. We must also mention that a Fulbright Alumni Initiative Award (2001–2003) made possible the journal, Families, which eventually led to this book. We thank the Women’s Studies & Development Centre of the University of Delhi for hosting a seminar on “Families in India and the USA,” from which two invited papers emerged. Our thanks are expressed to the Women’s Studies Research Centre, Calcutta University, where the Families project was inaugurated, and the Department of English, University of Calcutta for providing the impetus for much of the research. Our own families have given us ideas and experience in handling the subject. We express thanks to Anjan Dasgupta and Robey Lal in particular.

Introduction Sanjukta Dasgupta and Malashri Lal Societies change but there are limits to change. Certain traits which are the product of centuries of conditioning, do not change, and it is these that provide the distinctive cultural label to a people. Others can be diluted or modified. Pavan K. Varma, Being Indian, 2004 If there is one “ism” that governs Indian society and its institutions, it is familyism. Sudhir Kakar and Katharina Kakar, The Indians, 2007

I It is indeed very hard to imagine an individual without a family or at least a family address. Due to unusual circumstances those who have been disassociated from their families in childhood and youth have also tried to identify kinship bonds, often excavating lost roots in order to re-locate themselves within familial structures. The security of group identity and the fulfillment of a deep emotional need have tended to be a source of familial power, trust and interdependence through historical time. Anderson and Sabatelli’s definition of the family is quite unsurpassed in this respect as the definition locates the crucial roles and responsibilities of family members as a linked entity, “an interdependent group of individuals who have a shared sense of history, experience, some degree of emotional bonding, and devise strategies for meeting the needs of individual members and the

12 Sanjukta Dasgupta and Malashri Lal group as a whole” (1999: 16). It is by now somewhat clichéd to even suggest that readers and researchers of family structures and kinship studies should regard Frederick Engels’ The Origin of the Family, Private Property and the State as a foundational text, despite the fact that the world has become far more complicated than the 1880’s. The family has inevitably been the site for challenges, changes and compromises. In recent times the validity of the monolithic concept of family has been interrogated frequently. Consequently, the problematics of gender, class, religion and culture form an integral part of any discourse that prioritizes the family as agency. Globally, in all cultures, the position of the family has been redefined. Yet despite disturbing statistics of the gradual disintegration of the urban middleclass family and erosion of family values resulting in a paradigm shift, the need for familial bonding has simultaneously re-emerged, debunking the notion that contemporary times register the death of the family. Interestingly, the year 1994 was declared by the United Nations to have been the International Year of the Family and the one-liner slogan “Building the smallest democracy in the heart of society” (Desai and Thakkar, 2000: 85) clearly underscores the ideological interconnections between the family and the state. The approach paper of the Indian Government regarding the International Year of the Family significantly stated, “If the family is facing problems of instability and disintegration today, it is not because women are asking for their rights. It is because of the socio-economic changes, market forces, consumerism and environment degradation that contemporary families are facing a range of challenges for survival” (ibid.: 92). Interestingly, though focusing specifically on the transformations in the American family, Judith Stacey highlights global changes that have re-situated and often altered the very definition of the traditional institution of the family. This perhaps indicates that globally, in the urban social environment the family system has to be re-defined, for it is in this re-invention of its status that the family can continue to provide unconditional support to its members. Referring to the United Nations definition of the International Year of the Family, 1994, Stacey dismissed it categorically as “false gender neutrality” and proposed the re-definition of the family according to the changing social environment of contemporary times, “It is time to lay to rest the ghost of The Family so that we may begin to build a safe world for living families. The family is dead! Long live our families!” (Stacey, 1996: 51). In the context of the contemporary need to re-define the Indian family system, Bina Agarwal wrote, “In general, harmony and

Introduction 13

equality do not appear to be characteristic features of most Indian families. The ideal Indian family, which people feel will break up with women’s economic independence, is more imagined than real. Perhaps it is time for us to rethink families more realistically, and to see if they can be transformed into the families of people’s imagination” (Thapar, 2000: 55). That conditions in India are culturally coded by class and location is revealed in a fascinating analysis of short fiction that discusses Indian attitudes to “romance” and family structures. Amita Tyagi Singh and Patricia Uberoi conclude, “The sheer volume of stories of conjugal relation not only affirms the vulnerability of boy-girl romance encounters outside the context of marriage, but, more positively, confirms that romance after marriage is a preoccupation for Indian women. In fact, one is tempted to suggest that stories of post-marital romance may be a sub-continental contribution to the international genre of women’s romance fiction” (Singh and Uberoi, 1994: 100). The survey shows that the imaginary ideal of an Indian family requires the wife to be glad to sacrifice personal aspirations for the larger “good” and that marital relations are to become cemented between spouses through mutual understanding over time. By contrast, the western view of “romance” is based on premarital “courtship.” The significance of the family emerges as an inherent feature of social and human capital when gender and power relations in both advanced and developing locations of culture are re-evaluated. This is the overwhelming perception of the time-tested functioning of the family within the patriarchal structure, whether it is in India or in other developing countries, whether it is diasporic Indian families in new locations, or even families in first world societies, to a large extent, though the differences are as problematic as the sameness. Vrinda Nabar asserted that the Indian middle class is representative of the winds of change and can also be identified as symptomatic of what may be defined as a collective Indian identity and “Indianness” and she observed, “The middle class world view may be defined as broadly ‘Indian.’ It is one which is defined in terms of family and community. Commitment and responsibility to both are visualized in context of tradition” (Nabar, 1995: 49). Our book endeavors to bring together in a single volume, aspects of the contemporary Indian family in transition, by exploring and exposing how the Indian family needs to be re-defined. The institution has undergone a very significant paradigm shift due to the effect of rapid industrialization, emergence of new technologies with their

14 Sanjukta Dasgupta and Malashri Lal impact on tradition and culture, and, of course, globalization on both economic and cultural levels. The uniqueness of this anthology lies in the fact that the chapters included here will focus on precisely those aspects that Patricia Uberoi acknowledges is not quite represented in her seminal book of chapters Family, Kinship and Marriage In India: Very few of the papers in this collection directly address themselves to the experiential problems of Indian family life and the practical politics of contemporary Indian kinship and marriage…. (1999: 2)

Also, Uberoi makes a very significant observation about the fact that family studies have often been reduced to being regarded as a soft area that is more about commonsense rather than a strictly academic discipline. Uberoi makes a succinct observation about this reluctance to address familial issues and the lack of empirical data, “It is very hard to pinpoint where commonsense leaves off and academic sociology begins. In this case one feels that reluctance to address the subject of the Indian family stems not from the unimportance and marginality of the field, rather from its importance and sensitivity” (ibid.: 1). In another section of the same book of essays, Uberoi sums up by admitting, as she had done previously, that sociological documentation of interpersonal relationships within the domestic space is rare or not quite possible due to finely nuanced differences characterizing families despite certain overt common socio-economic characteristics: Very few of these papers presented in this section give an idea of the quality of interpersonal relations in the Indian family: this is more likely to be found in the writings of psychologists and psychoanalysts … or, better still, in creative writings, cinema, the popular and performing arts, and so on (ibid.: 392).

Similarly, Peterson and Lewis argue that though there is a significant amount of literature about the social constructions of gender, these are rarely linked with the economics of the family. They suggest, “One agenda for feminist economics is to identify the sources of inequality in the family and identify policies which promote more equal gender relations in families” (Peterson and Lewis, 1999: 334–35). The infinite variability of inter-personal relationships within the family, which is essentially about power relations and emotional commitment, can be a daunting task for collecting statistical data,

Introduction 15

due to the fact that family members have a dual identity as a member of the family and as an individual person within the shared space. Amartya Sen writes, “Family arrangements are quintessential examples of such cooperative conflict.… The special nature of family life—leading joint lives and sharing a home—requires that the elements of conflict must not be explicitly emphasized. Indeed, dwelling on conflicts rather than the family’s ‘unity’ tends to be seen as aberrant behavior” (Sen, 2005: 242). Films and fiction among other literary and cultural genres have been able to delve into these tensions, dualities and paradoxes that are integral to family dynamics and may be looked upon as a rich resource for understanding family complexities. Increasingly, however, it is becoming apparent that family studies and comparative family studies is emerging as a crucial interdisciplinary field enabling academic cross-fertilization crucial for a holistic understanding of the local and global shifts, fissures and changes that re-define the importance of the family in the twenty first century. As is obvious, our interest is to explore and expose the modifications that the Indian family structure has undergone through critiquing literary and cultural representations. The historian Rajat Kanta Ray in his book Exploring Emotional History has identified that the study of literature can be the best way to understand the collective and individual mentality within a particular culture. This can be an ideal project for the “historian who would chart the emotional history of a culture” (Ray, 2001: 7). He further elaborates, “A possible guide for an expedition into the emotional history of a past culture would be the contemporary writer and critic … the poet and novelist must be the historian’s companion in the journey” ( ibid.: 7). Can we suggest that literature read in this manner, in order to analyze the relationship of the gendered personality in terms of the home and the world, the public and the private and the inherent sexual economies can thus be defined as interpersonal familial relationship studies? It is this journey of exploration that we feel is crucial to the understanding of the transformations that are increasingly visible in twentyfirst century India. The paradigm shift in the upper-class, upper-caste educated communities in the relationship between men and women both at home and in the world has identifiable transformations in the family structure of these social groups, and educated women belonging to these groups have enough enabling power to become active agents of social change. Therefore, from the dependent women being considered as the essential burden that society has to bear for its collective self-sustenance, women in families are now able to sustain

16 Sanjukta Dasgupta and Malashri Lal themselves through their professional skills and therefore the educated women remaining dependent on male members of the family has now become a matter of choice rather than compulsion. In a way, female victimhood and male machismo have to some degree become a matter of specific conditions, not a pattern, at least in the case of the urban and suburban upper classes. This shift in the socio-economic structure of the mostly urban and quite often suburban families, with married heterosexual couples as earning members, has changed the family set-up and the roles of the family members, including the children. In the absence of joint families and obliging relatives or active grandparents, children are often admitted to day care facilities and crèches, which is emerging as a good option, as professional child care can be more effective than very outmoded norms that untrained senior family members may resort to. Though affection is a pre-requisite of child care it cannot be a substitute for uninformed value systems that may create a culture shock for the growing children as they negotiate the real world outside their family homes. However, it is in literary writing, poems, short stories, novels, plays as well as in films, TV and even commercial advertisements that the ripples of change are being registered. Sometimes the literary and cultural representations resist alternatives and valorize the stereotypes, but we also notice a growing tendency to engage with innovations in all aspects of family life from shared domestic responsibilities to microwaved dinners.

II The former President of India had addressed a group of Business Management graduates from Wharton College in September 2004 and among other observations about India’s growing economy and work culture had also remarked, “One of our strengths is our joint family system. In this system a problem is no problem. In a nuclear family a problem can destroy a family.” However, this remark can be interpreted as a metaphor for cultural inclusiveness and extended to the ideal concept of vasudhaiva kutumbakum, the world as one family, without supremacy of one over another, but a balance of power and agency to all. This ideal condition, however, eludes the domestic space where conflictual relation-ships are the cause of serious imbalances of power within each family.

Introduction 17

The ancient myths and epics of India, the most well-known being the Ramayana and the Mahabharata, enshrine a vibrant tradition of familial relationships, deeply meshed in complicated kinship bonds between blood relations of a wide span of the extended family that owes its affiliation to identifiable, and very often, caste, property and inheritance-specific origins. Indian family trees are like the great Indian banyan trees with branches, roots and shoots creating a sense of extraordinary longevity and interdependence. There are gnarled knots of interests, along with emotions and filial obligations. Since the Vedic times the joint or extended familial tradition was patriarchal. Polygamy and polyandry were in prevalence. It was in relatively modern times that monogamy and the nuclear family became a way of life in Indian society. Though anthropological data traces the origin and growth of the Indian family, it is, however, in literature and other cultural representations that the structural composition and the emotional tensions that are an integral part of the family are scripted. The grand epics that are invariably about the much glorified joint family system, are smeared in fratricidal blood, psychological conflict and physical combat between wives, brothers, uncles, cousins, siblings and other members of the extended families that revolve like satellites around the principal patriarchal authorities granted power and prestige. Each family structure is unique while records of births, deaths and marriages create an infinitely variable structure that can often challenge conforming statistics, though the structure itself is constantly under threat from a volatile field of unequal power politics. Social scientists have identified how the four crucial institutions, the state, the market, the community/civil society and the family/ kinship structures, are implicated in the discourse of understanding gender positions in India. The dualities and contradictions implied within the domestic space often come under the scanner resulting in the rejection of myths: “Family and community are metaphors for the most sacred and most natural of relationships—between children and parents, wife and husband, sister and brother, devotee and god. These are the relationships which provide emotional security, material support, care, a sense of belonging, status, legitimacy and social identity. Simultaneously, the concrete experiences of women, young and old, reveal that the family, household and community have been, and are, spheres of inequity, constraint, oppression, even violence, embodying interests and power relations differentiated by gender and age” (Kabeer, 1999: 49).

18 Sanjukta Dasgupta and Malashri Lal Conflict of interests therefore becomes an integral part of a structure with such harsh binaries such as power and powerlessness contesting within a shared domestic space. From the violently opposed aristocratic joint families of the epics to the bourgeois novels of the nineteenth century and thereafter, the clash of interests within a family have most often been about property and the accumulation or enhancement of material wealth. Woman within a family has been regarded as the outsider who is expected to conform to the regulations of the marital home, with very low or non-existent agency. Ray observes, “Material claims, accompanied by even stronger claims for honor and affection … generate ruthless battles for control over minds and for the monopolization of affections. When sexual jealousy is added to these ingredients … the family, usually so tight in its structure, begins to disintegrate” (Ray, 2001: 184). It is axiomatic therefore that the life of the family, its micro politics and the spirit of the nation need not necessarily be intertwined, though merging of national identities, group identities, family interests and personal ambitions have been routinely enshrined in cultural representations. The role of woman within the family structure has most often been that of an outsider/insider, acquiring various roles without power from daughter to wife and mother and perhaps acquiring a semblance of agency in the role of mother-in-law and grand-mother, vicious and benign stereotypes respectively. This can be linked to the feminist historian Geraldine Forbes’s caveat about following conventional periodization of Indian history for the understanding of women’s history, which is often a subterranean stream buried beneath the overt national and political mainstream: “By accepting conventional periodization, we miss the point that women’s lives are not determined solely by political events and ignore important continuities and discontinuities” (Forbes, 2005: 167–68). Amartya Sen labels three broad categories that describe the family system. These are (a) the glued-together family, which is a family with no scope for individuality, where every decision is a consensual family decision with no or low tolerance for individuality; (b) the super-trader family where marriage is conceptualized as “a two person firm and either member being the entrepreneur who hires the other and receives residual profit”; and (c) the despotic family where the so called inevitably male “head” of the family dictates and governs the subjectsmembers (Uberoi, 1999: 452–55). The fall out of the Indian government sponsored report Towards Equality in 1974 led to interrogating myths and icons about the selfless

Introduction 19

woman’s role playing in a family: “This meant breaking through the image of the ideal Indian woman as accommodating, self-sacrificing, and devoted to serving her family” (Forbes, 2005: 244). Literature responded with lifting the veil and glancing behind the purdah and burkha. Patricia Uberoi has rightly pointed out that sociological discourse is mostly indifferent to the micro politics of interpersonal relationships, which literature and film represent with sensitive fidelity and insight. Imaginary texts explore the dynamics of conjugal relationship in contemporary middle-class India and accord it legitimate space in the contemporary urban, social and familial environment. Such texts document how the conjugal bond is “fraught with anxiety and even conflict as women seek to ‘adjust’ to their marital partners in situations that are definitionally asymmetrical, now as in the past. It is as though the new and hesitant privileging of conjugality has at the same time constructed the marital bond as a site of conflict between the sexes” (Uberoi, 1999: 392). The eminent social scientist Andre Beteille has identified a serious “lack” in sociological approaches to the study of the contemporary urban middle-class family in India. He points out that though overwhelmingly attentive to family and caste and kinship relations, “a dispassionate and critical examination of the middle-class family and its role in the reproduction of inequality” is still wanting. The sociological studies of joint and extended families do not address contemporary family relations that literary texts and films do. So Beteille emphasises this lack or inadequacy in the existing sociological discourse on the family: “Not much can be learnt from them about the interface between the family and the new institutions of society …We need to give a more central place to the family in the sociology of India … the sociological as opposed to the Indological approach must take its orientation from the lived experiences of the present rather than the presumed ideas of the past. There is no better way of finding out what is modern and at the same time Indian in our contemporary society and culture than by examining the family” (Beteille, 1999: 451). By identifying this vital lack in sociological studies of the family, Beteille has simultaneously though quite inadvertently privileged the importance of imaginary writing that aesthetically documents this gap and fosters negotiations and understanding. In his seminal essay False Documents E.L.Doctorow has pointed out the serious contribution of fiction, ironically described as false documents, for exploring, exposing and understanding human life and the world from an admirably holistic and unbiased position of objectivity. A fiction writer is both a creator and a rapporteur, and

20 Sanjukta Dasgupta and Malashri Lal discerning readers are aware that “facts are the images of history, just as images are the facts of fiction” (Doctorow, 1994: 161). These “false documents” may be regarded as the most potent of all resources that register the myriad stranded, multi-layered, nuanced and subtle experience of life within the family system, of consenting individuals sharing a common space.

III This book is divided into six parts and twenty three chapters that mark the evolution of the Indian family system through the colonial times to the modern period. The British rule in India influenced both the state apparatus and the cultural developments. As a result we have positive records of schools being set up for female education, sartorial sophistication in middle-class women adapting stitched clothing such as blouses and petticoats, the abolition of the practice of sati or widow immolation, interrogation of principles of selfeffacement on the part of women, questions about the basis of domestic harmony and marital bliss. However, we also find negative actions of the hegemonic state machinery in generating caste, class and communal divisions. From the legacy of the colonial period, post-independent India spawned numerous versions of cultural identity, showing up the complex intermixing that results from a protean definition of nation and selfhood. The process of enquiry continues till today as evidenced in the self-reflexivity that erupts at points of communal violence or political rallying. Cultural documents respond to these ground realities as many of the chapters in this volume illustrate. The first part, Colonial Families: Re-visiting Tradition, looks into the status of men and women within the customary Hindu family structure by addressing issues of belief systems and tracking the ripples of change brought in through education and the nationalist movement. One of the first texts that comes to the mind is of course the now very well known first autobiography written by a woman, Amar Jiban (“My Life”) by Rashsundari Devi, who lived from 1809 to 1896, and published the first phase of her autobiography around the age of sixty. Tanika Sarkar located the existence of about sixty five literary texts by women writers of Bengal during the nineteenth century. Rashsundari took great pains in order to become literate, learning

Introduction 21

the art of basic reading and writing through ingenuous strategies and great secrecy. Her contribution to her marital home seemed to be ceaseless hard labor in the kitchen, as home-cooked food by the wives of the joint household was the required norm, in spite of there being a number of servants to attend to various other menial jobs. Also, multiple pregnancies and a high rate of infant mortality are all implied in Rashsundari’s statement that she had “about ten or twelve children.” Rashsundari’s lament resonates as a collective lament of intelligent young women who had entered their marital homes as child brides, and had been systematically denied education and any freedom of choice—“such misery, only because one was a woman! We were in any case imprisoned like thieves, and on top of that, reading was yet another crime … We suffered so much just to learn to read” (Sarkar, 1999: 171–72). Interestingly, around the same time when Rashsundari had scripted her autobiography with so much of hardship and inhibition, a younger Marathi woman born in 1862, married at the age of eleven, lived apart from her husband in her parental home till at the age of twenty two when her husband, desirous of asserting his conjugal rights, moved the Bombay High Court because his wife declined to co-habit with him. A unique litigation process went on for a period of four years, from 1884 to 1888. The Dadaji vs Rukhmabai case received overwhelming media attention, with the letters of Rukhmabai being published in The Times of India, in one of which, published on April 7, 1887, she directly addressed Queen Victoria as a colonized subject and implored the Queen’s intervention so that the marriageable age of Indian men and women were raised to 20 and 15, respectively (Chandra, 1998: 217). Prior to this, Rukhmabai had published two letters in 1885 using the pseudonym “A Hindu Lady,” which brought to the fore the plight of child brides and young widows, who were denied the advantage of education and freedom on the plea of samskar and shastras. Rukhmabai was looked upon as an icon for the suffering Indian women, while “others saw personified in her their worst fears about ‘modernized’ women subverting family and society” (ibid.: 1). Chandra critiques the role of the British judiciary, which often seemed to comply with indigenous customs and religious beliefs, it being assumed that state interference in familial practices could lead to a loss of faith in the good governance of the Queen on her colonized subjects. Educated women within the family experienced a sense of dual colonization, as national subjects and as subjects of the master at home.

22 Sanjukta Dasgupta and Malashri Lal However, by the beginning of the twentieth century family life in Bengal and even in other parts of India began to undergo some transition as observed by Dagmar Engels: “After the turn of the century patterns of conjugal life were more varied than they had been fifty years before. In the late nineteenth century conjugal partnership and a certain degree of female independence within the family was the prerogative of Brahmo families who had internalized Victorian values of partnership. After 1900 the strongest impulses for conjugal change came from female education and the spread of nationalist consciousness” (Engels, 1999: 89). Tagore’s novels and short stories such as Ghare Baire, Chokher Bali, Streer Patra, among others, script the slow but steady waves of reform that were eroding the obscurantist traditions held sacred within the domestic space. It is within this perspective of colonial India that we are privileging Judith Walsh’s very insightful reading of Satyacaran Mitra’s manual of advice Strir Prati Svamir Upadesh (“A Husband’s Advice to his Wife”), where Walsh argues that such advice that encouraged education and refined social skills in wives, was also a subtle strategic tool to wean her away from her dedication to the chores of the joint family. The wife was indirectly encouraged to question her servitude and her lack of mobility and free thinking. The woman who was illiterate was not romanticized into being nurtured as a companionate wife. Since our main focus will be post 1947, and postcolonial family systems in India largely represented in the cultured, educated middle classes, we decided that a single article on the family system in the colonial times should suffice. The second part, Postcolonial Families: Socio-economic Perspectives, explores the position of men and women as agents within the patriarchal structure addressing issues of empowerment and the problems of dowry, female feticide, compulsory marriage, domestic violence, child abuse and inadequate care facilities for the elderly. In 1884, Frederick Engels had made the historic observation about the servitude of women within the family, as the “man seized the reins in the house also” (Engels, 1985: 57) and Karl Marx had commented, “The modern family contains in embryo not only slavery (servitus) but serfdom also … It contains within itself in miniature all the antagonisms that later develop on a wide scale within society and its state” (ibid.: 58). So quite out of keeping with the adage about the virtue of charity beginning at home, gender inequality and oppression has the carcinogenic potential to begin from home and spread through the world. Therefore, it should be deemed quite appropriate that our

Introduction 23

first article in this section is by a Third World feminist economist who describes the family/household as a gendered structure and explains how women become victims in a patriarchal family structure. Mukul Mukherjee argues that it is through education, economic self-reliance and collective action that gender inequality in the domestic space can be steadily erased. The anthropologist Sarah Lamb’s chapter on aging and families across worlds addresses the growing problem of providing care to senior citizens as nuclear families and working couples and their growing children do not seem to have space for a trigenerational family set-up any longer. She also looks at South Asian diasporic families and American families, thereby providing a wide perspective to the topic under discussion. The third chapter, on Naga families by Bonita Aleaz, introduces a fresh paradigm of the family in India, highlighting the sense of the communitarian in Naga systems. As the North-East is still under-represented in our academic engagements and in our information database this essay provides a new perspective. The third part, titled Literary Representations, addresses crucial issues that register the overwhelming transformations as well as the consolidation of traditional practices within the elusive interior and fiercely guarded space of the family. There is no normative structure for “the Indian family” and the imagined as well as the real are intertwined. Taking the cue from Patricia Uberoi we strongly feel that literature more than any other intellectual field has very consistently recorded the growth and transition of the family system, by incisively revealing its strengths and weaknesses. This has been accomplished meticulously by exposing the double standards, exploitation, hypocrisy and the simultaneous emotional need for family bonding. The ten chapters that analyze literary representations of the family in regional Indian novels, plays and poetry and also in the comparatively global Indian English writing not only invade a wide range of colonial and postcolonial spaces from the end of the nineteenth century to the present, but are also able to critique the transformations and the repetition of the stereotypes of our familial traditions. As cultural commentators and critics who have been re-visiting literary texts for decades we have noticed the absence of resource material that addresses family issues represented in literature, films, TV serials among others art forms. The reason for this absence is perhaps the sheer familiarity of the family structure. As a Bengali woman author had once remarked about our journal, Families, “All literature is essentially about families.” The remark, however, did not dampen

24 Sanjukta Dasgupta and Malashri Lal our spirits; we found that it was precisely because of the ubiquitous nature of the family system that we could trace its evolution through the tensions and triumphs integral to each family in local and global contexts. We also noticed that local and global middle-class families seem to experience similar concerns about power and position within the home, fidelity of spousal partners, sibling rivalry, career of children, peer pressure and institutionalized ideologies. However, we have decided to focus on Indian families in this book. Certain crossreferences are inevitable and in fact enhance the importance of the family in all social groups in all cultures and locations. Jayita Sengupta, in her contribution to this section, asserts that Indian women were subjected to a triple-fold oppressive system: the British patriarchal order, the brahmanical patriarchal order and the hierarchical structure of the household. Sengupta explicates in some detail several stories that bear out the insensitivity of the male family members towards the women, thereby contributing to their severe lack of self-esteem. Going back to the Vedic age and the epics and coming to links in contemporary regional writing and Indian English fiction, Sengupta finds a denial of identity and agency to individual members of a family. Collectively, there exists a dangerous glorification of being “glued together.” Naina Dey critically reads a story by Ashapurna Devi, a self-taught Bengali woman whose prolific output has baffled many others as she succeeded in writing between her domestic chores and her creativity flowed out of her pen like a fountain. In the selected short story, Dey focuses on the very common yet recurrent problem within families— the rivalry between mother-in-law and daughter-in-law about “sharing” the son of the family who is also the husband of the bride. This rivalry and a sense of vendetta seem to operate even when the son dies and both women are widows. The story is set in rural Bengal. Susie Tharu had observed, “The widow is a figure whose very life is marked by a specific death. She is vidhava—without husband—and consequently in need of sympathy and protection, but also of regulation and governance. Widow stories therefore are invariably also historical engagements with questions of political order and citizenship” (Rajan, 2000: 189). Vegetarian food, which becomes the compulsory diet for widows, is used in the short story as a metaphor for repressed desires. In this case, the rage embedded in the relationship between the two widows is extended to the mythic icon of the Goddess with the severed head. Significantly, Martha Alter Chen in her study of widows in rural India

Introduction 25

had summed up, “Stories abound of widows of all types, ranging from passive victims to tyrannical matriarchs. Whether because of their inherent nature or their particular circumstances, individual women handle their widowhood differently: some submit passively to the restrictions placed on widows, some accept the restrictions having internalized the underlying ideology, some comply with them to maintain the purity and honor of their family and community, some protest the conditions under which they live, while others break the rules to lead an independent life” (Chen, 2000: 188). As a matter of fact, misogyny as Milan Kundera had mentioned is not only malecentric, it is sometimes stronger in women, as women have been conditioned to hate each other and seek support from men. Though Kundera’s overt text is jocular in style, the implications are nonetheless serious. Esha Dey’s chapter prioritizes her own writing and places it in the context of Bengali fiction of contemporary times. Such an approach adds to the understanding of the ideological constructions and compulsions within a literary milieu. In order to trace the wide ranging variability of family-centric relationships in India we have included a chapter on Gujarati families in fiction, where Sutapa Chaudhuri focuses on traditional norms being paradoxically liberating. The agency of women and even men within the domestic space becomes skewed and a strange blend of obscurantist, permissive and ethically bewildering value systems emerge from these reflections. Pushpa Bhave’s chapter on Marathi Dalit autobiography goes beyond the middle-class frame and sensitizes the reader to other important classes and castes that make up the multiethnic fabric of India. Alladi Uma and Sridhar’s chapter on family representations in women’s poetry, apart from reiterating the control that women experience within the family, also highlights the fact that women’s poetry can intensely portray micro familial experiences. They debunk the clichéd notion that poetry is about transcendence and metaphors that almost defy decoding by lay readers. N. Venugopal Rao’s analysis of emergent families in literary texts contributes to our understanding of South Indian families, primarily among Telegu speaking people. Arpa Ghosh’s comments on joint families in Mahesh Dattani’s plays illustrate how various literary genres may delve into the now familiar territory of distraught family relations. Here it is the dramatic mode that brings a piquancy by giving voice and stage presence to the characters representing material, psychological, social or even biological conditions.

26 Sanjukta Dasgupta and Malashri Lal Irma Maini and Mary Mathew’s chapters situate the cultural shock and confusion of the migrant middle-class Indians who have voluntarily moved from the country of their origin and settled in a country that has no apparent socio-cultural links with India. As a result, depression, febrile nostalgia, frustration, hopelessness and a chronic sense of unease seem to vitiate the psychic terrain of the migrants. Women often emerge as the silent sufferers in this cultural uprooting as they generally have accompanied their husbands and experienced circumstantial coercion in an alien environment. The duality of economic dependence and the liberal lifestyle of the western world have made the process of acculturation or even accommodation rather trying for the wives of first generation immigrants, and certain homegrown culture specific details about “home,” food and religion obsess Indian families abroad. The fourth part, titled Cultural Representations, include chapters by Meghna Gulzar and Shoma A. Chatterji. While Gulzar focuses on the shifts in the representation of post-colonial families in films, Chatterji gives us a detailed analysis of the transformations that the Indian family structure has been undergoing in the last few decades and also critiques the films of Rituparno Ghosh from this perspective. Cultural representations through the popular media, new technologies, cyber space, music videos, newspapers, magazines, films, TV and advertisements have always played a role in constructing “imagined” ideals of families. They often consolidate convenient stereotypes that are unconnected with contemporary times. Sometimes the politics of misrepresentation is linked to vested interests and the coercive agenda of the market economy. As Desai and Thakkar commented, “It is difficult to imagine a social system without the family. Its activities of production, reproduction and providing residence in an atmosphere of emotional and affectionate care cannot be fulfilled by any other institution…. Such a complex institution is often examined by social scientists and policy makers, and family dynamics provide rich material for writers, media and social activists” (Desai and Thakkar, 2001: 70). The penetrating gaze of the camera lens through the doors of domestic space to give graphic images of gender relations, along with the numerous advertisements for commercial products on television, has brought desire, purchasing power and social customs to the realm of globalization and liberalization. As a result, it has been noticed that “The bourgeois suffusion of intimacy through the domestic sphere

Introduction 27

as a whole would correspond to a somewhat more polymorphous relationship between the sexes, and a more individualized mode of interaction, while at the same time the domestic realm is maintained as the normative space for women’s self-definition. Television in India has to negotiate between the older and newer forms of patriarchy, heavily marked by caste and class, with its upper-caste, middle-class form imagined as the more modern and desirable form” (Rajan, 2000: 58). In TV advertisements too, we notice the image of the female body, which is all about silky hair and smooth and fair skin, awaiting suitors for a marriage proposal. Post-marriage involvement in detergent powders, painting of interiors, child care (with the right administration of diapers), health food, prickly heat powder, hair oil, and cooking oil is said to be rewarded with generous gifts of gold and diamond jewelry. In a particular advertisement, a housewife is lovingly spoonfed with ice cream by her husband who scrapes the last dollop off some sparkling floor tiles. A feminist interpretation would read this advertisement as an aging and fully trusting woman with shut eyes in play with an aging spouse who cheats in play as well, and she voluntarily keeps her eyes closed and allows the domestic space to open out to the gaze of scrutiny. The transformations must be noticed too, though these are rare and often considered frivolous rather than serious. Instances are given of the husband’s or children’s participation in family chores such as use of the washing machines, microwaves, making tea or using processed spices for Indian gourmet style home cooking that baffles mothers-in-law and even wives. We are yet to see women buying their own cars and houses, signing and sending cheques to aging parents, or an aging female parent, self-sufficient and refusing to accept monetary aid from her offspring. Instead we see a woman accompanying a forgetful husband to an evening bank in order to send money to the father-in-law residing elsewhere, and as the placid but super efficient husband points at the evening bank, the woman nags on and says, “Office, office! One day you will forget me too!,” the ultimate loving offensive that seeks reassurance. Or take for instance a mother calling her son on a mobile, saying that the suitable girl is educated and has a matching horoscope and her name is Pooja. Of course no other name can be more appropriate than “Pooja” for devotion to family would be her all consuming pastime. So Pooja responds to her father’s call and their eyes meet at the bus stop where accidentally both had been waiting. His decision is instant, “Yes,

28 Sanjukta Dasgupta and Malashri Lal I approve, ma,” says he on the phone, while speechless, silent Pooja gives him a look of admiring gratitude. The mobile phone advertisement merely re-validates the argument that despite technological advancement, social and cultural norms are caught in a time-wrap. The visuals show us a silent and pleasantly surprised young woman denied any agency as her opinion or consent about her marital partner does not seem to be a priority in the advertisement. He approves, she accepts. Appropriately, Pooja is accompanied by an elderly gentleman, presumably her father. All this happens at the bus stand. Viewers are informed that Pooja is educated (larki pari likhi hai ) and the horoscopes match. Her qualifications, if any or potential for a professional career are of little or no significance. But she is a literate woman. Pooja can read and write. Advertisements on Indian television as well as primetime serials produce these visual and verbal markers that register the fact that though in terms of material culture, technology has revolutionized the domestic, such as gas, microwave, washing machine, fridge, phone, television, personal computer, DVD player, and so on, the necessary lifestyle changes and ideological shifts are at the subcutaneous level. Conservative customs, practices and beliefs ranging from zodiac signs and wearing of precious stones to even religious superstitions, still play a dominant role within the middle-class Indian domestic space. Feature films have explored the nuances of familial relationship in inter-generational conflicts within the domestic space, but the television with its wider penetration into the living rooms of Indian homes has churned out the stereotypes of the honest, hard working men, bad business men and corporate bosses, quarreling, jealous, and embellished women readily giving up jobs for marital responsibilities. The other stereotype of working married women being home breakers is also very common. In the Bengali soap Nana Ranger Deen Guli we notice all these aspects, including the scheming stepmother and her wayward stepson, who must be taught a lesson in life. Certain issues in the serial remain unresolved as the serial runs into its ninetieth week, but its broad parameters trace out how domestic conflict is a common factor in both nuclear and joint families. The happiest person in the film, despite all her participation in the concerns of her family members, relations and kin, is the widowed mother who lives alone and provides much needed counseling to the harassed, battered and confused, relatively young individuals. However, this is not to suggest that by rejecting the family system women can acquire “identity”

Introduction 29

and a positive approach to life. The system itself has to be modified by those within its ambit. This contentious issue has been addressed by Amartya Sen, as he reiterates the need for “rearrangement” that will be of advantage to all family members: That is not the issue—women seeking a better deal within the family are not proposing, as an alternative, the possibility of living without families. The bone of contention is whether the sharing of benefits within the family system is seriously unequal in the existing institutional arrangements, compared with what alternative arrangements can be made (Sen, 2006: 135–36).

The next part in our book is called Memoir and captures reminiscences of contemporary writers, activists, commentators as they negotiate the times of change. This section represents many voices of many authors from many locations. All the six authors are of Indian origin, but while Meena Alexander and Uma Parameswaran write from the USA and Canada respectively, the reminiscences of Nonda Chatterjee, Makarand Paranjape and Shashi Deshpande highlight that the cultural affiliations to one’s own family and the familial social environment leave an indelible impression on each individual’s mind and also influence ideas and lifestyle choices wherever in the world one may be during the adult years. Alexander chose to send us the poem Hunting for Fish, which we use as an epigraph to the section, for the poem sets the mood for the journey down memory lane as five authors look back to their years of nurturance. Our prestigious sixth part, Chapter 23, Dialog, in which Professor Amartya Sen responds to our questions is not only a validation of our engagement and fitting finale to our endeavor to critique the transitions and transformations within the Indian family system as represented in literary and cultural texts, but it also makes us feel we have indeed located a turning point in Indian culture in the twenty first century. The contemporary family space of “co-operative conflict” can be a space of dialog and arguments that will allow each member to evolve without severance of familial bonds. This paradigmatic shift in the definition of the middle-class Indian families is observed in contemporary literature, popular culture, films and TV serials as never before. The purpose of the book has been to register how traditional familial structures are constantly being re-configured and in the process re-vitalized through the negotiation of the emerging dynamics. Kinship bonds are strengthened, there is greater dignity about shared

30 Sanjukta Dasgupta and Malashri Lal domestic labor, and there is better participation in decision-making. We notice how literary and cultural texts address economic and emotional interdependence within families, and the micro unit of the functional family nurtures the concept of harmony. From the ideological standpoint, gender equality and gender justice like charity should begin at home, before traversing the macro issues of racial, national and transnational identities implicit within the broader picture. We are deeply grateful to Professor Amartya Sen for his support to our book and, needless to say, Professor Sen’s response to our queries illuminates our decade long project and also gives us directions for further research. Familial portrayals in literature and culture provide a ready field for several critically informed studies of which we present a first example. Our hope of attaining vasudhaiva kutumbakum does not seem to be a pipe dream at all, for with this book, the spirit of the family and familial bonds acquires corporeality.

References Agarwal, Bina. (2000). “The Idea of Gender Equality: From Legislative Vision to Everyday Family Practice,” in Romila Thapar (ed.), India—Another Millennium. New Delhi: Viking. Anderson, A. Stephen and Ronald M. Sabatelli. (1999). Family Interaction: A Multigenerational Developmental Perspective. USA: Allyn & Bacon. Beteille, Andre. (1999). “The Family and the Reproduction of Inequality,” in Patricia Uberoi (ed.), Family, Kinship and Marriage in India. New Delhi: Oxford University Press. Chandra, Sudhir. (1998). Enslaved Daughters. New Delhi: Oxford University Press. Chen, Martha Alter. (2000). Widowhood in Rural India. New Delhi: Oxford University Press. Dasgupta, Sanjukta (ed.). (2002–2004). Families: A Journal of Representations, Vols 1–4. Desai, N. and U. Thakkar. (2001). Women in Indian Society. Delhi: National Book Trust. Drèze Jean and Amartya Sen. (1997). India Economic Development and Social Opportunity. New Delhi: Oxford University Press. Doctorow, E.L. (1994). “False Documents,” in Jack London, Hemingway, and the Constitution. Selected Essays, 1977–1992. USA: HarperCollins. Engels, Dagmar. (1999). Beyond Purdah? Women in Bengal 1890–1930. New Delhi: Oxford University Press.

Introduction 31 Engels, Frederick. (1985). The Origin of the Family, Private Property and the State. Moscow: Progress Publishers. Forbes, Geraldine. (1996). Women in India. Cambridge and New York: Cambridge University Press. ———. (2005).Women in Colonial India. New Delhi: Chronicle Books. Kabeer, Naila and Ramya Subrahmanian. (1999). Institutions, Relations and Outcomes. New Delhi: Kali for Women. Kundera, Milan. (1998). Farewell Waltz. UK: Faber & Faber. Nabar, Vrinda. (1995). Caste as Woman. New Delhi: Penguin Books. Peterson, Janice and Margaret Lewis. (1999). The Elgar Companion to Feminist Economics. USA: Edward Elgar. Rajan, Rajeshwari Sunder. (2000). Signposts: Gender Issues in Post-Independence India. New Delhi: Kali for Women. Ray, Rajat Kanta. (2001). Exploring Emotional History. New Delhi: Oxford University Press. Sarkar, Tanika. (1999). Words to Win. New Delhi: Kali for Women. Thapar, Romila (ed.). (2000). India—Another Millennium. New Delhi: Viking. Stacey, Judith. (1996). In the Name of the Family. USA: Beacon Press. Sen, Amartya. (2005). The Argumentative Indian. New Delhi: Penguin Books. ———. (2006). Identity and Violence. New Delhi: Penguin Books. Singh, Amita Tyagi and Patricia Uberoi. (1994). “Learning to ‘Adjust’: Conjugal Relations in Indian Popular Fiction,” Indian Journal of Gender Studies, Vol 1, Number 1, January–June. Uberoi, Patricia. (1999). Family, Kinship and Marriage in India. New Delhi: Oxford University Press.

32 Sanjukta Dasgupta and Malashri Lal

PART 1

COLONIAL FAMILIES: RE-VISITING TRADITION

34 Judith E. Walsh

As the Husband, so the Wife 35

Chapter 1

™

As the Husband, so the Wife Old Patriarchy, New Patriarchy and Misogyny in One Late Nineteenth-Century Domestic Science Manual Judith E. Walsh

“If it doesn’t happen that ‘as the husband, so the wife’ there can be no happiness,” writes Brahmo author Satyacaran Mitra in Strir Prati Svamir Upadesh [“A Husband’s Advice to His Wife”]. The husband is learned; the wife is ignorant. The husband is truthful; the wife tells lies. The husband is mild mannered; the wife is hot tempered and loves to quarrel. The husband follows the one God; the wife worships 33 crores of gods. We can see this in home after home in our country. And the cause is simply that women are not being educated (Mitra, 1884: 140; one crore equals ten million).

Strir Prati Svamir Upadesh is one of a number of advice manuals for women written in Bengali in the last thirty years of the nineteenth

36 Judith E. Walsh century. Here I want to discuss the mixture of old and new patriarchal discourse in this text, a mixture common to the genre of women’s advice manuals in this period. And I want to outline the text’s misogyny, a defining difference between it and other works in this genre. This difference—and the absence from this text of imagined intimacy and friendship between husband and wife—can help us understand an important aspect of this genre as a whole.

Contested Ground In the nineteenth century, the dominance of British power in India imposed an alien culture on indigenous life ways. By the last decades of the century, the penetration of that foreign culture was so profound in urban centers like Calcutta, that the entire world of Hindu domestic life and its most intimate relationships had become contested ground. What relationship should exist between a husband and a wife, how a mother should raise her children, even how kitchen spices should be arranged on a storeroom wall—all had become issues for debate and contestation. In the reformulation of Hindu women and their worlds that took place in this period, there was no area of domestic life so trivial that it was not addressed, no family relationship so intimate or spontaneous that its interactions were not the subject of rethinking and reformulation. It is within this context that Satyacaran Mitra’s book of advice for women and at least twenty others came to be written. These texts were “how to do it” books—guides to relations within extended families, the rearing of children and the management of households. Addressed to women, but written by men, they were often constructed—as was Strir Prati Svamir Upadesh—in the form of a dialog between husband and wife in which the husband instructed the wife on proper conduct. They had titles like “The Bengali Wife,” “A Husband’s Advice to His Wife,” “Lakshmi of the House” and “Conversations with the Wife.” The authors of these books were Western-educated—Satyacaran Mitra himself wrote at least one book in English—and the stated purpose of their books was to provide materials through which women might be taught to read and write. An additional (sometimes unstated) purpose was to provide for the re-education of Bengali women in

As the Husband, so the Wife 37

ways which would help them adapt their lives to the changed conditions of life in British-ruled India. By 1884, the year in which Strir Prati Svamir Upadesh was written, these manuals were sufficiently numerous for one author to note: “There is no lack of books for women full of moral instructions” (Raychaudhuri, 1887: 1). My own list of these books numbers about twenty to twenty-five, most of them published in the decade of the 1880s.

The Author We know little about the life of the author of this text, Satyacaran Mitra. Although he wrote at least eight books in his lifetime (eight are listed in the catalogs of Kolkata’s National Library) of which four were works of fiction, his biography is not included in twentiethcentury biographical dictionaries. Of his seven Bengali works, four focused on women. Strir Prati Svamir Upadesh was his earliest book. It was followed by three works of fiction: Abala Bala in 1887 and two others in 1892, Sahamarana and Bara Bau Ba Sudha Brksa.1 This last book was Satyacaran’s most popular. It was issued five times, the last in 1924.2

A Brahmo Text Strir Prati Svamir Upadesh openly identifies itself with the leadership and ideas of the religious reform society, the Brahmo Samaj.3 The book begins with a short preface by Keshub Chunder Sen, a prominent Brahmo leader, and contains exchanges such as the following (in a chapter on literacy): You know my friend Lavender, don’t you? … She’s learned to read and write quite well. She writes her husband a letter every day. And she says she’ll go with her husband to the Brahmo Samaj. Husband: Just look at that! You learn to read and write and you’ll be like that too.4 Wife:

38 Judith E. Walsh More than any other nineteenth-century group, Brahmos tended to be identified with the social reform of women’s conditions. Issues like child marriage, widow remarriage, breaking of purdah, the education of women—all were associated with various sects of the Brahmo Samaj and any writer advocating some or all of these ideas was likely to be accused of being a “Brahmo.” While it is probable that many, if not all, the authors of women’s advice manuals were, in fact, Brahmos, not all of them wished to acknowledge this identification. Authors such as Dhirendranath Pal (who wrote the most popular and long-lived of all these manuals) or Girijaprasanna Raychaudhuri (author of a manual called Griha Lakshmi) were at some pains to obscure—or even deny—the reformist tendencies of their books. In their books, references to Western sources or authors are rare and reforms are more likely to be attributed to ancient indigenous customs than to foreign sources. “Fine,” says the wife in the midst of one discussion in Griha Lakshmi, “all your ideas are English.” “No, go, no,” replies the husband, “this is our own native country’s view” (Raychaudhuri, 1887: 32).

Western Sources In Satyacaran’s book, on the other hand, foreign, Western sources are the preferred authorities, cited on all matters ranging from the virtue of compassion [doya], to the definitions of various physical phenomena like electricity, earthquakes and rainbows. Thus, stories about Sir Philip Sidney and Catherine the Great of Russia are told to illustrate the virtue of compassion; events in England and Berlin are cited to prove there is no such thing as ghosts and Aristotle is paraphrased to teach the proper manner for sexual intercourse (Mitra, 1884: 20–22; 26–27; 96). A special characteristic of this book are its chapters on “scientific” subjects: “What is a ghost?,” “About Sneezing and Lizards,” “Rainbows,” “Lightning and Thunder,” “The Astonishing Creations of God,” among others. These chapters are meant to counter current superstitions with scientific explanations. The only indigenous author regularly cited here is Akshay Kumar Dutt; excerpts from his rationalist writings are frequent (ibid.: 6; 67; 87; 123). Otherwise, for Satyacaran, Western sources are, by definition, scientific and rational; indigenous sources (especially current customs) are superstitious and

As the Husband, so the Wife 39

deleterious. Thus, in this book, Plato and Pliny become authorities for the proper age of marriage (in a passage quoted from Akshay Kumar Dutt, Mitra 1884: 88–89). And we find examples such as the following from a chapter on sexual intercourse entitled “Union with the Wife” presented under the rubric of “Science”: The imaginative powers of the wife at the time of sexual intercourse have many effects on the future offspring. At such a time if the wife thinks about the image of some beast, in that case the offspring can possess the body of that imagined beast. In many cases it can be seen that the adulterous wife gives birth to an offspring resembling [her] own husband. The reason for this is [that] at the time when the wife has union with [her] lover, at that time she thinks she should be cohabiting with her husband.

To this the author adds the following footnote: “Telling a pregnant woman stories of strange animals or creatures or talking [to her] about any strange subject is forbidden. This practice is customary among our native womenfolk” (ibid.: 95).

Redefining the Wife The central purpose of Satyacaran’s text is the redefinition of the “wife.” Her character, her thoughts, her behavior, accomplishments and activities, all are to be reshaped by the “husband’s” advice. To this end, Strir Prati Svamir Upadesh has chapters on “Lying,” “Telling the Truth,” “Compassion” and “Eavesdropping” dedicated to reshaping woman’s moral character. It has chapters on “Education” and scientific subjects like gravity, electricity and “The Astonishing Creations of God” to educate her and rid her mind of superstitions; chapters on “Marriage,” “Union with the Wife” and “Widow Marriage” to bring her up to date on modern [Brahmo] opinions; poetry writing for accomplishment; and chapters on “Labor” and “The Daily Duties of Women” to direct her everyday activities. Little in this enterprise is left to the imagination. The chapter on “daily duties,” for instance begins: You will get up from bed before sunrise. Having gotten up you will urinate [and] move your bowels, after that you will wash [your] face well. You will clean your teeth with coal powder. If you use a twig from a neem or ashsheora tree, this is very good (ibid.: 40).

40 Judith E. Walsh The chapter goes on to define the rest of the day’s activities: cleaning the house, smearing on oil and bathing, exercising in the garden, cooking and eating (“Having chewed the food very slowly, you will swallow,” says the book), then rest, attentive studying and finally house cleaning and cooking again (Mitra, 1884: 40–46). The chapters on moral conduct are simple and direct. “Have you ever eavesdropped on the room of anyone?” the husband asks at the beginning of a chapter on that topic. “Yes,” says the wife, “a few times, why?” “Very bad,” says the husband. “Don’t do that kind of thing again. Eavesdropping is very hateful behavior” (ibid.: 36). Similarly, “lying” is bad and “telling the truth” is good. Giving to the poor is good as long as they deserve the help, but “you should never give alms to those who have the ability to preserve [their] health by their labor” (ibid.: 15). There is little equivocation in this book and little subtlety. The author is as certain of the correctness of his moral postures as he is of his scientific explanations.5 The most controversial topics are easily resolved. Within the compass of a single chapter, no matter what the subject, the wife’s enthusiastic agreement is always achieved. Husband: Did you listen? Will you tell any more lies? Wife: No, I will not tell any more lies (Mitra, 1884: 9). or: Husband: Do you understand “why the book fell from the hand to the floor”? Wife: Yes. I understand (ibid.: 133). Even on a topic as controversial as widow marriage, the wife’s initial protestations rapidly disappear. In the face of her husband’s suggestion that her just widowed sister be remarried, she says indignantly, “Go, go, go from here! I don’t like this. Making a joke at a time of such sorrow?” (ibid.: 120). A mere nine pages later she is completely convinced. “Let it be,” she says, You don’t have to say any more. I have understood quite well that widows should be married. You will have to try for my sister’s marriage (ibid.: 129).

In a more subtle book in this genre, like Dhirendranath Pal’s Strir Sahit Kathopakathan [‘Conversations with the Wife’], a sensitive or

As the Husband, so the Wife 41

controversial subject may be repeatedly raised over the course of several chapters, never forcing the fictive wife’s acquiescence, but suggesting in different ways, in different contexts, to what she might agree. Thus, in Strir Sahit Kathopakathan, the subject of whether the wife should use her husband’s name (traditionally forbidden to women unless they wished their husbands to die) appears first at the end of the book’s first chapter. “Tomorrow I will explain to you very well what the relation of husband and wife is,” says the “husband.” “Then you will understand that if the wife calls the husband by name, there is no fault [dos]” (Pal, 1880: 9). Several chapters later in the book, in a letter to the wife, the husband is still trying: “What should I say about what you should call me when you write to me!” he writes, “You should write whatever you wish. Or, why not write using my name?” (ibid.: 30). But the wife in Satyacaran’s book presents no such difficulties to her husband (or author). Virtually every chapter ends with her complete agreement with her husband.

Old Patriarchy, New Patriarchy The purpose of women’s redefinition is to make it easier for them to accomplish the central purpose of their lives: to wit, the happiness and pleasure of their husband. This idea is by no means original to this text and, indeed, Satyacaran uses much of the older patriarchal language of indigenous (Hindu) traditions to articulate it. “My dearest!” says the husband of Strir Prati Svamir Upadesh, If the minds of a husband and wife are in accord, who on earth is happier than they? The wife is half the husband’s body; she is the husband’s sahadharmini, his partner in the practice of dharma. Is there any more priceless treasure than a wife?—by resting your head on her soft chest, you are able to forget the world’s frowns, on hearing her nectar-sweet voice the lake of your heart is completely filled with peaceful water, when you take care to give her a place in the most secret part of your heart, the whole world seems full of bliss to you (Pal, 1880: 90).

The devoted wife [sati stri] recognizes that there is nothing else for her in life but her husband.

42 Judith E. Walsh … the true wife [sati stri] places her life, youth, wealth [and] honor all in the hands of her beloved husband. She knows her husband is her only shelter, her husband is her only friend, her husband is the destroyer, creator and preserver of her life’s good fortune (Pal, 1880: 91).

Her sole wish in life is the pleasure of her husband. How happy she considers herself in complying with her husband’s command. If she can make her husband’s heart content, she feels herself to be praiseworthy and lucky (ibid.: 91–92).

When the wife achieves her husband’s happiness, she becomes every woman to him—and he loves her in return: In the true wife [sati stri ] a mother can be seen—a sister can be seen—a friend can be seen—the incomparable beautiful sight of God’s heaven can be seen. For this reason I love the wife so much, for this reason, if a wife’s face seems to be a little sad, one’s heart and soul become agitated (ibid.: 92).

Simultaneously, however, the concepts and language of older patriarchal ideas are wedded to those of the “new patriarchy” of late nineteenth-century nationalism.6 The idea of the husband as the sole object of a woman’s life is restated in several different contexts in Satyacaran’s book; but in his book this idea is used to justify several reform positions on women’s social conditions. It is, for instance, because the wife is devoted to her husband for her whole life, that the husband should prefer her to prostitutes (who will be devoted to him only “for as many days as he is prosperous”) (Chatterjee, 1993: 91). It is also because the husband is everything for a woman that widows should remarry—“when the husband has gone, then all happiness has gone [from] this life,” writes the author. The husband is a woman’s “only boat” on the “ocean” of her life: When that boat sinks under the water, she has no escape—she’ll have to endure endless suffering her whole life. But if she is allowed another vessel in place of that sunken boat, don’t her troubles disappear? (ibid.: 120–21).

It is because girls need to be old enough to know how to please their husbands (and because boys need to know what their duties are to the wife) that child marriage should not take place (ibid.: 83). Since husband and wife must be compatible—meaning in this book that the wife must be able to make herself like the husband—boys

As the Husband, so the Wife 43

and girls should “be especially informed” about each other before marriage. “If I have a girl and you have a boy, let’s arrange their marriage”—such talk can be often be heard from the mouths of women. What a shameful business! What a shameful business! It is essential that the mind of the groom and the bride be one. If their mental state is not the same, they’ll both have to burn their whole lives long in the fires of intolerable pain (Chatterjee, 1993: 83–84).

The mixture of old and new patriarchy in this book is at its most curious where it allows the author to simultaneously argue for the remarriage of widows (an important Brahmo principle) while still glorifying, as a sati, the wife so devoted to her husband that she would never remarry. I am not saying that all widows should be married. I am speaking about the marriage of widows who may possibly become adulteresses if their marriages are not arranged and of widows who wish in their hearts to be married (ibid.: 121).

The widow who does not wish to be remarried is the object of Satyacaran’s admiration: The one who has no desire to marry, she is a true wife, a devoted wife [sati] like Savitri. Her devotion to her dead husband is enduring; her love for him endless. Even to speak of marriage to such a sati would be no less than to throw a thunderbolt at her head. Would a real sati really wish to marry again? For her, her dead husband alone is the subject of her meditations; he alone is the subject of her feelings; he alone is the god worthy of her worship. I am not talking about the marriage of such a sati.7

Dyads and Dominance To us in the twentieth century, the mixture of old and new patriarchal ideas in such discussions seems inherently contradictory. There is a curious resonance in the appearance in this reformist Brahmo text of this emphasis on the “devoted wife” and its use in an approving way of a term used for women who burned themselves to death on their

44 Judith E. Walsh husbands’ funeral pyre. The reform of women’s social conditions— the education of women, the movement of women out of purdah, the end of child marriage, the beginning of widow remarriage—all seem (to us in the twentieth century) to carry with them implications of great “equality” with men, greater “freedom” for women within society. Yet in this book the reform of women’s conditions, the education of women, the breaking of superstitions, meeting with husbands before marriage—all these social reforms are inextricably bound to the greater development of women’s ability to please their husbands. Women’s conditions will be reformed so that they may become more truly satis, so that they can please their husbands’ hearts in ways more appropriate to conditions in nineteenth-century, British-ruled Bengal. The idea that the reform of women’s conditions would provide the foundation for the future happiness of husbands and families was central to the manuals containing advice to women in this period. We have seen in the quote with which this chapter opened that Satyacaran believed that differences between husbands and wives were attributable to women’s lack of education. Other authors thought the same. Husbands, wrote Dhirendranath Pal, should begin to educate their wives from the first day of marriage. We will show gradually how the husband should behave and how he should educate the wife [so that] she, being well educated can make the husband and family members happy (Pal, 1880: 68).

Home education guaranteed compatibility, suggests another author, for if “women acquire education while under the subjugation of their husbands, then there can never be any difference of opinion between them” (Gupta, 1885: 9). The belief that the wife can be claimed and her education, conduct and morality cut to suit her husband’s fancy is shared by Satyacaran with authors of other advice manuals. The fantasy of the young husband as the authority in his wife’s life is a powerful theme in this literature.8 Authors of these manuals were eager to imagine themselves (as husbands) coming into more dyadic relations with their wives—or at least establishing a firmer authority over these wives within the confines of the extended family. Implicit in the dialog structure of many books is the idea of the husband as the wife’s tutor, reshaping her character, replacing the authority of the extended family in her life. “Up to now,” wrote one author,

As the Husband, so the Wife 45 the women of our country used to perform their duties the way women of older generations did. They did not care much for the advice of men. Nowadays, by taking the burden of giving advice to modern women, we are taking a new type of responsibility on our shoulders (Basu, 1884: preface).

In the imagined world of the advice manuals, husbands reigned supreme. It was their advice the fictive wives followed; their authority they heeded. Family elders, if not entirely superseded, were certainly diminished in importance.9 Thus, in the chapter on “Daily Duties” in Strir Prati Svamir Upadesh, the wife is told to ignore the criticism of others if she is doing something approved by her husband. Swimming, the husband is explaining, is excellent exercise. “Do you know how to swim?” he asks the wife. Wife: I know how but I don’t swim here. If you swim here, people criticize you. I swim at my father’s house. “Swimming is very necessary,” says the husband, … you should swim when you take your daily bath, If there is criticism because of that, what can you do. If you are criticized for doing something good, let it be; there’s no harm in that (Gupta, 1885: 42).

Frequent criticisms of the superstitions of “our native women” and stories about the ignorance or duplicity of older women in families add to the impression that family elders should be ignored if their advice conflicts with that of the “husband.”

Misogyny The mixing of old and new patriarchal language and images in this text and its eagerness to imagine husbands and wives in contexts freed from some degree of extended family control are qualities shared by this book with the genre as a whole. More problematic are this book’s persistently misogynistic turns. At the heart of Satyacaran’s book is an extremely negative image of women, what they are and what they do. Women are ignorant, superstitious and uneducated; they are given

46 Judith E. Walsh to bad habits such as lying and eavesdropping and are prone to uncontrollable “vile appetites” or sexual desires. Their foolish, ignorant or uncontrolled actions can result in damage to their families or even the deaths of their own children. As ignorant country women, they raise their own children to believe in ghosts and support ignorant customs like child marriage and the ban on widow remarriage. As educated city women, they turn all housework over to servants and sit around gossiping, “doing wool work” and reading novels (Gupta, 1884: 39). Negativism towards women finds expression here not only in the faults attributed to them or the bad things they do, but also as an emotional tone which gives a surprisingly harsh quality to stories used to illustrate didactic points. For instance, in discussing the need for literacy, many authors make the same points: that women should learn to read to learn about the world, to write letters to husbands away from home or to become better mothers. Satyacaran’s book makes all these points, but gives the last a particularly hard edge by telling the following story. “Do you want to hear,” the “husband” asks, “a story about the level of understanding of one Auntie [khurima]?” Auntie had a little boy. His name was Hari. When Hari fell ill, the doctor said to give him medicine one dose each hour from the medicine vial. But each time Hari had to take the medicine, he made a huge fuss, so Auntie had him take all the medicine at once. Because of that the boy died.... Later when I heard the news of Hari’s death, I wondered why womenfolk don’t learn to read and write (ibid.: 5).

While some women’s practices—such as lying, eavesdropping and superstitious beliefs—may be correctable through education, others are made worse by the attitudes of their husbands. Here Satyacaran joins the almost universal chorus of manual writers decrying modern women’s refusal to do housework. “Wealthy city women,” the author notes, “have come to hate housework— instead among their work is sitting, lying down, sleeping, from time to time doing wool work, gossiping and criticizing others; perhaps occasionally reading 1 or 2 novels of Bankim Babu (ibid.: 60).

Some fault in this, however, must be attributed to their husbands, who do not insist that these women do the housework themselves. The author writes:

As the Husband, so the Wife 47 Baprey! If she sweeps the floor, a splinter of the broom will pierce her beloved soft hand!! Her little hands, as lovely as the shirish flower, were not made for holding a broom!!! If such hands held a broom, how could a husband bear such an injury to the honor of his jewel of a wife!!!!10

Finally, there are some faults of women that can not be cured but must be either controlled or lived with. In the later category is lack of beauty, which in this book is also a quality for which women must accept responsibility. In a chapter on “Marriage” the wife suggests that if a woman is virtuous, then beauty is irrelevant. “No one,” the husband disagrees, “will ever be able to say ‘I don’t want beauty—there’s no need for beauty’....” (Gupta, 1885: 80). Women are naturally the source of beauty.... Therefore it is very necessary for women to be beautiful. If a woman is ugly, then she has fallen outside of natural law to some degree. If one of your legs is lame, then necessarily one has to agree that that lame leg has happened as a result of some sin [dos]. Just so, if the nose is snub-nosed, if the eyes are two hollows—if the forehead is high, in that case necessarily one has to agree that all those faults [dos] have occurred as the result of some sin [dos] (ibid.: 81).

Finally, the single most important characteristic of women that cannot be altered, but must be controlled, is their “vile” sexual appetite. All sexual impulses in this book—men’s or women’s—are qualified by the adjective “vile” and women’s impulses are not necessarily worse than men’s, but the conduct that results from their uncontrolled desires is seen as more dangerous. For men, sexual promiscuity is more acceptable. The case of one man who spends all his time with prostitutes is condemned, but the discussion focuses on the unfortunate “fate” of his wife that he should behave this way (ibid.: 91). Women’s unsatisfied sexuality, however, can lead them into adultery or even worse. One justification for widow remarriage is that otherwise the young widow might become a prostitute (ibid.: 122). Young girls unsatisfied by elderly husbands are equally at risk: An old man can not become the husband of a young wife’s dreams and for this reason it can be seen that the young wife of an old man is usually an adulteress (ibid.: 85).

The sexual impulses of women, Satyacaran warns, if aroused and not satisfied, can lead to disaster. In a chapter called “Eavesdropping” it quickly becomes apparent that the eavesdropping at issue is the spying upon other family members in intimate conversation or in the

48 Judith E. Walsh act of making love. This is a bad practice, says the husband, for two reasons: first, because people cannot speak privately with each other and second, because “in many women the act of eavesdropping may arouse vulgar tendencies.” Perhaps a wife is engaged in amorous conversation with her husband— or she’s already quite maddened by passionate love making—meanwhile you, in your hiding place, are watching everything. The sight of all these vulgar acts might strengthen your own sexual appetite and leave you besides yourself with desire.

“Do you want to hear,” asks the husband, “what disaster can occur through eavesdropping?” And then follows this story: Husband: A sister was eavesdropping at her elder brother’s door. Inside the room, the brother and his wife were talking amorously; the brother was beside himself with love, embracing his wife and kissing her. Just as husband and wife had progressed to making love, that wretched sister, outside their door, was suddenly overwhelmed by her desire for love. She did not remember that he was her brother—and at such a time who, indeed, could think clearly? The door to the brother’s room was not locked that day. Crazed and half naked, the sister rushed in and embraced her brother, her own mother’s child. Under the bed there was a sword. The brother, blind with rage at his sister’s behavior, destroyed that sex maddened creature’s life with the sword (Gupta, 1885: 37–38). “Oh!” says the wife, “I am getting very scared. I will never again eavesdrop.” “You have seen,” replies the husband, “what the consequences of eavesdropping are.”

Romantic Intimacy Satyacaran’s misogynistic turns mark his book out from the others of this genre. For although other authors believed along with him that the lives and worlds of Bengali women needed reform and adaptation, nevertheless, the prevailing mood in other books is not at all

As the Husband, so the Wife 49

misogynistic. Rather it is romantic and sweet. In Dhirendranath Pal’s Strir Sahit Kathopakathan, for instance, the author explains that Bengali women are taught from childhood that they must love their husbands no matter what they are like. So if a husband makes only a little effort, suggests this author, he can easily win the wife’s love (Pal, 1880: 3). At the end of a chapter in another book, Griha Lakshmi, the husband says: “Now sleep, much of the night has gone.” To which the wife is made to reply, “I don’t know. When I stay with you, I don’t get much sleep. I wish only to hear you talk” (Raychaudhuri, 1887: 18). Certainly the fictional husbands of these other books are didactic as they lecture their wives; they are a bit pompous, even condescending. Yet in a book like Griha Lakshmi the “husband’s” lectures are accompanied by a certain wistfulness. He tells his wife: Saroj, don’t you see how wrong it is not to learn how to read and write?... When I come, I say the same things over and over—you don’t pay any attention (ibid.: 13).

The fictional husband knows (or, at least, the author knows) that however much he may talk, a wife can still choose not to hear. In Strir Prati Svamir Upadesh such sweetness, romance and uncertainty are almost entirely absent. Instead we are given a robot-like wife, parroting back her agreement with her husband. Even exchanges intended to be affectionate seem stiff and attenuated. “I will tell you one thing,” says this wife after a lecture from her husband on lying, “tell me that you won’t tell anyone else.” Husband: If its a subject to be discussed with others then I will, otherwise why would I? Wife: Then let me say that ever since you started giving me advice, I have developed such a feeling of devotion for you. Husband: Naturally, that would happen.... (Mitra, 1884: 11). And he continues with his lecture. That a sense of friendship or intimacy between husband and wife are missing from this book might seem only natural given its didactic purpose and its use of a dialog structure. But it is important to realize that while authors in this genre use the dialog form for its enlarged opportunities for delivering lectures, there is also another issue at work here. In many advice manuals dialogs provide a space which

50 Judith E. Walsh authors use to imagine and portray a relationship between husband and wife that is defined by intimacy and friendship. We know from many sources that foreign ideas of companionate marriages and foreign images of the wife as a husband’s “helpmeet”—not to mention foreign ideas of “romantic love”—are immensely interesting and attractive to Western educated Bengali men in this period. The dialog structure gives advice manuals the space in which to imagine such relationships. It opens up an imaginative space, occupied only by husband and wife, which authors can then fill with fantasies of romance, intimacy and friendship.

Gopa—“As the Husband, so the Wife” “As the Husband, so the Wife” is the title of a chapter in Satyacaran’s book. Here we find his ideas on women apotheosized in the figure of Gopa, the wife of Siddhartha Gautama, the man who became the Buddha. Gopa, as presented here, has all the qualities to be desired in a wife. Gopa was “intelligent,” writes the author, Gopa was “educated.” “She knew quite well how dharma had to be preserved.” But Gopa was no slave to tradition; nor was she an obedient lackey of the family elders. She refused to veil herself—“even in front of her father and mother-in-law, she did not put on the veil.” When everyone criticized her behavior—saying “Gopa is very shameless, Gopa is very shameless”—she made a speech that silenced them all. Religious people, she said, are a beautiful sight in whatever state they present themselves. Let people of virtue put on kusha grass, let them wear clothes with a hundred holes, let them be dark-complexioned, they look beautiful, by themselves, by their own splendor…. With this kind of vigorous talk Gopa proclaimed her own opinion against the custom of wearing a veil (Mitra, 1884: 160–61).

Gopa may have been outspoken towards family elders—she was totally obedient and devoted to her husband. She wanted only what would please him. When Siddhartha told her in tears that he was leaving to become a sannyasi, Gopa also cried out of sympathy for his pain. She thought, “She would put no thorns in her husband’s path, she would do whatever made her husband happy” (ibid.: 153).

As the Husband, so the Wife 51

In the final description of Gopa’s conduct after her husband’s departure—a description, incidentally, which is made to come from the book’s fictive wife—we get a fusion of the central image of a wife who will become whatever her husband wishes and the widow/sati who abandons everything out of devotion to her husband. Wife: The man who has such a virtuous wife, has endless happiness, his heart is an abode of peace. Gopa always used to follow her husband like a shadow. Whatever the husband said, the wife did it with pleasure. Their two hearts were inseparable; they had the same hopes, the same purpose. Each was always eager to make the other happy.... What a companion! Who gets such a companion? Whenever any wish came into her husband’s heart, this wife tried to the best of her abilities to fulfill that wish. If her husband wished to abandon the world—even that wish was shared by his wife.... The husband became a sannyasi and went to the forest; his wife in the dress of a female sannyasi remained at home. The moment she heard that her husband had left home, the wife instantly cut off her hair, flung off her body ornaments, threw off her royal clothing and at once put on the clothes of simple people. From that day forth Gopa made the earth her bed; she gave up eating delicious foods and began to spend her days sometimes eating only one meal a day and sometimes going the whole day without eating. From that moment she abandoned food and began to smear ashes on her beautiful body. Even though she was a woman whose husband was alive, Gopa began to live like a widow. Her husband gave up everything and became a sannyasi. His charming wife, devoted to her husband, became a female sannyasi in her youth. As the husband, just so the wife (ibid.: 162–63).

Conclusion Nineteenth-century Bengali Hindu society had within it a hierarchy based on age that affected young Bengali men’s relations with their

52 Judith E. Walsh wives. Young men in extended families suffered from this hierarchy and sought to mitigate its effect on their lives through the creation of more exclusive relations with their wives. Satyacaran’s book shares this impulse with the authors of other manuals, and in this respect his book helps us to understand an important aspect of this genre as a whole. That the motivations of men involved with the reform of women’s social conditions was not entirely, or perhaps even at all, altruistic is not surprising. Men like Satyacaran wanted reform, not for the “liberation” of their wives, but in order to gain more control and influence over them. Reform, for such men, meant the moving of wives away from the controls of the extended family and the creation of women who (at least in fantasy) would be almost entirely the creatures of their husbands: their morality, conduct, attitudes and ideas adjusted to their husbands; their aim in life, the satisfaction and pleasure of their husband. The degree to which this dyadic relationship is to be totally dominated by the husband may be somewhat exaggerated in Satyacaran’s book, but the impulse towards such a relationship is not unique to it. But where, in other advice manuals, the urge towards more dyadic relationships is fused with an impulse towards more intimate conjugal relationships, in Satyacaran’s book only the first is present. Satyacaran’s misogyny keeps him from using the imaginative “space” of the dialog format to develop images of conjugal intimacy and friendship. Their absence in his book is a defining difference between his work and the genre of women’s advice manuals in general. This difference can help us to understand how profoundly this literature is being shaped by two impulses: one, a desire for new patriarchal controls over women in a context marked out from the extended family’s domain; and the second, a wish for friendship and intimacy (and romantic love) within marriage relations. For while both old and new patriarchal concepts shaped a substantial part of late nineteenthcentury discourse on Bengali women and their worlds, an equally powerful theme in that discourse was the newly imagined (or perhaps newly reimagined) idea of intimacy and friendship between husbands and wives, men and women, in their shared domestic world.

As the Husband, so the Wife 53

Notes 1. Satyacaran Mitra, Abala Bala. [“The Powerless Girl”] (Calcutta, 1887). “A Tale of Fidelity and Love,” says the Bengali Catalog. Sahamarana [“Self Immolation on the Husband’s Funeral Pyre”] (Calcutta: Karttik Chandra Datta, 1892). “Tale of a Sati burning herself in the funeral pyre of her husband,” says the Catalog editor. Bara Bau Ba Sudha Brksa [“The Eldest Daughter-in-law or the Sheltering Tree”] 2nd ed. (Calcutta: Manomohan Library, 1892); 4th edition, 1917; 5th edition 1924. “A Sketch of Hindu Domestic Life,” Bengali Catalog. National Library. Author Catalog of Printed Books in Bengali Language, Volume IV S–Z. Calcutta: Government of India Press, 1963. 90–91. 2. Satyacaran’s other works included a book of stories, Upanyasa Mala (Calcutta: Amritabal Ghosh, 1892) and three books on religion: Ramakrishna Paramahamsa (Calcutta: Great Indian Press, 1897); Sree Sree Sanatan Dharma or the Eternal Religion (Calcutta, Self-published: 1907); Brahmananda Prasasti (Calcutta, Baranagar: Bhagavad-tattva Parisad, 1923). 3. The Brahmo Samaj was founded early in the nineteenth century as a religious reform society, initially aimed at the redefinition of Hindu theology. As the society developed, Brahmos became known for their opposition to many orthodox Hindu social and religious practices. Young Westerneducated Brahmos opposed what they considered “idolatry” in Hinduism and as a result often refused to perform orthodox ceremonies, like the shradh, or death ceremonies. The result was the ostracism of many Brahmos from their caste communities and often their separation and disinheritance from their families. The social ostracism of Brahmos in the early years of the society was so severe, one historian has noted, that not even servants would work for Brahmo families. As a result, during the mid to late nineteenth-century Brahmos social and religious life focused mostly on their own community; they had their own religious beliefs and practices, their own social rituals and children’s marriages tended to be arranged within the Brahmo community. 4. Mitra, Strir Prati, p. 4. Satyacaran shared with other Brahmos (including Keshub Sen) an interest in the religious practices and experience of the Hindu saint Ramakrishna and at the turn of the century he wrote, in English, a book called Sree Sree Sanatan Dharma or the Eternal Religion (Calcutta: 1907). In the 1920s he wrote in Bengali a biography of one of Ramakrishna’s disciples—Brahmananda Prasasti (Calcutta, Baranagar: Bhagavad-tattva Parisad, 1923). 5. See, for instance, Mitra’s ideas on conception cited above or his belief that if you cover your body with a blanket or silk cover at the time of a thunderstorm you will have nothing to fear from electricity. Ibid., p. 74.

54 Judith E. Walsh 6. In the context of his continuing exploration of late nineteenth century nationalist discourse, Partha Chatterjee has argued that the anti-colonial nationalists replaced older indigenous (Hindu) patriarchal traditions with a “new patriarchy” in this period. The need to adjust to the new conditions had forced upon men a whole series of changes in their dress, food habits, religious observances and social relations. Each of these capitulations now had to be compensated for by an assertion of spiritual purity on the part of women. They must not eat, drink or smoke in the same way as men; they must continue the observance of religious rituals that men were finding difficult to carry out; they must maintain the cohesiveness of family life and solidarity with the kin to which men could not now devote much attention. This “new patriarchy” defined women as essentially different from men; yet the difference still allowed for women’s reform through education and self-education as long as it was possible for women to do this without “jeopardizing her place at home.” Reform of women’s conditions and the re-imagining of the domestic world, then, becomes part and parcel of the “new patriarchy.” Partha Chatterjee, The Nation and Its Fragments, (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1993): 128–30. 7. Ibid., pp. 121–22. Satyacaran is not the only Brahmo author to believe a wife’s love for her husband ought to make remarriage an impossibility. Dhirendranath Pal, in a manual that lasted through nine editions, makes essentially the same argument. Widow marriage, he has the “wife” of his book explain to a friend, is a bad practice because it increases the number of women who want to get married at a time when the number of eligible husbands is already scarce. “Don’t I feel sorry for the plight of the child widow?” the “wife” asks rhetorically, “I do. But consider, dear, whether she who has once known a husband would even be able to marry again? If she would, it would be better for her marriage not to take place at all. Rather, she should have recourse to the vows of a sannyasi, take up the observance of dharma and do penance for her sins.” Pal, Strir Sahit Kathopakathan: 68. 8. The story of young Western educated boys tutoring (or failing to tutor) their wives is one that appears in many contexts and in many regions in India from the nineteenth century down to modern times. Gandhi himself remembered his failure to teach his wife to read. Borthwick, Changing Roles, p. 69; G. Morris Carstairs, The Twice Born (Bloomington, Indiana: Indiana Press, 1967), p. 296; M.K. Gandhi, An Autobiography, tr. M. Desai (Boston: Beacon Hill Press, 1957), p. 13. 9. How threatening this impulse towards more dyadic relationships was to nineteenth century sensibilities may be judged from the frequency with

As the Husband, so the Wife 55 which manuals condemned it. The author of Bangali Bau might well having been criticizing Satyacaran’s book—and he was certainly echoing the ideas of other authors such as Dhirendranath Pal and Girijaprasanna Raychaudhuri—when he criticized some advice manuals for only … educating [women] about the love affairs of husband and wife. In fact, there are hardly any lines in all those books that educate a woman so that she can get along in her family life. Gupta, Bangali Bau, preface. 10. (Gupta, Bangali Bau: 60). Husbands are also to blame when as old men, they marry young girls. “An old husband and a young wife, this sight is very distressing,” says the husband. And then the wife is made to say: In our village there is one Brahmin, Noshi Ram. He at 60 years of age has married one girl of 14 years. The girl’s name is Ram Moni. What Ram Moni says, Noshi Ram does just that. Ram Moni has made such a fool of Noshi Ram. “Ram Moni did not have to make a big fool of Noshi Ram,” says the husband, “Noshi Ram has made himself a fool. An old husband is willingly the fool of a young wife.” Ibid., p. 85.

References Advice Manuals Anonymous. (1900). Ramani Aisarya. [“The Glory of Woman”] Vol. 2. Calcutta: Navakumar Dutt. Bandyopadhyaya, Candicaran. (1887). Ma O Chele. [“Mother and Son”]. Calcutta: Sahitya Sangsad. Bandyopadhyaya, Harinarayan. (1887). Sisu Palan Sambandhe Pita Matar Prati Upades [“Advice to Parents Concerning the Rearing of Children”]. Calcutta: G.P. Ray. Bandyopadhyaya, K.C. (1897). Stri Siksha. [“The Education of Woman”]. Dacca: Bhanucandra Das. Basu, Isancandra. (1885) [1291 (Bengali Date)]. Nari Niti. [“Rules for Women”]. Calcutta: Gurudas Chattopadhyay. ———. (1884). Stridiger Prati Upadesh. [“Advice to Women”] 3rd ed. Calcutta: Victoria Press. Biswas, Taraknath. (1887). Bangiya Mahila. [“The Bengali Woman”] 2nd ed. Calcutta: Rajendralal Biswas.

56 Judith E. Walsh Das, Benimadhab. (1889). Amader Jatiya Vigyan: Sahadharmini O Svami. [“The Science of Our Community: The Wife and the Husband”]. Calcutta: B.C. Sarkar. Dasi, Nagendrabala Mustaphi. (1900). Nari Dharma. [“Woman’s Dharma”]. Calcutta: Self-published. Dasi, Navinkali. (1883). Kumari Siksha. [“The Education of a Girl”]. Calcutta: Self-published. Dutt, Umeshchandra. (1884). Nari Siksha. [“Woman’s Education”] 2nd ed. Calcutta: A. Ghosh. Gupta, Purnacandra. (1885). Bangali Bau. [“The Bengali Wife”]. Calcutta: A.K. Banerji. Majumdar, Jagachandra. (1871). Niti Garbha Prasuti Prasanga. [“A Discussion of the Rules for Women Who have Just Given Birth”] 2nd ed. Calcutta: N.P. Majumdar, Mohinimohan. (1890). Parinay Samskara. [“The Reform of Marriage”]. Calcutta: Self-published. Majumdar, Pratapcandra. (1898). Stri Caritra. [“Woman’s Charater”] 2nd ed. Calcutta: Self-published. Mitra, Jayakrishna. (1890). Ramanir Kartavya. [“The Duties of Women”]. Calcutta: Giribala Mitra. Mitra, Satyacaran. (1884). Strir Prati Svamir Upadesh. [“A Husband’s Advice to His Wife”]. Calcutta: Victoria Printing Works. Mukhopadhyaya, Vipradas. (1891). Yubaka Yubati. [“Young Men and Young Women”]. Calcutta: Manomohan Library. Pal, Dhirendranath. (1880). Strir Sahit Kathopakathan. [“Conversations with the Wife”]. Calcutta: Vaishnav Charan Vasak. ———. (1884). Songini. [“Companion”]. Calcutta: Bengal Publishing Company. ———. (1909). The Hindu Science of Marriage. Calcutta: Jatin Pal. ———. (1911). The Hindu Wife. Calcutta: Phanindra Nath Pal. Raychaudhuri, Girijaprasanna. (1887). Griha Lakshmi. [“The Lakshmi of the House”] 2nd ed. Calcutta: Gurudas Chatterji. Sastri, Shivnath. (1885). Griha Dharma. [“The Dharma of the Family”]. Calcutta: Girish Chandra Ghosh.

Other Works Basu, Isancandra. (1887). The English Works of Raja Rammohan Roy. Calcutta: Jogendra Chandra. Bengal Library. (1867–1914). Catalogue of Printed Books: Appendix to the Calcutta Gazette. Calcutta: Bengal Government.

As the Husband, so the Wife 57 Borthwick, Meredith. (1984). Changing Role of Women in Bengal 1849–1905. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Chakraborty, Usha. (1963). Conditions of Bengali Women around the 2nd Half of the 19th Century. Calcutta: Self-published. Chatterjee, Partha. (1990). “The Nationalist Resolution of the Women’s Question,” in Kumkum Sangari and Sudesh Vaid (ed.), Recasting Women, pp. 233–53. New Brunswick: Rutgers University Press. ———. (1990). Their Own Words: Women’s Autobiographies from Nineteenth Century Bengal. Unpublished manuscript. New York. ———. (1993). The Nation and Its Fragments. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Gandhi, M.K. (1957). An Autobiography: The Story of My Experiments with Truth. Translated by Desai, Mahadev. Boston: Beacon Press. Jacobsen, Doranne and Susan Wadley. (1977). Women in India: Two Perspectives. New Delhi: Manohar. Kakar, Sudhir. (1978). The Inner World. New Delhi: Oxford University Press. Kopf, David. (1979). The Brahmo Samaj. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Mukherjee, Meenakshi. (1988). “The Unperceived Self: A Study of Nineteenth Century Biographies,” in Karuna Chanana (ed.), Socialisation, Education and Women: Explorations in Gender Identity, pp. 249–72. New Delhi: Orient Longman. Murshid, Ghulam. (1983). Reluctant Debutant. Rajshahi: Rajshahi University Press. Nanda, B.R. (ed.) (1976). Indian Women from Purdah to Modernity. New Delhi: Vikas. Roland, Alan. (1988). In Search of Self in India and Japan. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Roy, Monisha. (1972). Bengali Women. Chicago: Chicago University Press. Sengupta, Subodhcandra. (ed.) (1976). Sangsad Bangali Caritabhidan. Calcutta. Vidyalankar, Sashibhusana. (1938). Jivani Kosa. Calcutta: Debabrata Chakravarty. Walsh, Judith E. (1983). Growing Up in British India. New York: Holmes & Meier. ———. (1997). “What Women Learned When Men Gave Them Advice: Rewriting Patriarchy in Late-Nineteenth Century Bengal.” The Journal of Asian Studies 56, No. 3: 641–77. ———. (2003). “English Education and Indian Childhood during the Raj, 1850–1947.” Education Dialogue 1, No. 1.

58 Judith E. Walsh Walsh, Judith E. (2003). “What’s Love Got to Do with It: Choosing Love or Family in Late 19th Century India [online journal].” Project South Asia (forthcoming January) [cited]. Available from http://www.mssc.edu/ projectsouthasia/tsa. ———. (2004). Domesticity in Colonial India: What Women Learned When Men Gave Them Advice. Lanham, MD: Rowman & Littlefield, New Delhi: Oxford University Press. ———. (2005). How to be a Goddess of Your Home: An Anthology of Bengali Domestic Manuals. New Delhi: Yoda Press. ———. (2005). A Brief History of India. New York: Facts on File.

PART 2

POSTCOLONIAL FAMILIES: SOCIO-ECONOMIC PERSPECTIVES

60 Mukul Mukherjee

Women and Agency 61

Chapter 2

™

Women and Agency Vignettes from Indian Families∗ Mukul Mukherjee

An enhancement of women’s active agency can, in many circumstances, contribute to the lives of all people—men as well as women, children as well as adults (Sen, 2001: 4).

For a long time the family/household has tended to be treated as a homogeneous and impervious entity: virtually a “black box” that has been immune to critical gaze. Family here refers to any group of people related by blood, or by legal ties such as marriage, adoption etc., who usually stay together. Quite often family and household are used synonymously, though the term household has more to do with co-residence and is more commonly used by economists and statisticians. There is no doubt that it is not very realistic to talk about the ∗ An earlier version of this chapter was presented at the Fulbright AIA Conference on “Family Matters: Textual Representations,” held in Kolkata on January 23–25, 2003 and subsequently published in Families: A Journal of Representations, Vol. 2 (1), August 2003.

62 Mukul Mukherjee family; for its manifestation has been in a state of flux, particularly in the last few decades. The size, composition, living arrangements and inherent values giving shape to human families continue to evolve, as apparent in families based on consensual unions or same sex unions, single parent units, female-headed households, etc., extending even to alternative living arrangements such as the kibbutz. However, much of the theorization centers around nuclear, co-resident families of heterosexual couples where the family head is male, with dependent wife and children. Despite the profound changes brought in by industrialization and urbanization in the past century, the family survives as the primary institution of human society. This is because z z z z

it meets basic survival needs, facilitating adequate biological functioning of its members; it maintains the cycles of reproduction and socialization of new members; it creates a socially sanctioned space for enduring inter-personal relationships; and it promotes social cohesion and for many, it is a “haven in a heartless world.”

In the context of the social sciences, the family’s engagement in production and consumption has been a familiar concept; so has been the concept of the typically male head of the family acting as an altruistic decision-maker, under whose benign dispensation there is no scope for inter-personal conflict. However, this complacent overview ignores the role of the family as an allocational unit that distributes benefits and hardships among its members and it fails to take into account the subterranean pulls and pressures of domination and subjugation that are incessantly played out among the members of the family at many levels: between the head of the family and the rest of the members; between generations as between adults and children; between kinship positions as between a mother-in-law and her daughter-in-law; and, significantly, between its men and women members, with their differential and gender-based sharing of the resource pool of the family and disparate participation in domestic work and in exercise of agency and authority.

Women and Agency 63

Feminist critiques of the institution of the family have unfolded disturbing aspects of vulnerability and violence that seem part of the everyday lives of women across time and space. From this perspective, certain groups seem particularly vulnerable: women who are widowed/ separated/deserted; female heads of households who have to sustain their families under difficult circumstances; elderly women leading lonely and powerless lives even though they live with families and the multitude of faceless women who suffer violence within the walls of the family home. It would appear that there is a close consonance between images of female vulnerability produced in the world of literature and the realities of the quotidian lives of women as garnered from the empirical world. This chapter will try to look at some of these facets of family life and women’s agency in India, with the help of pointers from socio-economic studies. The chapter is organized into four sections. The first section immediately following provides a brief backdrop, recapitulating some important theoretical approaches towards understanding the functioning of the family as a social institution. The next three sections provide perspectives on women’s agency in the Indian familial context. As we all know, this is a very wide and complex arena and this chapter concerns itself with only three dimensions of family life that have a profound bearing on women’s agency and autonomy. Accordingly, the second section explores how women face limitations in exercising decision-making power within the household; the third section looks at the deficient quality of life of a particular category of women— those who have crossed the age of 60 years; and the fourth section considers the almost endemic phenomenon of domestic violence that threatens women’s agency in diverse ways. It must be emphasized at this point that though there is much preoccupation with constraints that curb women’s existence as autonomous beings, in textual representations as well as in empirical research, we must recognize that women may have their own agendas of protest and may devise their own modes of resistance towards an oppressive and iniquitous environment. For, as James C. Scott eloquently reminds us, there are also “weapons of the weak” and “hidden transcripts” of resistance to domination (Scott, 1985; 1990: 37).

64 Mukul Mukherjee

I The Family/Household as a Gendered Structure Friedrich Engels was one of the earliest writers to draw attention to women’s status within the family, based upon Marxist concepts of the material processes of production and reproduction (Engels, 1945). In Engel’s view, marriage and children constituted the family as a set of relationships. In this family a functional division of labor prevailed between men and women—which Engels designated as “a pure and simple outgrowth of nature”—and in his words, “each was master of his or her own field of activity: the man in the forest, the woman in the house.” Gradually, as communities settled down and small groups accumulated various types of wealth, the pre-existing egalitarian relations between men and women began to change and women’s rights as well as their domestic work in the household lost significance: “The administration in the household lost its public character … it became a private service. The wife became the first domestic servant.” Engels describes this transformation of women’s role and the “disappearance of mother-right” as “the world-historical defeat of the female sex.” He also provides a praxis: “The emancipation of women becomes possible only when women are enabled to take part in production on a large, social scale, and when domestic duties require their attention only to a minor degree.” Scholars have critiqued Engel’s approach, but his exposition served the important purpose of highlighting the subordinate position of women within the framework of the family (Geetha, 2002; Sacks, 1974). In recent years the internal dynamics of the family have featured significantly in the writings of Gary Becker, associated with the new household economics and in the work of Amartya Sen (Becker, 1981; Sen, 1990). While Becker almost wishes away uncomfortable issues relating to gender equity by assuming an altruistic (male) household head who maximizes family welfare through “benevolent dictatorship” (and thereby presumably protects women’s interests), Sen looks upon the household/family as a potentially turbulent site where members—in their individual capacities as women and men— bargain for access to advantages (Kabeer, 1996: chapter 5). The family,

Women and Agency 65

as viewed by Sen, is marked by a certain duality, for it combines the processes of cooperation as well as contestation. He writes: “There has to be a closer analysis of the existence of both cooperative and conflicting elements in family relations. The essence of the problem is that there are many cooperative outcomes—beneficial to all the parties concerned compared with non-cooperation—but the different parties have strictly conflicting interests in the choice among the sets of efficient cooperative arrangements” (Sen, 1983). Here, unlike Becker’s model, women’s relative position within the household does become a significant problem. Let us now turn our attention to family studies in the Indian context. As scholars have noted, a common feature of family studies in India has been its preoccupation with forms or types of families and their descriptive accounts rather than analyzes of their internal dynamics (Desai, 1995). The position of women or issues of gender hardly entered the arena of such discussions, though it is generally accepted that an important determinant of women’s status is her affiliation to the family. Interventions made by women’s studies scholars have gone a long way in bridging this gap. Essentially their contribution lies in unfolding the various dimensions of the family as a basic social institution from the perspective of women’s agency and empowerment (Ganesh and Risseeuw, 1993). They have pointed out that: z

z z

The family is sustained in a major way by the multiple roles played by its female constituents; but their contribution in terms of paid work, unpaid work and care activities do not receive the recognition due from society. The family gives rise to relationships based on various forms of power within which women’s lives are enmeshed. It serves as an arena for absorption of patriarchal values such as female seclusion, female docility and chastity, son preference and devaluation of daughters. According to one observer’s pithy comment: it is where “gender gets done”; that is, the family is typically the first place where norms and practices are differentiated according to gender and internalized by its members, being eventually diffused over the wider community (Morgan, 1999).

Traditionally, the family is perceived to be located in the private sphere, beyond the scope of public scrutiny or public intervention by

66 Mukul Mukherjee way of state policy. However, it can also be looked upon as an “artifact of state”: though people associate and live together in many different ways, which of these associations will be given the epithet of “family” is not decided only by the parties concerned. The state plays an important role in constituting the family by defining which groups of people can count as families, by sanctioning marriage, divorce and legitimacy, etc., as also rights and privileges of family members (Nussbaum, 2000: 262). So far as Indian households are concerned, we may note that (a) the family continued to be the mainstay of the elderly right up to the 1990s—national-level surveys reveal that only about 2 percent among aged men and 4 percent among aged women were found to live alone or with people who were not relatives (Rajan and Kumar, 2003); (b) though different forms of nuclear family accounted for more than half of the Indian households recorded in the 1991 census, there was also a marked presence of joint families, accounting for about one-fifth of the total (Gulati and Rajan, 1999); and (c) the patriarchal nature of Indian society is reflected in the National Sample Survey (NSS) finding that over 80 percent of 60–plus men were reported as heads of households in the 1990s, while the corresponding figure for women was about 15 percent.1

II Women’s Agency in Decision-making Keeping in mind these aspects of the family, then, we first consider an important aspect of women’s agency: her existence as an autonomous being and her capability of influencing the parameters of her own life and the environment within which she functions. In other words, agency is taken to represent a certain degree of power and as such, women’s autonomy becomes intertwined with their empowerment. As posited by Gita Sen and Srilatha Batliwala, empowerment is the process by which the powerless gain greater control over the circumstances of their lives and implies both control over resources (physical, human, intellectual, financial) and over ideology (beliefs, values, attitudes). They stress that it means not only greater extrinsic control but also “a growing intrinsic capability—greater self-confidence, and an inner transformation of one’s consciousness that enables one

Women and Agency 67

to overcome external barriers to accessing resources or changing traditional ideology” (Sen and Batliwala, 2000: 17). Sometimes a distinction is made between power and authority: while decisions enacted through publicly recognized institutions have been called authority, power is seen as influence exerted through informal channels. Though there is a great deal of variation in the extent of power and authority that women enjoy in their respective societies, there is general agreement that it is less than that of men in the same position (Leacock, 1986: 107). What constitutes women’s agency and autonomy in the Indian context is not easy to answer. Within the family women often strategize, persuade, negotiate and often formulate their own means for coping with oppressive situations; in certain contexts they may even wield considerable control, for example vis-à-vis daughters-in-law. Yet they are usually unable to exercise much choice in significant decision-making processes both within and outside the household. Though it is not possible to make very precise assessments of autonomy, certain indicators have been proposed for exploring women’s power within the family or household. These include: z

z

z z

z

Women’s ability to control decisions about their productive and economic activities, including freedom of movement and control over the resulting wages or income. Women’s ability to control the type of household structure in terms of composition (for example, extended or not, femaleheaded or not), size or duration. Degree of discrepancy between men’s and women’s ratios of time spent in income earnings to that in leisure time. Women’s membership in economic and social collectives, and formal or informal groups (credit or loan associations, cooperatives etc.). Women’s ability to have an important say (if not to make the actual decision) in decisions which affect their lives, such as major purchases, building a house, family size (including having a child at a particular time of life and work), moving or not moving to another town, etc. (Rothschild, 1982: 128).

Researchers have tried to design studies for addressing some of the above issues and so to devise a method for assessing decisionmaking powers of women in the Indian milieu (see Pant, 2000). We may here refer to Shireen J. Jejeebhoy’s study of rural women in

68 Mukul Mukherjee Uttar Pradesh and Tamil Nadu, which considers five sets of numerical indices for measuring women’s autonomy and power within the household. These relate to economic decision-making authority (purchase of food, household goods and jewelry; having a say in spending household income); child-related decision-making authority (dealing with children’s health and education); mobility (freedom to go unescorted beyond the village, to health centers, homes of relatives and friends) and freedom from threat (fear of husband, being beaten by husband). The study concludes that “in particular contexts, tight controls are exerted on women in every sphere of their lives: their free movement, their voice in family matters, their economic independence and their relations with their husbands” (Jejeebhoy, 2000). This is in accord with the growing body of literature, both from within India and abroad, that suggests that the extent to which women enjoy autonomy is powerfully shaped by social institutions of gender within a community. It is only with the publication of the report of the second National Family Health Survey of India (NFHS 2, 1998–99) that we have access to reliable information on at least certain aspects of decision-making in Indian families, both at national and state levels (IIPS and ORC, 2000: Sections 3.6 and 3.8). This important survey was mainly devoted to enquiry about women’s health, fertility and family planning practices and covered about one lakh ever-married women aged 15 to 49, spread over the length and breadth of India. An innovation introduced in this survey is the module on women’s autonomy, which explores and presents data collected on decision-making as reported by women Table 1 Ever-married women who are involved in household decision-making (%) (All-India Figures) U

R

I

HS+

Percentage who are involved in decisions regarding: What to cook Own health care Purchasing jewelry, etc.

86 59 60

85 49 50

86 47 50

83 61 62

Percentage who do not need permission for : Going to the market Visiting friends and relatives

47 35

26 21

27 22

46 35

Percentage who have access to money

74

55

53

81

Sources: NFHS 2, India 1998–99, Table 3.11. Notes: U = urban; R = rural; I = illiterate; HS+ = education level high school and above.

Women and Agency 69

respondents at the household level. Some pertinent findings of this module are compiled in Table 1. Interestingly, these findings make it quite clear that for women of all ages and all types of background, the greatest degree of autonomy is associated with respect to decisions about what to cook for the family: a stereotypical “feminine” concern the world over. As our Table shows, while 85 percent of the women respondents reported that they freely took decisions about cooking, a much lower percentage (about half ) had the freedom to take decisions regarding their own health care or purchase of valuables such as jewelry. Among rural women, only about one-fifth reported that they did not require permission (from the authority figures in the household) to go to the local market or to visit parents and siblings. Rather unexpectedly, about 60 percent reported that they had access to money, though it is not clear whether they were indeed free to spend money according to their own wishes. There are two other points to note: urban women’s decision-making appears to be more robust as compared to their rural sisters and the scope for decision-making appears to improve steadily with improvement in the respondents’ literacy and education levels. As an example of the liberating influence of education, among women who had completed high school, more than 80 percent had access to money and 60 percent were free to attend to their own health care; with respect to illiterate women, these proportions were much lower (53 and 49 percent respectively). The report points out that women’s autonomy is likely to have a significant impact on the demographic and health-seeking behavior of couples by altering a woman’s relative control over fertility and contraceptive use, and by influencing their attitudes (for example, attitudes towards the sex composition of children) and abilities (for example, the ability to obtain health services for them-selves and their children).

III Age and Erosion of Agency A remarkable trend since India’s independence has been the increase in life expectancy at birth (LEB)—both for women and men. In 1951 the LEB of Indian women was only 32.5 years. Now both male and female LEB have crossed 60 years—estimated at 64 and 65 years

70 Mukul Mukherjee respectively in the 2001 census—and these are expected to show a steady rise in the coming decades. The elderly, that is, persons aged 60 years and above, now constitute about 7 percent each of the total male and female population and this proportion too is expected to rise in the not too distant future. According to the 1991 census, elderly women outnumbered men belonging to the same age group, the female–male ratio of this segment being 1,075 as against the overall female–male ratio (FMR) of 933 (Visaria, 2001). But as we shall see presently, for women at least, a long lifespan has hardly been an unmixed blessing; for aging seems to go hand in hand with loss of agency and well-being. Those who have read “Dahan,” the much acclaimed story written by Suchitra Bhattacharya and recently made into a film, will recall the grandmother Mrinalini, an aged and unusual widow. She is unusual because “she has control over fixed deposits” and can afford to live a dignified and independent life on her own. Yet she tells her granddaughter, “For us, the whole of life is a prison. Only the jailor changes. Sometimes father, at other times husband, or son. Or this enclosed place. The stamp of love seals and imprisons us within the home and family. Once the seal loosens and falls, this prison becomes more fearful than the other” (Sarbadhikari, 1999). Our regional literatures abound in moving images of women of advancing age, who are lonely, oppressed, denigrated and victimized. With the growing availability of demographic data in India, these facets of fiction are gradually turning into grim realities. Much valuable information about the elderly in India can be found in the reports of our recent population censuses and the country-wide National Sample Surveys and National Family Health Surveys carried out in the 1990s. The findings presented in these reports help us to learn how, particularly for women, advancing age serves to compound vulnerability. First, women face greater hardship on account of economic insecurity. The results of recent Rounds of National Sample Surveys reveal that more than 70 percent of older women were totally dependent on others in the mid-1990s as compared to about 30 percent of older men in the same situation. Only about one-fifth of older women were found to be owning and managing property while the comparable figure for their male compatriots was more than 60 percent. Among urban women in this age-group who had been employed, only a small percentage (15 percent ) received pension and other post-retirement benefits. And finally, despite their advanced

Women and Agency 71

age, about one-third of rural women were found to be still working for economic sustenance in addition to their continuous engagement in domestic work.2 Second, older women’s options and capabilities are compromised because of a very high prevalence of illiteracy and a higher incidence of chronic diseases as well as physical infirmities such as impairment of vision or hearing or movement. According to the same set of NSS data again, more than 90 percent of aged women living in rural areas were illiterate—a much higher figure as compared to 66 percent among men. In urban areas too, older women’s illiteracy rate of 66 percent was more than three times the rate for urban men. This brings us to the third predicament faced by older women: the burdens associated with widowhood. Once past the age of 60 years, women not only have lower risks of death as compared to men in the same age group, but also a much smaller proportion among them remarry, so that the percentage of widows among aged women is considerably higher than that of widowers among aged men. In rural India, for example, NSS data of the 1990s showed that more than 60 percent of the 60-plus female population and more than 80 percent of the 70-plus female population were widows; but the proportion of widowers in the elderly male population was much lower—for instance, only 20 percent among 60-plus men. We learn from the same source that over 90 percent of female heads of households were also widows, the corresponding percentage for male heads being far lower at 12 percent. Anthropological studies highlight the fact that women who have lost their spouses tend to suffer prominently from social marginalization and psychological stress, in addition to being particularly vulnerable to poverty (Drèze and Sen, 1995: 172). Indeed a distinct correlate of advancing age is the loneliness and the disappearance of a supportive family structure that is associated with the loss of kin. The observations of the Committee of the Status of Women in India on widowhood, recorded a quarter of a century ago, still seems to be largely and sadly true: “A change in the lifestyle of women after they are widowed is characteristic of Indian society … with the conception of the man as the breadwinner and the women as his dependant, the married state for women is considered fortunate … society’s attitude to this unfortunate group has not registered any appreciable change in all these decades” (Govt. of India, 1974: 80). Further, “The sensational circumstances of small numbers of widows receive

72 Mukul Mukherjee more attention than the less visible and quiet deprivation of millions. These deprivations do not show up in economic and social statistics, the standard household-level analysis tells very little about widows and their well-being” (Chen, 2000: 30). Jean Drèze and Amartya Sen remind us that the experience of losing one’s spouse is, overwhelmingly, a woman’s experience. “A widower not only has greater freedom to remarry than his female counterpart, he also has more extensive property rights, wider opportunities for remunerative employment, and a more authoritative claim on economic support from children. Had the living conditions of widowers been as precarious as those of widows, it is likely that widowed persons would have attracted far more attention” (Drèze and Sen, 1995: 173).

IV Domestic Violence: Negation of Women’s Human Rights We now come to our third chosen perspective: the family/household as a site of violence perpetrated against women. Perhaps the most painful devaluation of women’s lives is reflected in the physical and psychological violence that stalks them from cradle to grave—in situations of both war and peace: z

z

z

Violence against women can begin even before life begins. We know of the violence wreaked on the unborn female fetus through the rampant misuse of medical technology. And we know that even after half a century of India’s independence, it has not been possible to wipe out female infanticide. Indeed certain “progressive” districts of Tamil Nadu, such as Salem, have become notorious for the killing of girl babies (see Krishnakumar, 2002). Violence scars the early life of women, whether in the shape of child abuse and incest, child prostitution, and exploitative child labor. Violence also tends to become part of marriage and family life. Only the tip of this iceberg is slowly emerging, as increasing numbers of women approach NGOs or seek the help of law.

Women and Agency 73 z

Violence becomes manifest in the proliferation of crimes against women such as rape, assault, abduction and sexual harassment, and, finally, it can culminate in murder or suicide, as starkly portrayed in dowry deaths and brutal ‘honor’ killings to which women are subjected.

As a result of strong feminist advocacy, worldwide concern for preventing violence against women led to the UN Declaration on Elimination of Violence Against Women in December 1993. According to this Declaration, violence against women includes “any act of gender-based violence that results or is likely to result in physical, sexual or mental harm or suffering to women, including threats of such acts, coercion or arbitrary deprivation of liberty, whether occurring in public or in private life.” Within this broad context, we have chosen to focus on domestic violence because it is the most ubiquitous form of abuse for women, yet the most covert. Day in and day out, it negates for women the basic human right to life, liberty and security of person. The term domestic violence can be given different meanings but it is most often used to refer to violence against a woman by an intimate partner, which can be physical, sexual or emotional. It is also referred to as wife abuse and wife battering and the battered wife is a very familiar figure not only in developing countries like India but also in the advanced western world. Quite often, a woman battered by her husband is likely to have been raped by him, psychologically traumatized and financially exploited. As recorded in a survey by the Tata Institute of Social Sciences in collaboration with the Mumbai Police, the aftermath of domestic violence can be complex and devastating, sometimes lasting a woman’s lifetime (Dave and Solanki, 2001). Till 1983 there were no specific legal provisions in India that pertained to violence within the home. Though women could take recourse to general laws with respect to crimes such as murder, abetment to suicide, grievous injury or wrongful confinement, etc., specific provisions were urgently needed for dealing with an offence committed in the privacy of the home by a person on whom a woman is economically and emotionally dependent. In 1983 a new section, 498A,was added to the Indian Penal Code which subsumes and penalizes domestic violence under the term “cruelty.” (Cruelty is defined under this section as: (a) any wilful conduct which is of such a nature as likely to drive the woman to commit suicide or to cause grave injury or danger to life, limb or death, whether mental or physical of

74 Mukul Mukherjee the woman; or (b) harassment of the woman when such harassment is with a view to coercing her or any person related to her to meet any unlawful demand for any property or valuable security or is on account of failure by her or any person related to her to meet such a demand.) Though recognized as a significant development in confronting domestic violence, this legislation had its own limitations. (For example, it did not ensure the aggrieved woman’s right to shelter in her matrimonial home; nor did it provide for any compensation for the injuries suffered by her.) After prolonged debates and mainly on the basis of substantive suggestions advocated by women’s organizations, the Protection of Women from Domestic Violence Act came into being in 2005. This new civil law focusing more on securing women’s rights considerably expands the ambit of relief and protection for victims of domestic violence. As such the Act covers not only married women but also those who are in a live-in relationship or are related by consanguinity and adoption; gives an aggrieved woman the right to residence in her matrimonial home even if she may not have property rights and provides for compensation for injuries (including emotional distress) caused by acts of domestic violence. However, its actual efficacy is yet to be tested. When we try to unravel the roots of this gender-based familial violence, we realize that violence has always been a tool for exercising domination and appropriating control in different spheres of life. In the domestic sphere too, violence becomes a means for domination and control—of women’s bodies, their labor, their assets and their mobility, and on another plane, their emotions, ideas and attitudes. According to one perceptive view, “Far from being abnormal behavior, the violence of men towards the women they live with should rather be seen as an extreme form of normality, an exaggeration of how society expects men to behave … it is concerned with wider issues to do with power and equity and to do with how we perceive manhood” (Wilson, 2000: 26). An additional factor that fuels aggressive male behavior within the home is the violence-prone environment prevailing in the wider society, aided and abetted by the consumerist culture associated with globalization. At least in the Indian context, several points have to be noted in regard to domestic violence inflicted on women. First, statistics published by the National Crime Records Bureau show that during the last few years, cruelty/torture of women by their husband and his relatives account for about one-third—that is, the highest proportion— of total crimes committed against women in India as a whole, rape

Women and Agency 75

and abduction accounting for about one-tenth each and dowry death for about 5 percent.3 Next is the tendency to justify and condone the occurrence of such violence and thus mitigate criticism and punishment. To this end, while the battered women might be projected as mentally ill or morally depraved, the men involved might be looked upon as victims of poverty or an abusive environment or as driven by drug abuse or alcoholism. There is also the tendency to exonerate male offenders by taking advantage of legal loopholes. There are instances where the known perpetrators of violence against women could not be punished because the case could not be proved “beyond reasonable doubt.” (For example, in the well-known case of a Pune housewife, where the husband was accused of murdering her, even though he was convicted in the lower courts, it was decided that the husband’s guilt could not be proved beyond reasonable doubt as the woman may well have committed suicide out of depression! [Agnes, 1992].) It is not difficult to surmise that consciously or unconsciously, a certain philosophy is at work behind such lenient approaches to this particular category of offence: that of protecting the privacy of the home and protecting “family honor.” Accounts of domestic violence in India mostly came from court cases or anecdotal evidence and more recently, from small-scale surveys/studies (Jejeebhoy, 1998; Visaria, 2000). For the first time, a large body of national-level and state-level data related to domestic violence against women has been compiled by the second National Family Health Survey (NFHS) of 1996–98. Some of these data are reproduced in Table 2. Several features stand out here. First, the survey reports that at least one in five of all ever-married women above the age of 15 years experienced physical violence and at least one in nine experienced it in the 12 months preceding the survey. Second, the beatings were typically inflicted by their husbands. Third, domestic violence appears to be “democratic”—in that it cuts across religion, community, rural–urban divide, even women’s employment status. These findings, then, serve to expose the fallacies inherent in certain commonly held beliefs: z z z z

that wife battering affects only small groups of population; that only poor women get battered; tha battered women are uneducated women; and that battered women are free to leave home.

These revelations bring to mind the poignant words of a women protagonist in David Davidar’s novel: “… a woman must be prepared

76 Mukul Mukherjee Table 2 Married women’s experience of beatings/physical mistreatment (All-India Figures) Beaten Since Age 15 years (%)

Beaten by Husband (%)

Age 15–19 20–29 30–39 40–49

21 21 23 20

19 19 21 18

Religion Hindu Muslim Christian

21.2 21.2 21.1

19.1 19.1 16.1

Social Group SC ST OBC Other

27 23 23 16

25 21 21 14

Residence Rural Urban

22.5 17

20 14

25.5

23.6

19 15 9

17 12 6

Wife’s education Illiterate Literate, not completed Middle School Middle School completed High School and above

Source: NFHS 2, India 1998–99, Table 3.15

to be beaten by her husband…. It’s the way things are. When you are newly married, you are beaten for not bringing enough dowry; when you give birth to your children, you are beaten for not producing a male heir, or if you have already given him a son, for not producing only sons. And then, when you have produced enough children, you are beaten for losing your looks and youth…” (Davidar, 2002: 32). The NFHS survey data, however, also indicate two other trends: the incidence of domestic violence seems to fall appreciably if women are educated beyond High School and it also tends to fall with a rise in the standard of living. These findings have obvious implications for strengthening women’s agency and autonomy.

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In addition to gauging the incidence of domestic violence in India, NFHS 2 has also collected information on women’s perceptions about the legitimacy of husbands beating their wives. As Table 3 shows, a substantial proportion of women surveyed (between 33 to 40 percent) felt that a husband would be justified in beating his wife if there is a particular lapse on her part, such as neglecting the home or the children, going out without informing the husband, being unfaithful, showing disrespect to in-laws, and not cooking properly. Overall, almost three out of every five women surveyed (56 percent) justified domestic violence on one or the other ground mentioned above. The NFHS report comments: “The experience of violence and the silent acceptance of violence by women undermines attempts to empower women and will continue to be a barrier to the achievement of demographic, health and socioeconomic development goals” (NFHS 2, 1998–99: 79 in IIPS and ORC, 2000). This silent acceptance perhaps reflects an aspect of the power structure operative in society as explicated by S. Lukes. In his view, “The most insidious exercise of power (is) by shaping perceptions, cognitions and preferences in such a way that they (i.e., the subjugated) accept their role in the existing order of things, either because they can see or imagine no alternative to it, or because they see it as natural and unchangeable, or because it is divinely ordained and beneficial” (Lukes, 1974). Having looked at the constraints women face in terms of exclusion in decision-making, and the travails of ageing, widowhood and domestic violence, we are now faced with the inevitable question: how are women’s agency and autonomy to be restored and sustained? Agency, autonomy and empowerment—all essential attributes for Table 3 Percentage of ever-married women who agree with specific reasons for justifying a husband beating his wife (All-India Figures) Reasons for Beating Husband suspects wife is unfaithful Wife shows disrespect to in-laws Wife goes out without telling husband Wife neglects house or children Wife does not cook food properly Wife’s natal family does not give money or other items Source: NFHS 2, India, 1998–99, Table 3.14

Percentage Agreeing with Specific Reason 33 34 37 40 25 7

78 Mukul Mukherjee enriching human life—basically relate to “expansion of people’s capacities and choices; their ability to exercise choice based on freedom from hunger, want and deprivation; and the opportunity to participate in, or endorse, decision-making that affects their lives” (UNDP, 1997: 33). An elaboration of these themes is beyond the scope of this chapter; here we can only spell out certain priorities. Obviously, we need greater involvement on the part of the state and the civil society in working towards women’s development, security and autonomy. We need more extensive and more effective gendersensitization on the part of those who make laws, those who interpret them and those who enforce them. NGOs concerned with women’s issues have a very significant role in this regard. We also need a more comprehensive database for reaching out to women who are trapped in violence and elderly women and widowed women who are resourceless, so that due importance is accorded to them in public policy and programs. But ultimately, women themselves must learn to strengthen their own capabilities in pursuit of agency and autonomy. Experience tells us that capacity building for women begins from three crucial planks. First and foremost is education, for education brings awareness of one’s surroundings and a better understanding of one’s rights and duties. The second is skill-building and economic self-reliance. For women specially, freedom to act is linked vitally to their capacity to be self-reliant with the help of their own knowledge, experience and practical skills. The third imperative for agency is organization: getting together and forging bonds so that their experiences can be shared, their capabilities can be expanded and their wholesome influence can be felt within the home and outside. Hopefully, this new millennium will see a new vigor in their journey towards agency and autonomy.

Notes 1. National Sample Survey , 1993–94, as cited in Pravin Visaria, “Demographics of Ageing in India,” EPW, 2001: 1971. 2. NSS 42nd Round (1986–87) and NSS 52nd Round (1995–96), as cited in Visaria (2001). 3. See relevant Tables in Crime in India, 2002 and 2003, National Crime Records Bureau, Ministry of Home Affairs, Govt. of India.

Women and Agency 79

References Agnes, Flavia. (1992). “Protecting Women Against Violence? Review of a Decade of Legislation, 1980–89,” EPW, April 25. Becker, Gary. (1981). A Treatise on the Family. Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press. Chen, Martha A. (2000). Perpetual Mourning: Widowhood in Rural India, as cited in UN, The World’s Women 2000, p. 30. New York. Dave, Anjali and Gopika Solanki. (2001). Journey from Violence to Crime: A Study of Domestic Violence in the City of Mumbai, Mumbai: TISS. Davidar, David. (2002). The House of Blue Mangoes, p. 32. New Delhi: Viking (Penguin Books). Desai, Neera. (1995). “Perceiving Family: Myth and Reality,” paper presented at Workshop on Re-examining the Indian Family, Jadavpur University, Calcutta, July 7–9. Drèze, Jean and Amartya Sen. (1995). India: Economic Development and Social Opportunity, p. 172. New Delhi: OUP. Engels, Friedrich. (1945) (first published in 1884). Origin of the Family, Private Property and the State. Moscow: Progressive Publishers. Ganesh, Kamala and Carla Risseeuw. (1993). “Gender: Between the Family and the State,” EPW, October 23. Geetha, V. (2002). Gender. Calcutta: Stree. Govt. of India. (1974). Towards Equality: Report of the Committee on the Status of Women in India, p. 80. Delhi. ———. (2002–2003). Crime in India. National Crime Records Bureau, Ministry of Home Affairs, New Delhi. Gulati, Leela and S. Irudaya Rajan. (1999). “The Added Years: Elderly in India and Kerala,” EPW, October 30, Table 9. Indian Institute of Population Sciences (IIPS) Bombay and ORC Macro (USA). (2000). National Family Health Survey: 1998–99—India, (sections 3.6 and 3.8). Jejeebhoy, Shireen J. (1998). “Wife-beating in Rural India: A Husband’s Right?,” EPW, April 11, pp. 855–62. ———. (2000). “Women’s Autonomy in Rural India: Its Dimensions, Determinants and the Influence of Context’’ in Harriet B. Presser and Gita Sen (eds), Women’s Empowerment and Demographic Processes: Moving Beyond Cairo. New Delhi: OUP. Kabeer, Naila. (1996). Reversed Realities: Women and Development. New Delhi: Kali for Women (chapter 5). Krishnakumar, Asha. (2002). “Life and Death in Salem,” Frontline, March 1. Leacock, Eleanor. (1986). “Women, Power and Authority,” in Leela Dube, Eleanor Leacock and Shirley Ardner (eds), Visibility and Power: Essays on Women in Society and Development, p. 107 ff. New York: OUP.

80 Mukul Mukherjee Lukes, S. (1974). Power: A Radical View. London: Macmillan. Morgan, David. (1999). “Gendering the Household,” in Linda Mckee and others (eds), Gender, Power and the Household. London: Macmillan. Nussbaum, Martha. (2000). Women and Development: The Capabilities Approach, p. 262. New Delhi: Kali for Women. Pant, Mandakini. (2000). “Intra-household Allocation Patterns: A Study in Female Autonomy,” Indian Journal of Gender Studies, January–June. Rajan S. Irudaya and Sanjay Kumar. (2003). “Living Arrangements among the Elderly in India,” EPW, January 4, Table 7. Rothschild, Constantina. (1982). “Female Power, Autonomy and Demographic Change,” in R. Anker and others (eds), Women’s Role and Population Trends in the Third World, p. 128. London: Croom Helm. Sacks, Karen. (1974). “Engels Revisited: Women, the Organisation of Production and Private Property” in M. Rosaldo and L. Lamphere (eds), Women, Culture and Society, Stanford University Press. Sarbadhikari, Krishna. (1999). “On the Edge of The Real and The Fictional,” EPW, October 30. Scott, James C. (1985). Weapons of the Weak: Everyday Forms of Peasant Resistance. New Haven and London: Yale University Press. ———. (1990). Domination and the Arts of Resistance: Hidden Transcripts, p. 37. New Haven and London: Yale University Press. Sen, Amartya. (1983) “Economics and the Family,” Asian Development Review, Vol. 1 (2). ———. (1990). “Cooperative Conflicts,” in Irene Tinker (ed.), Persistent Inequalities: Women and Development. New York: OUP. ———. (2001). “Seven Faces of Gender Inequality,” Frontline, November 9: 4. Sen, Gita and Srilatha Batliwala (2000). “Empowering Women for Reproductive Rights,” in Harriet B. Presser and Gita Sen (eds), Women’s Empowerment and Demographic Processes: Moving Beyond Cairo, p. 17. New Delhi: OUP. United Nations Development Programme. (1997). Governance for Sustainable Human Development, p. 33. January. Visaria, Leela. (2000). “Female Autonomy in Tamil Nadu: A Field Study.” EPW, May 13. Visaria, Pravin. (2001). “Demographics of Ageing in India,” EPW, June 2, p. 1971. Wilson, Elizabeth. (2000). What is to be Done about Violence against Women? Crisis of the Eighties, 1983, as cited in Shoma A. Chatterjee, Indian Women: From Darkness to Light, Stories of Oppression, Exploitation, Reaction, Resistance and Choice, p. 26. Calcutta.

Chapter 3

™

Modern Families and Independent Living Reflections on Contemporary Aging Sarah Lamb

Old age homes are not a concept of our country. These days, we are throwing away our culture. The U.S. is the richest nation in the world and therefore has won us over. Now we, too, are only after material wealth as a nation and have become very unhappy. —Ranjan Banerjee, old-age-home resident and retired psychiatrist, Kolkata (Calcutta), India In Europe, it may be normal that children leave home. But in our society, we have roots, and suddenly, all these families have started sending their children abroad; the children lose contact with their past; they forget to come home. —Jayaraj, director of Karunam (“Pathos”), a film depicting an elderly couple’s vain wait for the return of their son, who has settled in the U.S.; Kerala, India Old age is a gift from God when spent in dignity, as in this country. I prefer an independent life. I like to live on my own instead of living with relatives. I am happy now. —Gopal Singh, aged 72, immigrant from the Punjab; Fremont, California

82 Sarah Lamb These quotations speak to some of the potent meanings centered on aging for contemporary cosmopolitan Indians.1 Over recent years, Indians among the middle and upper classes have been participating in profound shifts in the ways they are structuring family life and its generational and gendered relationships. In some respects, these shifts are similar to others occurring around the globe in cosmopolitan circles, in which dual-career nuclear families are becoming increasingly prevalent, and kin pursuing global professional markets are widely scattered across nations and the world. Amidst such broad social and economic processes, aging itself takes on profoundly new forms and meanings. This chapter explores the ways many in India and among the Indian diaspora are crafting and experiencing new forms of aging, as they confront—both embracing and critiquing—processes they associate with “modern” and “global” living. The central social transformation examined here is a shift away from the intergenerational family as the key site of aging and elder care, to an increasing reliance on individual selves, private institutions and the state. Such emerging novel modes of aging and family are taken by Indians, at home and abroad, to represent a profound transformation—a transformation involving not only aging per se, but also core cultural and moral visions surrounding family, gender, personhood, and the very identity of India as a nation and culture. As an anthropologist, I spent my first years studying aging in what many urban Indians consider a “traditional” context, among families—many of them joint and multigenerational—in a village setting in the Birbhum District of West Bengal (Lamb, 1993: 2000). I next began researching aging, gender and families among the rapidly growing South Asian Indian population in the United States (Lamb, 2002; 2007). I was struck that although senior Indian parents are migrating to the United States with the express purpose of being with their U.S.-settled children, many end up turning to non-family institutions—such as community senior centers and state welfare programs for the aged—for much material and social support, not infrequently even setting up their own independent households. When returning to India to do fieldwork in 2003, 2004 and 2006, I was struck, too, by the burgeoning of non-family modes of practicing aging in urban India, most notably the surge of old age homes along with private organizations devoted to providing services to elderly living alone.

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What do Indians make of these processes of aging outside the family, and how do these new modes of aging speak to the ways Indians are striving to work out personhood, family, society and nation in the contemporary era? Everyone has something to say on the matter, as daily conversations, newspaper editorials, television serials and films abound with tales and reflections on the merits and demerits of modern aging. I focus here on the richly varied perspectives I gleaned through fieldwork in India and the United States,2 concentrating on the narratives of elders, while also heeding the stories of junior kin, proprietors of elder-focused institutions, and public and popular discourses.

The Breakdown of the Joint Family People’s reflections about contemporary aging and families take place firmly against the backdrop of comparisons with a “traditional” Indian past. Family is the key here. More than almost anything else, the joint, multigenerational, intimate family represents a traditional Indian past in contrast to an emerging modernity. In prevailing discourses (which many of my informants acknowledge are at least partly idealized, nostalgic representations), old age is essentially a family matter, and adult children—most notably sons and daughters-in-law—live with and care for their aging parents. They do so out of love, a deep respect for elders, and a profound sense of moral, even spiritual, duty to attempt to repay the inerasable debts they owe their parents for all the effort, expense and affection their parents extended to produce and raise them. In such discourses, multigenerational joint family living is associated not only with traditional aging but with a complex range of values, including fellow-feeling, supportive interdependence, patriarchy, crowded hearths, plentiful time, and moral-spiritual order. Senior persons receive material and social support, as well as their sense of identity, as vital members of enduring, intimate families. At the same time, discourses in India’s urban centers widely proclaim that the joint family system is fast breaking down. In people’s narratives—offered by both young and old men and women, those living in joint families and without—several forces come up again

84 Sarah Lamb and again as at the root of changes in the joint family. One is that women now, compared to those a generation earlier, are much more likely to be older at marriage, to be more highly educated, and to be working—meaning that, in general, daughters-in-law today have more voice, authority, and agency than their mothers-in-law did, and are often not as disposed as their predecessors were to serve, defer to and live with their husbands’ parents. A second phenomenon is that many, even “most” (according to prevailing estimations), parents among the elite classes in India have children living and pursuing professions in distant cities, across India and abroad. Third, the general milieu of “globalization,” “Westernization” and the “modern” has intensified over recent years in India, bringing with it a whole host of related ideologies and social forms, such as (according to widespread discourses): individualism, materialism, consumerism, self-centredness, a freedom from “traditional” rules and mores, gendered and aged egalitarianism, nuclear families, small flats, a pervasive lack of time, and old age homes. Such forces and discourses are particularly salient within middle- and upper-class urban families and much less so for the rural and urban poor. Old age homes, for instance, are still almost non-existent within both rural and urban poor communities. Further, the elderly urban poor tend to blame any lack of care from their children on long-standing poverty rather than on anything to do with modernity. Now, it must be noted that discourses of the breakdown of the joint family are not radically new. For instance, Lawrence Cohen’s No Aging in India: Alzheimer’s, the Bad Family, and Other Modern Things found that in the 1980s and 1990s, the dominant narrative used by Indian gerontologists and others to explain the contemporary predicaments of aging was that of the decline of the joint family under the force of the four “zations”—modernization, industrialization, urbanization, and Westernization. Ethnographies of social-cultural life in India have also long portrayed tales of generational conflicts, small households, and the like.3 What do seem to be new are the markedly unique forms that certain non-traditional-joint-family-based modes of aging are taking in contemporary India, especially the surge of formal institutions of extra-family aging, such as old age homes and organizations offering surrogate sons “for hire.” Also important, I suggest, is the fact that not all tales of extra-family aging center on the “bad family” (Cohen, 1998) or, that is, on modern degeneration. Rather, many of those I have

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met living in old age homes and independent households quite extol their circumstances and were the ones purposefully to craft their extrafamily late lives. Others are indeed more miserable, as they deplore their conditions and tell of a profound shock—proclaiming that they never in earlier years could have even imagined living apart from children and family in old age. It is to these emerging forms of family and aging, and the richly complex and varied perspectives of those experiencing them that I now turn.

Old Age Homes Perhaps the single most striking dimension of the emergence of a new mode of modern aging and family is the near flood of old age homes that have risen in India’s major urban centers. Until the past two decades, old age homes basically did not exist in India, save for a handful established by Christian missionaries largely catering to the Anglo-Indian community. Now there are over 70 in the Kolkata environs alone and hundreds more across India’s urban centers, the vast majority having been founded within the last fifteen years.4 These newer old age homes are almost entirely a middle-class phenomenon, possible only for those with retirement pensions, professional children and/or considerable savings.5 Run by both non-governmental organizations (NGOs) and also private entrepreneurs, the rates range from about 1,000 to 5,000 Indian Rupees per month (a little over 20 to 100 US$), and often require a sizable joining fee or security deposit of up to Rs 70,000 (or about $ 1,500). Accommodations can come in the form of single, double or dormitory-style rooms; and in some a husband and wife can opt to live together. The homes range in size from about five to fifty residents, who are commonly referred to as “inmates” (though without explicitly intending to convey the negative prisoner connotations the term carries in American English), “boarders,” or more familiarly in Bengali as masima (“mother’s sister”), thakurma (“grandmother”), or mesomosae (“mother’s sister’s husband”). The residents come from a wide range of family situations: some are childless, others have only daughters, others’ children are all abroad, and others (of those I interviewed, the largest number) have sons and daughters-in-law living right nearby.6

86 Sarah Lamb All meals are provided, including morning and afternoon tea, served either in common dining rooms or at bedside for those less mobile and in homes lacking space. Numerous institutions offer a choice between vegetarian and non-vegetarian diets, appealing especially to many upper-caste widows who, in Bengal, are widely expected to observe strict vegetarianism (avoiding not only meat, fish and eggs, but also garlic and onions). However, not all homes prepare separate vegetarian meals, so quite a few widowed residents tell (some complaining, other accepting, still others seemingly pleased) of how they have had to forego all such order and rules. In some of the fancier homes, residents have set up small kitchenettes in their rooms, with refrigerator, hot plate, and a few supplies for making tea and snacks for themselves and guests. Residents’ clothes are washed, rooms cleaned, and tea punctually brought; and in fact one of the distinct advantages of old-age-home living, many say, is that older people no longer have to manage their own servants. Even most ordinary middle-class households in India maintain servants to help with household chores, something that requires money, just as residing in an old age home does (for instance, in Kolkata in 2006 a full-time cook, house-cleaner and attendant might be paid about Rs 2,000–3,000 a month, and a full-time driver Rs 3,000 a month). Peppering Indian newspapers over recent years are also stories of aged persons being tricked, robbed and even murdered by domestic workers, contributing to a widespread sense that it is inappropriate and even dangerous for elders to live on their own (e.g., Times News Network, 2005). Some old-age-home residents also tell of how bored and irritated they had become listening to their servants’ monotonous stories over and over again, as they had become increasingly homebound in their older years. Weekly or bi-weekly doctor visits are provided, although if one becomes very ill or disabled, the family or individual must generally pay additionally for a private nurse’s care, or else the old person is sent to a hospital or back to his or her kin. (But, for some of these residents, where are close and willing kin?) Minimal formal activities are planned, and residents spend their time reading, chatting, simply sitting, playing cards, knitting, writing journals and letters, having tea, watching television, going on morning walks, taking a stroll to a nearby market, and (in the fancier ones) attending occasional cultural programs and functions. Female residents might also help

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with some light cooking, such as peeling vegetables or tasting a dish to see if it has turned out right. The larger homes generally house a mandir or temple, where residents can pray, make offerings to deities and sing hymns. Most women boarders also maintain their own small shrines in their rooms, where they perform daily pujas, serving and honoring both deities and deceased kin such as husbands and parents. Residents, directors and the public speak of old age home living as a distinctly modern and Western mode of managing aging, and the institutions are referred to most commonly using the English designation “old age home.” Bengali alternatives are also gradually becoming more prevalent: beginning about 2004, a regular column has appeared in the Sunday classified sections of major Bengali newspapers under briddhabas (abode for elders). A second term, briddhasram—“shelter” or “ashram” for the “increased” or “senior” (briddha)—carries distinct connotations of both spirituality (where elders can purposefully cultivate freedom from worldly ties) and refuge (for those who have no place else to go). One of the most sophisticated elder institutions in Kolkata calls itself a “Home for Senior Citizens,” and the cosmopolitan residents there (who also partake in cocktail parties and jaunts to the neighborhood espresso café and movie theater) explicitly rejected (in keeping with current American trends) what they felt to be the rather pejorative and pitying label of “old.” Although viewed predominantly as a product of the West, there are important ways that Indian old age homes are emerging as intriguingly local materializations of this now globally ubiquitous institution. There is a widespread perception among many residents, for instance, that these homes are a contemporary version of the classical Hindu third or “forest-dweller” (vanaprastha) life phase, in which persons purposefully leave their households of reproduction to embark on a path of late-life spiritual cultivation.7 Founders of the institutions also tend to see their core mission as offering seva or respectful service to elders—which they describe as a fundamental element of traditional Indian ways of treating the aged. Further, residents, staff and directors almost always come to employ kin terms when referring to each other, and many speak of the institutions as in certain ways not unlike the large joint families or ekannabarti paribar of the past—in which numerous people were linked together under one roof sharing food from the same hearth. Nonetheless, at the same time, most involved with the institutions—including the wider Indian public—view them as

88 Sarah Lamb part of a radical transformation of fundamental Indian values, the family and aging; because in these homes, aging takes place outside of the family.

Solitary Living A second trend in Indian cosmopolitan aging is that many seniors are now living “alone” (in Bengali, ekala or eka), with just a spouse, or as a widowed single with a live-in servant, or entirely on their own. This is an arrangement that some say they enjoy and is working just fine for them. However, both elders and the public widely tell of living alone as “unthinkable earlier,” “unnatural,” “very Western,” and distinctly “modern.” Saptaparni, a middle-class apartment complex in South Kolkata, began several decades ago largely as a residence for whole families who had migrated from East Bengal at the time of Partition. The flats felt small compared to the spaciousness of ancestral homes and village lands, but families were comfortably crowded together, perhaps three brothers, their wives and children in a 3 bedroom flat. Now, elder Saptaparni residents say, brothers found material success and left, and the children grew up and moved on, very often abroad. Describing her building in the complex, Jethima commented, “14 flats— 14 people. Saptaparni itself is now an old age home!” Sitting and speaking with her, I am struck by the quietness. I can hear clearly the hum of the refrigerator, a clock ticking, the lonely call of a kokil bird near sunset, distant honking cars. A new industry of extra-family aging is emerging—NGOs, clubs and small businesses—to offer social, emotional and practical support for such cosmopolitan elderly who live alone. One private couple in the Delhi suburbs, Mr and Mrs Saksena, have for instance started a business to look in on the senior parents of NRI (non-resident Indian) children. It is the children who are the paying “clients” (at $5 or about Rs 225 an hour); for Mr and Mrs Saksena follow a policy “where we recover our charges from our clients [the NRI children] and never from the elderly.” They visit the senior parents as “friends of their son/daughter overseas.” Their motto is “to do whatever we are asked

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to do, provided it is not illegal,” including: routine visits to chat over tea; escorting to doctors’ appointments, government offices, railway stations, airports, and late night wedding receptions; taking out on special occasions—to dinner, the movies, concerts, religious festivals; arranging cakes, flowers, etc., for birthdays or anniversaries; and finally, being present at the time of death. Mr Saksena explained, “Typically, it takes anywhere between 24–48 hours for our nonresident clients to arrive in India. As such, we have to be present with the [dying] elderly to provide emotional support and make arrangements for the funeral. Not a very pleasant task, but it has to be done.” The Agewell Foundation is an NGO launched in 1999 in New Delhi offering similar services: home visits, a telephone help line, escorting, assistance filling out tax forms, platforms to socialize with fellow seniors, and the like. NRI children can sponsor their parents, paying Rs 5,000 for a lifetime membership. Himanshu Rath, director and founder of Agewell, compares the hired counselors to “surrogate sons,” explaining: “Imagine the counselor to be like a son … who takes the place of the natural child and performs the same duties for his elderly charge as a son would do. The presence of a younger person in the house gives these old people something to look forward to.” Rath adds that the response from children who cannot spend time with their parents has been tremendous. “Agewell allows children to gift the membership to their parents. A sad situation indeed where children cannot gift their parents time. But this is a contemporary reality that has to be faced.”8 Other similar organizations include Aastha in Kolkata (offering an around-the-clock emergency help line for seniors living alone), and the Dignity Foundation (with branches in Mumbai, Kolkata, Pune, Navi Numbai and Chennai), whose senior volunteer members visit the more home-bound to provide companionship, advice, and assistance with simple chores and errands. Bengalis speaking about such arrangements often use with some critical irony the term bhara or “rented” to refer to the “hired” children and grandchildren offered up for service. Many who live alone have become very creative working purposefully to construct a sense of self, life, social relations and activity outside of the family, largely by socializing with peers and developing hobbies. Senior peer organizations have long existed quite informally in India (such as older men’s neighborhood gatherings and women’s

90 Sarah Lamb meetings in temples), but more formal “senior citizens” clubs have recently been fast springing up—promoting things like “active/productive aging”; independence; peer-socializing; volunteerism; hobbies; age-specific magazines, health and beauty products; spiritual education; and political awareness (of having distinct “rights” as a group). Significantly, most single elders with children do spend a great deal of time and emotional energy thinking of and maintaining ties with their dearly loved descendants—for instance, by displaying their photos proudly and extolling their careers; setting up e-mail and video conferencing; and traveling regularly to children’s homes. One retired Bengali gentleman, who lives alone with his wife in a modern Kolkata apartment complex while their only son works as a professor in the United States, articulated ardently to me, speaking here in English of parents’ emotional ties with children living abroad: “For Bengalis, out of sight is not out of mind! Out of sight is very much in mind!” Nonetheless, the myriad processes of forging ahead late in life apart from children, end up entailing the cultivation of a profoundly new and much more individualistic way of being.

Making Lives Abroad A third trend in cosmopolitan aging involves the transnational movement of senior Indians to join children settled abroad in places like the United States, where much of my research has focused. Older Indian parents move abroad primarily for the purpose of being close to their children, sharing with their children the hope that they may both sustain the long-term bonds of intergenerational reciprocity and affection that so many still view as central to an “Indian” and “good” family and old age. Juniors in addition welcome the cooking and childcare they imagine their parents can provide while they are so busy at work. But many end up finding that intergenerational intimacy and family-centered aging are hard to achieve in the United States. In America, my informants reflect, children have no time; they are separated from their parents by generational-cultural divides; and they all exist in a general cultural milieu where aging is viewed as a matter of the state and of independent selves more than of families.

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To illustrate some of the intergenerational-intercultural tensions Indian parents face in the United States, Matilal Majmundar told me a story of a newer immigrant friend. Matilal Majmundar himself, a Gujarati man in his seventies, had come with his wife to the United States to be with his children about twelve years earlier. He found himself gradually adjusting quite well to American life, having learned to live fairly independently, maintaining a separate cottage (partially funded by government welfare payments for the elderly) adjoining his daughter’s spacious Palo Alto home. But many other Indian seniors, whom he informally counsels, are not so happy. Matilal Majmundar narrated: One gentleman came from India, old man, just to find out whether he would be comfortable here with his children. I met him. I said, “How are you?” “Oh, I’m not happy.”... He gets up at six o’clock, he requires a cup of tea, he is moving here and there, waiting for a cup of tea. The children, they get up at 8:00, or 7:30, busy with all their activities.... At 9:00 or at 8:00–8:30 there will be a breakfast table, so many cups of tea and all these things. “But what is the use of all this? Early in the morning I don’t get it.” I told him, “It’s very bad of your children, huh? to lock up, huh? the tea and the sugar material.” He said, “No, no, they’re not locking.” I said, “Then why don’t you prepare?” He said, “No, I don’t like.” Then I said, “You better go to India. You better go back to India. In India, if you take a second cup, or a third cup of tea, they will object, they will object. Here, you can take even ten cups of tea, prepare yourself, any material you use, your children will never object. But, if you want their time, they will object. They will object if you want their time. So, better go to India. Here is not the place for you.”

In America, this and other narratives tell that much of what elders imagine they would have received from their children, in terms of both material and emotional support, gets displaced onto individual selves (e.g., preparing one’s own tea) and the state. True, most adult children in Indian American families do provide a substantial degree of material and social support for the elderly parents they bring over from India. Of the thirty-two immigrant seniors I have researched most closely, for instance, twenty-one (or about two-thirds) live in the homes of their adult children, where they are provided shelter and food (or at least food supplies), and generally some spending money. Those who do not live with their children tend at least to receive quite a lot of material support from them, such as money

92 Sarah Lamb deposited regularly in a bank account, the gift of a car, medical expenses paid, and air tickets to and from India purchased. Children further almost always provide forms of social support—escorting their parents to doctors’ appointments, cooking at least occasional meals, and taking them on weekend excursions to Indian friends’ homes, Hindu temples or restaurants. However, seniors end up taking on things like cooking, scrounging for leftovers in the refrigerator, making their own cups of tea, vacuuming. All this can be particularly difficult, especially for senior men. And, of course, not only are children short of time and unavailable, but there are no servants in America. Further, the U.S. government ends up taking over much of the responsibility of providing material and social support for these senior immigrants—in the form of Supplemental Security Income (SSI)aged welfare benefits,9 Medicare (health care for the aged), statesubsidized senior apartments (which some move into), senior bus passes and escort services, discounted lunches and gatherings at senior centers, and the like—resulting in a whole new configuration of the social-moral relationship between old people, families, and the state. At first many find perplexing American expectations that the state, rather than the family, will support the elderly. Vitalbhai Gujar, a Gujarati immigrant in his seventies who had come to the U.S. about ten years earlier to join his only son and daughter-in-law, queried, “Why is [the government] defining me as indigent [and thus eligible for welfare?], when I live in my son’s home?” Gujar went on, though: “If the American government defines things this way, and if we are living in America, then why not accept?” He, in fact, did receive aged welfare benefits monthly, which he used mainly for “pocket money.” Still, he maintained some misgivings: Have you heard of the buro ashram? old age home?… Seniors from India are using the U.S. government like an old age home. They come here, and the U.S. government takes care of all medical expenses, food. [I asked, “Do you think that’s wrong?”] Yes! And it’s bad for families, too. My son is not taking on his responsibility of caring for me! And then their children are not learning from them—they think just that the government should do it…. They’re forgetting the Indian system.

Older Indians also tend to find the American suburbs where their children live to be terribly quiet and empty, lacking all the thronging

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signs of life and sociality of Indian streets and neighborhoods— vendors calling out their wares, neighbors leaning over balconies, senior men gathering daily at park benches to chat about politics and life. There is nowhere one can go without a car, and so one must wait at home all day until the children return from work. They also complain of feeling like perpetual guests in, rather than as full members of, their children’s homes. Perceived cultural-generational divides interfere, too, with intergenerational intimacy. Elders wince, for instance, seeing their kids and grandkids eat ready-made cold food on the go—like sandwiches or protein drinks in the car for lunch— without stopping for a “real” face-to-face meal. Rajata, of the younger generation, was planning a casual party one Friday evening for several friends. She came home from work carrying bags of ready-made appetizers, snacks and drinks to find that her mother-in-law had already prepared an elaborate, multi-course Indian meal. “It’s not that kind of party,” Rajata exclaimed in irritation, dismayed at her mother-in-law’s interference. Some Indian seniors, however, gradually come to value dimensions of what they see as American modes of aging and family. A good proportion of Indian immigrants, especially those who are still married, end up using their SSI-aged welfare benefits to seek out their own apartments, some in state-subsidized senior complexes. When Manubhai Daiya and his wife first migrated from Gujarat in 1986, they came to be with their daughter (a naturalized citizen) and help care for her children while she and her husband worked. Then six years later, he explained: “After we became senior in American parlance—that is, of age sixty-five—we received SSI. So we thought we might as well launch out on our own, and accustom ourselves to American life.” So saying, he and his wife moved into a separate apartment, where they are supported almost entirely by SSI, although they continue to visit their children every week. He describes with enthusiasm the “independence” and “freedom,” and the reduction in family conflict, they have enjoyed since moving into their own home. Gopal Singh, quoted at the beginning of this chapter, spoke to me eagerly about how one doesn’t even need to depend on children in the U.S., since the state provides for so much—SSI, Medicare, senior centers. “Why, we can even call 911 [government-funded emergency services] if something goes wrong. We tried it once,” he said with delight. “Why would we have to live with our children?”

94 Sarah Lamb

Reflections So, what do people make of these new modes of aging—this shifting of aging from the realm of the family to institutions and independent selves? This is a topic that is prominent in the public dialog among cosmopolitan Indians right now. Everyone has something to say on the subject, and the Sunday papers and magazines are filled with editorials, stories, and poems about old age homes, and the plight of elderly parents with NRI or otherwise absent kids. No one uniform picture emerges; one witnesses in this complex, richly layered dialog the highly ambivalent, multivocal project of working out a meaningful modernity. Indian gerontologists frequently advocate in recent writings such a development of individual self-sufficiency and institutional (nonfamily) means of elder support, often presenting “traditional” familycentered modes of aging as “backward.” The recent book India’s Elderly: Burden or Challenge? recommends, for instance, that the Indian government should support old age homes and pension plans, and that aging individuals should cultivate a dependence on the self— through savings, exercise, and an open-mindedness about living in old age homes—as one can no longer count on (and should no longer count on, if one is modern and educated) children in old age. Gerontologist Shovana Narayana comments: “The self-sufficiency of the elderly is a very healthy trend.... The problem lies in the rural mindset where people consider their children as a support system for their old age” (in Gupta, 2001, italics added). Media representations, though, tend to be less sanguine, portraying today’s modern Indian elders as pathetic victims, powerlessly trapped in old age homes and isolated apartments as if in jail, their stories peppered with what sound like urban legends. For example, one newspaper article reads: “The old couple is even forced [by their children] to go without food, unless they do odd jobs in the house” (Ghosh, 1999). Or another: “Delhi’s seniors have come to dread their own children, who in their greed for money and ancestral property are terrorizing their aged parents” (Shakeel, 1999). One common story line is that of “old person’s suicide due to loneliness,” such as this one titled “Death from loneliness at 80.” One man’s only son—an Indian Institute of Technology graduate—has settled in the United

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States. The old father “jumped off the landing between the 8th and 9th floors, ending a solitary existence.... Neighbors said the loneliness was probably too much for the octogenarian to bear, a condition not uncommon in a city from which the young who will take care of the old are increasingly [going abroad for better] opportunities” (The Telegraph, 2003). Another, from a cover story for The Hindu Sunday magazine titled “Homes of the Future?,” reads: Shunned by those whom they breastfed, whose midnight tantrums they endured, whose mess they cleaned without ever covering the nose with eau de cologne-swabbed towel, whom they perched on their shoulders and with whom they played and sang, ... the ignored aged have no choice now but to exist in the cages of old age homes. The decision of their children or kin to dump them in an old age home is replayed again and again in their head, like a squealing track on a damaged disk.... The homes across the nation, where the aged are dumped, are often worse than a sty where overcrowding and grunts are common (Ghosh, 1998).

We are confronted here with chaos, disarray, a terrible failed reciprocity, a sinking into an amoral animalistic state—one that implicates not only the family but the nation as a whole. A few positive media representations of contemporary old age can nonetheless be found. In a special issue of the magazine Sananda, for instance, an article on old age homes, briddhashram, opens cheerfully: “Does your son or daughter live abroad? Does your son live separately after marriage or is he forced to stay separately under pressure of employment? Hence do you feel yourself lonely? Just forget about this thought. Homes for the aged are senior citizen friendly” (Bandyopadhyay and Hajari, 2003: 44). Most of the directors and founders of aging institutions whom I have had contact with likewise present their projects with pride and a sense of altruism. They see themselves as stepping in to serve the elderly (when others do not), and/or as helping to bring Indian society to a practical, realistic, “modern” plane—where there are other options besides family (which often no longer really works best, they argue) as a site for aging. In making such arguments, most proprietors speak respectfully and very often affectionately of the elders they serve. I came across, however, one highly disgruntled director of an old age home nestled in a peripheral suburban “village” region outside Kolkata—who seemed

96 Sarah Lamb terribly annoyed by his job, and who poured forth a diatribe against the “irritating” seniors of his home (while continually ordering more cups of tea for us both, so enjoying the opportunity finally to have an interested, listening ear for his complaints). To this director, Dr Roy, true, old age homes are a valuable tool or solution in modern society. But, this is not because modern children are flawed. It is because Bengali society has finally come to a more enlightened place where elder respect is no longer compulsory when the elders are not deserving of respect. “Why old age homes now?” he responded to my query. “Because before, no matter how much quarreling and inconvenience ( jhogra, asubiddha) there was at home, the kids could not kick their parents out.” He told a story of one mother who had three sons. She told everyone, “Oh, my sons are all bad, and that’s why I have to come to the home.” “Now,” the director said, “One son could be bad; maybe two sons could be bad; but how could three sons be bad? So, who is bad—tell me?... These old people are so irritating (eto biraktakar, na?); you wouldn’t be able to understand!” “These days old age homes are necessary,” he went on, “because if we didn’t have them, where else could they [the old people] go? There’s nowhere else.... We have to put up with them, but the families no longer do.” On their part, some seniors do deplore such contemporary modes of aging. Many in old age homes speak nostalgically of missing their kin terribly, and tell of how in earlier times old people always lived and died right with their families. Ranjan Banerjee, a retired psychiatrist living in one of the more exclusive Kolkata old age homes, reflected thoughtfully about how old age homes are not at all only about a new form of aging, but also about much broader—regrettable— social, cultural and national transformations. He told me: Old age homes are not a concept of our country. These days, we are throwing away our culture. The U.S. is the richest nation in the world and therefore has won us over. Now we, too, are only after material wealth as a nation and have become very unhappy. Some are here [in the old age home] because their families dumped them here, and there are others whose children are living abroad and can easily afford the money. But old age homes are not our way of life. My parents died right with us.... I have a granddaughter and my world revolves around her. I miss her so much when I don’t see her for a few days [he paused, with glistening eyes]. Here [in the old age home], there is a little hardship regarding food and all, but that’s OK. I have time to read and such. The real hardship comes from missing loved family, like my granddaughter.... We as a nation

Modern Families and Independent Living 97 have become very unhappy. Material wealth (artha) used not to be the prime value in life; rather, family and social closeness were. But now it has become so. I myself am against the old age home concept—but, old age homes will stay and increase in India.

Other elder residents of old age homes and solitary apartments, however, present themselves as quite resourceful and even optimistic in dealing with modern social changes. My sense is that many would have liked to have retained much of the past; but since the past is gone, they work creatively to carve out a new life and mode of aging in the present. Quite a few living in old age homes were themselves the ones to decide firmly on their own that they would be moving in—clipping out newspaper advertisements (which some still carefully save and pull out with pride), making enquiries on their own, and then moving in (often while their families protested, they almost uniformly feel obliged to say—because it is painful, and stigmatizing, to admit that one’s family doesn’t want one). And then they tell of getting adjusted to the new way of life, making friends among peers, playing cards, sewing, chatting as they fall asleep (for those who live dormitory style), speaking of each other as their new families. “Let them [i.e., one’s sons and daughters-in-law] live happily; let us live happily. Let them live in peace, let us live in peace,” is a common refrain. Small disagreements with co-residents and staff of an old age home do not hurt nearly as much as those with kin. Contrary to earlier times when young women entered their in-laws’ homes as submissive boumas, this is now the “era of the daughter-in-law”— with daughters-in-law older and less pliable at marriage, and often earning their own authority-bestowing incomes. Rather than struggle with such independent daughters-in-law or live under their rule, many older women say they find it more comfortable, for both themselves and their juniors, to live on their own. “When Bengalis live together, there is much jhamela [hassle, trouble], you know,” one resident remarked, after she and some of her dormitory-mates had been chatting in a lightly critical yet not fully revealing manner about their daughtersin-law. “It’s because of this old age home that we are surviving,” added her roommate. Those without sons are also often very relieved and delighted to find an alternative way to live. For instance, Dipti Mitra told me compellingly, with enthusiasm:

98 Sarah Lamb How am I doing? I’ll tell you. I am very happy here. I’m very much at peace; very happy.... You see, I have only daughters, no sons; and, you know, we can’t live with our daughters. If I were with my daughter, in someone else’s house, I couldn’t hold my head up high. If I needed something, I couldn’t ask. I would just have to lie in bed and wait. Here, I can live independently (svadhin-bhabe), and I can ask for whatever I need with my head held high. I don’t have to feel uncomfortable speaking up and asking for anything. They are here to serve me. And I have companions here at all times, so I never feel lonely.... I am very happy here, very happy and at peace.10

Renuka-di, widowed mother of three married sons, is delighted as well to be in control of her own pension, which she receives as widow of her former-government-employee husband. For the first time in her life, she has money that she can spend as she wishes, and she maintains that she could never have such freedom if living at home with her sons. Some also highly value the potential spiritual benefits of the leaving behind of family and worldly life when moving into an old age home. Shoma Chowdhury, widowed with an only son since her early forties, had decided years earlier that upon retirement from her life-long career as an engineer, she would shift to a spiritual ashram, leaving the family’s two-bedroom flat to her son, daughter-in-law and granddaughter. But when she heard of old age “ashrams,” she decided to try one, and used her own funds to pay for the construction of a lovely temple within the grounds of the home she selected. She reflected, “If I were to remain in samsar [family, worldly life], then they [my kin] would remain very much my own/part of me (nije), and I would stay accustomed to that and would never be able to attain this independence to pursue my spiritual goals.” She peppered her conversations thoughtfully with philosophical aphorisms: “No one is your own,” “I came into this world alone, and I will have to leave alone,” “Except for God there is no one,” “Without abandoning (tyag), nothing can be received.” In my experience, those who are happiest in old age homes seem to be: (1) those with no sons [so their expectations for intimate family care in old age were comparatively less]; (2) those who had previously lived quite cosmopolitan lives [developing successful professional careers and a sort of independent identity]; (3) those whose children are all abroad [because then there is a manifest reason that they are not living with their kids, and they are proud of their children’s foreign

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success]; and (4) women who live dormitory style [often thriving on the constant companionship, speaking of each other as like sisters or childhood girlfriends]. Some elders who praise old age homes or the dividing of the generations into separate apartments acknowledge, as well, that the past itself was not all as rosy as many people now make it out to be; and that of course generational tensions existed then, too; and that joint families used particularly to be difficult for young women and daughters-in-law, who had subserviently to serve their elders while foregoing the pursuit of higher education and rewarding work.

Conclusion We see here that the working out of aging in cosmopolitan India entails not only new ways of thinking about old age per se. It also involves profound reconfigurations of the proper social-moral relationship between individuals, genders, families, and the state; and the very shape and aims of the human life course. In closing, I would like to suggest that we are witnessing here emerging forms of family and aging that are not tied specifically to India or diasporic Indians, or to any single national-cultural place (although regarded by many as originally emanating from the “West”). Such forms of aging and family are in significant respects developing globally across the world’s cosmopolitan centers, characterized broadly by features such as urban and transnational migration, ideologies of gendered and aged egalitarianism, nuclear families, 24 × 7 work lives, individual self-sufficiency, dependence (when necessary) on private institutions and on the state rather than on kin, and a consumerism that stresses the pursuit of personal value through commodities and modern technologies. Yet, as Indians grapple with such forms of aging, family, gender and society, they do so in ways that engage intimately both with these more globally dispersed social forms, and with their own complex and diverse traditions, lifeways, values, and interpretive lenses. In their richly multivalent narratives, emerging modes of aging and family work in some ways as fundamental signs of social degeneracy, and in others as intrinsic parts of a valued—rational, cosmopolitan, and, in significant part, uniquely Indian—modernity.

100 Sarah Lamb

Notes 1. The research on which this article was based was generously supported by a postdoctoral fellowship in Sociocultural Gerontology at the University of California, San Francisco, a Fulbright-Hays Faculty Research Abroad Fellowship, and by two Mazer Awards and one Norman Fund Award for Faculty Research at Brandeis University. 2. Fieldwork in the U.S. among Indian Americans took place intensely during 1993–1995 and when possible (primarily over summers) since that time. For this current project, fieldwork in India took place over a total of six months, largely in Kolkata, in 2003, 2004 and 2006. Most conversations with those in West Bengal, India were in Bengali; translations are my own. In the U.S., I spoke with most people in English. To protect privacy, the names used are pseudonyms, except for those in the public eye (such as directors of major organizations), when they have requested that I use their real names. 3. For instance, see Wadley (1994, 2002) for discussions of family types in Karimpur, North India from 1925 through 1998. Over this period, nuclear families were consistently the largest group (2002: 19). 4. From 2004–2006, I was able to locate 71 old age homes in the Kolkata area (visiting 27 of these personally and contacting the others by phone and letters). HelpAge India’s (soon-to-be-updated) 2002 guide to old age homes lists 800 across India’s urban centers (HelpAge India 2002; see also Sawhney 2003). 5. In the Kolkata region, few among the very wealthy are at this point turning to old age homes, for they have more other options open to them, such as the financial capacity to maintain their own private homes with plentiful servants, even in the absence of children. There are just a few old age homes run by charitable organizations that offer accommodations to the poor. Some of these receive some partial funding from the Government of India. 6. From 2003–2006, I interviewed 90 old-age-home residents in the Kolkata environs. Of these, 32 had sons and daughters-in-law living right in the Kolkata region, 27 had no children at all (18 of these had never married), 18 had children all living abroad, 12 had only daughters, and one had just a single unmarried son. It is significant to note that most Indians feel it strongly inappropriate to live in a married daughter’s home (although such attitudes are changing somewhat due to various factors, probably the most significant being that more daughters are earning their own incomes). 7. Classical Hindu texts divide the life course into four major stages: that of student, householder, forest-dweller and renunciant. During the forestdweller (vanaprastha) and renunciant (sannyasi) life phases, the older person

Modern Families and Independent Living 101 purposefully loosens family and worldly ties, departing from home to live as a hermit, or remaining in the household but with a mind focused on God. 8. This discussion was published in Sokhal 2000, one of about 20 newspaper clippings Himanshu Rath offered me when I met with him in March 2003 to discuss Agewell Foundation and his general views about aging in contemporary Indian society. 9. The Supplemental Security Income (SSI) program is a U.S. federal program established in 1974 to provide a nationally uniform guaranteed minimum income for the aged, blind and disabled. Until 1996, both citizens and legal immigrants could receive benefits under this program, provided they met other eligibility requirements pertaining to age, blindness or disability, and financial resources. Since the passing of a new bill (Welfare Reform Bill #H.R.3507, now Public Law 104–193), immigrants arriving after 1996 are not eligible for the program until or unless they become citizens. Nonetheless, about 75 percents of my senior Indian American informants receive SSI. 10. Significantly, Bengalis only generally speak of the daughters’ but not their sons’ homes as “someone else’s house.”

References Altman, Dennis. (2001). “Rupture or Continuity? The Internationalization of Gay Identities,” in John C. Hawley, (ed.), Post-Colonial, Queer: Theoretical Intersections, pp. 19–41. New York: State University of New York Press. ———. (2002). Global Sex. Chicago: Chicago University Press. Bandyopadhyay, Kinsuk and Dipanwita Hajari. (2003). Briddha Baba Mayer Samasya (“The Problem of Aging Parents”). Sananda, February 1, 39–46. Cohen, Lawrence. (1998). No Aging in India: Alzheimer’s, the Bad Family, and Other Modern Things. Berkeley: University of California Press. Ghosh, Deepshikha. (1999). “Search for New Horizons after 60.” The Statesman, April 22. Ghosh, Gautam. (1998). “Homes of the Future?” The Hindu, October 18. Gupta, Aparna. (2001). “To Light Up that Wrinkled Face.” The Asian Age, October 2. HelpAge India. (2002). Directory of Old Age Homes in India 2002. (First edition published in 1995.) New Delhi: HelpAge India. Lamb, Sarah. (1993). Growing in the Net of Maya: Persons, Gender and Life Processes in a Bengali Society. Ph.D. dissertation, Anthropology Department, University of Chicago. ———. (2000). White Saris and Sweet Mangoes: Aging, Gender and Body in North India. Berkeley: University of California Press.

102 Sarah Lamb Lamb, Sarah. (2002). “Intimacy in a Transnational Era: The Remaking of Aging among Indian Americans.” Diaspora 11(3): 299–330. ———. (2007). “Aging Across Worlds: Modern Seniors in an Indian Diaspora,” in Jennifer Cole and Deborah Durham (eds), Generations and Globalization: Family, Youth, and Age in the New World Economy, pp. 132–63, Indiana University Press. Sawhney, M. (2003). “The Role of Non-Governmental Organizations for the Welfare of the Elderly: The Case of HelpAge India,” in P.S. Liebig and S.I. Rajan (eds), An Aging India: Perspectives, Prospects and Policies, pp. 179–91. New York: Haworth. Shakeel, Sujata B. (1999). “Like Father, Unlike Son.” The Hindustan Times, June 5, no. 152. Sokhal, Sonali. (2000). “Bright Twilight.” Cardmembers’ EXPRESSION India. June: 54–55. The Telegraph. (2003). “Death from Loneliness at Eighty,” The Telegraph, July 22. Times News Network. (2005). “Aged Couple Battered to Death in Posh Flat,” Times of India, April 19: 3. Wadley, Susan Snow. (1994). Struggling with Destiny in Karimpur, 1925–1984. Berkeley: University of California Press. ———. (2002). “One Straw from a Broom Cannot Sweep,” in Diane P. Mines and Sarah Lamb (eds), Everyday Life in South Asia, pp. 11–22. Bloomington: Indiana University Press.

Chapter 4

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Women and the Naga Family Today Communitarianism in Practice Bonita Aleaz∗

Society in the North-Eastern part of India is experiencing the throes of change at a faster rate than the rest of India; this is perhaps because their tryst with modernity occurred at a much later period. Dissensions rip parts of the region today and the socio-political and religious bonds among the tribes are severely affected. The state administration and the constitutional set-up time and again fall short of providing lasting solutions to the ensuing crisis, since they fail to take into consideration the traditional ties of the family, the community and the clan. It is these ties that are the determining factors; yet, the mechanics of state administration take no account of their impact. In this context, the chapter discusses the situation faced by one particular state of the NorthEast today, Nagaland, and shows how its women counter-balance the unsettling effects of the clash among the confusing multifarious value-systems. While the youth—primarily the young males—engage in issues that rupture both self, tribe1 and the state, their mothers, the women, exhibit Amazonian strength to reconstruct and to heal, by ∗ The author wishes to thank Anshely Sumi and Amenla Aier for their contributions to the chapter.

104 Bonita Aleaz extending familial ties into wider society. The women’s work reflects “communitarianism” in practice; the familial space is extended into the wider society and the same norms are sought to be applied in both. The trajectory of the family is replicated in the society, allowing “motherhood” and its attendant bonds to be reflected in the wider community. Pandit Jawaharlal Nehru best described the role of women in Naga society: “To awaken the people, it is the women who must be awakened. Once she is on the move the family moves, the village moves, the nation moves” (Madan, 1966: 131). At present there is an imperative need to shed light on the multifarious roles played by these women who live almost vicariously, subordinating their needs and desires to those of others. But breaking out of the stereotype was and is never easy. The chapter first looks at the theoretical connotation of “communitarianism” to show how it becomes the guiding principle used by the women in the projection of familial “motherhood” attributes into wider Naga society. It next enters into a brief description of the problems afflicting the society today and the methods used by the state administration to control the same. The third section specifically highlights the role of the Naga Mothers Association, as an exemplary familial organization and presents the case of Neidonuo Angami (“the mother of peace”). In the final section, a bird’s eye view of the family structure is provided revealing the re-creation of traditionality in modernity by the women, again exemplifying the modern-day practice of communitarianism.

I Communitarianism in Practice Tribal/indigenous social life is organized around communitarian precepts. In order to understand the implications of communitarian influences one must go back to the earlier term “collectivism.” The most common usage of “collectivism” refers to any political or socioeconomic theory or practice that encourages communal or state ownership and control of the means of production and distribution. The collectivist principle, particularly its economic form, relates very well to the precepts that guide community life in indigenous communities. The principle emphasizes that market relationships are

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competitive and also tend to be divisive; they also undermine the communal bonds that are necessary between individuals if they are to cope with misfortunes to which all are in principle vulnerable. The indigenous view of welfare matches the communitarian view; that is, an expression of common values that bind individuals in contrast to the individualist notions of welfare derived from the theory of citizenship. In other words, claims to welfare resources are simply an extension of the legal and political rights that are consistent with the theory of citizenship. So the deprivation-alleviating institutions and policies rest on the individualistic principles of reciprocal obligations attendant on citizenship. Communitarian principles, on the other hand, have since the 1960s propagated a vision of a social order that foster intimate communal bonds. It was the communitarian exponent Amitai Etzioni who linked the rampant moral disorder of western societies to the excessive freedom given to individuals and the moral decline of the family. Broadly, communitarian principles favor a social order in which the community defines the social order or the common good and persuades its members to act towards it (Etzioni, 1998). Indigenous communities in India, in this case the Nagas, have embedded in them the principles defined above. The governing idea is that human beings are by nature social beings. Human persons in society, made up of strangers with a common interest, are different from human persons in community, which is made up of persons related through a common life. Diversity may exist among the community but unity or a feeling of oneness prevails in the long run. M. Rongsen, defining the tribal attributes in general, rightly says that the tribal members are a well-knit unit with strong social cohesion, holding fast to the values of their community and solidarity and are capable of strong corporate actions (Rongsen, 1999: 36). Shimray defines the communitarian context of the Nagas further: Naga individuals know no other life except that of “community life.” They work in groups, eat in groups, and sleep in groups. There is neither individual house nor building, no individual cultivation or harvest, nor feast of merit, by individual alone … all things are done in groups in the full presence of the community. The individual has no place apart from the community…. There was no place for idle men in Naga community. The communist principle, i.e., “he/she who does no work, neither shall he/she eat,” is a Naga principle too. All must work and participate in community work. (1985: 121)

106 Bonita Aleaz Thus building together, laboring in the jhum, mourning their dead or celebrating their feasts—these are all collective enterprises. In such a situation the security network extends to all, whether the widow or the illegitimate waif (Thanzauva, 1997: 106). Sanjay Basu Mallick provides some further elaborations (1991: 85). The communitarian feeling is strongly projected because of the overall prevailing egalitarianism. It respects individuality but abhors individualism. Thus decision-making, in principle is perpetually collective; individual decisions are invariably regarded as aberrations. The community has certain guiding institutions, two of these are to be found in almost all the North-Eastern states. The Nagas, as well as the Mizos, have specific names for the altruistic spirit that pervades their community life. In Poumai Naga terminology this spirit is referred to as “zhai” and in Ao Naga it is known as “sobaliba,” while the Sumi Nagas refer to it as “akhuaye.” Among the Mizos it is known as “tlawmgainha.” This spirit of altruism may very well be described as the philosophical and ethical foundations of a communitarian society where the welfare of all takes precedence. A second is the institution of bachelors quarters. Young boys from the age of seven till the time of marriage are given specific training in all future walks of life in such dormitories. Some communities have such dormitories for girls as well, where the girls receive training in practical aspects of daily life. Contemporary Naga society may not have exact replicas of these institutions but the spirit of such “training grounds” is still visible. This communitarian spirit came face to face with the unsettling effects of continuing socio-political strife, and it is here that the ingenuity of the women, when confronted with dissensions in society, was sharply brought into focus.

II Psychosomatic Problems Among Children, Drugs, Aids and Political Strife The regrettable offshoots of the socio-political upheavals in Naga society have been brought to light lately. Family structure has been

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affected in several ways. However, the most severe effects have come upon the very young, that is, the pre-primary and primary school children. The effects on the adolescents and young adults, though severe, are the result of conscious choice, but in the case of the younger children an unconscious absorption of attributes negating healthy growth is observable. We discuss the psychosomatic behavioral aberrations in the case of the very young children and conscious drug abuse in the case of adolescents. Both symptoms are alarmingly on the rise and has become a cause for concern. The growth and development of the child in a proper environment is a major concern to Naga families in the current context. The prolonged political instability resulting from insurgency has deeply affected family lives. A survey work done among school children of the Ao tribe shows behavioral disorders afflicting many children. It is common knowledge that all children display degrees of aggressive as well as defiant behavior. Yet, the study shows, at least three out of five Ao Naga children increasingly are showing such behavioral traits. This might be the result of socio-political instability in the region. The parents of such children feel that the reasons for such disorders are environmental, both external and internal; that is, the psychological stress visible among the adults undergoing prolonged sociopolitical strife affects the home and the children in various ways (Moakala, 1995: 58). Among the findings are that greater involvement of the family and to a large extent the church ( since 98 percent of the Nagas are Christians) might bring stability in the lives of the young. The problem is quite serious in certain areas, particularly when behavioral deviance is accompanied by substance abuse. Surveys reveal the vastness of the problems in setting up the right infrastructure with the church in the lead and in molding the children in a proper upbringing. The feeling strongly expressed is that the role of the church in child-development has a great potential not only for the development of children but also in contributing to a richer and fuller development of the society in general. Teenagers and young adults, on the other hand, are consciously becoming victims of another menace, drug abuse. Findings from various surveys reveal the shocking truth that boys and girls aged 12–25 have increasingly become victims of drug abuse in North-East India. While the problem is rampant throughout this area, Nagaland till date seems to have the largest number of addicts. Rough estimates of

108 Bonita Aleaz the problem in the other states are: Mizoram, approximately 9,000 youngsters; and Imphal, the capital of Manipur, about 10,000 addicts. In Nagaland slightly dated estimates put the figure of youth addicts at about 16,000. The state has only 3 percent of the country’s population but is estimated to have more than 30 percent of the country’s intravenous drug users (IDUs). The figures for the other North-Eastern states are also on the rise (The Meghalaya Guardian, May 28, 1994 and The Telegraph, July 28, 1998). Apart from the proximity of the region to the golden triangle of Myanmar, Thailand and Laos, other reasons can be cited for the rise in drug abuse among the youth in Nagaland. A survey implicates depression, easy availability, peer pressure, curiosity and boredom, and flow of easy money due to central government subsidies in the state (Jamir, 1995). A more important reason is the inability to cope with the fast pace of change from the traditional community-based solidarity to individualist approach to life. Use of drugs is not a new phenomenon among indigenous communities; opium and ganja (a local intoxicant) have age-old usage in India. The large-scale affliction of the young is recent and more significantly the deadly effects of the same are also just being highlighted. Nagaland, apart from being the state with the highest number of drug abusers, also has the largest number of HIV-infected patients in India. A civil doctor at Mokukchong Civil Hospital, Nagaland gave the information that “out of the 5,000 intravenous drug users 50 percent are estimated to have HIV” (Jamir, Interview of Dr Yangerla, May 31, 1994). The problem has deeply permeated the societal fabric and the governmental infrastructure alone has proved incapable of handling a problem of such mammoth proportions. With over 1 percent of its population estimated to be HIV positive, Nagaland is now bracketed with the other high prevalence states of Maharashtra, Andhra Pradesh, Tamil Nadu, Manipur and Karnataka (The Telegraph, November 24, 2004). The first HIV/AIDS case in Nagaland was detected in 1992 among the intravenous drug users (IDUs). According to a medical survey carried out from December 1994 to August 2004, out of 38,623 people screened for blood, there were 742 people found to be living with AIDS and more than 2,301 people were infected with HIV. Moreover there were 235 AIDS related deaths in Nagaland, making the prevalence percentage as high as 1.19 percent. (Nagaland State Aids Control Society, 2004). However, it is quite possible that the figures quoted are far from real because the

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virus is still dreaded on account of the stigma and discrimination attached to it. So the odds are that the real picture can be much larger than the figures reveal. In Nagaland the high rate of transmission of the virus is believed to be through drug injections, but the route of transmission seems to be changing from IDU to the sexual route (Suhuto, 2005). AIDS is no longer only a medical issue, as it touches and pervades all aspects of human life: the social, economic, political, and religious. It has destabilized the society to such an extent that not only families, but neighborhoods, work places, schools and even places of worship are subject to fear, blame and stigma. The epidemic has changed the whole scenario in Nagaland leaving the younger generation without vision and hope. There is a sense of urgency associated with the epidemic, to find effective, sustainable and compassionate ways of responding to the same. A bird’s eye view of the efforts of the administrative infrastructure to combat the menace of drugs and HIV/AIDS in the state may be given. The approach initially was more at the level of propaganda and punitive action rather than in the form of practical corrective measures. The law enforcement agencies, the social welfare department and other agencies associated with the government organized seminars and symposia from time to time to acquaint local populations with the evil effects of drug abuse. The borders were strictly patrolled to check the passage of smugglers. Imprisoned perpetrators of such crime could not be bailed out easily on account of enhanced stringency of such procedures. The overall attitude of the police however, was: “Let all addicts come to jail, let them eat, fix and die” (Jamir, 1995: 61). This tactic was applied to all the seven districts of the state. The police were sadly ill-equipped to deal with the mammoth dimensions of the problem. The perception that the drug abuser was not a petty criminal but a person in dire need of sympathy was totally absent. The underground movement tried to control the situation as well through public denouncement of drug abusers,2 but the very harshness of their approach pushed the abusers to greater stealth. The chastisement methods took place within church premises, but despite their effectiveness, the public did not support them as it meant disruption of the church services. The State Department of Health Services has also given due significance to the escalating problem and a widespread campaign to generate awareness among localities, schools, colleges and other

110 Bonita Aleaz institutions has been launched. Detoxification centers have also been opened at a number of places by the special wing created for the purpose called Information, Education and Communication (IEC). This special wing was used extensively to build awareness. Yet all these efforts fell short of building up a comprehensive constructive approach aimed at rooting out the problem itself in place of mere piece-meal correctives. It was not the government alone but other organs of civil society, a number of NGOs and the church that took up the initiative. It was believed that the church as an influential and powerful institution had the potential to bring about change by responding to the issue. This is where the women’s wing of the Nagaland Baptist Church Council (NBCC) comes into the picture. They were instrumental in linking the efforts of several non-governmental organizations (NGOs) to those of the church to combat the crisis. Since the women’s wing of the NBCC is located in every locality it is not difficult to monitor the movements of the youth and to curb probable addiction, besides imparting needed compassionate care for the already afflicted. Today, the Nagaland State AIDS Control Society (NSACS), which is the state government agency of HIV/AIDS control programs, has been goaded into taking the lead and the women initiate several targeted Intervention Projects under NSACS, such as Prodigals’ Home, Care Counseling, Eleutheros Christian Society, People’s Welfare Organization, Child & Women Welfare Society, and the Mothers Association. As the names indicate, the NGOs adopt care as their primary approach—reconstruction of the mental and physical being of the wayward youth rather than mere chastisement. To “bring them back into the family” was the objective of the markedly different approach when the women stepped forward. One prominent reason for this state of affairs is the continuing political strife that has plagued the state since its formation. Deep dissensions regarding the borders, coupled with forceful projections of identity, led to prolonged strife between the region and the Indian national government. The ensuing feuds and counter-insurgency methods led to gross violation of human rights in the region. The Armed Forces Special Powers Act, for instance, gave the armed forces authoritative extra-judicial powers, leading to human rights abuse and widespread alienation from the state. Moreover, internecine conflict among the indigenous elites led to rampant groupism and yet more feuds. These frozen wars have distorted the local economy, brutalized men and women, and militarized society. They have impacted

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on the children and youth, who take to drugs and alcoholism, and resort to violence as a method of empowerment. The prolonged state of unrest has created a disposition of depression, sarcasm and gloom that has spread throughout the Naga society, as people lose confidence and faith in leadership in the political, ecclesiastical, civic, and bureaucratic arenas. It is in such a scenario that the women have taken over the attempts at reconstructing society. Surprisingly, the Naga women who were traditionally type-cast either as passive victims or as active collaborators in conflict, have revealed greater strength and acumen than the men in facing the crises afflicting their society, whether in the religious, administrative or political spheres.

III Naga Women’s Organizations and the NMA as Extended Familial Set-Ups After years of intervention in issues that confront their society today, the women are in the forefront. Over the years, they formed associations to voice concerns and to mobilise their community. The traditional intervention of Naga women in cases of inter-tribal violence gradually evolved into social activism manifest in the Naga Mothers Association (NMA), which was formed in 1984. NMA’s major contribution has been in keeping open the channels of communication between warring factions and across communities, in defusing tensions and in paving the way for reconciliation. Taking up issues such as alcohol and drug abuse, NMA initiated campaigns for peace and opposition to violence, and intervened between the Armed Forces and the militants. While these women also aspire for Naga nationalism, along with the men, they look for alternate methods of negotiation that would not involve bloodshed and societal misery. Women’s innovative campaigns have gradually found acceptability and has become indispensable in Naga civil society, especially after the ceasefire of 1997. The Naga women have used the language (or concept) of “motherhood” to acquire the status necessary for intervention. This method has its strengths since it evokes emotions linked to life and birth, and

112 Bonita Aleaz images of peace and caring. At the same time, the motherhood concept has empowered women because, being based on relationships within the family, the women have access to the private and public sphere of life. Nothing can undermine the role of the Naga women’s groups. Their role as effective communicators between conflicting sides, their unique methods of mediation, and their ability to mobilise civil society are exemplary. Naga women, with their emphasis upon the precepts of “motherhood,” have been able to promote an inclusive politics, validating the contribution of all workers, emphasising the need for a peace that is in the interest of all Nagas as well as their neighbors. Sections among the Naga women are now seeking to challenge existing paradigms and get involved in the larger issues of the women’s movement (Sumi, 2003: 74–81). Interventions for peace have not only redefined gender stereotypes but have transformed definitions of democracy, nationalism and peace as well as the diversity of women’s interventions for peace. Naga women intervene in the areas of employment generation, higher education for women, financial support for women’s development, and social and health problems of women arising out of HIV/AIDS and substance abuse.

The Naga Mothers Association (NMA) The head office of the NMA is in Kohima, Nagaland. It came into existence on February 14, 1984, with a preamble that stated: “Naga mothers of Nagaland shall express the need for sensitizing citizens toward more responsible living and human development through the voluntary organization of the Naga Mother’s Association” (NMA, 1992). Initially they took up societal issues specific to women, such as divorce, and inheritance rights. A shift in focus, which can almost be termed a turning point, is visible since 1994, which was a particularly turbulent year in the Naga region. Bloodshed resumed with ferocity, which had not been visible before. It was at this juncture that the NMA, finding in total disarry the two prime political factions, the National Socialist Council of Nagalim (Issac-Muviah) (NSCN-IM) and the National Socialist Council of Nagalim (Khaplang) (NSCN-K), stepped in.

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The NMA’s concern thereafter (after their declared resolve at their 5th General Assembly 1994) was to directly engage in awakening social conscience and to make all out efforts for prevention of bloodshed. A Peace Team was formed that was entrusted with the task of negotiation. Alongside this declared objective one finds the NMA plunging headlong into overall social transformation by adopting multiple approaches (vide Resolution, August 5, 1994). The Mothers’ Association understood the political handicaps of the clan-based factions in reaching any understanding. What was needed was the mothers’ style of political intervention. They launched their political campaign by setting aside a day of mourning in memory of all those killed due to political turmoil in Nagaland, irrespective of Naga or non-Naga (August 5, 1994). “Members of various families had been killed so they had to be mourned”: this was a mother’s response during the period of intense strife. Banners proclaiming the message to “forgive and unite” were placed all over the state, along with “Mothers anguished over tragic killings and death.” The day was dedicated to the spirit of reconciliation and reestablishment of brotherhood and fraternity. The Kohima Chamber of Commerce was the first to respond by downing its shutters that day. The association further resolved to set up a peace team under the theme “shed no more blood”(NMA, n.d, Shed No More Blood). The NMA spoke against killings not only by the army but also by the insurgency factions. In a pamphlet released on May 25, 1995 the representatives of NMA wrote that “the way in which our society is being run whether by the over-ground government or the underground government, has become simply intolerable” ( Naga Mothers’ Association, Pamphlet, May, 1992). Apart from peace initiatives, as stated earlier, the NMA has worked for social regeneration where there is rampant abuse of alcohol and drug. The NMA provides facilities for de-addiction. They collaborate with the Kripa foundation of Mumbai for rehabilitation of drug doers. The NMA has also started anonymous HIV testing. They are probably the first women’s organization in the North-East to test pregnant women for HIV virus. They are providing pioneering service in care of patients afflicted with AIDS in Nagaland. NMA’s greatest achievement is that almost all Naga women’s organizations, cutting across the different tribes, are its collaborators. Thus their rallies are always attended by other Naga women’s organizations. The political significance of the NMA can be gauged from

114 Bonita Aleaz the fact that today it is the only women’s group in South Asia that has participated in a ceasefire negotiation till date. This role has given it enormous clout and it is recognized by the Naga Hohos (the apex body of all the organizations in Nagaland) as an important and necessary component of the apex body. The state machinery also considers the mothers’ role as imperative to the continuance of peace in the region. Despite such recognition, the NMA has not lost its independent stance and functions quite autonomously. There are a number of reasons for the success achieved by the Naga women. They have been able to situate their political maneuverings within their traditional roles. Peace to them is not just a political phenomenon; it is also economic and social. They believe that without development there cannot be peace. They call for a just peace that will result in equity and they equate it with progress. The Naga women also successfully mix social work with their political actions. The initial engagements with wider societal issues such as health, de-addiction and rights of women, women’s rehabilitation, and counseling, remain priority areas. Their involvement in developmental activities has increased their effectiveness and their acceptance in Naga society. For instance, the Aloino Center and Mother’s Hope in Dimapur, founded by women, functions as a Christian NGO involved with the spiritual, political, economic and social upliftment of the Naga society, spearheading the campaign of awakening conscience among the common people.

Padmashree Neidonuo Angami, the Mother of Peace Sustaining the ceasefire between underground groups in Nagaland and New Delhi has never been easy. But this uphill task was led by award winner Padmashree Neidonuo Angami. At the age of six her father, an interpreter with the state administration, was captured and killed on duty. Her mother looked after Neidonuo and her four siblings. She started her schooling only at the age of eight and could graduate in 1968. After college, Angami joined the first batch of the women’s police force in Nagaland as a sub-inspector but eventually gave up that job. She got married and had three daughters. The years

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1972 to 1974 saw her working as a teacher in Kohima. N. Angami formed the Nagaland Weavers’ Association and facilitated the participation of several groups in international trade fairs during these years. Throughout the 1970s and 1980s, violence and social disorder was rampantly growing in the region. N. Angami and a few women (mostly mothers) met a number of times to discuss how to cope with the challenges facing their families and Naga society. They felt very strongly that it is the mother at home who suffers the most and that only a mother understands the extent of damage that these situations cause to the social fabric. They decided, therefore, that there ought to be a common platform for mothers to come together and combat violence and the resultant social evils. Thus the NMA was formed in 1984 as a state-level voluntary organization with the objective of fighting social evils confronting society at that time. Every Naga tribe sent its representative to the NMA. N. Angami served as its generalsecretary from 1984 to 1992 and later went on to become its president for two consecutive terms. It was N. Angami who launched the “Shed No More Blood” campaign, which led to a meeting between various Naga underground groups and the NMA, giving the former an opportunity to meet and share the pain and grief of Naga mothers. In many situations, she led the NMA virtually into an interventionist position between warring factions and risked becoming victims of the senseless killings. However, it was because of these trust-building meetings that the government and the underground were able to keep extending the ceasefire. The “Journey of Conscience,” a people-to-people dialog held in 2000, is another remarkable initiative of the NMA through N. Angami’s efforts. About 70 Nagas traveled to New Delhi by train to meet civil society groups, officials and other people in Delhi. They felt that negotiations must go beyond negotiating rooms and that the people on both sides must get fully involved in the peace process. In her association with the NMA, she has also been instrumental in the emergence of several other establishments: the NMA Youth and Women’s Welfare Organization (1986) to fight drug abuse and trafficking, alcoholism, and HIV/AIDS; Mt Gilead Home (1989), a rehabilitation center for drug addicts and alcoholics, started by NMA and the first of its kind in India; the NMA HIV/AIDS Care Hospice (2001); and a paper recycling project with the Mt Gilead Home to assist in income generation. She realized the necessity of joining

116 Bonita Aleaz with other organizations, such as the Naga Students’ Federation and Naga People’s Movement for Human Rights to help nurture and sustain the ceasefire between the Naga underground groups and the government. The NMA also took the initiative to collectively honor those who died in the conflict and whose bodies could not be identified. They worked alongside government agencies to prepare coffins and burial grounds. They collected Naga shawls from various churches and Women’s Organizations to cover the dead with full Naga honor and organized funerals with local pastors. This act of honoring human life even in the face of death gave NMA the space to appeal for peace. The most active member of the NMA Peace Team, Angami, along with her colleagues made several visits to underground camps under very difficult situations to listen to the non-State armies and plead with them to come to the negotiating table. The NMA made personal visits to all the North-Eastern states to meet civil societies and government leaders. Under N. Angami’s guidance the NMA women have played vital roles in trust building and conflict prevention.

IV Naga Women and the Family, Traditional and Modern As is apparent from the above, Naga women play crucial roles in reconstructing the social system on the basis of human values and participation. We need to understand the passion behind these women’s interventions in the society. This passion and commitment is that of the mother confronting disarray in her family. Naga society traditionally has followed a patriarchal system and the father is the acknowledged head of the household. However, the mother has no lesser role to play in the family. In fact, the Naga social ethos is always based on community participation irrespective of gender and the traditional tribal notions of equality prevail. Even though the Naga mother occupies an important place in the society, the traditional culture and customs “expect” women to be obedient and humble and to perform the role of wife, mother, child bearer,

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food producer and household manager. The children are their sole responsibility. They have also to provide care to the sick, cook, store food, and look after the domestic cattle. Weaving and knitting of Naga traditional clothes are one of their important activities. Besides all this, they have to earn. The young girls usually work collectively in “cloth workers’” guilds. In the olden days Illiki (“Morung” or “Dormitory”) was the place where such weaving knowledge and skills were imparted to each and every individual. Such spirit of collectiveness helped to develop new skills essential to face future life. The mothers’ role and their contributions in society are oriented towards sustenance. This is because the mother’s association with the social ethos begins in the family. Through her maintenance of the family, the Naga society believes it can sustain its customs and values. Through the mother of the household the children imbibe the social etiquette and moral conduct of the society, which keeps it in continuity. Her life, however, remains a juggling act as she tries to fit in a range of tasks and responsibilities in the changing scenario. Under the impact of Christianity, penetration of education, and urbanization, considerable changes have occurred, yet traditional norms prevail in the family. For instance, in the bygone days intervillage head hunting expeditions were very common. When men departed to wage wars, women took the responsibility of giving provision and supplies to the warriors. The successful warriors who were able to bring back the enemy’s head earned honor and received high social status in the village. Even though this honor was an exclusive male preserve, yet women had their own share of honor, acting as “peace-makers.” During the head hunting days, the women played a vital role in saving the lives of their men. They acted as “ambassadors” who would volunteer to act as a mediator between the warring villages. These women enjoyed full diplomatic immunity. Nobody could lay hands on them. They were called the “peace-makers,” the torch bearers of peace, of the Naga inter-village head hunting wars. They boldly entered the battlefields, intervened, and stopped the fight between two warring villages. The contemporary women’s role and intervention in conflict resolution is a continuation of this traditional role. Among most of the Nagas, marriage occurs by mutual consent of the boy and the girl after they reach adulthood. The newly wed couple is helped by the boy’s family to settle down, the father gives the son his share of inheritance, and this is how from the very beginning of their life a couple lives independently. The husband is the head of

118 Bonita Aleaz the family but in all the decisions in family matters the wife exercises a great deal of control. A more or less egalitarian balance is found among most of the Naga families. A couple is expected to respect mutual wishes and have faith in each other. Children are considered as gifts of God. There is no stated preference for children of any sex, although there is a general preference toward having a male issue, dominated by the sense of having a succession in the patrilineal society as well as the paramount desire of increasing the strength of the clan. But a girl child is equally important; she is treated as an asset in the family (Mehrotra, 1992: 153). Parents ideally receive due respect from their children, who are, however, generally closer to the mother. After marriage their relationship becomes different as the children have their own families and so the parents do not interfere in their affairs. If the parents are ailing they receive support from the children, failing which they are subject to societal chastisement. The couples have to stand on their own resources and hard work, which in turn provides them a new situation demanding cooperative management. This they do commendably well although the womenfolk gladly and voluntarily take over a large share of the daily routine labor needed for the family’s upkeep. The Ao Naga women, according to tradition, are hard-working and give undivided devotion to family welfare. The wives are to be treated well by the husband’s family or else he has to face the angry remonstration of her clan’s people, who invariably side with her. The nature of support received from the relatives of her family of birth is such that it makes her position in her husband’s family and kin group safe (Talitemjen, 1999: 92–94). Both the husband and the wife are co-partners in the family enterprise to make themselves and their children as happy and comfortable as possible. In all spheres of activities, they respect and consult each other. In fact, the husband always consults the wife in decision-making regarding household affairs, agricultural works, children’s welfare, and property. Even for marriage proposals the bride’s consent is sought by her parents and in most cases, it is the women who function as negotiators. The material possessions of a family are held by the husband, who can dispose off the property at his will; yet he can do so only with the consent of his wife. For example, in the Angami Naga village there are two kinds of land holdings. Thino is a large area,

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commonly held, in which each male member has his share; customarily, there is prohibition on selling this land. However, each individual also has his own “earned” land, which he can sell or purchase. In this exchange the male is expected to consult his wife. Although the wife is traditionally debarred from being a member of the putu menden (“village council”), yet, for any important issue where the husband has to make a public statement in the putu menden, the wife is always behind the husband to help mold his public stance so that the decisions are ultimately in favor of the Naga people as a whole and not the family alone. The vital role played by the women behind successful men is more than ever exemplified in Naga society (Mehrotra, 1992). Men are totally dependent on their womenfolk for the household work but for fieldwork the wife works alongside her husband, and in their journeys to and from the field, she walks in front of the man as this ensures her safety. Women enjoy certain unique privileges and rights in Naga society. For instance, one of the privileges accorded to a woman is the right to retain her own title after marriage; this means that her father’s title can be used even after the marriage. This is one of the distinct characteristics of the culture prevalent especially among the Ao Nagas (Talitemjen and Lanunungsang , 2005: 217). Women were given equal opportunity for basic non-formal education; they were particularly trained in the arts and culture as well as in history. Except for certain sacred rites and rituals performed by priests alone, women’s full participation was essential in all public functions. During the rendering of traditional songs and dances women’s presence was indispensable (p. 218). For instance, the traditional tug-of-war held by the Ao Nagas during the Moatsü festival (festival of thanksgiving and prayers for a bountiful harvest) even today is impossible without women’s participation. No responsive song between men and women can be sung without women, since men cannot play the roles of women. Only a woman responding to her counterpart can sing the Ao love songs. Moreover, women folk normally initiate the farm songs and the men folk follow them. The institutions like Tsüki (women’s dormitory) and Elangtsür are absolutely meant for women and the men folk have no role in them. Besides these, there are other organizations meant exclusively for women, such as the Watsü Rogo Mungdang, and the Ao Baptist Tetsür Mungdang (ibid.: 222). These details emphasize the specific women’s role in Naga familial set-up. Motherhood becomes an essential duty, and more value is

120 Bonita Aleaz placed on this function of women, than on any other female role. It is through her children that a woman makes her most vital contribution to society and fulfills the primary obligation as a wife by providing continuity to her husband’s lineage. Through the training imparted to her daughter the woman fulfills another obligation to the community by creating another potential mother (Mehrotra, 1992: 154). Weaving, agricultural pursuits, the making of rice beer for home consumption and commercial purposes were some of the means employed traditionally to supplement the home income. Any girl untrained in these pursuits was unlikely to get a suitor. Despite the profusion of alternate professions today, these traditional means of supplementing the family income are still prevalent today. The woman’s income is an important supplement to the total income of the family. Even though mechanical looms have supplanted home weaving, the traditional shawls, and bags are very much in demand. Christianity brought a radical transformation into the lives of women. Their home-based visage changed with the onset of modern educational opportunities provided by the missionaries. The contemporary women’s visibility might be regarded as an after-effect of the same. Christian missions were given complete responsibility for education in the hill areas, and it always included female education. Women missionaries, married and unmarried, were entrusted with this task. From the very beginning these women taught the girls reading, writing, home and childcare, and the Bible. As education proliferated the women were no longer considered mere housewives and child bearers as in the past (Talitemjen, 1999: 97). In due course, women themselves became evangelists and teachers. The attitude of parents today has significantly changed towards the education of their daughters. More girls are now being sent to school and the 2001 census shows that the female literacy rate has reached 61.92 percent as compared with 54.75 percent in 1991. Today female teachers outnumber male teachers in school. In the field of business as well, the rural women’s co-operatives and small scale industries, run with government help, are a significant example of women’s enterprise. Women also run shops in the market with efficiency. These trends indicate economic independence of Naga women, which makes possible their greater contribution towards family and society (Mehrotra, 1992: 176). Naga society and its primary unit the family, notwithstanding the tortuous road towards modernity, has successfully thwarted the

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negating and disruptive influences of individualism. Despite their growing confrontation with values and ideals that tax the traditional ties, they remain rooted in the communitarian spirit. Regardless of all odds, the women of the community, through the projection of their motherhood beyond the borders of the physical family, contribute the most towards the shaping and molding of this process.

Notes 1. The 16 major tribes in Nagaland today are: Angami, Ao, Chakhesang, Chang, Khiamniungan, Kachari, Konyak, Kuki, Lotha, Phom, Pochury, Rengma, Sangtam, Sumi, Yimchungru and Zeliang. 2. Warnings were issued at first, but if the offenders persisted in drug abuse, their ears were pierced and a lock hung from the same as an earring. These were unlocked in the presence of others within church premises.

References Angami, Neichu. (1994). “ Flame of Love,” in The Scribe, March. Basu Mallick, Sanjay. (1991). “The Integrity of the Variegated Creation: A Tribal Point of View,” in Religion and Society, Vol. XXXVI. Etzioni, Amitai. (1998). The New Golden Rule: Community and Morality in a Democratic Society. New York: Basic Books. Hnuni, R.L. (1997). “Vision for Women in North East India,” in Journal of Tribal Studies, Vol. I, No. 1, December. Jamir, Limatila. (1995). A Christian Response to the Problem of Drug Abuse among the Ao Naga Youth: A Study in Social Analysis. Kolkata: Bishops College. Madan, Gurmukh Ram. (1966). Indian Social Problems: Social Disorganization and Reconstruction. New Delhi: Allied India. Moakala. (1995). The Role of the Church in Child Development Among the Ao Tribes of Nagaland. Kolkata: Bishops College. Mehrotra, Nilika. (1992). “Angami Naga Women: Some Reflections on Their Status,” in Subhadra Mitra Channa (ed.), Nagaland: A Contemporary Ethnography. New Delhi: Cosmo. Nagaland State Aids Control Society. (2004). Surveillance Report, August. NMA. (1992). Naga Mothers’ Association, pamphlet. ———. (1994) August 24, NMA Circular, to all Mothers/Women Leaders. ———. (1998). 6th General Assembly, September 15–16, Dimapur, Nagaland.

122 Bonita Aleaz Rongsen, M. (1999). “Tribal Culture and Spirituality,” in A.Wati Longchar (ed.), Encounter between Gospel and Tribal Culture. Jorhat: Tribal Study Centre. Shimray, R.R. (1985). Origin and Culture of Naga. New Delhi: Somsok Publication. Suhuto Chishi. (2005). “Introduction,” in The Church’s Response to the Problems of HIV/AIDS among the Nagas in Dimapur District. Unpublished B.D. Thesis, Bishop’s College, Kolkata. Sumi, Anshely. (2003). A Sumi Naga Womanist Reading of the Book of Ruth: Relevance and Challenge. Unpublished M.Phil. Thesis Gurukul Lutheran Theological College & Research Institute Chennai. Talitemjen, N. (1991). “Position of Women in Ao Naga Society,” in A. Wati Longchar (ed.), Encounter between Gospel and Tribal Culture. Jorhat: Tribal Study Centre. ———. (1999). “Position of Women in Ao Naga Society,” in A. Wati Longchar (ed.), Encounter between Gospel and Tribal Culture. Jorhat: Tribal Study Centre. Talitemjen N. and Lanunungsang A. (2005). Naga Society and Culture. Mokokchung: Tribal Research Centre, Nagaland University. Thanzauva, K. (1997). Theology of Community: Tribal Theology in the Making, Aizwal: Mizo Theological Conference.

PART 3

LITERARY REPRESENTATIONS

124 Jayita Sengupta

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Chapter 5

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Society, Family and the Self in Indian Fiction Jayita Sengupta

The progress of any civilization can be seen in its continuous effort to expand its awareness of the subtler and more institutionalized forms of inequity and the agonies associated with it. T.N. Madan, in his essay The Hindu Family and Development (1993: 416), states that it has been an established point of view of the Western scholars as well as some Indian critics under the Western influence, that Hindu social institutions have had a blighting effect on India’s social and economic development. These critics, T.N. Madan elaborates, are of the contention that India never had a true history and was almost completely a stagnant country till she came into a life-giving contact with the Western civilization in the eighteenth century. While it is difficult to accept that India has no true history, it is rather an over-simplification to suggest that the social institutions had “frozen” the Indian society for two thousand years till the British as harbingers of emancipation brought about dynamism in the “native” Indian society. The first segment of this chapter will give a brief overview of Indian cultural history to reveal how it determined the woman’s status in the changing patterns of the Indian society. The second and the third sections will concentrate on woman’s role and predicament in the Indian family

126 Jayita Sengupta and their urge for self-expression, with representations from selective books in the present times.

Women in Changing Patterns of Indian Society Unlike Western/Christian society, which is monotheistic and adopts a proselytizing role for men and women, in societies like India, diversity and difference and cultural preferences are a way of our life and existence. The concept of bisexuality is deeply embedded in Indian mythological thought and is closely related with the cherished image of conjugality and creativity. The traditional psycho-biological concept of ardhanarishwara or the bisexual image of the Shiva–Parvati transcends the barriers of sexual selfhood in creation. In the early Indian society or the Vedic Age (1500–600 BC), the conception of duality based on the male–female divinity held sway and each god was closely linked with his Shakti or the female principle. The god was energy and the goddess the form through which alone he could pour himself out and find expression. Aum is the mystic logos and voice or speech is the goddess, the wife of the creator. It is she who sounds throughout the universe and whose vibration has created all things. The Rigveda hence speaks of a life of freedom and strength lived by men and women as equal partners in the great task of home and nationbuilding. The earliest sagas of India declared: “then only is a man perfect when he consists of three persons united—his wife, himself and his son” (Thomas, 1964: 20). Within it the universally admitted teacher was the woman. She was considered pre-eminently fit to impart religious instruction to her children. The Vedas give us further revealing glimpses; nowhere in all these hymns is there the suggestion of the seclusion of women or child marriage. Monogamy was the prevailing condition of the married state. Swayamvara or free choice of husband by a grown-up maiden was the accepted rule. Though there is no direct reference to the property rights of women to be found in the Vedas, there is a clear indication that marriage in no sense entailed irksome dependence or abject subjection to a husband. The restrictions on women’s freedom are imposed with the Laws of Manu (c. 200 BC–200 AD), which articulates the woman’s position

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in relation to her male relatives: first her father, then her husband, and finally her sons. Manu groups women with Shudras (lower castes), to whom education was denied. Women as wives were not allowed access to education and fine arts. They were only to be slaves to men, and had the sole purpose of procreation and catering to the needs of the husband and his family. Sudhir Kakar in Feminine Identity discusses this prevalent idea of wifehood or Sati Sabitri Parampara or the patibrata image as he writes that the notion of a good wife was closely bound up with the concept of a “good woman.” He explains by quoting Manu: Though destitute of virtue or seeking pleasure elsewhere or devoid of good qualities, yet a husband be constantly worshipped as a god by a faithful wife and by violating her duty towards her husband, a wife is disgraced in this world, after death she enters the womb of a jackal and is tormented by the punishment of her sin (Kakar, 1988: 62).

Such law texts and social texts like the Grihashutras along with the scriptures in the Atharva Veda (c. 600 BC), the Brahmanas (c. 1500– 1300 BC) and the Upanishads (c. 1300–1000 BC) begin to view women as the inferior gender whose only true value lay in being vehicles fit for bearing sons. It is from this time onwards that women were beginning to be considered generally impure and hence were debarred from all religious activities. From the male gaze, women continued to be romanticized as a submissive “Sita” or an exploited “Draupadi” to fit into the patibrata image in society. The resistance to the laws and patriarchal dominance has been voiced through religious movements like the Buddhism, Jainism and Bhakti movements. In literature such resistance to patriarchal control has been manifest in the songs and poems sung by women in the early ages.1 But the revolt against the power structures was not commensurate with the repressive pressures and women continued to be exploited through child marriage, Sati, widowhood and “Devdasi.” With British colonization in India gradually taking its firm foothold in the eighteenth century, the socio-economic structure of the country suffered a severe setback. The Permanent Settlement Act of 1793 empowered the zamindars, who were initially tax collectors, with the right to evict the peasants for not paying revenues. This led to rapid evictions of peasants, who were unable to pay taxes and were compelled to accede to the sexploitation of women of their household

128 Jayita Sengupta by the zamindars. The living condition of the farmers worsened further due to the shortage of food and there was slow fading out of the indigenous earnings by the weavers and artisans. The textile industry of which India was so proud was shattered. While this was devastating for the Indian population in general, it had some special implications for women. Women, who played a major role in textile industry and in sowing, reaping and preservation of food grains found themselves jobless. With their vitality shriveling up under such an oppressive system, their songs and stories also dried up. They were constantly shunted back to their household grind and were subject to the triple-fold oppressive system—the British patriarchal order, the Brahmanical patriarchal order and the oppressive patriarchal structure of the household. As women began to be absorbed into the domestic grind they were also deprived of rights to education and articulation. The legal system under the Permanent Settlement Act provided for two more laws apart from the property law. The public law was designed to encourage and safeguard the freedom of the individual in the market place and the personal law intended to limit the extent of this freedom by prescribing the social and ethical obligations to which the individual was traditionally subject. There followed debates on immutable religious principles and theological functions were related to the concept of the family. The result was the standard Brahmanical version of the rigid Hindu law. A similar reversion to “tradition” took place with the Muslim personal law. Al Hidayah was to be principal normative text. As a result of all this, women’s individuality, her subjectivity and her freedom were to be defined within the confines of the personal law. The personal domain newly constituted in exclusively religious terms had complex and Victorian norms of feminine propriety. To reconstruct the patriarchy and curb the rigidity of the Brahmins and to recast gender, the social reform movement began. There was the abolition of the long prevailing Sati custom by Raja Rammohan Roy in 1820s. The widow remarriage system along with the spread of education among the common masses irrespective of gender, on account of the efforts of Ishwar Chandra Vidyasagar, did much to recover the condition of women in repressive social molds. The Bramho Samaj promoted the emancipation of women. But the new religion had space only for the upper and well-to-do middle classes. Hence its efforts to curb the rigidity of the Brahmanical order were not wholly successful.

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The social reform for women was actually a double-edged process. It recast the feminine gender by taking its clue from the possessive individualism of the personal law and by attempting to break the unregimented indecorous mixing of the upper classes with the lower classes. Again, it discredited the popular culture of the Vaishnava cult, which embraced women of all classes. The folk singers or artisans faced with such condescension and subjected to extreme poverty were driven to prostitution. The respectable middle-class or the upper-class lady, the Bhadramahila, was shaped due to such class-consciousness. The values of this class were aligned with the Victorian lady or the f ’emme covert in the west. Uma Chakravarti’s essay on Recasting Women (Chakravarti, 1981) is an in-depth study of the changing face of Indian womanhood in the nineteenth century. She historicizes that the surge of nationalism under imperialistic rule in the nineteenth century inspired the elitist masses to reconstruct the image of Indian womanhood by reinterpreting the Hindu past. Uma Chakravarti cites the example of Peary Chand Mitra of the young Bengal group in 1842, who took up different aspects of women’s status, focusing on education and female seclusion as key contemporary issues. He used quotes from Mahanirban Tantra to advocate his view that the daughter should be nursed and educated with care and married to a learned man. He also cited the examples of women characters in Kalidasa’s plays, Tamil literature and accounts of well-known philosophical debates to highlight women like Leelavati and Avaiyar who were learned. Women of the past in general were valorized by the emerging Indian intelligentsia in separate ways: for their roles in spiritual life, their roles as sahadharminis (“companion to husband”) in ancient times and as heroic resisters to alien rulers, choosing death rather than dishonor. From these elements of history and folklore, the images of the glorious women were recast to shape the new identity for women in the nationalist struggle for freedom. Uma Chakravarti points to Shanti’s character in Bankimchandra Chatterjee’s Anandamath (1882) as the prototype of the womanhood required by a nation in crisis. According to her, Shanti’s characterization justified the de-linking of wifehood from the “enclosed space” of domesticity and embodied the Vedic principles of sahadharmini. Shanti, by joining her husband in the mission for independence, transcends both her sexuality and her domesticity and allows her husband to do the same. As Uma Chakravarti’s analysis makes it evident, such a desirable model of “national feminine identity” in the

130 Jayita Sengupta country’s struggle for freedom during the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries points to the psychic constraints of Indian manhood. A close analysis of Bankimchandra Chatterjee’s work will reveal that such a model of national feminine identity can be possible only with the husband’s co-operation, without which it may not be desirable even. Uma Chakravarti’s essay does not question the characterization of Prafulla in Bankimchandra Chatterjee’s Devi Chaudhurani (1880). Prafulla, after proving her capabilities for leadership and after playing a dynamic role in the country’s struggle for freedom, has to accept the domestic space once again as the cherished dream of her life. Though emancipation of women coincided with the national consciousness, the regressive tendencies implicit in the Hindu patriarchy constrained women’s urge for self-identity. Prafulla’s case serves to justify this observation. In fact Uma Chakravarti’s historicization of the ideals of the social reformers like Dayananda Saraswati later in the essay, goes on to reveal further the limitations incipient in the ideologies of the time, which grudged the Indian women’s quest for individuation. Dayananda Saraswati too in a different way reinterpreted the role of the Indian women in the light of the Vedic past and rewrote history (Satyarth Prakash, 1915). His references to the women of the past were part of his wider concern for a reformed Hindu society dominated by the Aryan institutions. Motherhood for Dayananda Saraswati was the sole rationale of a woman’s existence but what was crucial in his concept of motherhood was its specific role in the procreation and rearing of a special breed of men. Dayananda Saraswati’s concern for a healthy and pure stock of Aryans even led him to advocate the appointment of a wet nurse for the child rather than that the mother should feed it. According to Dayananda Saraswati the child’s body is made up of elements derived from the body of the mother, which accounts for the mother getting weaker after each confinement. Thus he says: It is best therefore, for the mother not to suckle her child. Plasters should be applied to the breast that will soon dry up the milk. By following this system the woman becomes strong again in about two months (Saraswati, 1915: 32).

What really marks Dayananda Saraswati’s conceptualization of womanhood is the way he deals with the sexuality of women. The general concern for the propagation of race implied that both men

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and women were equally the objects of his attention. However, so deep-seated was his anxiety to control sexuality that it is revealing even in his conceptualization of the school system. Both boys and girls in this regenerated Hinduism were entitled to education but they had to be physically segregated. Again, the management of sexuality was the key to the thorny problem of widow remarrying. He also advocated niyoga (which made allowances for the wife to be impregnated by a stranger with her husband’s permission if the husband was impotent) to minimize the chances of illicit relationships and for begetting healthy and strong children. Ironically, all the reformers in some way or the other thus attempted at reconstructing the image of Indian womanhood to suit the purposes of the patriarchal society. Women, themselves had very little scope to speak for their roles in society. With the change of times at the close of the twentieth century and the beginning of a new millennium, women now have the urge to seek self-identity and independence. While such search for freedom from male oppression is desirable, this can also lead to social ostracism and expose them to extreme humiliation. Jyotirmoy Debi (1898– 1988), analyzes very dauntingly the condition of women in Indian society in her essay Meyeder Moner Katha. She tries to create awareness about the society’s insensitivity towards women over generations: Possibly, it’s too early to speak or even discuss about what goes on in a woman’s mind, but the times are surely appropriate to voice and consider the woman’s condition in society. And in considering her condition, it is necessary to search for the reality beyond her social status … Everybody knows about the condition of the unmarried, married, widowed women in the Indian middle-class homes. But no one is willing to admit the reality as it is. Even if one is sensitive enough, one merely discusses about women pitifully and offers half-hearted solutions to their problem. That there is deep frustration at all levels and that the lacunae could be traced to the very roots of the social system, are issues which are often carelessly or deliberately ignored (RoyChoudhuri and Sen, 2001: 261–63).

It is not difficult to understand what Jyotirmoy Debi indicates here. Indian society has continued to thrive on the ideals of Sati Sabitri Parampara, which has denied woman her status as a human being and made severe demands on her chastity, code of conduct, etc. There were no parameters for the Satyabans, but the Sati has always been extolled for her devotion to her husband in life or death. The challenge

132 Jayita Sengupta for the Indian woman in family or society, however, does not lie in adopting Western measures or “isms” to bring about transformation in the psychic and social processes in society. The position of an educated and emancipated woman in the Indian society continues to be oxymoronic. She has to preserve her quest for identity and at the same time she has to fulfill the needs of motherhood and that of family life. As Ashis Nandy analyzes in the conclusion to his essay on Woman Versus Womanliness in India: For the more sensitive woman, the challenge is nothing less than refining of herself. The first task that faces her is to devise means of de-emphasizing some aspects of her role in her family and society and emphasizing others, so that she may widen her identity without breaking totally from its cultural definition or becoming disjunctive with its psycho-biological distinctiveness. In the West that may mean defying the limits of conjugality and giving a new dignity to the maternal role of woman; in India it may involve transcending the partial identity imposed on motherhood and winning a new respect for conjugality.… Indian women have paid terribly for Indian insensitivity, but they have also extracted a heavy toll from a society which has not yet learned to live with all aspects of womanhood (Nandy, 1998: 42).

Bearing in mind Ashis Nandy’s and Jyotirmoy Debi’s observation on Indian insensitivity towards women, a few texts may be analyzed to study the representation of the social realities in Indian literature.

Women in Family A family could be patriarchal, matriarchal and egalitarian. While the former two categories could be the case for joint families or households, egalitarianism is a possibility in nuclear families or among the members of the joint family sharing common interests and status under a common leadership. The point of view of some Western scholars like Louis Wirth (1938) has been that joint families in India have retarded the country’s economic growth. And with rapid urbanization the joint family households have paved way for nuclear families. As T.N. Madan argues, the structural fallacy that nuclear families promote modernization and joint families backwardness is typically a Westerner’s short-sightedness (Madan, 1993: 417–18). The nature of changes in Indian family structures could be due to a host

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of complex reasons and no hasty conclusions should be drawn. A short story which controverts the Western view and reveals the complex network of families of orientation and procreation in one household and its relationship with a nuclear household based on socio-economic transactions is Mahasweta Devi’s (b. 1926) Stanodayini (“The Breast Giver”).2 In this story, the Halder household in Amartya Sen’s terms is “the glued together family” (Sen, 1993: 452), or as Kapadia states, “it is that household and members of which are related to one another by property, income and mutual rights and obligations” (Kapadia, 1955). While Halder is alive, it is patriarchal rule that caters to the common interests and family welfare and controls behavioral patterns within the household. After his demise, his wife takes over control. But on her demise the household becomes headless as well as footloose and breaks apart. As the social theory views the structure of inequality in terms of property and wealth (Beteille, 1993: 435–51). Jashoda’s story of life is entwined with the Halder household primarily for economic reasons. Jashoda is a Brahmin, so it is not caste distinction but class that subordinates her to the Halder household. Jashoda as her name suggests seems to be the eternal mother in her fecundity. “Motherhood was always her way of living and keeping alive her world of countless beings.” She cannot recall when there was no child in her womb, and when her ever sex-starved husband, Kangalicharan, did not grill her body for reaping further harvest. Jashoda is not only her husband’s feast, but the Halder household depends on her for bringing up its offspring. Kangalicharan loses his shins in an accident caused by a Halder son, and Jashoda is on the look out for a job to feed her family. Jashoda is asked to wean the Halder child when she goes to the big house to hunt for a job. The mistress of the Halder house looks in charmed envy at Jashoda’s “mammal projections” and says, “The good lord sent you down as the legendary Cow of Fulfillment. Pull the teat and milk flows! The ones I’ve brought to my house haven’t a quarter of this milk in their nipples!” So Jashoda becomes a professional mother and Kangalicharan has to become a professional father. He reminds Jashoda, “You’ll have milk in your breasts only if you have a child in your belly.” Jashoda can only give a tearful and obedient consent: “You are husband, you are guru, if I forget and say no, correct me.” She is treated as the scapegoat by her husband and sons who do not care for her and by the Halder household. When the milk dries up finally one day, and Kangalicharan finds a younger girl to turn his attention to, Jashoda

134 Jayita Sengupta loses her ground. On hearing her illness of the breast he comes to visit her and there is a momentary feeling of sympathy. But when Kangalicharan learns that she will not survive he tries to wipe her off his mind completely. None of Jashoda’s own sons or the ones she weaned come to her death bed. In her delirium and pain, the Stanodayini hunts for her sons and craves for the recognition of her motherhood that no one cares to give. She dies unknown, uncared for, of breast cancer. Such a story of the dehumanization of women is no fiction. It brings to the fore the worst effects of the Sati Sabitri Parampara on the lower class, where to be the provider for her family and to be an obedient wife, a woman is continually used and abused in the private as well as the public domains of her life. A short story which creates a beautiful picture of conjugal harmony is Pautraboron, by Ashapurna Debi (b. 1909). The story begins like this: Saturday is the day of rejoicing. On this day you could see the smoke winding its way up the kitchen roof-tiles. Pitu, while playing in the garden of abandoned Gosaibari, notices the swirling fumes and stops short.

Saturday is the day when Pitu’s father comes from the town to spend the weekend with his family. The smoke from the kitchen roof indicates the preparation to receive the bread-earner. The food ingredients are stocked and stored throughout the week for the day’s festivity. The family, which consists of the widowed mother, wife and daughter Pitu, does everything possible to cheer up the atmosphere, notwithstanding their poverty. They attempt to reassure Pankaj that what he provides for the family meets their requirements perfectly. Pankaj too lies to them about his well-being in the town in order to appease their anxiety about him. The child is puzzled in this adult game of happy lies. So she puts a question to her father, “Baba, are you a poor man?” In spite of Pankaj’s strained endeavors to maintain a clean shirt and trousers and to hide his worn out boots in a dark corner, he is not able to fool his daughter’s eyes. So he is compelled to take resort to lies again, which the child finds difficult to believe. You ask me about my torn shoes? Where is the time to get a new pair? Do I have time to visit shops? Every Sunday, I am with you. The Saturdays– Sundays are spent here and rest of the week in the office. When to buy? Though the fact is, I always have money on me with the intentions of getting a new pair.

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As the family gather close together in the evening, their faces are lit up with a strange sense of joy and peace. Pitu looks from her father to mother to fathom the mystery of such happiness. Her mother assures her that her father is not a poor man. He is a Samrat. Pitu’s friends’ taunts about their poverty and her mother having no gold on her body seem to be washed away by a sudden rush of emotions which sweep over her. She tries to grasp and treasure the beauty of the moment with her child-mind. As the earliest comprehensive analysis of marital adjustment by Burgess and Cotrell revealed (Burgess, 1979), good adjustment between the couples depended on social background and personality factors. In spite of the economic constraints, the family behavior reveals their mutual respect and sensitive understanding of their predicament. The economic condition may trouble Pitu and create awareness about her parents and their sacrifice, but it does not make her insecure in the affection she receives from her parents or in their affection for one another. The cultural background of the family is evident from their sensitive dealings with their economic problems and it promises for Pitu a better understanding and handling of her future. Poverty usually tears families apart and destroys the emotive capacity in the couples for responding to one another with finer feelings. The reader of Pautraboron and Stanodayini will immediately understand the cultural difference between the two households. Pankaj’s family may be poor, but it has a cultural background and has been able to retain its values in the face of adverse times. In Mahasweta Devi’s story, the values are subject to convenience. So Kangalicharan can happily thrive on Jashoda’s profession and yet be suspicious about his wife’s attentions to Nabin. Class distinctions, in the case of these two stories, are not merely based on economic conditions and caste differences. The difference depends on the more complicated processes involved in the evolution of a culture and in determining the family and social behavior.

Behind the Veil It is the task of the novelist always to look for the real theme behind the curtain of the apparent reality. Much of contemporary fiction unravels the reality of middle-class woman’s life beyond her social

136 Jayita Sengupta respectability, to reveal her inner torment, desires, and her awareness of her womanhood and her personality. Bani Basu’s (b. 1939) Gandharbi, is such a novel that explores in depth the story of Apala, who is god-gifted with a celestial voice, and her understanding of music. Apala gets her talim for North Indian Classical music from a very early age. Music is in her veins. It is her life, her love and her being. Bani Basu beautifully describes her emotional state as she hurriedly returns from a music competition to her middle-class home, which does not usually permit any young woman to be out of doors after dark. Apala is caught in a Kalbaishakhi and the first April shower drenches her completely. The madness in nature along with the music echoing in her mind bewilders her. The rhythm of malhar beats in her veins. It drums in her blood. She is drenched completely in the music of the rain. Surdasi malhar, Ramdasi malhar, Nato malhar, Gaur malhar, Mia Ki malhar … the notes coalesce with the dark cloud in the horizon, which seems to take the shape of towering man, his body emanating the strong scent of the Keya, and he is adorned by a string of neepo flowers round his neck…. Apala finds herself swaying like a doll in his expansive cradle of sensuousness….

A song from Tagore, gives words to this emotion: “Dolao amar hriday, tomar aapan hater dole.” This subtle touch by the writer, where the classical tunes weave into words from a Rabindrasangeet based on malhar moods, beautifully depicts Apala’s fine musical sensibility which shapes her personality and her sensitive being. Unlike, Sunanda, in the writer’s shorter fiction Ashon, Apala has no musician father who is unable to find an adequate suitor for his sensitive daughter. Apala is married off like another woman to a respectable middleclass family. Her husband appreciates her music, but is unable to reach her soul. Apala is a dutiful wife, mothers children and abides by all the norms of family respectability without grudge. She loses her scholarship to Soham, her childhood friend, as she cannot avail of it because of her marriage to Shibnath at a crucial juncture in her career. No one in her own family, including her Jethamoshai or her brother, understands how much that scholarship must have meant to her. But the society allocates different status to men and women. So Soham avails of the scholarship with much guilt and pain, for he is Apala’s friend and perhaps her soul mate in music. Apala, who is definitely not a feminist by any standards, does not think twice about coming to Soham’s aid in times of his acute psychological and economic

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crisis, right before her marriage. The norms of the middle class respectability do not in this context create confusion in her mind, for her relationship with Soham is above such considerations. She cures Soham of his mental illness through her music and her understanding. Her marriage does not trouble Soham, for he is certain that Shibnath will never know Apala as he can. Mere chemistry is not the binding factor for these two personalities. For when Soham mistakes Apala for Mitul, the woman who attracted him much, in one of his frenzied moments, Apala can discern that it is the body which he has mistaken, not her surely. Soham too rationalizes later: He has never seen Apu differently as a woman. Apu is his most precious, his closest friend. This is about Apu, the person. But her music unsettles him somewhere. If he cannot contribute his music to Apu’s he suffers from the torment of eternal separation from her.

Shibnath does not understand the subtleties of the Apala–Soham relationship and his ego is badly hurt. Gradually, her family forgets her talent and is content in seeing her in her roles as wife, mother, daughter-in-law, etc. Thus, her own son taunts her when after many years Soham calls her up: z z z z

Who rang you up? Soham Chakrabarty? Ghazal? Oh fanta! But Ma, why should Soham Chakrabarty ring you up? He is my friend! Your boyfriend! I can’t really think of it!

Apala tries to explain, but Ranojoy continues with his sarcasm. Nowadays, you make me feel that you’ve become a magician. Like producing a rabbit from under a hat, you’re so full of surprise … how many more rabbits do you have on the sly?

After a long gap, Mitali, Apala’s Mastermoshai’s daughter, comes into her life with an invitation to sing for the title song of a film. The song is a success and it brings in more invitations. No one stops Apala from her recitals. She has her freedom, yet something is missing somewhere, which probably her daughter Tito tries to understand. In one such recital Soham surprises her with his presence and they sing a “jugalbandi” together after a long time. The synchronization of their music brings them close together in their ecstasy of creation.

138 Jayita Sengupta Shibnath that night does not spare her. She is subject to marital rape after so many long years of their married life. Apala never had a mother. But in her agony and pain she cries out to her for help. Or probably as the writer tells us, the utterance, for time immemorial, has specified acute agony and torment in the face of helplessness. Whom can she look to for understanding? Her daughter in the next room freezes in fear for her, overhearing the suffocating sounds of her weeping. Besides, the distance created by her in-laws between her and her first born torments her. Apala, unable to voice her pain, loses her voice. She chooses the medium of paints for self-expression. No doctors can cure her of her illness. Not even Soham’s efforts, her daughter’s efforts, her husband’s efforts, can restore her voice ever again. The accursed Gandharbi finally returns to her heavenly realm, her actual abode. The confession by Apala’s daughter in the epilog to the fiction troubles the reader even more. Apala’s daughter understands her only when she is no more. The family grows rich from the royalties received from her records and from her paintings. Apala’s story appears to be no mere fiction, but the stark reality of a wasted talent. It is the true story of an infinitely gentle, infinitely suffering thing, who secures her family at the price of her talent. Such inadequacies in conjugal relationship and woman’s constant effort to configure herself within the molds of her family and yet maintain her identity abound in modern Indian fiction. The short story Mazha (“The Rain”) by Sara Joseph (b. 1948), translated by Anitha Devasia from Malayalam and in third person participant narrative, in a different way unravels the complexities between a husband and wife in a particular incident. The story opens with excitement over a sudden downpour in an afternoon when the family is relaxing. The children are eager to float paper boats, the husband reclines with his newspaper, and the wife the narrator of the story feels a sudden release from otherwise oppressive emotions on the event of the rain. As she watches the heavy downpour, she suddenly notices a nestling which had dropped from its branch in the swirling currents of the rain water. She wants to save the nestling and moves out in the rain much to her husband’s annoyance and irritation. The nestling, and the frantic birds with their soaked feathers and their flesh showing, repel her and yet they appeal to her mother instinct. Her son too joins her in the rain and her husband yells at her. In her extreme frustration over her husband’s calling her a “whore” for walking out of doors and getting wet, she spanks her son and crumples the nestling which she had desired to save. The cracking of the bones and the kill

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make her mad and she feels like a murderer harming her own offspring in his vulnerability. The story is steeped in Indian cultural tradition. The wife by willfully getting herself wet flouts the norms of respectability. The husband cannot or does not attempt to understand her action on a humanitarian plane. He can only see her as a woman, his wife and his possession, which he can command, insult and treat her as he wants to. Among Indian English fictions there are quite a few instances of Susan Gubar’s mad women in the attic, like, Maya in Anita Desai’s Cry, the Peacock (1963). The story explores the deranged consciousness of a wife in her loneliness. In Desai’s Voices in the City (1965), Monisha, the wife, chooses suicide in her isolation, unable to cope with her situation. In her third novel, where the husband in not as authoritarian as in Mazha, the wife still suffers from emotional incompatibility. But instead of choosing suicide or madness, like in Desai’s earlier two fictions, Sita, in Where Shall we go this Summer? (1975) tries to come to terms with life. One could contrast Shashi Deshpande’s The Dark Holds No Terrors (1980) or The Binding Vine (1993) with Desai’s women characters to point out that Desai’s women are actually a generation behind and that times have changed. Sarita in Deshpande’s The Dark Holds No Terrors is a career woman who has the courage to fight the mental battle to secure her own identity and space beyond the constraints of a painfully oppressive marital relationship. The other novel, The Binding Vine, takes up the issue of marital rape and rape otherwise to highlight women’s torture and sexual exploitation in the interior space as well as in the outer space. The physical torture leaves a gaping psychic wound that could be healed with women’s understanding of women’s miseries. The women in Deshpande’s novels hence do not succumb to patriarchal tortures, rather they have the capacity to analyze the nature of their pain to come to a decision about their lives and they emerge as survivors with the will to reinvent their lives. The stories in The Intrusion and Other Stories (1993) include certain painful moments in a woman’s life demanding instant decisions. The Intrusion is about a newly wed woman’s first sexual experience with her husband, who abuses her in her sleep, thus causing eternal rupture in their relationship. The private space of the woman’s body and the mind are intruded upon, which could have been willingly shared with love and understanding. An Anecdote to Boredom reveals the crushing impact of routine life, where the husband and the wife relationship becomes a mere habit with each another. The monotony makes the wife look for appreciation as a person and as a woman from another

140 Jayita Sengupta man. But when the husband gets the wind of the developing relationship he exercises his will over her. The wife has to give in, in order to avoid the break up of the family. But she realizes fully and completely in the trying moments of her decision that it was the best part of her life that she has to let go. With these stories, one comes a long way in the Indian woman’s self-expression even when she attempts to define herself in society and family.

Conclusion: Re-Locating Identities Violence, sexual aggression, and marital rape in households which apparently seem to be respectable, continue to haunt Indian women’s lives. The system of negotiated marriage continues, where a woman is married off to a complete stranger. In certain cases the woman herself accedes to the process for fear of ostracism from society, as it is considered shameful to remain unmarried after a certain age. The torture and agony which follows from the incompatible relationships are issues too sensitive to be shared and battled against in the public sphere. So the voice of the woman continues to be stifled or gagged, not by any outer force, but by her own sensitive codes of conduct. As Komter explored, we have far to go in uncovering “the sociocultural and psychic roots of gender inequality” (Komter, 1989: 187– 216). Closely bound with the concept of “doing gender” is the idea of the traditional codes that have been absorbed and ingrained in the psychic processes of a culture. So the “hidden power” in marriage often lies with the man, who in spite of his education, status and respectability gives way to his primitive instincts. A close analysis of the reasons for marital rape reveals that in most cases either the man has no control over his urges or it is “force-only-rape,” where the husband’s desire for control seems to lead him to use sexual coercion. Such is the case of the woman in The Intrusion. In Gandharbi, Shibnath’s jealousy, frustration and anger and his own inadequacy drive him to use brute force over Apala to prove to his own self rather than to Apala his control over his wife. If he has no control over his mind, surely he has the right of a husband over her body. In sum, he bruises her physically and mentally to stifle her and crush her for life. The mute suffering of the woman within the household has been long idealized with the suffering image of Sita. The society compulsively ignores the underlying subtleties involved in Sita’s rejection of

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Ram when she is asked to go through the agnipariksha for the second time to prove her chastity. For instance, when Lakshman comes to her with Ram’s message, she conveys her rejection of her husband in the following words: “Tell the King on my behalf, that even after finding me pure after the fire ordeal he had in your presence, now you have chosen to leave me because of public slander. Do you think it is befitting the noble family in which you were born?” (Kalidasa, Raghuvansha: 14–16). Sita in this address raises two pertinent questions about Ram–Ram as the King and Ram as her husband. He has failed to protect the family honor by making Sita an object for public consideration and he has failed in Sita’s image of him as her husband. However, the popular imagination does not consider these subtle implications incipient in Sita’s rejection. It is happy to hail Sita for dignified rejection and does not consider her act as that of self-annihilation in shame and acute frustration. The society condemns Ram for his insensitivity, but continues to slander its women in private and in public spheres of life. It is this social hypocrisy which needs to be unveiled, explored and corrected with better understanding of gender relationships within married couples and among members in the family. The living identities, signifying the cultural codes or values that one is born into and the acquired ones, with experiences though interactions or marriage, have resulted in multi-layered identities in the game of role playing in life. If it is important for the Indian woman to understand her roles in family and society, it is equally important for the men too to understand their roles in homemaking and in society. The struggle for the Indian woman is to balance the desire for self-expression with the roles at home and to embrace all aspects of womanhood. For emancipation, the Indian woman does not have to look to the West for its solutions. Solutions lie in analyzing the cultural constructs and in humanizing the Devis that the Hindus worship while they torture their women either by the social customs of dowry, bride burning, etc., or by oppressing them mentally with the assumption of a husband’s right to dominate over his wife’s body and mind. Modernization is a complex process, which depends on socio-economic and psychic factors inter-dependent on one another. Just as there were Satis, there were also Kumaris and Kanyas in ancient Hindu society. Kumaris were unmarried women who were different from the viragos in the Western society. Kanyas were swasthas, which means “whole,” self-illuminated or independent. With the passage of time these two categories were absolutely done away with and the sati tradition prevailed which directly undercut the merging of the masculine–feminine

142 Jayita Sengupta identities in the psycho-biological image of conjugality in Indian mythology. For a harmonious conjugal relationship, equality among men and women is necessary. This equality in status is dependent on economic, social and personality factors for the couple to have mutual respect for each other. It is this psychic dimension which allows for family decisions on the household size, family budget, etc. As in Ashapurna Devi’s Pautraboron, there could be a single bread earner, in this case being the husband. But the wife and the mother’s contribution to the family in managing finances and maintaining peace and harmony, and Pankaj’s recognition of it, go into making this nuclear family a happy one. Kangalicharan’s tendencies to exploit Jashoda’s naïvety in Mahasweta Devi’s short story is at the core of their unsettling marital relationship. Their psychic processes are so embedded in institutionalized forms of inequity that Jashoda’s’ suffering is inevitable. Shibnath in Bani Basu’s fiction and the husbands in the novels by Desai and Shashi Deshpande, as well as in Sarah Joseph’s short story Mazha, exhibit the peculiarities of the Indian male psychology. Rajeshwari Sunder Rajan explores this psychic dimension in Indian popular culture in her illuminating essay The Story of Draupadi’s Disrobing: Drawing upon the unfailing impact of the episode of Draupadi’s disrobing in producing shock sexual frisson, popular Indian cinema routinely includes a “rape” scene…. In such scenes … there is no ambiguity about the wrongdoing of the villain or the innocence of the heroine. In contrast, the popular song-and-dance sequences which feature the hero and his friends serenading the heroine, operate according to the more complex semiotics of eve-teasing.… There is no condemnation of the antics of the young men, but instead explicit self-righteousness: the girl must be taught a lesson in humility (Sunder Rajan, 1999: 345–46).

Sunder Rajan goes on to elaborate that in the epic, Draupadi’s vulnerability lay in her compulsive polyandry. But the popular culture ignored this often and pointed to her habitual pride, mockery and assertiveness for which she is blameworthy and is subject to a chastening ordeal. Just as Sunder Rajan condemns this social attitude in the essay, she is also unable to sympathize with the women organizations or “feminists” who following the myth of the female goddess (Kali, for example) as avengers, establish the wrong of women’s violation and institutes justice in an unjust world. She is in favor of

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the structural understanding of violence and possibilities of collective protest within the framework of law, civil society, and a radical interrogation of social responsibility for violence against women. Legal and civil measures like marriage and reformative acts, dowry boycotts, coownership rights by wives, and the analysis of Roop Kanwar’s case relating to bride burning, are desirable and necessary actions within the governmental framework. But the social psychology that is so ingrained in the prevailing ideology about women for generations cannot be forced into transformation overnight by legal and civil measures. The change has to come from within and herein lies the responsibility of the Indian woman to relocate her identities and earn for herself respectability in the private as well as the public spheres of life. Instead of feeding the demands of the persisting popular culture, she has to seek her identity in merging her roles as a mother, wife, daughter, etc., in the family without subjugation of the self. A frustrated and a deprived wife cannot contribute much to her family. Such an understanding of the self and recognition of the same by her family members can hold the promise of a harmonious family structure and a balanced community living in the future.

Notes Acknowledgement: For Mahasweta Devi’s story, I have relied on Gayatri Chakravorty’s translation of Breast Stories (Calcutta: Seagull, 1998). Ashapurna Devi’s story Pautraboron is from the collection Shera Lekhikar Shera Galpo, edited by Bani Basu and Arun Mukhopadhyay, (Calcutta: Mitra and Ghosh Publishers, 2001). The quotes from the above text and from Bani Basu’s Gandharbi (Calcutta: Ananda Publishers, 1993) are my translations from the original texts. 1. The songs of the theris and women weavers in the medieval ages and later the women singers in the Bhakti movements. See Susie Tharu and K. Lalitha, (ed.). Women Writing in India, Vol. 1, New Delhi: Oxford University Press, 1997. 2. Gerald Leslie and Sheila K. Korman in The Family in Social Context, (New York: Oxford University Press, 1989) defines the family of orientation as that a nuclear family composed of the self, siblings and parents. The family of procreation is the family composed of the in-laws, spouse and children. The two families often intersect for socio-economic reasons. In Mahasweta Devi’s story, the Halder household as a joint family contains many families of Orientation and Procreation.

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References Basu, Bani. (1993). Gandharbi. Calcutta: Ananda Publishers. Basu Bani and Arun Mukhopadhyay (ed.). (2001). Shera Lekhikar Shera Galpo. Calcutta: Mitra and Ghosh Publishers. Beteille, Andre. (1993). “The Family and the Reproduction of Inequality,” in Patricia Uberoi (ed.) Family, Kinship And Marriage in India, pp. 435–51. Burgess, Robert L. and Ted L. Huston. (1979). Social Exchange in Developing Relationships. New York: Academic Press. Chakravarti, Uma. (1981). “Whatever happened to the Vedic Dasi?” in Kumkum Sangari and Sudesh Vaid (eds), Recasting Women: Essay in Colonial History. New Delhi: Oxford University Press. Chakravorty, Gayatri (trans). (1998). Breast Stories. Calcutta: Seagull. Kakar, Sudhir. (1988). “Feminine Identity in India,” in Rehana Ghadially (ed.), Women in Indian Society: A Reader, p. 62. New Delhi: Sage Publications. Kalidasa, Raghuvansha, pp. 14–16. Kapadia, K.M. (1955). Marriage and Family in India. New Delhi: Oxford University Press. Komter, A. (1989). “Hidden Power in Marriage,” in Gender and Society, 3(2): 187–216. Leslie, Gerald and Sheila K. Korman. (1989). The Family in Social Context. New York: Oxford University Press. Madan, T.N. (1993). “The Hindu Family and Development,” in Patricia Uberoi (ed.), Family, Kinship And Marriage in India, p. 416. New Delhi: Oxford University Press. Nandy, Ashis. (1998). “Woman versus Womanliness in India,” in Exiled At Home, p. 42. New Delhi: Oxford University Press. RoyChoudhuri, Subir and Abhijit Sen (eds). (2001). Jyotirmoy Debir Rachana Sankolon, Vol. 1, pp. 261–63. Calcutta: Dey’s Publication. Saraswati, Dayananda. (1915). Satyarth Prakash, trans. by Chiranjan Bharadvaja, p. 32. Agra: Arya Pratinidhi Shabha. Sen, Amartya. (1993). “Economics and Family,” in Patricia Uberoi (ed.), Family, Kinship And Marriage in India, p. 452. New Delhi: Oxford University Press. Sunder Rajan, Rajeshwari (ed.). (1999). “The Story of Draupadi’s Disrobing: Meanings for Our Times,” in Signposts. Gender Issues in Post-Independence India, pp. 345–46. New Delhi: Kali for Women. Tharu, Susie and K. Lalitha (eds). (1997). Women Writing in India, Vol. 1. New Delhi: Oxford University Press. Thomas, P. (1964). Indian Women Through the Ages, p. 20. Bombay: Asia Publishing House. Uberoi, Patricia. (1999). Family, Kinship and Marriage in India. New Delhi: Oxford University Press. Wirth, Louis. “Urbanism as a Way of Life,” American Journal of Sociology, 44 (10).

Chapter 6

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Imagined Family Pangs of Transition Esha Dey

In our country, family as the basic social unit consists of a structure of power with a definite location in space. Traditionally patriarchal family means many generations living under one roof with a clear division of responsibilities “outside” and “inside” the house. The male is the official head of the family, who is the provider of food, shelter and clothing and also the defender against attack from other males. The female is the bearer of children and nourisher of all members of the household. These two worlds “male” and “female” together, as it were, weave a complex hierarchical pattern of age and gender that subsumes matriarchy. The bonding of family rests on the security of the male’s earnings, which determines emotional responses–affection and consideration from husband and father (or their surrogates), devotion and obedience from wife and children (or their substitutes). In my perception this clear-cut definition of family as a rigid structure rooted in an indefinite geographical space is in the process of transition. The demarcation between masculine and feminine spheres no longer holds, nor does the stability of location. So the traditional power structure is constantly being challenged and re-invented, particularly in the middle classes of India. Though all sections of society, religious

146 Esha Dey and ethnic groups in this vast subcontinent may not exhibit the symptoms of transition in equal and uniform measure, yet the influence and example of the dominant minority may reach even remote quarters. So in one of my stories a charwoman of low caste in a Kolkata slum leaves her tyrant of an underemployed husband, and with her daughter builds a new home, confident that as long as she has a pair of hands she need not put up with humiliation (Pargaachhaa [Dey, Nov–Jan 1996–97]). The fact of change is undeniable because the economic and political evolution from feudal mercantilism to mixed economy, from agricultural to industrial dominance, from subjecthood in successive empires to citizenship of an independent democratic republic cannot but affect the basic social unit of family and particularly the role of woman in it in a way that nothing perhaps did in the past. In my textual representation, family is no longer a hermetically sealed universe rotating on the axis of domesticity; it is very much open to the external forces determined by history. It is relevant here to note that the written literary representation of family has always offered innumerable variation that threw multivalent insights into the sociological construct we started with. The pattern of domination and subordination in the hierarchy of gender and age has often been blurred. Right from the Mahabharata and Ramayana, women like Satyavati, Kunti, Draupadi, not to speak of Kaikeyi and Manthara, brought definitive changes in the destinies of men in power. Interestingly, in erotic classic tales like Suksari Katha, where family responsibilities and filial roles are minimized, men and women compete with each other in promiscuity and in the art of deception. Almost invariably, it is the woman who is at the top. However in serious representations, the world outside challenges the self-contained sacred domestic sphere and the woman of the family is at the receiving end. Even in classical dramas, which usually uphold traditional family structures, public duty is interwoven with the private. Sakuntala’s excessive longing for her absent husband makes her neglect her task of attending on Durbasa, a revered sage. This occasions a curse from the irritable sage and leads to her immense suffering—rejection by her husband. The abstract rigidity of family as a hierarchical institution is perhaps best revealed in woman’s oral creativity. Innumerable bratakathas— the performance of rituals accompanied by short pieces of rhymed verse—express hopes and fears, joys and sufferings of the average woman centering on a good husband, absence of co-wife, birth of

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sons, appreciation from parents-in-law, and so on. There were also verse tales with morals—usually showing how to be a good homemaker— but preserved in Lakkhir Panchali (or a narrative song dedicated to the goddess of wealth). These compositions orally transmitted through generations immortalize the social mores of a time bygone but still going on. This traditional pattern is holistically maintained in the major corpus of medieval literature (Mangal Kavyas), all written by men. Our first major woman writer Chandrabati laid the foundation of woman’s writing in Bengali with its typical feature—an awareness of contemporary reality outside the four walls. In the ballad Sundari Malua she depicts the plight of a family originating in the arbitrary land revenue system of the Muslim rule, which facilitated the sexual tyranny of the Muslim officials, who could and did send the wife of the defaulter to a special prison. The Hindu patriarchy, far from defending the hapless victim, more than matched the Muslim oppression by enforcing a sadistic code—the “stained” woman must be banished. In the background of the sixteenth century, it is remarkable that Chandrabati’s village women, including Malua’s mother-in-law, stand by her in her days of suffering—a fact all the more poignant because she has to die in any case. There is no deus ex machina at the climax, no happy ending—which we always find in contemporary Mangal Kavyas by men. Malua’s husband incidentally remains throughout a mute spectator of his wife’s suffering, conspicuous in his passivity. Family has already taken a deadly beating; man can no longer be the protector nor the provider. It appears as though with the political and the military defeat of the Hindus, family starts losing the balance between the respective spheres of man and woman and their individual apportioned duties and rights. For the woman writer today the recognizable succession starts with Swarnakumari Devi, whose fiction covered a large stretch of space and time and in which men and women through interaction among themselves and relationship with the world try to establish bonds in response to the changing external world. Strangely enough, the narrative of the family, where human relations take precedence over the matters of state and which may shift and change often irrespective even of the economic reality, was perfected by a male writer Saratchandra. His unique lyrical genius, combined with minute observation of social manners as well as domestic rituals and broad-based humanism for the victim, both male and female but particularly the latter, influenced a long succession of writers many of whom were major

148 Esha Dey and minor women novelists—Anurupa Devi, Nirupama Devi, Jyotirmoyee Debi, Pravabati Devi, Saraswati, Shailabala Ghosh, Jaya, among others. They produced a number of works both short and long that enjoyed extreme popularity and in which social mores and taboos interact with individual characters in conventional situations. This trend reached its culmination in Ashapurna Devi. It is interesting that in her prolific output the best known protagonists are those who are deeply enmeshed in contemporary history like Satyavati (in Pratham Pratisruti) and Subarno (Subarnalata). The former is a product of the nineteenth century Bengali renaissance, while the latter’s aspiration as well as frustration is a foreground for the nationalist movement of the twentieth century. The first two volumes of Ashapurna’s celebrated trilogy interlock the upheavals in the family with the larger canvas of national life. In the concluding part (Bakul Katha), the cataclysms of the 1940s—war, famine and partition, which changed the lives of Bengali women forever—bypassed her protagonist Bakul, and the struggle of Bengali woman ends not with a bang but a whimper. The turbulences, however, found some expression in Jyotirmoyee Debi’s works and more particularly in the writing of Sulekha Sanyal. We find that Pratibha Basu handles men and women in the family and the tension arising out of social rigidity or temperament in various ways, sometimes with romantic sensitivity, sometimes with caustic naturalism. In Leela Majumdar’s delineation of slightly upper-class households, traditional patterns of dominance are often parodied and melodrama unabashedly debunked with a touch of humor. Long before our current feminine obsession with body, Bani Ray, a highly talented and versatile writer, now a victim of undeserved oblivion, explored female sexuality in various atypical relationships including lesbian, incorporating myths as prefigurative technique. With her, family quite often became not only oppressive but also redundant. Such a galaxy of writers established Bengali women’s writing as a parallel force to the so-called (male) mainstream and many of them surpassed their male rivals in terms of material success (as determined by sales chart, filmization, awards, honors etc.). Mahasweta Devi, even though she has written on man and male relationships in the family dealing with the very modern problems of male ego and so on, she is best known by those works in which the family represented by one individual is caught in the eye of storm that destroys all bonding. Her most famous novels are created in the background of a great

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political and violent turbulence, be it in the uprising of 1857, the Santal rebellion or the Naxal movement. This apparently irrelevant and definitely an inadequate bird’s eye view of my illustrious ancestors is presented only to record my confession that when I write, I feel very much part of a continuing tradition, even if there may not be an immediately visible resemblance between the works of my predecessors and my insignificantly few efforts, in conceptualization, technique and viewpoint. In the novel Putlir Kathaa (Dey, 1999), the tale of a girl child, family, being already uprooted from the traditional hereditary bhite, a fixed location in undivided Bengal, has become practically nuclear. Baba, Putli’s father, is one of innumerable Bengali Hindu upper caste men who throughout the period of foreign occupation, starting in the Muslim era, have been migrating to new places to pursue new livelihoods and discarding the inherited traditional ones. Baba, a writer by profession settled in Kolkata, happens to be also a leftist intellectual like many of his generation who matured in the 1930’s of the last century. So he is liberal enough to educate his much younger wife, Putli’s Ma (mother), and even allow her to develop hobbies like playing the sitar, enjoy freedom of movement outside home, and enter into social discourse with his male friends—all quite exceptional in the middle class of the 1940’s and 1950’s. However, there is an area of male prerogative, a life “outside”—meaning indulgence in alcohol and women, a decadent feudal vice now transformed into an “artistic,” bohemian habit, a channel for escape from the deep disappointment of independence, trauma of Partition and the anxiety of uncertain income experienced by Baba. It is the family which bears the brunt. The disorder in the household is caused by Baba’s abnormal routine. Mother’s bitterness and misery make Putli long for an escape from this “progressive” family. In her desperation she once climbs on to a fishing boat plying the Marhalta, ditch. She is recognized and brought back home. Her spiritual rebellion against her father’s anti-religious stand does not succeed either. On a visit to Puri, the sight of bizarre Lord Jagannath shocks her, reminding her of the leper begging with stumps at the temple gate. In a literary exercise at school she pours out the agony of her alienation as she describes the death of her pet dog, which her parents put to sleep, forced by circumstances. According to her Bengali teacher, this is a bad piece of writing, too self-centered and naked. Putli feels stifled by her family. At this point, to help mother recover from a nervous breakdown, they go to Bhagalpur, a town in Bihar,

150 Esha Dey for a change of air. Here too the adda, a Bengali institution of socializing, led Baba and a few friends to engage in usual discussions on the customary topics like politics, Partition and Hindu woman. One day there is a debate on the role of woman in man’s life. The traditional Hindu view that man gets a wife in order to have sons is being opposed by the great classical writer Kalidasa’s description: “the mistress of household, counselor, companion in togetherness and a dear disciple in fine arts.” Ma is asked to join in and act as judge. Though she is supposed to be resting in order to recuperate, she is actually busy cooking extra quantities of fish, for fish is available in plenty and at a low price in Bhagalpur. She wipes the sweat from her brow, arranges her saree, appears in the adda and listens to the two views. Dismissing the poetic one straightaway, she delivers her judgement—an ordinary Hindu wife is an unpaid domestic servant and a free whore. This dramatic utterance, hastily excused as a product of her illness, is possible only because the unquestioning subordinate status of woman has been shaken as has been the demarcation of two worlds. Indeed there is enough hint that Ma’s breakdown might have been accelerated by her indeterminate relationship with another man whose voice Putli sometimes heard on the telephone in the past. Mother has acquired the urge to protest, although not yet the means to rebel or to take pro-active steps. Yet she is conventional enough to long for a son and to bring up her daughter according to the age-old precepts of feminine behavior. So Putli should not roam about like a boy, she should dress up, be timid and so on. An only child and a pampered favorite of her father as well as his friends (who act as elders of a vanished joint family), Putli does not therefore feel close to Ma, who she otherwise also finds melodramatic. Her enjoyment of male-like freedom, granted by Baba who believes in equality of sexes, exposes her to the trauma of molestation by a family friend. Her first encounter with male dominance and sex as a tool for oppression makes her realize the bond of gender between her and Ma, who she now finds a source of security. Thus a dysfunctional family still possesses valuable bonding, which is reinforced during transition. In the traditional joint family, various members like grandparents, uncles, aunts, cousins, nieces and nephews of various degrees, act as buffers between husband and wife, who are allowed very little privacy. In the absence of this buffer, a nuclear family, for the first time perhaps in our society, stands on marital relationship alone and as such its sexual and emotional aspects receive more attention and emphasis

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than before, particularly as the financial empowerment of woman frees her from the confinement within four walls. In Soti, Binodini ebong aami (Dey, 1997), a narrative of three women, all highly educated college teachers, the common character of this change is revealed, cutting across socio-cultural and even (sub)national differences. The first person narrator Chitra (aami), a Bengali who works in a degree college at Bhubaneswar, the capital of Orissa, interacts with Soti and a rebel called Binodini. Chitra is caught between tradition and modernity. Though they differ in language, lifestyle and viewpoints, even then there is a strange unity among married working women both in family situations as well as in the workplace. With virtually no infrastructure of support system for working mothers and no social mores of male participation in household chores, all of them are perpetually engaged in a balancing act, realizing neither their talent as homemakers nor their potential as professionals. Often overworked, harassed and cynical, their financial empowerment does not take away their emotional vacuum. The sense of deprivation takes a critical turn when the husband asserts the male right to transgress the marital bond of fidelity. Soti’s recital of her husband’s ongoing affair with Binodini reminds Chitra of her similar experience—her husband’s escapade with an air hostess while posted in New Delhi. This hackneyed reenactment of so-called male privilege does not, however, lessen the profound sense of humiliation and loss of self-confidence experienced by both the wronged wives, one Bengali and the other Oriya. The third woman Binodini, herself a wife and mother, does not, however, feel guilty at all. She is outspoken enough to declare that monogamy is equally oppressive to both the sexes. It is not only sexual satisfaction that her marriage does not provide, but also friendship, tenderness and care. She is therefore in perpetual quest for romance outside marriage. Chitra painfully remembers how her husband Subir in his liaison with the Punjabi girl was caught in a feverous excitement of lust which she as wife obviously could not supply. These affairs break up because of the intervention of external reality in the form of social/ official pressure on the transgressor. The façade of marriage, however, continues. The paths of the three women as professionals, wives and mothers diverge in different directions dictated by necessities of circumstances, but in every home a man and his wife sleep under the same roof in the same bed, strangers to each other. Such family transactions throw up a number of subsidiary themes. The obvious one is the rise of children as players in parents’ personal

152 Esha Dey lives, an elevation unthinkable in a traditional setup. They exert decisive influence on their parents’ actions—almost similar to the one earlier exercised by elders. Soti’s teenage son is deeply affected by the discovery of his father’s affair and constantly urges his mother to take action. Binodini’s adolescent daughter catches her mother with Soti’s husband and shames them publicly, thereby cutting an effective end to the liaison. It is quite clear that children of transgressing or rebel or non-conformist parents often turn out to be diehard conservatives as far as the older generation is concerned. There is, however, the more serious problem of male reaction to woman’s empowerment. Both Soti and Binodini, who are otherwise poles apart, notice that husbands of financially independent women tend to be less caring and less considerate than those with dependent wives. Like Chitra’s bureaucrat husband, they may try to belittle wives’ contribution—in terms of labor as well as money—to the household and even their work outside as mere “supplementary” income. The atmosphere in such families is often charged with latent hostility towards each other or cold indifference. The source of such apparently illogical male response to the challenge posed by women lies hidden in a profound feeling of inadequacy that is both deep rooted and pervasive among men in our country. It is a fact that we are a failed patriarchy—a patriarchy that has not defended the family or country (or gods) against invaders. So for hundreds of years, since the customary male area of activities, namely, governance of country and its defense was occupied by foreign rulers, the Hindu male arena of dominance has been restricted to society, culture and family. Now this monopoly is being challenged. In Thikaanaa (Dey, 2002), the chapter presents an elaborate study of male insecurity and anxiety trying to cope with the New Woman. Amal, the hero and protagonist, whose family has risen from lower castes thanks to modern western education, falls in love with Maitreyi, a slightly older married Brahmin woman,while still a student in an engineering college in North Bengal. After being duly divorced and back in south Kolkata in her parental house, Maitreyi brushes aside social disapproval, plunges into work, and blossoms as a teacher and later principal of a school. A single mother, she brings up her child and looks after aging parents like a son. Amal, on the other hand, loses one job after another as militant trade unionism and callous management lead to closure of one industry after another. He has to earn his livelihood outside West Bengal. His family, consisting of parents and

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elder brothers residing in north Kolkata, a locality at present considered a bastion of orthodoxy, completely disapproves of his affair with Maitreyi. Alienated from family, Amal all the more clings to Maitreyi, whose self-sufficiency, command over her environment, and understanding of his character create in him an aspiration towards a larger-than-life self-image. The absence of a regular family is compensated in a peculiar yet typical manner. In Bhubaneswar he starts a Bengali Club as a cultural organization, a practice common with Bengalis outside Bengal all over the world. Amal becomes the grand patriarch of an extended family composed of Bengali inhabitants posted there for temporary periods, all birds of passage. Like a guardian elder brother he looks after the well being of the members of the club, finding accommodation for the new arrivals, getting their children admitted in English medium schools, and keeping their often ambitious and highly-qualified wives suitably occupied. He is everybody’s Amaldaa, acting virtually as the head of a Hindu undivided family. Yet with Maitreyi, who is practically a wife to him in every way, he fails in family roles both as a father-figure to her child and as a surrogate son to her parents. He constantly plays the young adolescent lover trying to dazzle her with a show of power—arranging parties, picnics, Bengali cultural events like Bijaya Sammilani or Poila Baishakh and mega functions with Bollywood stars, carefully dovetailed with Maitreyi’s weekends and holidays. Gradually he ceases to be her partner in happiness and sorrow and becomes just her relaxation and enjoyment. His deep sense of inadequacy, arising as much from unsatisfactory sex and forced separation as from his difference in class and caste background, bursts out in occasional defiant acts of onenight-stands, which leave Maitreyi secretly devastated. The complexities of sub nationalist politics in Orissa coupled with his own unscrupulous rush towards prominence destroy his larger-than-life existence in Bhubaneswar. Transferred to Mumbai and caught in a vigilance enquiry, he falls seriously ill. As he is fighting in various fronts, Maitreyi contracts companionship marriage with an elderly widower, a member of the governing body of her school who has all along been a sympathetic friend and a willing guardian to her son. Bereft of Maitreyi and the Bengali Club, Amal becomes a real orphan and loses mental balance. At a psychiatric clinic in Kolkata where his brothers admit him for treatment, a young research worker makes him narrate his life story and in the process of remembrance realizes where things have gone wrong. Finally healed and master of himself,

154 Esha Dey Amal goes back to his ancentral house, his thikannaa or address, his own space on this earth, where he finds peace as an affectionate uncle to his niece. Thus the empowerment of woman destabilizes the traditional basis of sexual relationship and starts an upheaval in family, which tries to reestablish itself in new patterns, the model of which is ingrained in our traditional extended structure where asexual bonding possesses significant validity. Further, the traditional structure consisting of different generations often seeks to re-organize itself by overriding nuclear families and weaving a kind of abstract bonding between ancestors and successors, which creates new complexities. In the novel Sei-Sab Swapnagulo, all the three major characters, Bishaakhaa, Biplab and Ranajit, trace their origin to the same Comilla district of East Bengal (later East Pakistan and Bangladesh), to the same class of upper caste Hindu landed gentry who, surrounded by a Muslim majority, asserted their dominance in aggressive self-improvement, acquiring accelerated progress from feudalism to the modern age. Although the families branched off in different directions long before the Partition and settled comfortably in Kolkata and abroad, the inheritance of ambition and idealism, perhaps two sides of the same coin, continues from generation to generation. Handsome and brilliant, Biplab, the president of the students’ union in an exclusive college, possesses all the glamor of a Bengali hero with the necessary attraction of what seems to be also a hereditary urge to do something worthwhile. Born too late to be a communist or a Naxalite, he is, however, deeply attached to his leftist uncle and aunt, and reveres the memory of a martyred relative. This critical attitude towards his own class perhaps makes him fail in the All India Civil Services Examination, in which his girlfriend succeeds. Consequently he is left high and dry, his male ego shattered. He courts and marries Bishaakhaa, a quiet, goodlooking and above-average student who seems happy to be a teacher. However, Bishaakhaa has been brought up as someone very special by her progressive parents and reacts sharply when she finds out that she has been Biplab’s second choice. Determined to be selfsufficient with her teaching and tuition, she stays back in Kolkata while Biplab goes to Purulia to educate the downtrodden in a rural area, where in his loneliness he falls a victim to the seductive charm of a tribal domestic. Instead of building a bridge with Biplab and saving the marriage, Bishaakhaa distances herself further from him as she is frightened by the recital of his leftist aunt, which reveals the

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tragedy of women who sacrificed themselves for ideology, including Biplab’s own legendary relative. Biplab overcomes his infatuation and becomes a serious and dedicated head of an NGO unit in Assam. As a male provider, his presence in the family in Kolkata gradually diminishes to being a “guest father” in the eyes of his only daughter. Ranajit, a distant cousin of Biplab—both having the same set of great grandparents—happens to be a classic male, a builder of industry, a provider for family, a dutiful husband, father and son. Apparently a foil to Biplab, his actions stem not so much from love or affection for wife and children as from an indomitable desire to prove himself worthy of his pioneer—industrialist uncle, who adopted him as his son in infancy. In both Biplab and Ranajit, it is family in the form of ancestral lineage that directs their course of life. For both, relationship with wife and children ceases to be priorities of life, but with a very important difference. Ranajit compensates his lack of attention by gifting properties to his wife and investing lavishly on children, whereas Biplab gives them nothing but thanks for the freedom he enjoys from their demands. When Biplab is abducted by terrorists in Assam and a mutilated corpse is found nearby, Bishaakhaa identifies it as the body of her husband. She can now legitimately inherit his portion of the house in Kolkata, which is the center of her security, offer it as collateral to get bank loan, start a more profitable and less exacting career as an entrepreneur, and be a better mother to her daughter. This quiet and fatal violence to the basic structure of family is discovered by the traditionalist Ranajit, a lost childhood friend who has surfaced in this critical juncture. He regards Bishaakhaa’s act as prudent and logical, an act finally worthy of their common Chowdhury family of Comilla. Thus family, battered by female empowerment, male insecurity and diminishing responsibility, goes on re-inventing the great institution in innumerable permutations and combinations. Its transactions may be cynical and grossly materialistic as in the story Akjon Bhaalo Swamir Jibne Ekti Raat, where the wife functions as a sexual slave and a domestic worker in exchange for economic and social security, and children are nurtured as investments. Or the transactions may be genuinely traditional as in Grihini, where a middle-class housewife dedicated to husband and children ends up as a laminated photograph on the wall. Or quietly oppressive as in Layla, which portrays how an educated and spirited Muslim girl is gradually transformed into a conventional wife and mother suffering those typical “minority”

156 Esha Dey complexes she herself rebelled against in her youth. The possibilities of equal partnership and a just attitude toward female sexuality may be found in Ekaal and Ato Tuku-Swargo. In my novels and stories as a whole, family is imagined as a microcosm of society that is undergoing the pangs of transition from a stratified semi-feudal entity to a more or less modern existence based on the ideals of equality and freedom.

References Dey, Esha. (1995). The Women Novelists of Bengal (1855–1905), in R.K. Dhawan (ed.), Indian Women Novelists, Set III Vol. 7. New Delhi: Prestige. ———. (1996). “An Authentic Voice: Ashapurna Devi (1904–1995),” Indian Literature, Jan–Feb. ———. (1996–97). “Pargachha,” in Parichay, November–January, Calcutta. ———. (1997). Soti, Binodini ebong aami (novel). Calcutta Nabapatra Prakashan. ———. (1999). Putlir Katha (novel). Kolkata: Proma Prakashani. ———. (2002). Thikaanaa (novel). Kolkata: Mitra and Ghosh Publishers. ———. (2004). Aker Por Ak (novel). Kolkata: Mitra and Ghosh Publishers. ———. (2004). “Grihini,” in Hyena (collection of stories). Kolkata: Proma Prakashani. ———. (2004). “Ato Tuku Swargo,” in Shesh Bangali (collection of stories). Kolkata: Nabapatra Prakashan. ———. (2004). “Ekaal,” in Shesh Bangali (collection of stories). Kolkata: Nabapatra Prakashan. ———. (2004). “Ekjon Bhalo Swamir Jibne Ekti Raat,” in Shesh Bangali (collection of stories). Kolkata: Nabapatra Prakashan. ———. (2004). “Layla,” in Shesh Bangali (collection of stories). Kolkata: Nabapatra Prakashan. Tharu S. and K. Lalita (ed.). (1995). Women Writing in India, Vol. I. New Delhi: Oxford University Press.

Chapter 7

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The Politics of Home and Food in Jhumpa Lahiri’s Interpreter of Maladies Irma Maini

If food is treated as a code, the messages it encodes will be found in the pattern of social relations being expressed. The message is about different degrees of hierarchy, inclusion and exclusion, boundaries and transactions across the boundaries. —Mary Douglas

Images of food have functioned in many different and often contradictory ways in literary works, particularly in writing by women. Food is seen as a cultural signifier that could be a source of empowerment and control on the one hand and of powerlessness and domination on the other, of bonding as well as of separation, of a form of resistance to assimilation and at the same time a nostalgic longing for a lost world; in short it could define one’s identity in both positive and negative, complex and complicated ways. In Jhumpa Lahiri’s Pulitzer prize-winning collection of short stories Interpreter of Maladies, the images of purchasing, preparing, serving, and eating food perform in much the same way as listed above; however, her use of alimentary imagery becomes further problematized in these stories when seen

158 Irma Maini within the context of migration, diaspora, and of what constitutes “home.” Salman Rushdie in his book Imaginary Homelands quotes Milan Kundera: “the struggle of man against power is the struggle of memory against forgetting” (1991: 14). This is one of the primary conflicts that the protagonist of Lahiri’s story entitled “Mrs Sen” faces. Wife of a mathematics professor, Mrs Sen is a new immigrant to the US who is determined not to forget her life in Calcutta, India. Lacking a sense of identity in this new country, it is vitally important for her to hold on to her memories of a time when she was somebody. However, instead of just remembering the past, Mrs Sen uses the past to give meaning to the present by preparing and cooking foods of her native Bengal. The daily ritual of washing, chopping, slicing, and grinding brings a semblance of order in an unfamiliar world, whose ways she finds hard to understand. “Her profile hovered protectively over her work, a confetti of cucumber, eggplant, and onion skins heaped around her” (Lahiri, 1999: 115). Instead of being a site of oppression and suppression, the kitchen becomes her domain, her territory where she is in control. For her, cooking is not a chore, as it is for the women in Marge Piercy’s poem who rebel by burning dinners. Cooking is one activity Mrs Sen can take pride in; this is what gives her a measure of self-worth in a country that sees her as an outsider. “Brimming bowls and colanders lined the countertop, spices and pastes were measured and blended, and eventually a collection of broths simmered over periwinkle flames on the stove. It was never a special occasion, nor was she ever expecting company. It was merely dinner for herself and Mr Sen” (ibid.: 117). Leisurely preparing meals not only gives her a sense of purpose but also brings back poignant, wonderful memories of women in Calcutta, getting together and chopping vegetables for a wedding or a celebration, “laughing and gossiping” late into the night (ibid.: 115). This image of communal gatherings and “evocations of flavors and cooking methods work efficiently to recall the manner of an entire way of life” (Goldman, 1992: 178). Anne Goldman, in her article “‘I Yam what I Yam’: Cooking, Culture, and Colonialism,” argues that “descriptions of food and its preparation resonate with nostalgia for an Edenic past” (ibid.: 178). “Everything is there,” declares Mrs Sen (Lahiri, 1999: 113). Even the young boy, Eliot, whom she watches after school understands that “when Mrs Sen said home, she meant India…” (ibid.: 116). More than anything else Mrs Sen hungers for the lost sense of community. She says to Eliot,

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“‘At home’” one had to just raise one’s “‘voice a bit, or express grief or joy of any kind, and one whole neighborhood and half of another’” would “‘come to share the news, to help with arrangements’” (Lahiri, 1999: 116). Granted her image of life back “home” is uncritical but it is only an image. However, in the process of remembering she is inevitably creating what Salman Rushdie calls an “Imaginary Homeland,” one that is made up of fragments and shards of memory, which is simultaneously rich with imaginative possibilities. Though Rushdie uses that phrase in reference to writers, Mrs Sen too is creating her narrative, not through writing but through the food she prepares, cooks, serves, and eats. This is a space she can call her own; here she gains agency and can assert her identity. On an emotional and psychological level she connects with her maternal ancestors and her cultural traditions even as she alters, modifies, or adds to their narrative. Two things bring Mrs Sen the greatest joy: a letter from India and fresh whole fish, even though she complains that the fish tastes nothing like the fish in India. Frustrated at not being able to get fresh whole fish in the supermarket though she could choose from thirty-two types of cat food, Mrs Sen finds a fish market on the beach several miles from her apartment and insists her husband drive her there to pick up fresh fish. She is most animated and alive in the fish-store, laughing and chatting with the man behind the counter. Once home, she inspects her “treasures” as she lovingly “stroked the tails, [and] prodded the bellies” (ibid.: 127). Thus, for Mrs Sen, preparing and cooking food is more than just a daily routine; it becomes a sensual experience, an emotionally charged activity as eating food is for some people. Apart from cooking, Mrs Sen loves feeding others. The first thing she gives Eliot as he gets off the school bus is a sandwich bag with peeled wedges of an orange or salted peanuts to munch on their two minute walk to the apartment. Each evening she insists on serving Eliot’s mother something to eat and drink, “a glass of bright pink yogurt with rose syrup, breaded mincemeat with raisins, a bowl of semolina halvah” (ibid.: 118). Eliot’s mother, who had confessed to Eliot that she didn’t like Mrs Sen’s food, would take one obligatory sip or bite, say it was delicious, and get ready to leave. If “feeding is … psychologically … the locus of love, aggression, pleasure, anxiety, frustration and desire for control” (ibid.), as critic Sarah Sceats suggests, then Eliot’s mother’s rejection of Mrs Sen’s food is a rejection

160 Irma Maini of Mrs Sen’s being. However, this is not just a case of petulance or being overly sensitive about any critique of her cooking. It is important to see this within the context of Mrs Sen’s minority status as a cultural outsider in American society. Cooking tasty Bengali meals and creating new dishes is a skill Mrs Sen knows she has. This is the one constant in her life, her anchor so to speak in a life that has changed drastically since she moved to the US. This is what brings her comfort and envelops her in a blanket of security and warmth. Acutely aware of being a cultural outsider—her sari, the vermilion in her parting, the red bindi on her forehead are only the most visible signs—Mrs Sen tries to reach out to Eliot’s mother through the one thing she is confident about: her food. If food is a code to social relationships, as Mary Douglas asserts, then Eliot’s mother’s dismissal of Mrs Sen’s food only intensifies the cultural divide that exists between Mrs Sen and American society. In other words, Eliot’s mother’s gesture demarcates the boundaries of social interaction between them. They will not break bread together, perhaps one of the most primal ways to establish community; thus reinforcing Mrs Sen’s status as a social outcast. Sociologists believe that for most new immigrants, the food habits of their native countries are the last to go in the process of assimilation and that women in particular hold on to them for a long time. Mrs Sen’s tenacity and desire to cook, eat, and feed only Indian food could be interpreted as one of the ways she shows resistance toward assimilation in American society. She might eat that ubiquitous American favorite, french fries, or eat clam cakes which according to her tasted “like pakoras” (Lahiri, 1999: 129), but she certainly was not going to give up her native foods. That would mean surrendering a very significant part of her identity and even the desire to fit into American society was not worth it. In fact, many immigrants who give up the cultures of their native countries to become more “Americanized” often find that they are still not accepted by mainstream American society and continue to be regarded as outsiders—with the result that more and more immigrants have started asserting their ethnic identities and cultures as a way to gain self-respect and agency in a hostile society. Foodways historians Linda Keller Brown and Kay Mussell assert, “foodways bind individuals together, define the limits of the group’s outreach and identity, distinguish in-group from out-group, serve as a medium of inter-group communication, celebrate cultural cohesion

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and provide a context for performance of group rituals” (Brown and Mussell, 1984: 5). However, this formula becomes a lot more complex when seen within the context of geographical and political boundaries that often divide nations. When parts of a nation separate, secede, are sliced off, or annexed almost overnight, people of one nation become citizens of a different nation. For example before August 15, 1947, people in British controlled India were all Indian nationals; after August 1947, some people were told that they were now Pakistanis; and after December 1971 some of the Pakistanis became Bangladeshis. But what of their common cultural traditions that they had shared for centuries? How does that change overnight? It is precisely this question about the difference between one’s cultural identity and one’s national identity that baffles ten year old Lilia in Jhumpa Lahiri’s short story When Mr Pirzada Came to Dine. Born and brought up in New England of immigrant parents from Calcutta, Lilia has an uncomplicated idea of nationhood and assumes that Mr Pirzada, the visiting scholar from Pakistan, is also an Indian. When reprimanded by her father for referring to Mr Pirzada as an “Indian man,” Lilia is confused: “It made no sense to me” she says. “Mr Pirzada and my parents spoke the same language, laughed at the same jokes, looked more or less the same. They ate pickled mangoes with their meals, ate rice every night for supper with their hands. Like my parents, Mr Pirzada took off his shoes before a room, chewed fennel seeds after meals as a digestive, drank no alcohol, for dessert dipped austere biscuits into successive cups of tea” (Lahiri, 1999: 25). Yet her father insists she understand the difference and proceeds to give her a history lesson. Lahiri sets the story in New England, in the fall of 1971, when Bangladesh was fighting for its sovereignty from Pakistan. Mr Pirzada and Lilia’s parents (whose names we are never told in the story) watch the events unfold on television each evening as they eat their dinner together: “lentils with fried onions, green beans with coconut, fish cooked with raisins in a yogurt sauce … plate of lemon wedges … and chili peppers … which they liked to snap open and crush into their food” (ibid.: 30). Food is clearly an important part of the culture that binds them despite barriers of nation, nationhood, and nationalism. In fact, Lilia’s parents, who are from east India, have more in common with Mr Pirzada, who is from east Pakistan (later Bangladesh), in terms of their food habits and language than a fellow Indian from north or south India. Yet each of them calls different nations “home.” If “home” is determined by a geographical, political, and/or

162 Irma Maini emotional space and sense of belonging, then the concept of “home” is further problematized for both Mr Pirzada and Lilia’s parents. Mr Pirzada leaves his home in Dacca, Pakistan when he comes for a visit to the US but returns to his home in Dacca, Bangladesh. Physically and geographically it is the same, yet politically and emotionally everything is totally different. The nation he had once belonged to and called “home” (Pakistan) is now a foreign country. The reverse is true for Lilia’s parents who, like tens of thousands of immigrants leave their “home” in their native countries to make a new home in a foreign land. In this case everything changes: geographically, politically, and emotionally. Lahiri doesn’t focus too much on the ramifications of such a displacement in this story. While Lilia’s parents do not assimilate into the dominant culture they clearly make efforts to adapt, like their celebration of Halloween. At the same time, their deep connection with their homeland is evident not only in the Indian food they continue to eat each night but in their keen interest in the events in that part of the world. Lilia’s parents’ anxieties and fears about events occurring thousands of miles away are understandably disturbing to Lilia as are the images of death and destruction of war that she sees on television. She cannot share her anxieties with her peers or friends, for “no one at school talked about the war followed so faithfully in [her] living room” (Lahiri, 1999: 32). Confronted with the horrifying images of war in a part of the world she knows little about yet feels a connection with, Lilia tries to calm herself and banish the images of that “sweltering” world by absorbing the cheeriness of her bedroom decorated with yellow curtains and a yellow canopied bed. But when that fails, she, like her parents, relieves her anxieties by eating food. In her case, it is not Indian food that brings her comfort but eating American candy that Mr Pirzada gives her. Each night she would put one piece of candy in her mouth, “for the sake of [Mr Pirzada’s] family” (ibid.: 34) and say a prayer for their safety. As she swallowed the candy she seemed to believe she was swallowing some of Mr Pirzada’s pain and fear, and finding a connection with that disturbing world she had only seen on television. Food historian Margaret Visner says people often believe if they eat the food of a particular culture they will be able to “get” that culture. Ironically Lilia tries to absorb that “other” world through a traditionally American/Western treat. Though she seems to feel guilty about her privileged life, Lilia sees no contradiction between her self-indulgent candy eating ritual and the starving

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Bangladeshi refugees for whose sake she says she is eating candy. Later when Lilia’s parents hear from Mr Pirzada that his family had survived the war and that they are all fine, Lilia throws away the rest of the candy for now she believes there was no need to “eat a candy for their sake.” The connection between eating and emotions has been well established but Lahiri’s light touch, particularly in relation to young Lilia’s actions, adds another nuance to it. Apart from fulfilling some sort of emotional vacuum in Lilia, the daily ritual of eating candy also helps to bring some sort of order to her confused thoughts about people she does not quite understand. Jhumpa Lahiri’s varied use of the culinary metaphor in her stories understates the fact that the preparation and consumption of food has multiple and complex meanings. By decoding the discourse of food, we can begin to understand the way that the politics of food permeates every aspect of our lives. Critic Sarah Sceats in an article about women, power, and food asserts, “Every meal incorporates political, cultural, personal, and psychological ingredients” (1996: 125). Perhaps we don’t need to decipher every meal within those contexts, but the multifaceted images of food in literature sure give us plenty to chew on.

References Brown, Linda Keller and Kay Mussell, (eds). (1984). Introduction in Ethnic and Regional Foodways in the United States: The Performance of Group Identity. Knoxville: University of Tennessee Press. Douglas, Mary. (1972). “Deciphering a Meal,” Daedalus, 101(1): 61–81. Goldman, Anne. (1992). “‘I Yam What I Yam’: Cooking, Culture, and Colonialism,” in Sidonie Smith and Julia Watson (eds), De/Colonizing the Subject: The Politics of Gender in Women’s Autobiography, pp. 169–95. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press. Lahiri, Jhumpa. (1999). Interpreter of Maladies: Stories. New York: Houghton Mifflin. Rushdie, Salman. (1991). Imaginary Homelands: Essays and Criticism 1981– 1991. London: Granta Books. Sceats, Sarah. (1996). “Eating the Evidence: Women, Power, and Food,” in Sarah Sceats and Gail Cunningham (eds), Image and Power: Women in Fiction in the Twentieth Century, pp. 117–26. New York: Longman. Visner, Margaret. (1998). “Food and Culture: Interconnections,” Social Research, 66(1): 117–30.

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Chapter 8

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Representation of the Family in Marathi Autobiography Written by Dalit Women Pushpa Bhave

Before reflecting on the primary material of this chapter, one needs to address the problems of theorizing autobiography. There are many complex issues of genre, gender and caste which surface when one is talking about women’s autobiography, especially those written by Dalit women.

The Autobiographical Impulse Autobiography as a literary genre has always been a contested category, both in India and in the West. It was valued as an interpretation of life in its totality but not as a literary text. With the loosening of the hold of New Criticism on literary scholarship, several critics began reading autobiographies as a literary text rather than documented

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history. Within women’s studies, autobiographies acquired a special position as the arrival of women in language texts, if not on the literary scene. “Writing the self ” was on the one hand a step into the public sphere; on the other hand, it was an expression of a woman’s private self. Though fiction and autobiography are supposed to be vastly different, the latter does have the narration of a structured “I.” Within women’s tradition (whether Indian or otherwise) where women were given identities and role models by patriarchy, the autobiography was positioned at a site of its own choice. How did male critics look at autobiography? With limited eyes, one may say. For example, Georges Gusdorf ’s seminal essay “Conditions and Limits of Autobiography” declared that the task of autobiography is first of all the task of personal salvation (Gusdorf 1980: 39). But neither Gusdorf nor Georg Misch in his History of Autobiography in Antiquity (1950) could perceive such narration outside the domain of the white male and Western culture. Gusdorf explains that the artist and the model “coincide,” and that the historian considers himself a “great person.” These “great” persons predominantly wrote of their public endeavor. They used language to rhetorical purpose while women used the conversational tone to write about their private lives. In India, traditionally, home and family life have been the women’s domain. They understood their identity in a referential manner. The woman’s autobiographical self stands against the Western “modern” notion of individualism. Many Western theoreticians believe that autobiography is not possible where consciousness of self does not predominantly appear. Gusdorf argues that the cultural precondition for autobiography is a pervasive concept of individualism, a conscious awareness of the singularity of each individual life. He, like many other theorists, has post-Renaissance Western societies in mind. I am quite aware that Gusdorf is often identified as the dean of autobiographical studies. His contributions are undeniable, especially his assertion that autobiographical selves are constructed through the process of writing and therefore cannot reproduce exactly the selves who lived. However, the individualistic concept of the autobiographical self that pervades Gusdorf ’s work raises serious theoretical problems for critics who recognize that the self, self-creation and self-consciousness are profoundly different for women, minorities and many nonWestern peoples.

166 Pushpa Bhave The model of a separate and unique selfhood that is highlighted in Gusdorf ’s work and shared by many other critics, establishes a critical bias that leads to the misreading and marginalization of autobiographical texts by women and minorities. The inapplicability of individualistic models is two-fold. First, the emphasis on individualism does not take into account the importance of group identity for women and minorities. Second, the emphasis on separateness ignores the differences in socialization in the construction of male and female gender identites. The concept of female selfhood in the work of feminist theorists such as Sheila Rowbotham and Nancy Chodorow, in contrast, are grounded in a recognition of the historically generated differences between men and women. Application of their theories of women’s selfhood to women’s autobiographical texts, particularly those by women who also belong to racial, ethnic, sexual and religious minorities, illuminates the unfolding narratives of women’s life writing and thereby revises the prevailing canons of autobiography. The autobiographer in a minority group creates a self in the very act of seeking it. Her autobiography projects a single radical and radial energy originating in the subject-center, an aggressive creative expression of the self, a defence of individual integrity in the face of an otherwise multiple, confusing, swarming and inimical universe. Psychoanalytic critics of the autobiography often focus their analysis on the way in which self-creation in the text explores or recapitulates the writer’s past interplay with his/her parents. The feminist critics lay emphasis on a sense of identification, interdependence and community. In fact Nancy Chodorow (1978), while discussing the mother and child relationship, calls it a “complex relational constellation.” Her analysis of self in women’s autobiography uses the concept of interdependent existence, which might be useful while dealing with the theme of familial representations.

Dalit Women’s Consciousness There are parallels that can be drawn. Women’s double consciousness and that of Dalits can be understood in light of these considerations. The family is the integral part of the Indian woman’s experience; it is the primary cultural space available to her. The male

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members of the family or women who “go out in the world” bring the public life—or part of it—into private homes. A woman is conditioned to perceive the family as her protective shell; she is also tutored into being the protector of the family, its traditions and, in India, the caste structured nature of the family. Anyone outside the immediate family circle or outside the extended family (blood relations) is known as “Itar” in Marathi, meaning the “other.” The way the autobiographer inscribes the “I” erases the traditional markers of social boundary. An autobiography mediates the space between “self ” and “life.” If for a moment we unfamiliarize ourselves with the familiar process of writing an autobiography, we would ask the question—what is experience? It is important to ask this question because many times an autobiography is read or evaluated in the context of the exterior reality in which the author resides. It is argued at times that women’s autobiographies are too subjective to be “authentic.” Yet, experience is the process by which subjectivity is constructed for all social beings. Through that process one places oneself or is placed in social reality and so perceives and comprehends as subjective those relations—material, economic and interpersonal— which are in fact social and, in a larger perspective, historical. Autobiography theory raises an inquiry into processes of subject construction, into the relationship between discourse cognition and reality, the relevance of the position or situatedness of subjects to the knowledge they produce and the effects of “difference” on such knowledge. When one is talking about women writers or Dalit writers— male or female—the question of authenticity is problematic. Present day autobiographers, specially women and Dalits are aware of this and relate it to further queries such as: How does she authorize her claim to writing? How does she negotiate the gendered fictions of self-representation? Identity is tied to notions of experience. Dalit women’s autobiographies were always a latent invisible force waiting to find expression. Configurations of politics and history in India brought them to the fore and into academia only a decade ago. Being a self-fashioned narrative, a story, a history and a confession as well, the “I” or self within the narration can be multiple and can reflect the theoretical, political debate in the outside world. Fascinatingly, in the process it might have internalized the tradition which it is fighting against and negating. The complexities are enormous.

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Marathi Dalit Narration Marathi literature has a significant tradition of autobiographical narration. From the 13th century onwards Bhagavat dharma, a religious sect (post-Buddhism) accepted women members and gave them the rights denied to them by Manusmriti. This sect had allowed saints from all castes to mingle together. It was a sect which assumed equality before religion, not in the villages but on the banks of the rivers. Women brought their oral culture to the sect, they used the images of their household work, they talked of women crossing the threshold of the home. These women like Janabai, Nimata, Muktabai and Soyara were not householders in the traditional sense, yet they brought the images of the householder; and gave the autobiographical tone to Marathi poetry. The most striking metaphor used by them and their male counterparts was the contrast between a Pativrata Nari (pious lady who worshipped her husband) and Vesava (prostitute). The woman’s voice was heard and written about for the first time. The Mahanubhav sect also had women who questioned their seer and teacher Chakradhar. Mahadaisa or Mahadamba wrote wedding songs for Lord Krishna—but they are compositions of a householder who dispassionately witnessed life within the family. In the British period the second generation of the educated elite wrote novels. The first few novels were written by men but they were centered on women and were structured as women’s life stories. Upto 1930, we see novels written in an autobiographical vein where the woman is a protagonist. These social novels depicted high-caste and middle-class joint families in great detail. From Haribhan Apte to Mama Warerkar, authors took on women’s voices to talk about the oppressive atmosphere of a joint family. The beginning of 20th century saw women writing their own autobiographies. They usually used the word Atheewani meaning memories (less formal than memoirs) or Puran. Ramabai Ranade—wife of Justice Ranade—called her autobiography Amchya Athawani. She was the narrator but she named Ranade differently. In Ramabai’s autobiography we see the predicament of the wife who is supposed to please her husband by her attempts to become an educated modern wife and yet win the respect of all family elders. The enlightened husband would not be seen supporting his wife against the traditional elders.

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Two famous autobiographies make similar claims to a particular kind of family experience—one by Laxmibai Tilak, Smrutichitre, and one by Baya Karve. Both these women have minds of their own. In spite of their famous husbands they constructed their own selves in the narration, speaking in some detail about their inner turmoil and the outer demands. Fortunately for them, both these women had families which were hardly traditional or casteist, and one can say that the picture of their families or extended families is hardly representative. Yet, there is a woman’s anguish which they share with many women in other kinds of families when they articulate the unspoken hurt of women who are taken for granted by their men folk. After Independence we have many autobiographies written by women; for example, by women who had occupied some public space in the fields of education or theater. Many were tales of exploitation in the family or within the man-woman relationship. Women were not supposed to talk about or write about family matters, but they searched for ways of expressing themselves. In the circumstances, male critics were usually hostile towards such writing. Are Marathi Dalit women’s autobiographies different? There are overlaps in how one perceives the woman question and the caste question. When one is talking about Dalit autobiographies one must be aware of the dynamics of the Dalit movement in various phases. The pre-Independence movement by B.R. Ambedkar strove to free Dalits from the internalized trauma of being untouchables. He brought women into public life and strove hard for the spread of education and for political rights. Conversion was a strategy to free Dalits from their lowly position in the Hindu caste hierarchy. After his death the Republican Party faded away. The younger generation revolted against the old Republican politics and there was a cultural revolt—the Dalit Panther movement. Dalit literature defined itself by three words— Vidroha (revolt), Vedana (grief ) and Nakar (saying “no”) to being defined by the Manu culture. In fact, to begin with, the rhetoric of “no” was predominant. Traditional autobiographies were written with a sense of achievement, while Dalit writers chose to end their narratives at the crisis point in life where they crossed the peripheral existence to touch the so-called mainstream. Dalit autobiographies expressed a deep concern for mother figures who had suffered because of the caste stigma. But when Dalit women started to write autobiographies, their understanding of society and experience ran deeper and they dealt with

170 Pushpa Bhave accounts of caste oppression on one hand and patriarchy on the other. Not surprisingly, they exposed the gender-based discriminations and hierarchies within the Dalit community as well. In the context of Marathi literature, the lines are somewhat blurred about Dalit women’s autobiographies and those of women from other marginal positions. I am choosing a few autobiographies, not all written by Dalit women, and stretching the category to include Ador by Najubai Gabit (the first autobiography by a tribal woman) and Me Bharun Pawle by Mehrunissa Dalwai (a woman from the progressive Muslim movement).

Examples of Dalit Women’s Autobiographies The problem with Dalit women’s autobiographies is how to deal with the personal “I” and the community “we.” This problem can be best illustrated in Jina Amucha by Baby Kamble. The title itself means “our life.” The writer is conscious of the dynamics of social change— how the new economic system interacts with the traditional caste system. She describes her position in the family and society and relates that to her father’s contracting business. Even being called “Baby” is indicative of her posture. In her narration she hardly talks about her personal history. Kamble is trying to depict how Dalit women live in a small village coping with double oppression, from the family on the one hand and caste patriarchy on the other. She uses what might be called “the grotesque” as a literary form when her search for space (social and psychological) turns intense and significant. The latter half of her narration expresses the impact of Babasaheb Ambedkar and her style becomes rhetorical. The use of Mahavi dialect and its poetic cadence is notable. Baby Kamble is not a highly-educated person but her sensitivity to women’s sexuality, patriarchal control and social depravity is lucidly expressed. Another autobiography contemporary to Baby Kamble is Shantabai Kamble’s Majya Jalmachi Chittarkatha. Shantabai was a trained teacher, she along with her husband joined Ambedkar’s movement. But her husband had a second wife so she had to suffer the hurt which was inflicted on so many women in that age. With reference to this

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autobiography one must mention the problem of family censorship exerted on women’s writing. Almost adhering to dictates, Shantabai remained evasive about her marital problems and individual pain. Mala Udhvasta Vhayachaye by Mallika Amersheikh is a very controversial autobiography. Mallika belongs to a later generation as compared to the two writers mentioned above. She is the daughter of a famous Muslim activist and his Hindu wife. Both were partners in the left movement. Mallika married the dynamic Dalit poet-leader Namdev Dhasal while rather young. She speaks of the agony of living with a person such as Dhasal—being infected by venereal disease by him. The middle-class readership welcomed her outspoken narrative because it confirmed their prejudice against Dalits. Yet one can look at it from another angle—she was a pampered child brought up in a typical middle-class school, immature at the age when she married a charismatic leader. So she could not understand his upbringing on the roads of the red-light district or his problems as a leader of the Dalit Panthers. Her romantic notions and the realities of married life could hardly match. Yet one may note the personal detail that Namdev and Mallika continue to live together. Though she had expressed her dismay as the wife of a powerful leader who was fighting social injustice, she also saw the problematic husband. Sometimes she depicted herself as a tragic queen bound to circumstances. Nevertheless, she remained within the charmed circle of his attraction. A comparison may be attempted with another autobiography, Me Bharun Pawle. Mehrunissa Dalwai is the wife of a famous Muslim progressive leader—the late Hamid Dalwai. Her autobiography does not take over the “we” syndrome. She came from a well-to-do Muslim family while Hamid came from a poor Konkani Muslim family. She talks a great deal about this difference. He was an activist. She is proud that she economically supported the family by being a working house-wife. There are many mentions of Hamid’s gratitude for her role. Though there are references to the tensions within the movement, threat to his life by orthodox Muslims, she was not involved in the movement (she took over after Hamid’s death). The latter half of the narration is about his illness, a kidney transplant and the traumatic years that followed. Though personally troubled, Dalwai is hardly aware of the deep moral issue of accepting the kidney from a criminal. Instead, there are abundant mentions of food and recipes throughout her autobiography. Her Marathi is quaint since she started using the language only under Hamid’s influence.

172 Pushpa Bhave A historically significant and unusual autobiography is the tribal book, Ador by Najubai Gabit. Spread over three parts, it talks about the clannish existence of adivasis. The language and attitude of the narrator is that of an activist. She talks about rights of the adivasi women but can hardly express their point of view. Such a book raises issues of agency and literary capabilities. Historical and documentary evidence gives the testimony to a less known way of women’s lives. Literary form comes only as a secondary concern. To return to an earlier point made in this chapter, subjectivity is also a socially constructed image. Between the literary and the sociological, contemporary theory does not recognize too many boundaries. In the form of the autobiography, especially of women from disadvantaged communities, the genre definitions break altogether. In the present book, the individual voice and the social concern merge into a unison. Compared to the many middle class autobiographies of women, self-writing from marginalized women is often reticent about interpersonal relationships. But the women are not shy about accepting or expressing the physicality of their relationships. The subject of how the body is inscribed in the language of women’s autobiographies is another valued area of enquiry. The abovementioned narratives are addressed to a middle-class readership and the consciousness of the “difference” in gender and caste attitudes is very visible. The subjectivity is moderated, the message is perhaps more important. The voice of the woman, silenced so long, must now carry far out of her home, to her family that is lulled into the quietitudes of patriarchal assumption, to the community that is often an uneasy coalition, to a readership that may have little knowledge of the hidden world of Dalit and marginalized women.

References Chodorow, Nancy J. (1978). The Reproduction of Mothering: Psychoanalysis and the Sociology of Gender. Berkeley University of California Press. Gusdorf, Georges. (1980). “Conditions and Limits of Autobiography,” in James Olney (ed.), Autobiography: Essays Theoretical and Critical, p. 39. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Misch, Georg. (1950). History of Autobiography in Antiquity. London: Routledge and Kegan Paul.

Representation of the Family in Marathi Autobiography 173 Smith, Sidonie and Julia Watson (eds). (1998). Women, Autobiography: A Reader. Madison: The University of Wisconsin Press.

Marathi Works Amarsheikh, Mallika. (1984). Mala Udhvasta Vhaychai. Mumbai: Majestic. Dalwai, Mehrunissa. Me Bharun Pawle. Gabit, Najubai. Ador (the first autobiography by a tribal). Kamble, Baby. Jina Amucha. Pune: Rachana. Kamble, Shantabai. Majya Jalmachi Chittarkatha. Mumbai: Purva.

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Chapter 9

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Real and Imagined Gujarati Families Shifting Positionalities of Gender in Contemporary Gujarati Women’s Writings Sutapa Chaudhuri

People had given you Rosy flower-painted frocks to save their prestige and retain their control on you. That too On one condition… Learn only that these people would teach, Speak what they want you to speak. Only theirs is the right choice, not what you like. You may exist… If ……………., then ……………. If ……………., then ……………. If ……………., then ……………. Only then, you shall get the promise of safety. Within the Laxman rekha drawn by them,

Real and Imagined Gujarati Families 175 With the sound of the clock kept by them, And by their winding up, You have to live… (Saroop Dhruv, Cinderalla: Beejo Pag Pan Oomara Ni Bahar). Those days I used to tell you stories of Princes to induce you to sleep. Today I am telling you those stories to awaken you. (Usha Sheth, Mara Ghar Ne Umbaro Nathi).

In the era of globalization, the definitions of family, society, culture, and the individual are all in flux. Not only have people’s lives and the concept of families changed drastically, but the criteria for gender portrayals in contemporary writings have also changed along with them. Gender and gender relationships are crucial in Gujarati families. This chapter tries to understand the reality of Gujarati families as imagined and presented in contemporary Gujarati women’s fiction. A survey of the prominent works show the diverse ways in which definitions of gender and family are constructed and reconstructed time and again in contemporary Gujarati fiction—both in novels and in short stories. These fictional constructions of gender definitions have subtly projected/resisted the prevailing sociocultural image of women and men in Gujarati society and vice versa. In order to understand how gender issues have been represented in contemporary Gujarati women’s writings, it is necessary to have an overview of the genre.

Family and Gender in Canonical Gujarati Literature (1880–1990): Visions of the Ideal Traditional portrayal of women or men as essential bearers of imposed ideologies recur time and again in mainstream Gujarati literature where we find the glorified and idealistic portrayal of women as silent, submissive, nurturing and dutiful entities, while men are brave and responsible. One of the most famous portrayals of women as the Adarsh Nari is found in Gowardhanram Tripathi’s epic novel Saraswati Chandra (1887–1901) in the Pandit Yug. In this novel, the “ideal woman” is imaged in many roles. Through the portrayals of

176 Sutapa Chaudhuri the ideal grand-mother, mother, daughter, sister or the “vamp,” this novel seems to dictate the sociocultural norms that bind a woman and warn against the pitfalls facing the transgressing woman. In this novel, the heroine Kumud represents the archetypal Gujarati woman, the ideal and desirable, silently suffering and sacrificing herself for the family and society at large. On the other hand, Gunasundari and Dharmalaxmi, Kumud’s mother and grandmother, are prototypes of the adarsh woman who fulfill their dharma at any cost. Significantly, in Kusum, Kumud’s younger sister, we get the first glimpse of the “new woman.” In the character of Saraswati Chandra we find the new, educated Gujarati man. For almost two generations, Gujarati writers portrayed their women in the image of Kumud and men in the image of Saraswati Chandra. The writings of Kanaiyalal Munshi, like Gujarat no Nath (1917) also focus on the heroic aspects of men and women who though apparently independent, often submit their identities in total surrender. They surrender to the prevalent socio-familial and cultural norms and stereotypes of the ideal woman/man. In the next era, the character of Rohini in Jher to Pidhan Che Jani Jani (1952) by Manubhai Pancholi Darshak, is the modernized version of Kumud but with a difference. Rohini’s forbearance becomes the source of her power as she accepts a positive way of life. From the 1960s we find the changing connotations of family and gender relationships slowly taking shape. Instead of the integrated families of the earlier writings, the focus shifted to fragmented relationships and divided families. Female or male characters however, though educated, still represent traditional and essentialist values. The 1970s and 1980s witnessed a total change from the point of view of presentation and subject matter as the writings exemplify the altered values of the modern times, the fast pace of the society, and its psychological complexity. In keeping with this modernistic trend, we find existentialist novels like Amrita (1965) by Raghuvir Chaudhari. Yet, even here the protagonist, Amrita, is forced to surrender her notions of freedom and identity and accept convention and social practice. In the 1990s, we find the emergence of the literature of resistance. These writings have a mature portrayal of not only men and women, but also of explorations into different aspects of society. One of the most significant perspectives of the 1990s is from women writers who show women/men as progressive, modern and individualistic, and capable of shaping their lives.

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In canonical Gujarati literature, the idea of man and manliness is perpetuated and perpetrated throughout the centuries. Phrases like stree par swamitva, stree jatini maryada recur again and again in Gujarati fiction. The husband who controls, scolds and even physically or emotionally abuses the wife for the smallest of reasons is not only omnipresent, but his actions are also condoned as his birth right in Gujarati fiction and culture. In Dhirendra Mehta’s Dishantar (1983), Purvi’s disabled husband Nikhil becomes furious when he learns that she has taken her lunch before serving him. Angrily he bursts out in accusation, “Dabba man rotli kem nathi? Purtu randhti pan nathi, humna ne humna lot bandhje” (Why aren’t there rotis in the box? You don’t even cook properly; knead the dough for my rotis right this moment). Such situations, in which the essence of the prabhutva of the man over his wife whom he thinks of as his daasi is foregrounded, have become a staple in folklore, canonical or contemporary Gujarati fiction.

Family and Gender in Contemporary Gujarati Women’s Writings: Resistance and Reconstruction The idealistic visions of women and men in mainstream Gujarati literature create a simplistic duality by portraying women as a commodity to be used for profit or as self-sacrificing and dutiful care-givers in a family. Women are the emblems of the silent and submissive Adarsh Nari while men are the stereotypical Prabhu. Contemporary Gujarati women’s writings as literature of resistance, however, attempt to create a more active, and complex presence for both men and women. They try to evoke life in modern Gujarati families as it is actually lived. The snapshots of the variegated complexity of life, reflecting the demographic and political changes in contemporary Gujarati culture, can be interpreted as representations that showcase men/women’s need to survive in this fast changing modern world—to be able to exercise free will, to make fluidity and discontinued adjustments, and to craft their lives. Gujarati women writers go beyond the familiar ways of conceptualizing gender. They present a challenge to the dominance of the

178 Sutapa Chaudhuri repressive structures within which both women and men exist. Traditional patriarchal discourses of family accept men as the sole subject of attention, view the objectification and commoditization of women as necessary and real, and see women as patterned by their kinship identities of daughters, wives, mothers, grandmothers and widows who live in terms of these relationships. In contrast, contemporary women writers focus on the changing configurations of gender and family in present day Gujarat. They see both women and men as subjects, but these subjects are posited as ambiguous and fashioned by societal and individual discourses that are constantly shifting. Their writings read almost like palimpsests, as if they are erasing the imposed patriarchal notions of gender, and writing down newer concepts for both men and women. This is amply illustrated in Suhas Oza’s Ughada Akash No Ek Tukdo, Tarini Desai’s Mahalaxmi, Anjali Khandwala’s Chandlano Vyaap or Suvarna’s Tou Tou Kevu Saru. In Ughada Akash No Ek Tukdo (A Patch of Open Sky), Oza portrays the whole gamut of a pregnant woman’s experience at the time of her labor in a hospital. Jasoda, in Tarini Desai’s Mahalaxmi dares to flout the age-old Indian convention of considering widows as inauspicious by supporting her widowed daughter-in-law in her desire to participate in her son’s marriage rites. In Chandlano Vyap (The All-pervasive Bindi) Anjali Khandwala shows how, irrespective of class, caste and education, the bindi confers on a woman a status which allows her to participate in all the happy occasions of familial and social life. On the other hand, in Tou Tou Kevu Saru (How nice it would be), Suvarna boldly and dispassionately talks about sexuality, lesbianism and bisexuality in the lives of two close friends, Baisakhi and Setu. As these writings show, there is no single truth for women/men, but many truths. As subjects, women/men become the deployers of alternative discourses who manipulate normative signs, create new spaces, and exercise agency. In order to create newer categories of gender, the writers dwell upon the ongoing resistance towards the construction of identity in a radical way that characterizes the lives of women/men. It accepts a vital dimension of reality—the self-perceived world of women/ men contesting the hegemonic construction of women/men—that gives rise to not only literatures of protest and resistance but also to assertion of autonomy through unconventional life styles, expressions of freedom through subversion, challenge and opposition. The family becomes one of the chief sites where this resistance is located.

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Family/Freedom: The Debate Rages Gujarati women writers have contested both the control and the connotations of conformity to societal norms that the term ‘family’ conjures. Family is the integral part of a Gujarati woman’s experience; it is the primary cultural space available to her. She is not only conditioned to perceive the family as her protective shell, but is also tutored into being the protector of the unit, thus reinforcing and perpetuating its traditions, authority, frames and structures. For women, family thus becomes a site for struggle where they have expectations of security and mutuality yet experience denial, fragmentation, subordination and consequently, alienation. Interestingly, in Gujarati women’s writings we repeatedly find the untying of the marriage knot, a retracing of the sacred seven steps (Saptapadi), a breakdown of the marriage structure, and consequently, a disintegration of the conventional family system. Interestingly, the freedom to take boundless steps/ flight in the sky, a symbol that is recurrently encountered in these writings, comes only after the erasure of the erstwhile family structures. In these writings, the symbolic dissolution of the bondage that the traditional family represents opens up alternate choices and modes of life for both women and men. To give voice to their silence and suppressed desires, they start looking for alternatives as they hope to live life differently. The women in these writings are striving against the socially-imposed ideological bondage of subordination: from darkness they are moving towards light, from confinement to freedom, from alienation to mutuality. In short stories such as Kundanika Kapadia’s Nyay, the story of a woman who chooses to walk out of her marriage as a rebellion against her domineering husband, Sarojini Mehta’s Dukh ke Sukh (Suffering or Happiness) where an ordinary woman through sheer hard work and grit establishes a hotel business after her husband deserts her, we find marriages dissolving, families collapsing and women emerging unscathed. The stories of the heroine in Kapadia’s Punaragaman (The Return), or Vasudha/Vyomesh, Vasanti/Satish in her Saat Paglan Akashman or Makrand/Mamta in Ila Arab Mehta’s Vistaar, all tell the same story of disintegration and self-construction. In Chaka Chakini Adhunik Bodhkatha (A Modern

180 Sutapa Chaudhuri Fable of Two Sparrows’), Swati Mehd narrates an essentially feminist story of the emancipation of a she-sparrow and the world of newfound joy in the freedom to fly. In Gujarati women’s writing, family thus becomes a hot bed of debate, discussion and a site for crucial confrontation and decisionmaking. Family, in their writings, opens up spaces for voicing, negotiating and appropriating tensions peculiarly experienced by women. Within this trend among Gujarati writers, women resist the identities and role models imposed upon them by the patriarchal family unit, recognize the different concepts of self, self-creation and selfconsciousness that are vital for women, and take into account the importance of group identity for women. Contemporary Gujarati women writers are thus, on the one hand, deconstructing and dismantling the hegemonic constructions of gender in families, while at the same time building and constructing a positive gender discourse. Beginning with the pioneering efforts of Vidyagauri Nilkanth and Shardagauri Mehta, carried on unflinchingly through the writings of Dhiruben Patel, Saroj Mehta or Kundanika Kapadia and taken up time and again in the works of younger generation writers like Varsha Adalja, Hemanshi Shelat or Suvarna, the issues of family, marriage, and female identity have been debated, discussed and analyzed in depth from myriad perspectives. The writers focus on the changing lives of women who are conscious about their right to protest against a patriarchal system that has pushed them into stereotypical roles, confined their talents and compelled them to assume a dependant status. They question the system, searching for their own identities and status as individual persons. Seemingly oscillating between the individual urge for self-fulfillment and the social demands made on women for self-sacrifice, these women writers create characters that, when driven to the wall, make bold choices for the survival of their core being. By making choices, these women characters are challenging the system, questioning the authority, searching for, negotiating, as well as appropriating their identities and their status both in the family setup and the larger social structure. Believing that a change in the condition of women must begin with a change in their own consciousness, the contemporary Gujarati women writers portray women as gradually coming to realize their own oppression in their short stories and novels. Kundanika Kapadia, a major voice in contemporary Gujarati women’s writing, in her famous novel Saat Paglan Akashman (1984)

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or Seven Steps in the Sky (1994), presents the story of Vasudha, who after 32 years of being an obedient and dutiful wife and an ever sacrificing, ever solicitous mother, dares to challenge her husband’s authoritarian attitudes and leaves her sheltered existence, the security of marriage and family, in search of an individual identity of her own. She says: “I don’t want to die fulfilling others’ expectations. I want to live a life that satisfies me. I want to live true to myself, to my thoughts and my feelings. I don’t want to be an ideal wife; I want to be a real woman.” (Kapadia 1994: 3). Vasudha rejects the socially sanctioned security pegged by familial relationships and finds her way to freedom, growth and self-fulfillment in an alternate way of life—the life in a commune, a utopian community based on sharing and respect for one another—a new extended ‘family’ as it were, called Anandagram, literally, the abode of happiness. It is in Anandagram, significantly, that Vasudha the new woman finally meets her soulmate, her emotional and spiritual counterpart, the new man Aditya—the sun, radiating light and warmth to disperse the dark loneliness that has engulfed Vasudha; together they dare to dream of a new future in the vast open spaces in the mighty Himalayas. The note of protest against women’s existing position in society is found in Ila Arab Mehta’s Batris Putlini Vedana (1982). It portrays women’s struggle against injustice done to them and their attempt to establish their own identities. The protagonist Anuradha, who has just published a novel about the fascination of a young widow for a man, feels suppressed by her husband who is offended about the way Anuradha deals with a tabooed subject. At the end of the novel, Anuradha says “neither Goddess nor Giantess; let us remain as women.” Both Saat Paglan Akashman and Batris Putlini Vedana, though centered on single female characters, present women’s anger against male chauvinism and assert women’s creative identity as they come out from their passive, limited lives to actively fight for their rights and equality.

The Changing Profiles of Gender Portrayals The younger generation of contemporary Gujarati women writers like Varsha Adalja, Hemanshi Shelat, Suvarna, Amrapali Desai, Parul

182 Sutapa Chaudhuri Rathod or Sunita Majithia, try to form new equations of gender relationships in their writings that reflect the changing profile of women and families. These contemporary women writers envision women who have successfully utilized their education, intelligence, ambition and decision-making capability in the outside world, and moved towards self-discovery, turning inwards and acknowledging their identity as individuated, integrated and assertive beings. The central female protagonists in the works of these women writers boldly and maturely face the diverse conflicts they encounter at familial and social levels; unlike the earlier generation of women characters, they make bold choices even when not driven to the wall, in order to uphold their dignity as individuals. Inspired by the ideas of “freedom for women,” these middle-class, educated, urban women confront the deep-rooted prejudices and biases of a still patriarchal society. They resist the stereotypical roles that women are still expected to play in the so-called educated, enlightened middle-class Gujarati society. (These writings open up a new world of gender equality in which man-woman relationships are examined boldly and with an egalitarian attitude that show new women. These women make choices not out of helplessness or desperation, as in the earlier works, but through reasoning and selfanalyzes. These women are “whole” within themselves, aware of their needs, conscious of their desires, confident of their potential, and are ready to assert themselves as free and desirous individuals in their relationships with people within the family and outside.) Women in these writings, significantly, form and live in homo-social and/or alternate communities of support and mutuality that in turn provides an atmosphere of nurturance, recognizes the value of women’s experiences, validates the long denied desires or conflicts in women’s lives, and promotes self-discovery and a turning inwards so that the women gradually but surely move towards the satisfaction of their urge for self-fulfillment. These writings resist and reject the compulsive burden of the ideal token women—the image of women as obedient, docile, self-sacrificing, self-effacing creatures, and emblems of virtue, submission and silence. In Varsha Adalja’s writings, exploited and marginalized women gain strength and insight through these very experiences. Her women characters try to search out their individual selves through the resolution of their psychological conflicts. Chandra Shrimali presents the stories of physical and mental exploitation of Dalit women in her collection Chani Bor. Himanshi Shelat presents women’s plight subtly through translating social realities into her

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stories, thus making us aware of the deep rooted injustice, agony, ambivalence and confusion in the lives of women. Contemporary Gujarati women’s writings carry a distinct voice which rejects the expectations that women exist for others and not for themselves. A focus on women’s present role as potential rebels is seen in these writings. Yet, at the same time, these writings invite men to share a freer future in which both men and women can jointly explore the world. In contemporary Gujarati women’s writings, we find women contesting the ideology of the family from two specific points of view. On the one hand, there are women with more or less traditional points of view who revolt or give voice to their experiences of imprisonment. This is succinctly brought out in short stories like Saroj Pathak’s Sarika Pinjarastha (Sarika, the encaged), where the protagonist, Sarika, is trapped in the cage of social norms and conventions so much so that she is even denied the freedom to take her most personal decisions. On the other hand, women are featured as mature, desirous individuals in control of their selves, their lives and their environments like Pratiti in Sunita Majithia’s Akdanu Phool, who tells Pritesh, her husband, that she has seen through his pretence and hypocrisy and thus would terminate their relationship. While the first group of women is forced to take decisions when they are driven to desperation, the second group of women is confident and free enough to declare their choices. As there are two groups of women, correspondingly there are two groups of men also. In the first segment, men are shown as unrelenting patriarchs—conventional, bogged-down by obsolete sociocultural norms and customs, and thus becoming insensitive, uncaring, egotistic—even masochistic—who view their women counterparts as property to be disposed of, or used as they please. The second group of men, however, functions as alter egos to women in a true sense of the term. These men are non-traditional, non-hierarchical, sensitive, understanding and supportive with an egalitarian outlook on life. In many works by contemporary Gujarati women writers, like Dhiruben Patel’s Dikri nu Dhan, Saroj Mehta’s Sukh ke Dukh, Bharati Vaidya’s Boltu Maun, Suhas Oza’s Ughada Akash No Ek Tukdo, Swati Mehd’s Chaka Chakini Adhunik Bodhkatha, Parul Rathod’s Viparyas, Amrapali Desai’s Prapti, Kundanika Kapadia’s Nyay, Sunita Majithia’s Akdanu Phool, or Ila Arab Mehta’s Vistaar, women gradually realize their subjugation to their chauvinistic husbands and become aware of the frustrations, the discontent and domination in their lives. Women like Radha (Prapti), Lopa (Viparyas) or Pratiti (Akdanu Phool )

184 Sutapa Chaudhuri have all passed their lives in voluntary dependence and have seen through the façade of conjugal life and boldly decided to get out of the relationship that is inhibiting their freedom, controlling their needs and silencing their desires. These women cast off the associations of goodness, meekness, self-sacrifice, submission or silence and along with those attributes they freed themselves from the age old ideologies of the traditional Adarsh Nari. They are mature enough to have faith and confidence in their own selves and bold enough to assert themselves as free individuals in control of their lives, fates and circumstances. Women like Pratiti or Vasudha are new women, women who can voice the discontent in their lives, who are not willing to give up their needs as individuals. Pratiti in Akdanu Phool by Sunita Majithia says, “I am not at all interested in this logical (or illogical) fraudulent partnership, nay slavery. I am not at all willing to entangle myself in this imaginary cocoon of yours.” Pratiti was not deceived like Radha in Prapti, but rather like Lopa in Viparyas, she voluntarily agreed to live a life of dependence knowing that ‘in gaining you I will loose my own identity’; but only on one condition of retaining her self-respect as partner in an equal relationship. To her, mutuality forms the very basis of conjugal life: “The lamp of the conjugal light is lit by the union of a man in the form of light and woman in the form of a flame.” Yet in her own life she suffered rejection and loneliness brought about by her non-reciprocal conjugality with her husband. Her confidence in her own self makes her able to move out of this subjugating, dehumanizing relationship; to move forward in search of selffulfillment.

The Birth of the New Family Manashi, Lopa, Radha, Pratiti, Mamta, Vasudha, Mitra—the central characters around whom the contemporary Gujarati women writers weave their stories—all reflect the changing profiles of the new woman, of women who are grappling with the conflicts in their lives, searching for mutuality in relationships, self-fulfillment, trying hard to regain control over their lives, reaching out towards connectivity with others. They are all in search of a new horizon—the horizon of the “the limitless sky inviting one for a boundless flight.” To experience that “special

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joy in flying on one’s own wings,” these women step out of the threshold of their homes, leaving behind the comfort and the false sense of security of the “warm nest.” Instead of a life of trauma, forced guilt, rejection and indifference at every level within their own homes, they choose a life of freedom where they can retain their self-respect and live as desirous, autonomous, integrated beings in their own right. Instead of submitting and adhering to the patriarchal dictates that see women as dutiful homemakers, women like Pratiti destroy their homes—the cocoons of illusion that have bound them in a guarded, shielded and confined life—and emerged as self-conscious, sentient butterflies, ready for a boundless flight to freedom. Contemporary women writers in Gujarat are not only projecting the concept of a new woman—mature, confident, and individualistic; integrated in themselves and whole, who function as individuals with self-aware, assertive identities, capable of living life on their own terms—but are also trying to promote the concept of the new man. In contemporary Gujarati women’s writings, men are increasingly portrayed as alter egos to women. These new men are necessary to build the concept of a synergistic society that these writers wish to project. The idea of the new man that emerges from these writings goes against the traditional portrayal of men either as the all powerful, brave and strong bread-winning patriarch of the family, or the insensitive, uncaring, chauvinistic egotist. These new men are conceived as partners to the new women. They are egalitarian, sensitive, understanding and supportive. They leave the insensitive lordly men behind and become soulmates to their female counterparts as they are sensitive, understanding, and even with a touch of the “feminine.” As equals they become collaborators in the social change. This egalitarian trend indicates a change in the definition and portrayal of gender relationships in contemporary Gujarati women’s writings in which, from a relationship of alienation and intransitivity, women and men journey towards a much better understanding of a mutual relationship. Men like Sambal in Saroj Pathak’s Saugandh, the unknown man on a wheel chair who gives a new lease of life to Sushi in Varsha Adalja’s Chandrannu Ajwalu, or men in the utopian commune where Vasudha in Kundanika Kapadia’s Saat Paglan Akashman, finally reaches selfactualization—Swarup, Gaganendra, Aditya, Agnivesh, Vinod believe in equal partnership with women. They believe that, as Swarup says in Saat Paglan Akashman, “women have to free themselves from the bondage of their femininity and men from the bondage of their

186 Sutapa Chaudhuri masculinity and try to become whole beings … the true strength is not in exercising authority over another, but in making others strong.” (Kapadia 1994: 174). These men reject the traditional patriarchal notions of a separate sphere for men and women with its associations of a gendered division of labor. The new men in these writings like Priti Sengupta’s Swapnao ek Rang, Anjali Khandwala’s Chandlano Vyap, Suvarna’s Tou Tou Kevu Saru or Bharti Dalal’s Shatru all feature as alter egos to women. These men cook, clean and feature prominently in house-work or childcare—things that the ordinary patriarchal Gujarati men can never even imagine doing. Gaganendra, the husband of Abha in Kapadia’s Saat Paglan Akashman, categorically says “It’s a fact that I am a man, but that I should not clean grains is a pre-conception. It’s a fact that I cannot give birth to a child but that I should not wash nappies or sing lullabies to make it sleep is in the same class.” (Kapadia 1994: 175). This ongoing struggle to create new paradigms of family illustrates that these women writers have come a long way from the prescriptive, idealized notions of gender and family persistently put forward in canonical literature as they try to envision a family that acknowledges the women/men’s right to build interpretations of social, familial and personal relationships, which authenticate both men and woman as gendered, individuated, autonomous subjects in their own lives, within or without the contours of a family. The new family that takes shape in these writings is an alternate mode—it is a family based on companionship and mutuality, irrespective of blood ties among the family members. It is marked by respect, nurturance and understanding, based on the notions of support, liberty, and broad, openminded and liberal views of life. It is a family based on the egalitarian notions of equality and mutual need, where women are free from the burden of the imposed social-familial and cultural taboos, the consequent stigma, the attending fear and the forced guilt. The vision of a family that gradually emerges in these writings holds in itself the sense of a supportive community rendered meaningful by the strong bonds of mutuality, support, understanding, transitivity and respect. This new family recognizes and willingly accepts both independence and interdependence as integral conditions for its harmonious functioning. In this extended family, people would find a new meaning in their lives—they would feel their lives worthwhile as they share their common longing to fly under the same sky together.

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The women’s writings in contemporary Gujarat project multiple realities. It not only reassesses the traditional human values but also focuses on the awareness that family systems are changing. The Gujarati women writers paint pictures of existences configured by the societal, hierarchal forces that shape and determine gender subordination, childcare, household chores, family relationships and interwomen communications. They insist on organic, creative and positive interdependence within the family that mutually reinforces the bond and does away with the negative issues that alienate family members from each other and give rise to problems like lack of communication, anxiety, conflict, aggression, anger, hostility, violence, fear, depression.

References Amin, Amina. (2001). “From Stereotype to Individual: Women in Women’s Short Fiction in Gujarati,” in Jain and Singh (eds) Indian Feminisms. New Delhi: Creative Books. Amin, Amina and Manju Varma. (2002). Trans.: New Horizons in Women’s Writing: A Selection of Gujarati Short Stories. Gujarat Sahitya Academy, Gandhinagar. Dalal, Anila. (2001). “Changing Profile of Women in Gujarati Fiction,” in Jain and Singh (eds). Indian Feminisms. New Delhi: Creative Books. Dasgupta, Sanjukta (ed.). (2003). Families, Vol. 1, No. 2, Feb. Kolkata. Desai, Neera and Usha Thakkar. (2001). Women in Indian Society. National Book Trust, New Delhi. Jhaveri, Manshuklal. (1978). History of Gujarati Literature. New Delhi: Sahitya Akademi. Kapadia, Kundanika. (1994). Seven Steps in the Sky. Trans. Kunjbala and William Anthony, Navbharat Sahitya Mandir, Ahmedabad. Meghani, Jhaver Chand. (2003). A Ruby Shattered. Trans. Vinod Meghani, Bharatiya Vidya Bhavan, Mumbai. Mehta, Dhirendra Mehta. (1983). Dishantar. Bhavnagar: Prasar. Tharu and Lalita (ed.). (1993). Women Writing in India, Vol. 2. New Delhi: Oxford University Press. Tripathi, Govardhanram. (1994). Saraswatichandra. Trans. Padmasingh Sharma ‘Kamlesh’. New Delhi: Sahitya Akademi.

188 Arpa Ghosh

Chapter 10

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Hypocrisy and Hollowness in the Indian Joint Family System A Study of Mahesh Dattani’s Plays Arpa Ghosh

Bravely Fought the Queen (BFQ; Dattani, 2000), a problem play about the darkness and iniquity at the core of the Indian joint family, by Mahesh Dattani has recently been incorporated in the undergraduate honors syllabus of the University of Calcutta. Teaching the play to a group of twenty-year-olds in a girls’ college in Kolkata is in itself an eye-opener. The play invites group-discussions in an unprecedented manner generating questions and comments galore about the themes and symbols used by Dattani to comment on the texture and truth of Indian upper middle-class life. Not that other plays by time-honored playwrights commanding pride of place in the university syllabus are bereft of symbolism. But the immediacy and contemporaneity of the Indian context and the can of worms Bravely Fought the Queen opens with respect to the Indian family, is something students spontaneously respond to. Dattani stimulates student curiosity and observational skills in a manner Macbeth’s witches and Louka’s cigarette (Bernard

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Shaw’s Arms and the Man) have been unable to do in a long time. When encouraged to share their experiences of the joint family, students, at first reticent, soon overcome their shyness, and give instances from family life (their own and things they have seen and heard in the neighborhood) which make it amply clear that Dattani has touched a chord in their hearts. The joint family system with its undergirding of parental authority and control has long been the mainstay of the Indian way of life. Dattani pits the traditional sociological institution against IndianEnglish, a language that is a major component of his drama. The use of English in Dattani’s plays is felicitous, since in almost all his plays he brings together characters of disparate provincial and linguistic identities. In Bravely Fought the Queen a South Indian couple is brought up face to face with a north Indian family. In Dance like a Man the daughter’s fiancé belongs to a different community and hence communicating in English is natural under the circumstances. In Tara the brother Chandan leaves India for a foreign destination, and when he recounts his past, the use of English, a language that has long become his own, is necessary. In all these plays the use of English, cutting across community and family barriers, with its underlying associations of a liberal, globalized culture, elicits subversive disclosures about the hypocrisy and double standards of the Indian family. Exchanges with my students motivated me to examine core family issues dealt by Dattani in his plays. My students pointed out to me how the issues of unjust treatment of the girl child (Tara), parental opposition and scorn at the choice of an unconventional profession like dancing by the son of the family (Dance like a Man [Dattani, 2005]), molestation of a child in the hands of elderly male relatives (Thirty Days in September [TDS]), closet homosexuality (On a Muggy Night in Mumbai [OMNM] and Bravely Fought the Queen) and domestic violence, marital infidelity and closet alcoholism (Bravely Fought the Queen) are an integral part of Indian metropolitan family life, cutting across provincial and class divides. Dattani’s English plays gain a peculiar social relevance in the contemporary Indian context as hypocrisy and duplicity of the city-bred middle and upper-middle class is the major theme of his plays. Dattani’s language is the language of the upwardly mobile, culturally flexible Indian who while striving towards a certain social status is yet unable to overcome his bigotry and emotional blindness with respect to basic behavioral and moral codes of conduct. What appeals to students is Dattani’s sophisticated handling of moral

190 Arpa Ghosh issues. Here is a dramatist who shows grim, disturbing vignettes of Indian family life, sharply contrasting the glitz and glamor of public life with the emotional and moral bankruptcy of private life without once preaching to his audience. Dattani’s appeal to the generationnext is that of an artist who calls for a healthier synchronization of global and Indian values, rather than one who strikes the high moral note. Bravely Fought the Queen is bold and sensational in its approach to the subject of Indian upper-class hypocrisy within the precincts of the joint family. The predominant theme of the play is the hollowness in the core of the much-touted Indian joint family, the sacred cow that has been worshipped over centuries. The playwright interrogates familial relationships: husband-wife, parent-child, and brother-sister; revealing how men motivated by thoughts of personal gain abuse the women in their family, how the practice of wife-beating is passed on like a mantle from father to son, and how a family torn by lies, iniquity and injustice tries and fails to draw a veil over shameful family secrets. Much has been made of Dolly’s role in this play as the “queen” who fights bravely like Laxmibai. A powerful domestic tragedy, this play highlights the circumstance of a woman fighting against all the odds that the forces of patriarchy have piled against her. This woman [Dolly] is of course the “Queen” referred to in the title of the play, a title which in itself is an intertextual derivation sourced from a translation of a Hindi poem about the indomitable Rani of Jhansi (Dhar, 2005: 82–83).

This contention, however, fails to take cognizance of major issues like the differing historical circumstances of Laxmibai and Dolly and also the generic characteristics of Dattani’s play. The Trivedi sisters-in-law Dolly and Alka are defeated souls who have given up on life without a real fight, because as any feminist primer will point out, resistance to male exploitation can only be political in nature. A woman cannot partake of her husband’s assets, his rum, his lifestyle, the amenities his money buys for her as they buy for Dolly and Alka, and resist his sadistic domination at the same time. This is not to claim that all housewives are victims of male torture, but economic dependence of the wife on the husband and addiction to the soft life that a rich husband’s money provides are definitely tools of oppression that women hand over to men.

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Dolly’s and Alka’s habitation in the twin houses provided by their sadistic husbands is collusion and complicity, in the sense that silence and endurance vis-à-vis torture and exploitation is consent and collusion. They are therefore objects of pity and compassion, definitely not tragic heroines to be admired or glorified like the Queen of Jhansi. As characters they are interesting because they are lifelike studies of weak, upper-class Indian housewives who are victims of male exploitation and domestic violence, easily recognized and identified by Dattani’s audience. Also interesting is the diseased psychology of female victims of male domestic oppression, because instead of uniting against male oppression, Alka, Dolly and Baa (their mother-inlaw) constantly bicker with each other. Failure on the part of the women to unionize against male oppression is a major feature of the Indian joint family, increasing a housewife’s isolation and insecurity. Their gestures of defiance—Alka’s rain-dance that is an expression of her repressed, frustrated sex-urge (Dhar, 2005: 297), and Dolly’s chilling simulation of uncoordinated movements of a spastic child to bring home to her abusive husband that their spastic daughter Daksha is a direct consequence of the physical torture heaped upon her by him at Baa’s instigation (ibid.: 312)—are too little and come too late as gestures of resistance, after the best part of their lives has been trampled by their spouses and in-laws, and cannot be equated with Laxmibai’s heroic battle against the British. Baa, the mother-in-law of Dolly and Alka, is the power-broker of the patriarchal system, aiding and abetting male supremacy. Her counterparts are to be found in the pinched, disgruntled, domineering mothers-in-law in Ashapurna Devi’s novels,1 in all the mothers-in law who have suffered in their day, yet who persist on taking it out on their daughters-in-law, and in this way help to perpetuate male domination and female suffering. Baa. Rub my back and I will tell you something. Alka: I don’t want to hear your nonsense. Baa. If you don’t, I will vomit and you will have to clean it. (Dhar, 2005: 283)

Baa’s bed-ridden presence in the upper reaches of the stage is a significant depiction of the devious working of power in a joint-family. Baa’s counterparts in other Dattani plays are Shanta, the indifferent mother of a sexually abused child (Thirty Days in September), and Roopa (Tara), who deliberately destroys her daughter’s life in a blind bid to give undue preference to her son. These women see themselves

192 Arpa Ghosh as cogs of the patriarchal wheel. Their moral philosophy is the very opposite of individualism. As a net survey sees it: A sometimes puzzling aspect of Indian culture is the absence of what we call in the West, individualism—the belief that human actions are determined by and take place for the benefit of the individual. That is, the individual interests of mature adolescents and adults usually take precedence over responsibilities to extended families. The individualism of economic theory holds that each citizen should be allowed freedom in the exercise of his business pursuits and any financial rewards are his to dispose of as he pleases. The equivalent belief in the Indian experience to this powerful western doctrine might be labeled familialism. For example, in India, marriages are not arranged between individual men and women but between families. The familialism of India is solidly rooted in family, that is, persons related by blood and marriage as parents, brothers and sisters, aunts and uncles, and cousins—a lineage system, generations deep. The family in India is a group much larger and much stronger than the filial bonding known as family in the West. In India the family interests take precedence over the interests (desires and choices) of each family member. Individual initiatives which are dedicated to and clearly benefit the entire family group may be tolerated or encouraged. Source: http://www.jadski.com/kerala/a6familialism.htm.

Physically Baa is the most decrepit member of the Trivedi family, yet as a node of financial and negative psychic power she is the most potent figure dominating the rest of the family. Tara and Chandan’s mother Roopa in Dattani’s play Tara (2000) is an even more disturbing example of a woman acting as betrayer of her own sex to facilitate male preeminence in the Indian family. At the end of the play Tara and Chandan are informed by Patel their father that in their infancy Tara and Chandan as Siamese twins had three legs among them. The third leg received its blood supply from Tara’s body and at the moment of surgery would have benefited Tara if it had been left attached to her torso. But in a bid to place her son Chandan in an advantageous position in the male-dominated world, Roopa, accompanied by her influential politician-father, bribed the highly qualified pediatrician to cut the leg from Tara’s torso and graft it on Chandan’s torso. Patel recounts the crime committed against his daughter Tara so many years ago: Patel: I came to know of his [the surgeon’s] intention of starting a large nursing home—the largest in Bangalore. He had acquired three acres of prime land—in the heart of the city—the largest in Bangalore. A few

Hypocrisy and Hollowness in the Indian Joint Family 193 days later, the surgery was done. As planned by them [the doctor, Roopa and her father] Chandan had two legs, for two days. It didn’t take them very long to realize what a grave mistake they had made. The leg was amputed. A piece of dead flesh which could have—might have—been Tara (Dattani, 2000: 378).

The betrayed Tara withers away and dies realizing that the enemy of the girl-child does not exist outside but within the parameters of the joint-family. Tara’s story, that of flagrant discrimination against the girl-child, is a paradigm cutting across the class and provincial divide of the heterogeneous matrix that is India. The findings of a net survey of the male/female ratio of Indian children are disturbing: An abnormally high death rate of little girls as contrasted to the death rates of little boys causing a low and declining female/male ratio in a whole population is called fatal daughter syndrome. Fatal daughter syndrome is a socially derived phenomenon within human families reducing the number of daughters and increasing the proportion of sons. Families close to the apex of the status hierarchy are more likely to exhibit fatal daughter syndrome than families lower in the hierarchy. Source: http://www.jadski.com/kerala/a6familialism.htm.

Other major evils faced by the woman are social prejudice against non-conforming professions like dancing and the girl-child’s molestation in the hands of trusted and respected relatives. In Dance like a Man (Dattani, 2000), Jairaj points out how his danseuse-wife received an indecent proposal from a male relative who regarded her as easy game because of her profession. Jairaj to Ratna: What did you want me to do?... Look the other way while your uncle … asked you to go to bed with him? … Do you think your uncle made such interesting proposals to all his nieces? No! That would be a great sin. But you were different. You were meant for entertainment (Dattani, 2000: 410).

Jairaj’s bitterness stems from the lack of family support and understanding regarding dance as a profession that haunts him and his wife Ratna all their lives. Thirty Days in September (Dattani, 2005) is a play entirely devoted to a discussion and analysis of the social evil of child molestation and its repercussions on the girl-victim. The passive/ almost acquiescent stance of the victim’s mother is a significant comment on the dubious role played by the so-called educated middleclass woman in aiding and abetting crimes perpetrated against the girl-child stemming from feelings of fear and helplessness.

194 Arpa Ghosh Mala: I am talking about the time when uncle Vinay would molest me. When I was seven. Then eight. Nine. Ten. Every vacation when we went to visit him or when he came to stay with us. You were busy in either the pooja room or the kitchen. I would go to papa and cry. Before I could even tell him why I was crying he would tell me to go to you. You always fed me and—and you never said it but I knew what you were saying to me without words. That I should eat well and go to sleep and the pain will go away… Shanta (really puzzled): Mala, my daughter. What all have you been thinking all these years? You have always been so bold and frank. But sometimes, you tell stories (TDS, Dattani, 2005: 25–26).

The refusal to acknowledge the existence of the problem is typical of the Indian joint family set-up, which is based as much on silent connivance as it is on authoritative dictat and fatwa. The men in Bravely Fought the Queen, Jiten, Nitin (husbands of Dolly and Alka), and Sridhar (their employee and Lalitha’s husband) are chilling studies of male chauvinism in its various forms and stages. Jiten, Nitin, Praful and Jiten’s father form a powerful caucus of male domination in its diverse forms and manifestations. Jiten, the wifebeating, prostitute-visiting businessman is the villainous Indian patriarch who is responsible for much of the unhappiness that destroys the lives of his wife, daughter and sister-in-law. Nitin, the closethomosexual is to be condemned not because of his sexuality, but because of his cowardice to come out in the open with his sexual preference. His coyness and dishonesty destroy Alka’s life, whose childlessness and alcoholism are direct functions of her husband’s sexual hypocrisy. Furtive homosexuality is a typical Indian problem that is brought up repeatedly by Dattani for examination in the current scenario of Indian family life. In On a Muggy Night in Mumbai (Dattani, 2000), a play set in a gay commune in a posh residential area of Mumbai, a member Bunny Singh confesses that he is compelled under the circumstances to lead a double life: Bunny: … the man whom my wife loves does not exist. I have denied a lot of things. The only people who know me—the real me—are present here in this room. And you all hate me for being such a hypocrite…. I have tried to survive. In both worlds. And it seems I do not exist in either…. I deny them [his gay friends] in public, but I want their love in private…. Everyone believes me to be the model middle-class Indian man (OMNM, Dattani, 2000: 102–103).

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Living a spurious, split existence is as much a part of being a gay Indian as it is part of being a member of the Indian joint family system, which withholds approval and respect to all men who are not aggressively “masculine.” In his essay Demonising Homosexuals In India, Siddharth Srivastava (International Herald Tribune, 2003), states the Indian government’s dogmatic attitude towards sexual nonconformists: The Indian government recently reaffirmed its stand against homosexuality in India, a move that could drive the gay community further into the fringes of society. Arguing before the Delhi High Court, the government argued that “Indian society is intolerant to the practice of homosexuals/ lesbianism.” The government was replying to a petition filed by the New Delhi-based Naz foundation, which works for the welfare of HIV positive and AIDS patients, that had sought to legalize homosexuality in India. The foundation had challenged the constitutional validity of Section 377 of the Indian Penal Code, which makes homosexuality illegal. According to the law, “whoever voluntarily has sex against the order of nature with any man, woman or animal, shall be punished with imprisonment for life, or for a term that may extend to 10 years.”

The Naz foundation argued that due to fear of police action, consenting adult males having sexual relations were not coming out, thereby hampering medical intervention. The government’s reiteration of the law comes during a time of hesitant moves by Indian gays to venture out of their closet existence. Such intolerance and social blindness cause men like Nitin and Bunny to lead double lives. Jiten and Nitin (Bravely Fought the Queen) are products and victims of a perverted matrishakti or maternalism practiced by their mother Baa, who exercises a lot of power on her sons by virtue of the torture she suffered at the hands of her husband. The power of the matrishakti is unique to Indian tradition. The paternalistic religions of Christianity and Islam have no scope for such power. Women in the Hindu religion are elevated to the status of matridevi or the mother-goddess (Durga, Kali, Jagadambha and Yashoda). The position of the mother of robust sons is therefore a coveted one in the joint-family system and is often earned at great personal cost. Alka: You can win so easily with me because you have two sons to protect you…. Baa: Yes! I have been blessed with two sons. I thank God….

196 Arpa Ghosh Alka: And I? I have been cursed because I don’t have children. That’s what you want to say! .... Baa: Karma. It is all karma…. Alka: You know why I can’t have children. You won’t let me. That’s why!.... He [Nitin] needs your permission to have children and by God, you won’t give it to him (BFQ, Dattani, 2000: 283–84).

Power in the hands of benighted, ill-educated women like Baa is often abused—to blackmail and misguide sons and ironically to fortify male domination by torturing subordinate women in the family. Baa abuses her power over her sons to turn Jiten into a male chauvinist wife-beater and Nitin into an effeminate coward by petting him excessively. Baa’s bedroom occupies an interesting suspended space in the upper reaches of the stage emphasizing the factors of mind-bend and maternalism. For all her debilitating illness, Baa holds the strings of the family. She has transferred her property in Daksha’s (Dolly’s spastic child’s) name so that the Trivedis stay together come what may. The space given over to Baa’s bedroom is therefore a terrifying, unnerving space radiating negative energies whereas by rights it should be giving off a positive, synergizing aura. The brothers, while taking it out on their wives, are typically submissive sons, honoring and flattering their mother. Jiten’s suppressed rage against his mother, who is indirectly responsible for the birth of his spastic daughter, is vented in his ghastly murder of the beggar-woman squatting outside his home moments after he witnesses Dolly’s “spastic” dance. Sridhar: He’s [Jiten] running the car over a beggar woman! Over and over!.... He is still at it! God! Stop it! Stop it! Stop! ... He’s killed her! (ibid.: 313)

Dolly’s and Alka’s brother Praful’s ghostly, Machiavellian presence in the play chills the audience. Like Banquo’s ghost Praful pervades the discourse of the play. He tortures the women as brother, thereby drawing the net of male oppression even closer, imprinting upon Alka’s consciousness an indelible fear of male coercive force that stunts the flowering of her personality: Alka: He [Praful] just dragged me into the kitchen. He lit the stove and pushed my face in front of it! I thought he was going to burn my face! He burnt my hair. I can still smell my hair on fire. Nitin was right behind us. Watching! Just … Praful said, “Don’t you ever look at any man. Ever” (ibid.: 257).

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At the same time Praful bribes his brothers-in-law by pouring good money in their near-bankrupt business in futile attempts to maintain a fragile peace in the family, and probably also to salvage his guilt. In contrast to the constant internal strife between Dolly, Alka and Baa, there is connivance between the men. Praful, in order to facilitate his affair with Nitin, bullies his sister Alka into marrying the latter. Among the male members of the family therefore there is much better understanding and networking that aid in the perpetuation of patriarchal domination in the joint family. There is another mysterious male presence that is part-human, partemblem: Kanhaiya, the cook’s son with whom Dolly may or may not have an illicit sexual tryst. Kanhaiya’s presence or non-presence is intriguing. The dramatist wisely leaves lots of room for ambiguity by suspending Kanhaiya’s character in the twilight zone of reality and fantasy. Idle gossip between Alka and Lalitha about Dolly sleeping with the young servant opens a can of worms about the ugly underbelly of the upper-class Indian joint family. Compounded with Nitin’s reference, at the end of the play, to the autorickshaw driver with whom he will spend the night now that his wife is in drunken stupor, Alka’s reference to Kanhaiya gives us a murky glimpse into the netherworld of the so-called respectable Indian family. At the same time, it is never clarified if Kanhaiya is real or a figment of the woman’s imagination. Dolly and Alka seem to play out this fantasy on a regular basis (ibid.: 261–62). As a fantasy-figure Kanhaiya offers temporary respite to the women from a life gone awry. For Kanhaiya is another name for Lord Krishna, the mythical lover of women. If Kanhaiya is a figment of the women’s imagination it could be the beginning of a schizophrenic retreat to a make-believe world for Dolly, and this is definitely a threat to her sanity. A major reason why Bravely Fought the Queen is not a tragedy and Dolly not a tragic heroine could be this piece of fantasy she allows Alka to spin verbally for her night after night. Dodging harsh reality and retreating into a make-believe world of love and peace could be a razor’s-edge mode of survival for violated women teetering on the edge of lunacy, but it is definitely not the hall-mark of a tragic character. The picture of Lord Krishna to whom Shanta (Thirty Days in September) turns to with greater frequency in order to escape the harsh indigestible truth that her daughter Mala has been irreparably damaged by continued and unimpeded molestation by a male relative in her childhood years, signifies a private, precarious, female space

198 Arpa Ghosh eked out within the stifling male domain. This space, however, contains the negative implications of defeat, collusion with male authority and the danger of mental disorder/lunacy. Props and names are used in Dattani’s plays as symbols to comment on the tensions and paradoxes of traditional Indian family life. The bar at the center of the Trivedi drawing room (Bravely Fought the Queen) is symbol of both male domination (the alcohol is bought with the husbands’ money) and female enslavement (Alka surreptitiously laces her Pepsi with rum borrowed from the bar). It is also a palpable threat to productive, healthy family life. The facial mask sported by Dolly could stand for her increasingly failed attempts to conceal her unhappiness and anger from outsiders like Lalitha. “Oh! I have cracked my mask” (ibid.: 238). The dwarfish and, to some, elegant bonsai plant (ibid.: 246), the cultivation of which is an expensive hobby, signifies a process of female disempowerment, the willful truncation of female personality and self so that male egos may be placated. The ReVaTee advertisement campaign is an interesting conglomeration of symbols. Apart from being the derogatory totem of womanas-body touted by the advertisement world to titillate men, it also signifies at a deeper level Jiten’s loosening grip over reality, his insular attitude towards women, and his lack of awareness that times have changed. The advertisement campaign is as follows: In the storyline for the video commercial, you have the model looking out of the window and she sees that her husband or her lover has come home. She quickly rushes, opens a box, removes the new ReVaTee bra, panties and nightie. Cut to her dressed in them. She lets her hair loose, pirouettes and lies on the bed, just as the door opens. Freeze. Signature ‘Light his fire with ReVaTee’ (ibid.: 274).

When Sridhar, the educated employee, points out that the entire campaign is impracticable and offensive, Jiten stubbornly maintains that it is men who buy lingerie for their women. (One woman’s response to the proposed advertisement campaign is: “No woman waits for her husband to arrive to change into a frilly overpriced nighties and jump into bed. If that’s what lights his fire, I’d sooner buy an extinguisher” (ibid.: 279). Jiten: Men would want to buy it for their women! That’s our market. Men. Men would want their women dressed up like that. And they have the buying power. Yes! So there’s no point in asking a group of screwed-up

Hypocrisy and Hollowness in the Indian Joint Family 199 women what they think of it. They’ll pretend to feel offended and say, “Oh, we are always being treated like sex objects” (ibid.: 276).

Interestingly, Jiten draws attention to interrelated realities of the Indian family: male earning power and emphasis on male pleasure, realities that are responsible for reducing woman to a semi-nude body, a passive object of male voyeuristic gaze. The couch in the Trivedis’ office that is used by Jiten for the purpose of sexual trysts with call-girls is a direct threat to the physical well-being of his family, AIDS being an ineluctable reality in contemporary India. As a dramatist Dattani is inspired by Ibsen and Tennessee Williams the realists of early and mid-twentieth century. Like his forbears Dattani too seeks to locate and rupture the fissures in the apparently smooth and even surface of family life, to unravel subversive, violent, negative passions that seethe below the surface in apparently placid families. Like Ibsen he frustrates the audience by withholding from them the cathartic moment when negative passions are purged on stage, consequently forcing them to carry the discontentment and frustration of their theatrical experience into their mundane lives and think hard about their own unsatisfactory circumstances. In fact, Dattani’s plays are the very opposite of tragedy, leaving behind a bitter after-taste of defeat, emotional squalor, pettiness and bankruptcy. Dattani gives us compelling dramatic moments using cinematic techniques of montage, split screen and flashback in all major plays. Spectacle is of crucial importance to his plays. No amount of skilled play-reading will convey the pathetic image of a drunk, soaked, mudbespattered, exhausted Alka or the horror of Dolly’s spastic dance that is virtually the climax of Bravely Fought the Queen. Yet repeatedly the climax is thwarted and suppressed in play after play. In Bravely Fought the Queen Alka slips in the mud while dancing in the rain and is horribly abused by Jiten, while Dolly’s “spastic” dance, by far the most compelling moment of the play, is almost immediately followed by Sridhar’s account of Jiten’s bestial murder of the old beggarwoman. In On a Muggy Night in Mumbai Ed, the-gay-in-denial-mode fails in his suicide attempt and the party breaks up tamely. In Bravely Fought the Queen moments of denouement are followed by moments of defeat and further complications, till finally the play ends on a negative, defeatist note: Nitin: But you [Alka] didn’t know! He [Praful] tricked you! I-I am sorry. It wasn’t my fault. (Moves to her and slowly covers her face with the

200 Arpa Ghosh blanket.) But now you will have to sleep…. I mustn’t keep him [the autorickshaw driver] waiting…. (He moves towards the kitchen.) The office is not a good idea … too many people passing by … but here—the outhouse. Perfect. Yes. Don’t wake up. Stay drunk. You mustn’t watch … those powerful arms…. (Exits to the kitchen.) The kitchen light goes off. The thumri plays. Spotlight on Alka’s huddled figure. Slow fade out (ibid.: 315).

The nouveau riche, upper-middle class Indian family is only a small segment of the heterogeneity that is India. The Trivedis, the Patels, and Kamlesh and his guests cannot be taken as Indian archetypes as they belong to the upper crust. Dattani’s drama is not representative drama because in the age of globalization, when diversity of race, religion, regionalism, sexual orientation, language, ideology and political beliefs have utterly problematized the Indian context, there can no longer be a representative drama. Dattani’s drama is, however, contemporary and cross-cultural, in keeping with traditional family codes and very relevant to metropolitan reality. Part of the audience Dattani loses by presenting his plays in English is recovered by his reaching out to urban audiences of diverse linguistic and provincial orientation. Seeking to break the age-old molds of parental domination, sexual conformism and social role-playing, Dattani continuously grapples with burning issues like homosexuality, marital infidelity, parental cruelty, sexual abuse of children and closetalcoholism. The dramatist’s time and age are complex and non-heroic. The enemy lies within rather than outside. Even a young, educated newlymarried man like Sridhar (Bravely Fought the Queen) follows the footsteps of his boss by having casual sex with a call-girl, thereby leaving his wife open to the threat of AIDS and other venereal diseases. Jiten and Nitin are both flagrantly unfaithful, while Dolly and Alka are gradually succumbing to alcoholism. Lalitha too has started drinking in a bid to keep up with the Joneses. The corruption and weakness are therefore within the bounds of the joint family and not outside it. The challenges are workaday and a constant drain on energy. They have to be tackled with the help of new strategies and new levels of vigilance. Laxmibai’s death, in the war of independence in 1857, at which time she took an honest, political stand against her enemies the British, is tragic, whereas Dolly’s final spastic-dance is

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macabre and horrifying precisely because there is no redeeming cathartic release of negative energies. Laxmibai indeed belongs to a faraway, lost time that has little or no relevance to Dattani’s day. The title Bravely Fought the Queen thus acquires trenchant irony. The heroic position of the Rani is an impossibility within the purview of the Indian family. The victim-position of Dolly and Alka is a grim reality. There is no middle position so far as the playwright is concerned. Dattani’s treatment of his theme rises above voyeurism and scandalmongering (though the presence of these elements cannot be denied) by virtue of his extraordinary skill in stage-architectonics and his perceptive character-portrayals. The Indian joint-family system, where money-power and brute-power go hand in hand, is depicted in his plays as a stagnant slough of despond with no possibility of change for the better. Sharad’s trenchant ridicule of Ed, a closet homosexual’s attempts to deny his natural desires (On a Muggy Night in Mumbai), reflects family pressures, pressures to conform to certain time-tested patriarchal modes. Sharad: You see, being a heterosexual man—a real man, as Ed put it— …. I get to be accepted…. I can have a wife, I can have children who will adore me simply because I am a hetero—I beg your pardon—a real man…. I can be king. Look at all the kings around you, look at all the male power they enjoy, thrusting themselves on the world, all that penis power!… (Thrusts his pelvis in an obscene macho fashion.) Power, man! Power! (OMNM, Dattani, 2000: 101)

The picture that Dattani draws is overwhelmingly pessimistic. Yet by withholding easy solutions and facile denouements in his plays he does provoke the audience to sensitize itself to the stark reality of the Indian family and possibly work out its own solutions in combating the ruthless manner in which the Indian joint family exercises power to crush and marginalize women, children and sexual nonconformists.

Note 1. In Bengal Ashapurna Devi is regarded as a pioneer figure in uncovering the domestic politics and injustice that vitiated the lives of married women in the nineteenth century in her trilogy Pratham Pratishruti, Subarnalata, and Bakulkatha.

202 Arpa Ghosh

References Dhar, Subir. (2005). “Where There is a Will and Bravely Fought the Queen: The Drama of Mahesh Dattani,” in R.K. Dhawan & Tanu Pant (eds), The Plays of Mahesh Dattani, A Critical Response, pp. 82–83. New Delhi: Prestige Books. Dattani, Mahesh. (2000). Collected Plays. New Delhi: Penguin. ———. (2005). Collected Plays: Volume Two. New Delhi: Penguin. Directory, March 20, 2000. (Downloaded from the net) International Herald Tribune [France] (2003). September 20. Internet survey on Familialism available at http://www.jadski.com/kerala/ a6familialism.htm, last accessed on July 11, 2007.

Reflections of Family and Woman in Telugu Literature 203

Chapter 11

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Reflections of Family and Woman in Telugu Literature1 A Look at Women’s Fiction N. Venugopal Rao

Introduction One of the remarkable characteristics of modern Telugu literature has been its sensitivity towards gender issues both in the private and public spheres. The pioneer of modern Telugu literature, Kandukuri Veeresalingam (1848–1919), spent all his life on the improvement of woman’s status in society and his writings cover almost all contemporary aspects of the gender question—girl child’s education, child marriage, widow remarriage, and gender equality. His path-breaking efforts were continued and widened by several of his followers— including Gurajada Appa Rao (1861–1915), who penned important books like the drama Kanyasulkam (first edition 1892 and second edition 1909), which dealt with bridal price, among other things, and several

204 N. Venugopal Rao short stories and poems. This progressive tradition continued and witnessed qualitative leaps throughout the century. However, with over a hundred years of experience and an enlarged body of knowledge, one could find this otherwise progressive and radical tradition a little problematic in some aspects. Telugu society and literature are so dynamic that each new generation is identifying inadequacies in the thoughts and practices of the earlier generations, however forward looking the latter might have been in their contemporary times. The twentieth-century Telugu literature has seen more than half a dozen schools of thought and movements, and each successive trend identified shortcomings in the preceding tendency. A gender-sensitive approach gradually matured over the years with the incorporation of newer ideas and rejection of older misconceptions. Notwithstanding this general progressive and gender-sensitive approach, there have been considerable lapses in recording and analyzing the contributions of women writers towards understanding the family and other existing patriarchal institutions and modes of thought as oppressive and overpowering against women. Though there has been a lot of literature written by women on their specific experiences within family and their different perceptions, a systematic study of that body of literature to arrive at reasonable conceptualization is yet to take place. Though some rudimentary work has been done on the subject, a proper history of women’s writing in Telugu is yet to be written.2 In this background it would be interesting to study the portrayal of the institution of family and the role of woman in the short stories written by women. There have been a couple of studies on this theme but these have not dealt separately with women’s writing and instead given prominence to male writers. Though the contribution of male writers like Chalam (1893–1979), Sripada Subrahmanya Sastry (1891– 1961) and Kodavatiganti Kutumba Rao (1909–1980) is too important to be ignored, there is every need to study the short stories of women writers separately.

Context There has been a controversy on the first modern short story in Telugu. While the accepted literary history conferred that place on Diddubatu

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by Gurajada Appa Rao, which was published in 1910, the recent feminist scholarship unearthed Streevidya (Rao, 2000) by Bhandaru Acchamamba (1874–1904), published in 1902, as the first short story. Here it is out of place to go into the controversy and motives attributed in not recognizing Streevidya as the first story. However, it would be important to note that both the stories dealt with the theme of woman’s education. Streevidya’s publication celebrated its centenary in 2002. At the beginning of Streevidya’s centenary year, Telugu literature has seen another short story Saalabhanjika, written by Kuppili Padma. In a way, Saalabhanjika also deals with “educating” woman for a different emerging profession, if one may call it so, as Streevidya prepares the woman for an education that helps her family. This chapter would like to comprehend what transpired between these two stories over a period of one hundred years.

Different Dimensions On the whole the Telugu short story reflected five major dimensions with regard to the theme of family and woman’s role in it. The dimensions are: (i) (ii) (iii) (iv)

harmony in family and the need to maintain it, strife in family and its subtle manifestations, estrangement within family and expressions of its complexity, arguments against the institution of family and the emphasis on destroying it, and (v) portrayal of non-family woman.

These five dimensions cannot be placed in watertight compartments. There have been overlaps and deficiencies. Similarly the phases of the different portrayals cannot be strictly explained chronologically as there have been overruns and anachronistic expressions. However, it is possible to discern a broad pattern over long spans of time. While the first three dimensions existed simultaneously for over seven decades, the fourth and the fifth gained powerful expression during the last two to three decades. Even today one can find all the elements in the current short stories with varied emphasis.

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Harmonious Family During the first phase all the attention was on maintaining harmony within the family. Writers were glorifying the supposed happiness within the family and idealizing the role of woman (read sacrifice and subjugation of woman) in maintaining a “good family.” In fact, women seemed to be elevated from the earlier position of silence and invisibility to that of active participation, but within the family, and for the sake of husband and family only. Even the earliest appeals for woman’s education can now be analyzed as attempts to sustain this harmony, among other things. One could also argue that the desire for woman’s education emerged as a possible safety valve to check the domestic conflicts arising out of modern life as well as an acceptance of the rising aspirations among women. Though there are a number of literary pieces written on the theme of woman’s education by both women and men, including Veeresalingam’s Rajasekhara Charitra, it would be instructive to look closely at Streevidya. Written by a great woman who achieved a lot within a short span of thirty years of her life, the story argues in favor of woman’s education, through the husband’s perspective. The essentially patriarchal viewpoint of the husband advocates woman’s education on various grounds that support and strengthen family structure. When the wife objects to getting educated as she is already burdened with domestic chores, the husband responds saying, “I am not suggesting you stop other works. Household chores are inevitable for women. Instead of wasting your time in talking to neighbors after your work, it would be better to study.” He also says, “In the world, wife should always help her husband. Unless she gets educated, she cannot fulfill her duty completely.” The supposed inevitability of woman’s responsibility regarding domestic functions, the contemptuous tone against the women’s gathering and chatting, and education as source of help for husband— these were the views of educated middle-class men in propagating women’s education a century ago. Acchamamba, a woman of extraordinary insight in her times, was also inadvertently expressing the same views. The views show that women’s education, the major theme of woman’s emancipation in those days, had more stress on strengthening family rather than on facilitating woman’s creativity, independence and individuality. One need not go into the works by men

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to prove this point. It seems that in those days it was generally accepted that the lack of education on the part of woman was a factor for disharmony in family and woman’s education was presented as a remedy to overcome this and bind family together. Other apparent factors of disharmony like suspicious character of women, another woman in the life of the husband, conflicts between mother-in-law and daughter-in-law, step-mother’s indifference and at times hostile attitude toward step-children, and woman’s dissatisfaction on shortage of money, jewels, sarees or cosmetics, also formed part of the early short stories. These factors were considered evils among fussy women. In fact, the major element in the stereotype of woman is her fussy and quarrelsome nature. Leaving aside all the real reasons for domestic disharmony, the popular misconception was that women were to blame for having such qualities. Most of the literature echoed this. Either complete stories were woven around each of these factors or the issues became discursive and minor but substantiating parts in a larger story. However, one should note that all these issues were considered with a prejudice against woman and her “innate” nature, and the literature wanted to preach good sense to women. The sermonizing attitude was a common denominator, irrespective of whether the story was written by a man or a woman.

Pandora’s Box Opens It may be argued that if so many issues concerning women were taken up and the literature felt the need for sermonizing, the family at that time must have been undergoing some palpable tension, and literary expression was only a reflection of that suppressed reality. Maybe the apparent harmony started losing its cementing force during the early decades of the last century. Literature might be responding to an aspect of social dynamics quite unknowingly. The beauty of the times lies in raising a democratic demand of women’s education, to hide an undemocratic wish to maintain unequal harmony within the family. But the tension could not be held under wraps for a long time. The second phase of the portrayal of family can be recognized from the early 1920s, when Chalam started introducing ideas like freedom of choice and woman’s sexuality into his stories. When the time has

208 N. Venugopal Rao come to discuss woman’s sexuality and freedom freely, the hitherto closed Pandora’s Box of family strife was opened. Writers, particularly women writers, could give expression to a lot of factors behind the disharmony in family. There have been sociological reasons for this kind of upsurge. Thanks to the spread of education or because of the increasing participation of women in social life, including the national movement, the obstructions to women’s activity came to the fore. Naturally the obstructions and the frustration against them found expression in literature. However, the time was not yet ripe to come out openly against the inequality between sexes and discrimination. The short stories from the 1930s to 1950s present this kind of ambivalent attitude. The stories apparently support family and appear to be pleading for harmony. But underlying tensions and frustrations as portrayed in the stories provoke the reader to think in a different direction and explore newer options.

Analysis and Exploration The third phase, roughly beginning in the 1940s and continuing till now, was a gradual and logical follow-up to the second phase. The stories that came out during the phase talked about various problems in the family and analyzed the reasons. Though the stories spoke about possible adjustments to keep the family going, the stress was more on understanding the problems in depth. On the social and historical level, this phase coincides with spread of the national movement and communist ideology. The new modes of analysis and exploration might be credited to the new awakening. More women writers, coupled with enhanced publishing activity, emerged on the scene. The number of women readers also grew with more modern amenities in the kitchens and homes, and the writers had to cater to their intellectual needs. As women were more and more realizing the discrimination and oppression within family and in public life against them, it would be natural for the literature to reflect this reality. Ever newer understanding of suffocation in a hitherto accepted phenomenon gave rise to more trouble spots. The discrimination against the girl child and gender

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discrimination in upbringing, education, resource allocation, etc., came to be recognized more sharply. The institution of dowry came under heavy attack. The insignificance of woman’s role in decision-making in family matters started hurting the women. While these tensions were visible, the invisible thirst for equality, intellectual companionship, and creative upsurge also started finding expression. This period saw a lot of churning that led to the fourth phase, when the family institution itself was questioned and open challenges to give up family evolved. The option of breaking the family institution, propagated by Chalam, gained ground and a number of followers, both men and women writers, began giving expression to the idea, though sometimes in an indirect way.

Search for Solutions The fourth phase perhaps began in the mid-1970s, influenced by the International Woman’s Decade and widespread democratic consciousness of post-Emergency days, and continues till now. It is one of the most turbulent times in the history of modern Telugu literature. In fact, it is impossible to stick to genre frontiers during this time since the debates were all-pervasive and all the forms reflected the debates. The inequality and suffocation in the family, abundantly portrayed in the earlier two phases, were radically questioned and the influence of Marxist and feminist politics led to ideas of overthrowing the family system. Though there was reference to separation in earlier stories, it has become much more pronounced now. Story after story brought out a number of nuances and hitherto unrecognized aspects of family strife, and each of these aspects were shown as a potential family breaker. Indeed the mood of the times was bordering on extreme options that suggested the break-up of family as the only solution available. Of course, it would be unfair to say that all the women writers of this period were suggesting only one solution. Even when they were advocating the break-up of a suffocating family, most of them were hoping for a better companionship. Even the nomenclature started transforming with husband–wife giving way to partners and companions.

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Uncharted Fields The next phase has brought in non-family woman into the center stage of the short story. Though Telugu literature has known nonfamily women since the days of Madhuravani (in Kanyasulkam) of Gurajada Appa Rao, till the 1990s the only non-family woman type recognized was the prostitute. The last decade changed this perception and the single woman professional and the separated woman living independently, two single women living together without any family bonds, and women in an armed guerrilla squad have come to become protagonists of short stories. In the meanwhile, some of the perceptive short story writers introduced newer elements with regard to the status of women within the family. Volga, a prominent figure in the current phase, had covered almost all aspects of gender discrimination and thirst for equality in her short story collections Prayogam and Rajakeeya Kathalu as well as in novels. Kuppili Padma’s collections Muktha (1997) and Saalabhanjika (2001) have a number of stories on single women. The new type of woman also has her share of existential problems within her nest and in the outside world. Saalabhanjika speaks of three different professional women and one of the women teaches another on the role of woman in the emerging profession of glamor dolls. The globalization process and the rise of the new economy where glamor and showbiz are the key words have turned women into decorative pieces used for business promotion. The society and family have an ambivalent attitude towards these new women—respect and awe at their incomes and status and sneer at their “compromises.” The story captured the tensions involved in this new existence. What will happen to the old-aged woman if her family gets destroyed? Even as the old-age homes mushroom in Telugu society, where the rich and capable lodge their old-aged parents, how do the children look at their old-age mothers? This aspect demonstrates the hypocrisy involved in a family. The son would like to protect his nuclear family and property on the one hand and questions or abandons his filial duty on the mother. Thus the modern man is both reinforcing and destroying the structure of family simultaneously. This is not a simple moral or social question but there are factors of larger political economy behind this dual attitude. K. Ramalakshmi’s story A Typical Son (Rao, 2000) is an example of this crisis.

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The family, as it exists today, coupled with the so-called modernization and imperialist medicine, is reducing the status of woman to a well-oiled machine and at the same time posing as crediting her with a lot of power and conferring the status of Super Mom on her. P. Satyavathi’s Super Mom Syndrome (2003) is a powerful portrayal of these double standards. The story not only reflects the suffocation and trauma in a family structure but also the pharmaceutical multinational corporations’ machinations in dumping harmful medicines on third world women. The women short story writers have also identified the role of consumerism in aggravating the domestic tensions and Muraleevaallamma by Ranganayakamma is an example of this trend. Another powerful portrayal of family’s stifling pressure on women is with regard to alienation suffered by women. The Marxian analysis of labor alienation could well be applied to the estrangement of a woman within a family. As Marx spoke of four levels of alienation— from the labor process, from the product of labor, from fellow laborers and from human essence—women in the family institution also face similar alienation. P. Satyavathi’s Illalakagaane (1995) is an effective portrayal of these alienations. The protagonist woman in the story forgets her name in the course of giving herself completely to her family.

Conclusion With this broad overview, which has a wide scope of developing into a full-fledged monograph, one can identify various themes that reflected and analyzed the predicament of woman within and outside family. The short stories not only diagnosed the social maladies but also tried to prescribe possible remedies. These stories are, at the same time, both posing problems and suggesting solutions and thereby enriching our understanding of social dynamics, particularly with regard to the gender question.

Notes 1. An earlier version of this chapter was presented at the seminar on Representation of the Family in Telugu and Urdu Women’s Writing, held in

212 N. Venugopal Rao Hyderabad in February 2002. The earlier draft was published in Families, Vol. 1, No. 2, February 2003. 2. Women’s Writing in India (two volumes), edited by Susie Tharu and K. Lalitha; Noorella Panta, edited by Bhargavi Rao; and Sahitya Mahilavaranam (2001) by Chekuri Rama Rao are some important contributions.

References Alladi, Uma and M. Sridhar (eds). (2001). Ayoni and Other Stories. New Delhi: Stree Katha. Kannabiran, Kalpana, Volga and Vasantha Kannabiran (eds). (1995). Sarihaddululeni Sandhyalu—Feminist Raajakeeyaalu, Kaaryaachaana, Prasnalu. Hyderabad: Sweccha Prachuranalu. Kuppili, Padma. (1997). Muktha. Hyderabad: Maatha Publications. ———. (2001). Saalabhanjika. Hyderabad: Maatha Publications. Malladi, Subbamma. (1985). Andhra Pradeshlo Mahilodyamam—Mahila Sanghaalu (1860–1983). Hyderabad: Prajaswamya Prachuranalu. Murthy, Satyanarayana, Polapragada. (1999). Telugu Kathanika. Hyderabad: Telugu Academy. Ranganayakamma. (2004). “Muraleevaallamma,” in Amnaaki Adivaram Leda?. Hyderabad: Sweet Home Publications. Rao, Bhargavi (ed.). (2000). Noorella Panta—Rachayitrula Katha Sankalanam. Bangalore: Prism Books. Rao, Chekuri Rama. (2001). Sahitya Mahilavaranam. Hyderabad: Sweccha Prachuranalu. Satyavathi, P. (1995). Illalakagaane. Vijayawada: Self-published. ———. (2003). Mantranagari. Vijayawada: self-published. Syamala, Gogu. (2003). Nallapoddu—Dalita Streela Sahityam, 1921–2002. Hyderabad: Hyderabad Book Trust. Tharu, Susie and K. Lalitha (eds). (1991/1993). Women’s Writing in India (Two Volumes). New Delhi: Oxford University Press. Vidmahe, Katyayani, Jyothi Rani and Shobha. (1994). Mahila Janajeevana Samasyalu—Moolaala Anveshana. Warangal: Society for Women’s Studies and Development. Volga. (1992). Rajakeeya Kathalu. Hyderabad: Sweccha Prachuranalu. ———. (1995). Prayogam. Hyderabad: Maanavi Prachuranalu. ———. (2002). Palikinchaku Mouna Mridangaalanu. Hyderabad: Sweccha Prachuranalu.

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Chapter 12

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Globalization and Diasporic Family Dynamics Reconciling the Old and the New Mary Mathew

The global dispersal of the Indian diaspora, regardless of individual differentiations, is bound at the heart by what Emmanuel S. Nelson calls “a complex network of historical connections, spiritual affinities, and unifying cultural memories which manifests itself in varying degrees ‘in their literary productions’” (Nelson, 1993: xi). While migration distances the immigrants from the mother country, electronic and satellite communications create a new sense of accessibility to the homeland that in turn reinforces their inherited identities. Hence the assertion of cultural theorists like Arjun Appadurai and Anthony Smith that diasporic communities remain at heart, local and provincial even as they acquire transnational characteristics (Appadurai, 1990: 1–24; Smith, 1990: 171–93). At the same time, the strategic placement of the expatriates at the cusp of the bicultural apex prompts the inescapable formation of new subjectivities, aspirations, and anxieties, for which their literary discourse becomes a site of critical deployment.

214 Mary Mathew The growing interest in recent years in the complexities of the diasporic psyche is evidenced by the current pedagogic and curricular appropriation of immigrant texts into mainstream academias all over the world. For diasporic families dispersed across the four corners of the globe, homeland culture functions as a source of meaning, a focus of identification, and a foolproof system of self-validating representation. Members of this intimate community are bound by the desire to create one’s own successful social space in the alien environment, preserve memories of the past and its rich cultural legacy, and most of all, the deep compulsion to perpetuate that heritage in its undiluted intensity. In Nations and Nationalism (Cornell University Press, 1983), cultural critic Ernest Gellner defines the principle of unity among globalized diasporic families when he comments on how culture is now their necessary shared medium, the lifeblood, the atmosphere within which alone the members can breathe and survive and produce. No matter how families within the group vary from one another in race, class, prospects, and economic status, homeland culture unifies the community into one homogeneous entity that transcends difference and meets on equal ground. In that sense, the cultural identity of immigrant families across the globe goes beyond a mere point of allegiance or commonality; it is a structure of enormous power and seamless solidarity. In Global Politics (Cambridge University Press, 1992), Anthony McGrew defines this phenomenon when he comments on how the term globalization refers to these processes, operating on a global scale, which cut across national boundaries, integrating and connecting communities and organizations in new time–space combinations, making the world more interconnected. Space appears to shrink into a global village of telecommunications reducing the earth to a contained and concise Noah’s Ark of economic and ecological interdependencies. In this brave new miniaturized world, space can be crossed in the twinkling of an eye by jet, fax, or satellite—where the concept of space is annihilated by the concept of time. Diasporic books, written in the above context of globalization, represent significant moments of cultural collision that expose the precarious vulnerability of cultural boundaries. As contemporary interpretations of alterity, they are at times radically decentering narratives that reassign the margin and the center between the immigrant and the host cultures. If I were to borrow a perfect example of power structure and realignment from colonial literature, it will be Rudyard

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Kipling’s three page story Naboth, a quasi tale of 1886 published in the Civil and Military Gazette of Lahore and presented through the eyes of Ahab, the narrator. Here the colonialist narrator offers some money to the impoverished native, Naboth, who sets up a confectionery stall in the colonizer’s garden. When his enterprise succeeds and develops into a set of shops and finally a brothel, the patron puts a violent end to Naboth’s “invasion.” The tale closes with the narrator’s telling comment, “Naboth is gone now, and his hut is ploughed into its native mud with sweetmeats instead of salt for a sign that the place is accursed. I have built a summerhouse to overlook the end of the garden, and it is as a fort on my frontier from whence I guard my empire” (Kipling, 1886: 75). As decentering narratives, diasporic books generally depict the shifting and fluid dynamics of power versus disempowerment, as Kipling’s tale does, and in the process, they realign with violence the binarisms between alien and host cultures and/or between the hegemonic and the orthodox. The works of expatriate Indian fiction offer a theory of change in more ways than the one above. Generally and subjectively speaking, the insertion of immigrants into international communities can be defined as a movement from semi-feudalism to capitalist economies, or as a shift from cultural fundamentalism to industrial consumerism. Diasporic fiction theorizes that these “moments of change can be pluralized and plotted both as confrontations and as transitions,” or that they can be perceived in relation to the histories of domination as well as in relation to modes of production narratives (Spivak, 1985: 243–61). In books that view exiled life as a series of confrontations, the immigrant is often portrayed as the solitary social aspirant flexing his unsure wings in a world of meritocratic individualism, one who sees implacable rivalry as the dark undercurrent of life in his adopted world. In cold-blooded slice-of-life writings, the exiled hero makes it by sheer virtue of his wits, luck, and Karma, much like the native who survives by guts and gumption in the pores of the comprador capitalism of the colonizing power. Benedict Anderson’s grounding presupposition in Imagined Communities: Reflections on the Origin and Spread of Nationalism that genuine anti-imperialist resistance develops just when there is access to the cultural aspects of imperialism is a paradigm for the diasporic context as well, if one were to take into account symptoms of silent revolt, withdrawal, and alienation that characterize immigrant experience in confrontational books. Here the forces arrayed against the hero/heroine take the form not just of the

216 Mary Mathew indigenous and adopted systems of domination but also those of class, race/ethnicity, and sex/gender, which validate the terror of the existentialist vision of one’s isolation in space and sentiment. The resultant toll on personal well-being is depicted in several of Bharati Mukherjee’s works. In Tiger’s Daughter, Tara suffers an implosive collapse of her westernized Hindu self when subjected to the East/ West polarizations within her family. Dimple, the heroine in Wife, suffers the agonies of dislocation and rootlessness and in a fit of selfdestructive rage kills her husband. The Middleman and Other Stories portrays Eng, who alternates between flawless enunciation and curseridden ghetto slang, revealing her precarious balancing act between opposing cultures. In Jasmine, the heroine’s body language reads as a text; her “mincing, hunched-over sidle,” the “dead giveaway” of the alien’s desperate otherness. By contrast, books that celebrate exile and hybridization as positive transitions glorify the challenge of the experience, which calls for constant innovation within the new system and a sharpening of one’s skills of coping and survival. For example, in The Shadow Lines Amitav Ghosh enumerates the benefits of borderlines that cause people to be more closely bound to one another and cultivate new patterns of “irreversible symmetry.” As intimate social spaces in the immigrant family are invaded by unconventional cultural processes, the shock of cultural collision can be profitably redirected to modes of constructive aggression and empowerment in the transplanted social setting, as Padma Hejmadi’s Sumi Spaces and the Uncle Monkey series illustrate. Also diasporic families are seen to achieve a sense of balance within the experience of imbalance through pride in the intelligence, expertise, and education of individual family members (see Uma Parameswaran’s Rootless but Green are the Boulevard Trees [1987]). Individuality and adult configurations of being viable to members within the seamless and tight-bound unit of the family (see Trishanku by Uma Parameswaran) synchronically with their struggle to mark what Homi Bhabha calls the “shifting boundary that alienates the frontiers of the modern nation” (Bhabha, 1990: 291). Defeating the reductive and injurious processes of homogenization, the family thus becomes the vehicle of healthy cultural transmission as well as the “guardian of privileged ethnic purism who resists brutalization, à la Draupadi in Mahabharata or Sita in Ramayana” (Nelson, 1993: xvii). The juxtaposition of the twin themes of confrontation and transition explain the peculiar rhythmic fluctuation between rejection and

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acceptance, desire and disavowal, exclusion and inclusion, suffering and happiness that is characteristic of diasporic thematic structures. There seems to be a “principle of opposition” at work here (in David Spurr’s terminology) “between non-being and being, lack and fulfillment” (Spurr, 1993: 93)—a dividedness that repeats itself through a series of Derridean oppositional concepts: being and nothingness, good and evil, innocence and perversity, consciousness and nonconsciousness, liberty and servitude, life and death (ibid.: 167–68). The same dichotomy extends to the portrayal of expatriate characters whose multiple subjectivities are concretized in diasporic fiction through doubles or alter egos who personify the hidden elements of the protagonist’s psychobiography (see The Journey by Indira Ganesan). Like the nun in Charlotte Brontë’s Villette whom Mary Jacobus reads as a form of Lucy Snowe’s vengeful repression and Gilbert and Gubar as one of Lucy’s many buried selves, or Bertha Mason whom Gilbert and Gubar perceive as Jane Eyre’s “truest and darkest double,” the alter egos in diasporic fiction externalize the protagonist’s negations and psychological conflicts arising from the crossfires of bifurcating cultures and value judgments. Ideological antitheses to one another as characters, they are in fact complementing aspects of the same expatriate consciousness. Women in these works are depicted as complicit victims caught in the grinding machinery of cultural translation. They are particularly susceptible to the consequences of conflict and repression, especially when possessed of significant gifts of intelligence and creativity in their personal lives. Advancement in the new world is typically measured in terms of masculine empowerment and this has its own implications for the woman. Female maturity and gratification are rigidly equated with motherhood and marriage; her life all too often defined as compromise and coercion rather than choice. She is the domestic angel guarding the perilous survival of her children and husband, the cement that fills and holds together the shifting crevices of family structure. A recurrent theme in Padma Hejmadi’s diasporic stories is the pain of the home-bound woman’s subjection (Birthday Deathday and Other Stories) and the need to reroute oneself (Letter). Pain on the individual level evolves to sadomasochistic fascination with violence within the family in Indira Ganesan’s The Journey. Negotiating new territory is perceived to be traumatizing to mothers in particular, who are symbolically incarcerated by the compelling need to be homemakers. They suffer the loss of emotional equilibrium through loss

218 Mary Mathew of communication, while their husbands and children gain stability and advancement from outside connections. As the process of dissolution accelerates, women resort to modes of escapism that in turn trigger male anxiety and eventually victimize the children, who get caught in the counter-currents of conservative and hegemonic forces. If women are frequent victims and sufferers in immigrant fiction, so in a subtler sense are a significant number of the growing youth of the second generation. These are trapped on the Western side of the cultural Great Divide and seem unable or disinclined to comprehend the pluralistic identities of their bicultural parents. Lacking first hand acquaintance, their imaginations construct the homeland as a series of absences and negations, analogous to E.M. Forster’s A Passage to India, which sees India mainly in terms of its absences—“the absence of productive human relationships, meaningful institutions, even the absence of knowledge about what really happened in the Marabar caves” (Spurr, 1993: 102). To the uninitiated second generation, the objective correlative of India is the baffling emptiness of the mysterious caves, or as Sara Suleri has argued, “the essence of India represented by mysterious inner spaces which can be described but not interpreted,” let alone assimilated (ibid.). If metaphors of ravishment characterize India’s colonial experience, metaphors of distancing and punishing repudiation increasingly illustrate her dubious and provocative stance as homeland for the young, Westernized diasporic subjectivity. Hybridization and its double consciousness bring rewards on one hand and danger on the other. Salman Rushdie’s public defense of his embattled novel about migration, The Satanic Verses (1989), offers a uniquely compelling argument for global hybridity. Speaking against those who perceived the mixing of cultures as erosion and rupture, Rushdie stated: “I am of the opposite opinion. The Satanic Verses celebrates hybridity, impurity, intermingling, the transformation that comes of new and unexpected combinations of human beings, cultures, ideas, politics, movies, songs. It rejoices in mongrelization and fears the absolutism of the Pure. The Satanic Verses is for change by fusion, change by conjoining. It is a love song to our mongrel selves” (Rushdie, 1991: 394). Yet for most immigrants, a value judgment of the diasporic experience is not as easy or as simple as Rushdie’s statement implies it is. For significant numbers of us, two visions of possible harmony and violent collision as contrapuntal narratives summarize the hybrid

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experience of the diasporic family. In The Dark Dancer, Balachandra Rajan perceives the gopuram, the blunted pyramid over a Hindu temple’s inner sanctum, as symbolic of constructive diasporic experience where the individual planted on alien ground rises “unyieldingly from the obstinate earth, the blunted thrust giving aspiration, solidity, and earthiness” (Rajan, 1958: 166). There is beauty in its defiance, promise in its stability. Conversely, the same diasporic experience has been negatively portrayed as in Cyril Dabydeen’s symbol of the house on fire in Distances—a haunting reminder of migrancy, rootlessness, and terrifying fugitiveness. In the final analysis, the seeming contradiction of those two images define a challenging union of opposites, where the positive complements the negative and the sum of the experience is greater than the parts.

References Anderson, Benedict. (1983). Imagined Communities: Reflections on the Origin and Spread of Nationalism. London: New Left Books. Appadurai, Arjun. (1990). “Disjuncture and Difference in the Global Economy,” Public Culture, 2 (Spring): 1–24. Bhabha, Homi. (1990). “Dissemination: Time, Narrative, and the Margins of the Modern Nation,” in Homi Bhabha (ed.), Nation and Narration, pp. 291–322. London: Routledge. Chua, C.L. (1992). “Passages from India: Migrating to America in the Fiction of V.S. Naipaul and Bharati Mukherjee,” in Emanuel S. Nelson (ed.), Rewording the Literature of the Indian Diaspora, pp. 51–62. Connecticut: Greenwood Press. Dabydeen, Cyril. (1977). Distances. n.p.: Fiddlehead. Derrida, Jacques. (1976). Of Grammatology, Trans. Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press. Gellner, Ernest. (1983). Nations and Nationalism, Ithaca. New York: Cornell University Press. Ganesan, Indira. (1990). The Journey. New York: Alfred A. Knopf. Gezari, Janet. (1992). Charlotte Brontë and Defensive Conduct: The Author and the Body at Risk. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press. Ghosh, Amitav. (1989). The Shadow Lines. New York: Viking Penguin. Gilbert, Sandra M. and Susan Gubar. (1979). The Mad Woman in the Attic: The Woman Writer and the Nineteenth Century Literary Imagination. New Haven: Yale University Press. Hejmadi, Padma. (1985). Birthday Deathday and Other Stories. London: Women’s Press.

220 Mary Mathew Hejmadi, Padma. (1988–89). “Uncle Monkey,” Massachusetts Review 29:4, Special Issue on South Asian Expatriate Writing and Art, (Winter): 599–608. Jacobus, Mary. (1978). “Villette’s Buried Letter,” Essays in Criticism, 28: 228–53. Kipling, Rudyard. (1886). “Naboth,” Lahore, India: Civil and Military Gazette. McGrew, Anthony. (1992). Global Politics. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Mukherjee, Bharati. (1972). The Tiger’s Daughter. Boston: Houghton Mifflin. ———. (1972). Wife. Boston: Houghton Mifflin. ———. (1988). The Middleman and Other Stories. New York: Grove Press. ———. (1989). Jasmine. New York: Grove Weidenfeld. Nelson, Emmanuel S. (ed.). (1993). Writers of the Indian Diaspora. Westport: Greenwood Press. Parameshwaran, Uma. (1987). Rootless but Green are the Boulevard Trees. Toronto: Toronto South Asian Review. ———. (1988). Trishanku. Toronto: Toronto South Asian Review (TSAR). Rajan, Balachandra. (1958). The Dark Dancer. New York: Simon and Schuster. Rushdie, Salman. (1989). The Satamic Verses. New York: Viking. ———. (1991). Imaginary Homelands. London: Granta Books. Said, Edward. (1978). Orientalism. New York: Vintage. Smith, Anthony. (1990). “Towards a Global Culture,” in Mike Featherstone (ed.), Global Culture, pp. 171–93. London: Sage Publications. Spivak, Gayatri Chakravorty. (1985). “Three Women’s Texts and a Critique of Imperialism,” Critical Inquiry, 12: 243–61. Spurr, David. (1993). The Rhetoric of Empire. Durham and London: Duke University Press. Suleri, Sara. (1992). The Rhetoric of English India. Chicago: University of Chicago Press.

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Chapter 13

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Food, Family, Widowhood in Ashapurna Devi’s Short Fiction Naina Dey

“I write what I see”—none else could sum up so simply and aptly the nature of Ashapurna Devi’s works as the author herself. Indeed, Ashapurna Devi was never swayed by the political turmoil of her age (which was perhaps not possible because of her conservative background), nor did she attempt to preach a code of conduct in her writings. Hers was the age of science and technology, of the two world wars, of Owen and Eliot and Joyce and Lawrence, of such eminent Bengali littérateurs as Premendra Mitra, Jibanananda Das, Bibhutibhushan Bandyopadhyay, Tarashankar Bandyopadhyay, Manik Bandyopadhyay, Dhurjatiprashad and others. But far from the madding crowd, it was the Bengali middle/lower-middle class family that she could observe without inhibitions from the boundaries of her own little world; this family formed the core of her works. The author has remarked: Society and literature are interdependent. If the writer becomes wayward, he loses all rights. He must know that his works have relevance. And that he has a responsibility towards society. The writer must show the way to ascension, not simply write by instinct.1

222 Naina Dey Standing at the crossroads of time, when the history of the world was fast changing, Ashapurna Devi concentrated essentially on the family, especially on the women in the family. Ashapurna Devi’s Chchinnamasta is a short story that first appeared in 1949 (two years after Independence) in the festival issue of Anandabazar Patrika, and was till 2004 the “only story by a woman writer” in the Calcutta University undergraduate syllabus. It is significant that stories by Mahasweta Devi and Swarnakumari Devi were later included, which shows that women writers are beginning to be taken seriously by academics. When I first came upon Ashapurna’s story, it was the title Chchinnamasta that caught my attention. Relying on my somewhat vague memories of pictures of Chchinnamasta, which one may find on the chala (decorated thatch) behind the idols of goddess Durga, and of a Hindu mythological film in which I had seen an image of Chchinnamasta when I was a mere child, I began to look for a symbolic/thematic connection between that terrible image of the bloody goddess holding up her own severed head and drinking her own blood in evident glee, and the story itself. But to my surprise, the story began with no trace of Chchinnamasta’s violence. Instead, I perceived a very domestic scene of a widowed mother hurrying up a young girl Monty to draw the alpana, for her son was going to arrive any moment with his newly-wed bride. However, the arrival of the new bride initiates a chain of actions— seemingly insignificant, but clinchingly relevant. Jayabati’s urge to get her son settled with a wife in tow backfires when daughter-in-law Pratibha reveals her true colors soon after marriage. Her pride, her impolite and uncultured manners—stark contrasts to Jayabati’s normally reserved nature and perseverance—completely unsettles the peace of the household. Pratibha’s increasing verbal onslaughts, first on Jayabati’s financial status, and then her artistic capabilities, are counter-balanced by Jayabati’s own suppressed rage and vehemence— negative, violent emotions—which finally find their outlet in son Bimalendu’s fatal accident (which is “structurally” the climax of the story). There is however, thematically, a second underlying climax. Jayabati does not take her own life or go mad (as neighbors thought she would), but what becomes more conspicuous now is her approach towards her newly widowed daughter-in-law. The neighbors, who perform much the same function as the Greek chorus, are amazed at the way she coaxes Pratibha to eat those “potherbs and lentils,” the fare of the Hindu widow that Pratibha had once scorned as a bride.

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Here Ashapurna Devi follows convention in portraying the complexities of the mother and daughter-in-law relationship—a feature one may find in the writings of Rabindranath Tagore and Saratchandra Chattopadhyay (I cite Tagore’s Chokher Bali, where Rajlaxmi is dissatisfied with her daughter-in-law’s immaturity and lassitude). The story is obviously not concerned about the more recent social evils such as dowry deaths or divorce. The theme here is more downto-earth-concerning a seemingly uninteresting and commonplace tale of two women trying to possess a man, namely, the hapless son and husband Bimalendu. The post-Independence setting too reveals the simplicity and mundaneness of a typical Bengali rural household, with neighbors and relatives popping in and out at opportune moments and making apparently casual yet deliberately calculated responses to add to the authenticity of the story itself. All the characters, except Bimalendu, are women with little or no formal education, luxuriantly indulging themselves in senseless gossip. The concept of the nuclear family, which had already invaded the city as an inevitable outcome of the partition, has still not found its ground here— and thus one finds “the eldest of the Lahiri wives” on one of her rounds of the neighborhood, while Jayabati’s small family seems somewhat incongruous in this well-knit society. The only connection with the city seems to be through Bimalendu, who gets the privilege of higher education in Calcutta, and in this Bimalendu seems to be the representative of the average middle-class Bengali male on whom rely the women of the family (as has been his father’s case before him). Moreover, Jayabati is a widow—and we can assume a figure wearing a plain white saree who must not draw the alpana, for a widowed woman is an inauspicious person, a lost woman—all of which are significant for they reveal a rural Hindu society of more than fifty years ago wanting in progressive social forces and in the moral qualities so essential in social development. Also, with the use of words as guchchir, dakho dikin, and so on, the author intensifies the genuineness of her characters within the specified setting. In her chapter entitled Mothers, Mothers-in-law and Motherhood in Modern Bengali Short Stories by Women Writers (Families, vol. 3), Tapati Gupta opines that in the light of patriarchal demands and domination, for most women “motherhood” and the “status” that comes with it are perhaps the only “gift” they enjoy from the family legacy. Conversely, as Gupta says, “The gift also involves [the woman] in sacrifices she is sanctioned to make and which she considers as part of her

224 Naina Dey marital-societal-ontological obligation.”2 The role of the mother takes on a new dimension with the arrival of the daughter-in-law: When the young mother becomes a mother-in-law she again accepts the agency that patriarchy has endowed upon her as a surrogate mother to her young daughter-in-law and consciously or unconsciously she becomes part of the patriarchic set-up.… The young mother who was the childbearing machine of her husband now becomes the son’s deputy. Yet as the revered head of the family she enjoys a position of prestige.3

In Chchinnamasta, however, Jayabati appears to have been comparatively better off than most of her female counterparts as she has not only enjoyed the companionship of a liberal husband when he was alive but was a partner to his tiniest confidences. This is perhaps why she initially thinks of being a mentor to her newly married daughterin-law rather than being the latter’s rival. It is evidently Pratibha’s misbehavior that embitters their relationship. But despite all adherence to conventionality in setting and character portrayal, the unconventionality of Ashapurna Devi’s treatment of her central character lies in Bimalendu’s death and Jayabati’s response to it. Jayabati’s changing frame of mind as shown before and after Pratibha’s arrival is nothing new considering that such feminine conflicts are common in Indian households. Nevertheless, Jayabati’s disillusionment is significant. One notices that before Pratibha arrives Jayabati reminisces on the golden days of her past: Even when her son was a mere boy, she would spend nights talking and dreaming of his marriage. The two saw no end to their aspirations whenever their thoughts centered round their son. But Debnath simply departed putting an end to all hopes, leaving her alone to bear the joyless, mundane burdens of this world.4

And such memories form the basis of her dreams of the future: Imagination cannot be reined, and thus it flows unlimited in the shape of dreams and blissful desires around that beauteous form. It grows on the soil of one’s own bitter experiences and the self-confidence which emerges as the outcome. She will show those who have earned the epithet of “dominating mother-in-laws” how to treat another’s daughter as one’s own.5

This is a a desire that transcends the commonplaceness of the eternal ego clash (the outcome of the critically balanced power relation)

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between mothers and brides. Though the conflict is inevitable, what is remarkable is that instead of focusing her anger entirely on Pratibha, Jayabati finds the passivity of her son all the more outrageous and unpardonable: Calm and serene by nature, Jayabati suddenly felt as though her blood caught fire. She had never spoken a harsh word to her son, but now in her heart she uttered a vile word about him. Has Bimalendu become tongue-tied that he cannot answer?6

The nature of the mother–son relationship may be said to contain its own share of ambivalence. Tapati Gupta quotes from Ashis Nandy’s Woman versus Womanliness: An Essay in Speculative Psychology: It is only with respect to his mother that he is his whole self and recognizable as an individual. Associated with this in the son is a deep feeling of ambivalence towards a controlling yet discontinuous mother. He often sees her as a treacherous betrayer, mainly because of her intermittent presence and nurture which are in turn due to the exigencies of her familial role, social obligations, mores, and taboos.7

Thus, initially emotionally dependent on his mother, Bimalendu develops antipathy towards Jayabati soon after marriage and once even blurts out: “You are becoming so narrow-minded. Surprising!” Finally, the eldest of the Lahiri wives provides that additional impetus required to set Jayabati’s wounded pride aflame: Dear, dear, but your Bimal is as good as gold. Doesn’t he say anything? — Even gold turns into iron if the goldsmith is unscrupulous, sister! — Heaven only knows! What an evil day! What a pity, not five or seven sons— but one, and the wife comes and leads him astray. So much suffering for a nice woman like you!8

Gradually, the values of tenderness, softness, self-sacrifice and nonviolence—values that are supposed to be inherent in motherhood— are shed by such repeated onslaughts and both Jayabati and Pratibha engage themselves in shameless mud-slinging. However, the extreme form of humiliation comes when Pratibha ridicules Jayabati’s preference for vegetables:

226 Naina Dey Pratibha pushed away the bowl with the back of her palm and replied— That doesn’t mean that I love eating heaps of vegetables like the widowed hags. Why did you spoil them when you could have kept them for yourself! The object of your greed!9

What stuns Jayabati is not the suddenness of the attack but the validity of the fact that forms the basis of Pratibha’s onslaught. Indeed, relatives and neighbors were not unaware of Jayabati’s weakness for vegetables and the arrow finally hits its mark. Here I would like to mention that the “vegetables” become a sort of “metaphor” for Jayabati’s status as a widow who must abstain from taking meat or fish (both of which incidentally, are expensive and thus heavy on the family budget); and therefore, her desire for the edible greenery that grows in profusion in the backyard cannot be validly criticized. Moreover, the “vegetables” signify the disparity in the marital status of the two women and later the deliberate emphasis laid on the “widows” fare of potherbs and lentils by Jayabati becomes relevant in the light of Pratibha’s misfortunes. In her chapter (cited earlier), Tapati Gupta further reiterates the cause behind the marginalization of the Hindu Bengali widow: A false halo is painted around woman’s sexuality by the metaphoric castration of the Bengali widow—her shaved head and white attire, her spartan meals. These are actually devices that enable society to shirk its economic and moral responsibility of maintaining the widow in conditions of material comfort. It also mythifies the curse of sterility by constant reminders of the importance of the socially acceptable male partner in generative relationship.10

Nevertheless, the event which takes place in between the above mentioned incident and Bimalendu’s accident is that of Jayabati confining herself in the prayer room—an event that despite its insignificance has aroused much curiosity in readers and critics alike because of what follows. The author never makes it known what exactly Jayabati, with her wounded pride, had prayed for—Did she desire that the lord Madhusudan punish Pratibha herself ? Or did she wish for the traitor Bimalendu’s death, which would be a fitting punishment for Pratibha’s misdemeanor? And more importantly, does Bimalendu die because his mother wanted him to? Referring to another story Aayojan by Ashapurna, where the grandfather prays for his grandson’s death, not because he hated the child, but because he sought to satisfy his

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own wounded ego, Nabanita Deb Sen speaks of a unique quality that is ever-present in the human sub-consciousness, a quality that is never openly acknowledged because of the lack of definite means of defining or even locating it: The glorified images of motherhood or paternal benevolence which are conventionally accepted by society and literature have been mercilessly ripped apart by Ashapurna’s truthful analysis. Over and over again, in her short stories, do we find the mother’s compassion defeated by mundane selfishness, sacrificed at the altar of personal ego.11

This clearly rules out the role of supernatural intervention as the cause of Bimalendu’s death. The child in Aayojan survives the fever and Bimalendu’s death is just a coincidence, though his violent and untimely end is actually a premonition as well as a symbolic enactment of Pratibha’s destruction as willed by the resentful Jayabati, for without a husband a Hindu widow is as good as dead. And unlike Jayabati, who after her husband’s death had clung on to her own hopes of Bimalendu’s future, Pratibha’s fate is completely sealed since she has no future to look forward to. Without Bimalendu, the “man,” Pratibha is now rendered completely helpless and at the mercy of her motherin-law. Nonetheless, the sense of uneasiness is deliberately evoked as the writer is yet to reveal another aspect of Jayabati’s nature at the end of the story—the notable change of attitude towards Pratibha. What becomes conspicuous here is Pratibha’s silence and Jayabati’s regaining of her mastery over affairs. The neighbors, who had so long played their role in cunningly instigating the duo, are now reduced to mere spectators though they do remark on the change in Jayabati’s voice: Jayabati would meticulously arrange the snow-white rice on the shining black stone dish and call—Bouma, O Bouma, come and have a mouthful. Doesn’t the tone of compassion sound a bit in excess in her voice? The relatives could hear from the neighbouring houses … and wondered at this revelation of Jayabati’s compassion and magnanimity.12

This is a change doubtless subtle, but ample to show that Jayabati is relishing Pratibha’s misfortune. Nevertheless, besides revealing the power politics between the two women, the story focuses on the dynamism of Jayabati’s character. When the story opens, she is the conservative, rural widow, skilful in

228 Naina Dey performing domestic chores, eager to build and sustain an organized, orderly household through economy (her trunks, boxes and wardrobes are decorated with covers made from the borders of sarees) and assiduous care. With the sudden death of her husband, the ideal housewife of the first phase becomes the strong and resolute widow, and the change in circumstances and her own loss of authority after Bimalendu’s wedding transform her into a woman embittered by her own disillusionment. After Bimalendu dies, it seems somewhat that fate has united the two women. But the author-narrator lingers for a while as if to gauge the genuineness of the seemingly placid atmosphere and sounds almost exultant when she hears Jayabati call: Does that pity which flows in her words find its serene reflection in her eyes? ... in her looks, and in that hidden smile which lurks at the corner of her lips—subtle and poisonous?13

The woman who had found her powers being gradually usurped by another secretly rejoices when she finds the “disputed territory” (her own son) destroyed (however premature and terrible his death may have been), for it has left her rival destitute. And thus, Jayabati becomes the Chchinnamasta—the woman who gets consumed by her own passions and becomes metaphorically the cause of her own destruction through the actual death of her only son: Other than the black circles under the eyes and the slight raising of the cheek-bones, there were no obvious signs of change.14 Ashapurna Devi’s prime objective was to portray her characters, especially her women, in the light of their relationships with the world around them. They are not paragons of unsurpassable beauty or virtue, nor are they consciously aware of their own powers or limitations as one finds in the British writer Fay Weldon’s novels. Also, while Weldon’s women seem to be perennially at war with the maledominated world outside their own limited spheres, Ashapurna Devi’s women are domestic, apparently docile, and even try their best to stick to social norms. Still, there are instances when they emerge more powerful in their passions and sacrifice, selfishness and even passivity, unlike the men who seem somewhat ineffective, even helpless (as in Shab Dik Bajay Rekhe). In fact, through characters like Jayabati and Praxis (in Weldon’s novel of the same name), who live out roles they have sold themselves including “the fulfilling of other people’s needs…,” both authors overturn in exaggerated and emblematic

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fashion the contradictions inherent in the demands that society imposes upon women. Beside Ashapurna, a number of Indian writers have tried to dispel the notion of the idealized stereotypical concepts of motherhood and widowhood revealing the hollowness of social strictures and “feminine” virtues. Thus the grandmother/mother-inlaw in Chhabi Basu’s Meyemanush (“Woman”) leaves her sons’ home to live with her childhood friend, the old widower from Karmatar. On the other hand, Telegu writer Chalam, in Vitantuvu (“Widow”), depicts a widow who decides to bear the child of a man without caring for the repercussions. Another Telegu writer Kodavtiganti Kutumbarao, in Pempudu Talli (“Foster Mother”), also deals with the yearnings of a young widow who develops a physical relationship with her adopted son. Hindi author Premchand (who wrote immediately prior to Ashapurna Devi) has, however, idealized women, even the usually dreaded mother-in-law of Indian folklore; and one comes across stories such as Widow with Sons, in which the newly widowed Phulmati finds herself gradually losing control over her household and dying a terrible, lonely death. There is, however, no justification in assuming that the women control their own fates. In Bimalendu’s death, Jayabati is as much the victim as her daughter-in-law. Pratibha’s reactions to her husband’s demise are never presented in the story. But we are confronted with a new entity—indefinable and malignant as the terrible Chchinnamasta (for the mother with all her softer instincts had died with her son’s death)—who feels no sympathy for the bereaved wife but like the “madwoman in the attic,” exults in her own destruction and in the world’s.

Glossary Chchinnamasta—According to ancient Hindu mythology Parvati, Shiva’s consort, wished to go to her father Daksha’s house, where a yajna was about to be performed. When Shiva refused to give his consent, the enraged Parvati began to manifest herself in ten different forms, each as awesome as the other. Shiva, terrified and amazed, gave his consent. Chchinnamasta (also called “Chandika”) was the fifth manifestation and the most terrible of all. In her the goddess is seen stark naked, bathed in her own blood, holding her severed head

230 Naina Dey in one hand, and drinking the blood spurting from her truncated neck. Also engaged in the act are her two female escorts Dakini and Barnini, both naked and adorned with garlands of human heads like the goddess herself. It is believed that one who could appease the goddess would gain Shivatva (the highest place in Heaven) after death.

Notes 1. Ashapurna Devir Chchotogalpo Sankalan, National Book Trust, India, xi, 1999. 2. Sanjukta Dasgupta (ed.). (2004). Families: A Journal of Representations, Vol. 3, 73. Kolkata: Blue Pencil Publishing Editorial & Consultancy Services Pvt. Ltd. 3. Ibid.: 73–74. 4. Ashapurna Devi. Chchinnamasta (from Ashapurna Devir Chchotogalpo Sankalan), National Book Trust, India, p. 160, 1999. 5. Ibid.: 161. 6. Ibid.: 162. 7. Sanjukta Dasgupta (ed.), Families: A Journal of Representations, Vol. 3, p. 74. 8. Ashapurna Devi, Chchinnamasta (from Ashapurna Devir Chchotogalpo Sankalan), National Book Trust, India, p. 167, 1999. 9. Ibid.: 168–69. 10. Sanjukta Dasgupta, ed., Families, Vol. 3, p. 79. 11. Ashapurna Devir Chchotogalpo Sankalan, National Book Trust, India, xviii, 1999. 12. Ashapurna Devi, Chchinnamasta (from Ashapurna Devir Chchotogalpo Sankalan), National Book Trust, India, p. 171, 1999. 13. Ibid.: 170. 14. Ibid.: 171. (All translations from the original Bengali sources are by Naina Dey).

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Chapter 14

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The Self and the Family in Telugu Women’s Poetry M. Sridhar Alladi Uma

We wonder whether one would ever think of a seminar on man and family!1 Whether the man is in the family or out of it, it doesn’t seem to disturb the universe. But how is it that the moment we think of woman, we cannot but think of her place in or outside the family? It seems the only point of reference, for a discussion of the woman must begin with the family. The woman’s identity is therefore defined by her relation to the family. At one level, society thus defines a woman but at another level it accuses her of discussing nothing but the family. But when a woman consciously thinks of her own self, her own identity, she begins to interrogate her place, her relationship with her husband, with her children and with other members of the family. This chapter attempts to analyze two collections exclusively of women’s poetry that have appeared in the last ten years—Neelimeghalu: Streevada Kavita Sankalanam (1993)2 and Mudra: Vanitala Kavitalu (2001)—in terms of their treatment of the woman’s self and the family.3 What holds this family together? In her ‘Rajee’vanalu (“Lives of Compromise”) Patibandla Rajani writes how, even as the couple recognize the mutual discontent that underlines their relationship, an “emergency” is imposed invoking the theory of unavoidable ideal

232 M. Sridhar and Alladi Uma married life together (Neelimeghalu : 44). Compromise is the inevitable principle that holds the family intact. In the poem Sneharahityam (“Lack of Friendship”), while acknowledging the lack of understanding and love between man and woman, Kondepudi Nirmala voices clearly the stark reality of how satisfying bodily urges becomes the only meaning of life (Sarma, 1999: 157). Volga, on the other hand, makes an ironic comment on the “Life-together in marriage” (Dampatyam), which is held intact only because of societal pressures. She says that though the husband and wife recognize that neither one needs the other, when each becomes a mere property of the other, the only reason for the union, remains its protection from outside aggression (Neelimeghalu: 49–50). It is not that the subservient condition of the woman is dictated by her being a housewife. Mandarapu Hymavati brings out the economic aspect of the relationship between the working woman and her husband in her poem Sarpa Parishvangam (“Serpentine Embrace”). Amidst the ecstasy of their bodies having come together, the husband comes up suddenly with the question, “When will you get your salary?” The woman responds: “Even a prostitute won’t come up with a question like that at such a time” (Neelimeghalu: 37).4 She feels then like casting off such a relationship, but the mire of the institution of marriage bogs her down so completely that she lives each minute of her life compromising, finding it impossible to extricate herself from its serpentine embrace (Neelimeghalu: 57–58). The most concrete instance of the institutionalization of marriage is the perpetuation of its values through language. Permit us to quote the entire poem Bandipotlu (“Dacoits”) by Savitri: When the teacher said: I’ll get you married off if you don’t recite the lesson I was afraid. When my brother said: My “husband” is my boss who never grants me leave even when I need it most I grew suspicious. When the neighbours said: But, he’s a man, a “maharaja”

The Self and the Family in Telugu Women’s Poetry 233 so what could be missing? I understood. That marriage is a huge punishment, that husband gobbles up your freedom, and that half the population that we nourished at the breast divides and rules. (Ramarao and Zide, 1993: 208)

Inscribed in language, marriage as an instrument of punishment, the authority of the husband and the superiority of the male attains social sanction. But patriarchy gives a false sense of protection to the woman. This is brought out in a poem entitled Needalu by S. Jaya, wherein she uses the pun on the title (“Shadows/Shade”) to good effect. She says: “What if the shade gave protection?!… No plant grows under the shade of the banyan tree” (Neelimeghalu: 77). There are poems that attempt to shatter the false sense of importance the woman cultivates regarding her position in the family. In the poem Tivachee (“The Carpet”) Vani Rangarao gently chides the woman who foolishly imagines her place in her parents’ home, her position vis-à-vis her husband and children (Neelimeghalu, 79–80). In the poem, Vantillu (“Kitchen”) Vimala emphasizes the need for a woman to realize how she has been controlled by the metaphor of the “kitchen” and the necessity to break herself free from it: “Even as the traces of childhood were about to leave me/ I began to be groomed here [in the kitchen]/I have been taught ‘kitchenness’” (Neelimeghalu: 85). The myth of even her authority over the kitchen is blown when she says: “My mother is the sole queen of this kitchen kingdom/but, ultimately it’s my father’s name/that’s on all the vessels in the kitchen!” (Neelimeghalu: 86). Vasanta Kannabiran also draws on the familiar dictum of the “home as heaven” (Grihamekadaa Swargaseema) for a woman to underline the need to shatter this image (Neelimeghalu: 82–84). What we have seen above are portrayals of the uneasiness, the struggle and the desire to confront the values family and society impose on women. Does this confrontation really take place? What forms does it take? How does a woman become conscious of her own identity?

234 M. Sridhar and Alladi Uma The mental strength a woman cultivates can allow her to derive a sense of her self even from a physical union. In her poem Sparsanuraganni Alapistoo (“Singing the Touch of Love”) Jayaprabha says: “I who gets ignited with your touch/you who is fired by my touch/ remain, always, distant/like the earth and the sky!” (Neelimeghalu: 27). This distance reminds us of the poem Dooram (“Distance”) by Revati Devi. She measures the distance between the husband and wife who are married for some years: Between the husband and wife who have been married for some years the heartless distance of bullocks in the grinding mill … This advaitic distance that exists between him and me who are so far apart is a distance that leaves no room for even the wind to squeeze through. (Sarma, 1999: 153)

In Advaitam (“Non-Dualism”) Volga deviates from the stereotypical portrayal of the world that surrounds the body of a woman. No more does she need the presence of a man or of the world. She talks of the importance of a self-propelling force. She exhorts the woman to force herself into the world. She likens this experience to her falling in love repeatedly or giving birth to a baby the first time (Neelimeghalu: 28). She is obviously asserting the right of the woman to celebrate her body. The woman’s right over her body is treated differently by Mahe Jabeen in Navasmriti (“The New/Nine-month Commandment”), where she celebrates a woman’s pride in her motherhood. Even as women oppose imposition of the role of mother on them, Mahe Jabeen asserts her right to “live” that unique experience: How does it matter who? I should live that experience How does it matter who? When I decide to bear for nine months I should make that wonder of an experience my own the rustle of the heart in my womb No need for anybody’s authority over the fruits of our flesh and blood Amidst the banishments unclear even to them I stand at the juncture of this era announcing my motherhood. (Neelimeghalu: 107)

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While Neelimeghalu came out announcing itself as a collection of “feminist” poetry and has put together contemporary poets, the more recent collection Mudra edited by Sheela Subhadra Devi and Bhargavi Rao has a hundred poems by women ranging from the fifteenth century to the present. As it makes no claims of including only “feminist” poetry, we find such writers like Chillarige Swarajyalakshmi and A.S. Mani reiterating certain conventional notions regarding women. Consider, for example, Konni Padyalu (“A Few Verses”) by Swarajyalakshmi, wherein she says: All the hardships are for the woman who has no husband such luck for the man who has no wife the husband does not lose anything if he has no wife the husbandless has to let go everything. (Devi and Rao, 2001: 55)

It is significant to note that this early poem deals sensitively with the plight of the widow, though it may appear to be reiterating the need for protection in a woman’s life and may also be consistent with the thought of the times. But how does one respond to a poem like Mani’s Ainaa (“But”), where she bemoans the plight of children and the house when even the mother becomes independent and takes up a job? Let us look at the following lines: Who will set right the house? Wife, husband, children, guests Love is the affectionate union of give and take the golden nest where hearts have a healthy growth the refuge of civilization for generations together Each becomes a loner with her own existence Who are they helping by taking up jobs? (Devi and Rao, 2001: 100)

There are some poems in this collection too that question the stereotypical portrayals of women. Poems by Vani Rangarao, Kondepudi Nirmala, Savitri, Vasanta Kannabiran and S. Jaya have a clear feminist focus. Kondepudi Nirmala’s Nannalni Konali Ratenta? (“We have to Buy Fathers, What’s the Price?”), with its biting sarcasm, hits out on the social structure, which pays importance to “fathers”: It seems the respectable ones are born only to their fathers! We are born from our mother’s womb

236 M. Sridhar and Alladi Uma If we have to learn a cupped hand full in schools we need to buy fathers how much per kilo? (Devi and Rao, 2001: 118)

Not only mainstream middleclass Telugu women writers but also Dalit and Muslim-minority women writers have been voicing their protest against the stranglehold of institutions both without and within, within being the institution of the family. It is heartening to note that Mudra, which came out eight years after Neelimeghalu, takes this into account and includes a poem each of Shajahana and Challapalli Swarupa Rani, powerful voices, one representing the Muslim-minority woman’s voice and the other the Dalit woman’s voice. In Qabaddar (“Beware”), Shajahana unveils the horrors of the married life of a Muslim girl: We are absolutely worthless in herds as lumps of flesh wearing cloaks over our minds as we do over our bodies we are like bats dragging on our colourless tasteless odourless lives Even as we are aware that our husbands are only temporary for they throw meher at our faces and change wives we decorate our sacrificial dupattas with sequins of smiles. (Sridhar and Uma, 2000: 101)

The tone of the opening lines itself suggests that while the poet describes the condition as it exists in a Muslim household she is not the one to take it lying down. There is already an indication of the refusal to adhere to these prescriptions. So it is no wonder that the poem ends on a note of defiance: I am tearing the cage-like purdah outright I am not scared even if I am branded a kafir These hands that have held your feet these hands that have embraced you these very hands are closing their fists for having continued to live with you even when I didn’t like it We too are thinking. (Sridhar and Uma, 2000: 102)

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Swarupa Rani’s Ahwanam (“Invitation”) is also a poem of intense questioning of a casteist society that uses the bodies of women of lower castes and also of the mainstream feminists who have been unable to understand the different levels of exploitation women from these classes face. In what seems like a response to Vimala’s Vantillu (“Kitchen”) Swarupa Rani says: Your courage that made you scream up to the heavens that some one teased your little darling did it go into a drunken slumber in front of some five star hotel when the parts of my body were not just beaten to a pulp but when the remains were thrown out Oh, my deep blue clouds that have taught me to rain! The drizzle of your questions has reached those fully equipped kitchens but why hasn’t it reached even the threshold of the three stoned stove of a house I don’t even have! (Devi and Rao, 2000: 149–50)

What is surprising though in this collection is the relatively insufficient attention to the questions of the self and the family, questions that seem inevitable to a discussion of the woman. Is this a case of deliberate neglect by the editors (though their introduction as well as a small section of the poems testify to their awareness of these questions) or an indirect acceptance on their part of the assumption that a woman’s position is more or less secure in the institution of the family? How do we read a poem like Jogini by Ch. Usha Rani? It condemns the powerful societal forces that perpetrate the jogini system where the joginis are forced to live the life of “permanent brides.” It ends with a voice of revolt: “For the awareness that begins with me alone/ she [Ellammavva] ushers in the looks that will make me break out” (Devi and Rao, 2001: 191). When Usha Rani writes: “Saying I’ll fall at your feet, master! We’ll lick and wipe your chappals/We are permanent brides who are not given the traditional send-off ” (ibid.: 190), she is of course questioning both the stranglehold of customs and the rich landlords. But there seems to be in this poem a lurking desire for being a bride (not a permanent bride) who will be given a send-off by her parents, a bride who will be given away. Isn’t this in some sense a validation of the marriage rituals, of the power hierarchy

238 M. Sridhar and Alladi Uma within the family system and the security a woman may find within the family structure? On the other hand in Mehendi Streela Vignyapti (“A Request from Mehendi Women”) Volga celebrates the life-giving qualities of these women: “We only know to make you happy/don’t come to us to die/We are dying many deaths so we can live” (Neelimeghalu: 160). Does this poem then allow us to explore the possibility that women can be “happy” outside of marriage? Not really, for it talks of how they can give happiness, but not of their being happy outside the family system. Theirs is a proscribed profession. They recognize the fact that these men who come to them have wives, mothers and homes. What if the speaker is ironic about the “heavenly homes,” etc.? If at one level the poet seeks to assert the prostitute’s love and compassion, at another level there seems to be some awareness on the part of the prostitute of what she “lacks” in life. Do we then say that for the most vociferous of feminist writers the family as it exists today needs to be questioned—that is, the hierarchical structure that makes a woman dependent and therefore insecure needs to be questioned and rejected? Does that mean that feminist writers have no problem with the concept of the family itself ? We are quite puzzled as to why there are not in these anthologies poets who reject the family in toto. We do not have to go too far to see how women respond to these issues—we only have to go to Telugu women’s fiction (both short fiction and the novel). We wonder why not the poets?

Notes 1. This chapter was presented in a seminar on the Representation of the Family in Telugu and Urdu Women’s Writing, held at IACIS (now IUCIS), Hyderabad on July 27, 2002. 2. The first feminist anthology in Telugu, Guri Choosi Pade Pata (“The Song That Is Sung as You Target”), was published by Tripuraneni Srinivas in 1990. Neelimeghalu contains almost all the poems in this anthology. 3. An anthology of Telugu Dalit women’s writing was published since this chapter was written. Titled Nallapoddu (“Dark Sunrise”), this anthology traces the tradition of Dalit women’s writing since 1921. We have looked at the poems represented in this anthology to see if they would make a

The Self and the Family in Telugu Women’s Poetry 239 difference to the argument presented in this chapter. It must be pointed out straightaway that only a few poems here deal with the issues concerning the family. Swarupa Rani, an older Dalit poet (different from Challapalli Swarupa Rani discussed in the main body of the book) has a few feminist verses under the rubric Streevada Padyalu, wherein she details how it is easier for her to take the torture of her parents-in-law and sister-in-law than that of her husband. Envisaging the new woman in her poem Kotta Shatabdi Vanita (“The New Century Woman”), another poet, Edluri Vijaya Kumari, questions the social construction of the women that confined them to the kitchen and the household. She becomes the scapegoat in a male-dominated society in which she is weighed down by the burden of worries and lack of peace, while the male enjoys a world of happiness and pleasure. The poet therefore wishes that women prove their strength and refuse to be confined to the roles of cooking and giving pleasure to men in bed. In another poem on the plight of a scavenger woman, Mary Madiga details how she too goes through the familiar difficulties of a housewife—taking care of the household chores and the kitchen, waiting with fear for the drunkard husband who comes only to abuse and beat her up—even as she suffers her work as a scavenger outside. We might wish to conjecture as to why there have been very few Dalit poems that discuss the theme of the family in this anthology, which spans an eightyyear period. We wonder whether the preoccupation with family is more of an upper-caste, middle-class phenomenon that does not affect most Dalit women, who belong to lower classes and castes. The historical survey to this anthology seems to point in this direction. Discussing the contribution of mainstream feminism in Andhra Pradesh it says that mainstream feminism has sought to challenge “the family, the authority-based relationships between men and women and the patriarchal structure that hides the male dominance which attributes holiness to motherhood” (Dalita Sahitya Charitra Nepadhyam Nallapoddu: Dalita Streela Sahityam, Hyderabad: Hyderabad Book Trust, 1921–2002: 15). The survey also says that it does not appear as if mainstream feminism can see clearly the role of the Vedas and Hindu religion and the caste structure, which is its foundation—the main reasons for the suppression of women and the inequalities in society. That the preoccupations of Dalit women are indeed very different from those of the mainstream women is suggested by the extract we quoted from Challapalli Swarupa Rani’s poem. It is interesting to find that the historical survey quotes some of these very lines to indicate the departure Dalit women’s writing makes from mainstream feminist writing. 4. All translations in the book except otherwise indicated are our own unpublished ones. Page references are to the Telugu originals.

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References Devi, Sheela Subhadra and Bhargavi Rao (eds). (2001). Mudra: Vanitala Kavitalu. Bangalore: Prism Books Pvt. Ltd. Neelimeghalu: Streevada Kavita Sankalanam. (1993). Hyderabad: Swechcha Prachuranalu. Ramarao, C. and Arlene Zide. (1993). Trans. “Dacoits,” in Arlene Zide (ed.), In Their Own Voice: The Penguin Anthology of Contemporary Indian Women Poets, p. 208. New Delhi: Penguin Books. Sarma, Indraganti Srikanta (ed.) (1999). Yuvanunchi Yuvadaakaa: Kavita Sankalanam 1936–1996. N.p.: A. Jo—Vi. Bho. Prachuranalu. Sridhar, M. and Alladi Uma. (2000). Trans. “Beware,” Indian Literature, 200, pp. 101–02.

PART 4

CULTURAL REPRESENTATIONS

242 Shoma A. Chatterji

The Family in Flux 243

Chapter 15

™

The Family in Flux The Decimated Family in Rituparno Ghosh’s Films Shoma A. Chatterji

Background One of the greatest impacts of urbanization and modernization in India has been on the family. This much-revered social institution, once considered as stable as it was sacrosanct, is now under threat, not only through its disintegration and fragmentation, but perhaps much more, by its very definition. The basic definition of “family” as the basic social unit is changing every minute across the world, even in closeted societies where women are conditioned by restrictions on every kind of mobility within and without the family. The family is in crisis all over the world. The core of the complexity is sometimes placed at the door of the modern woman torn between the double bind of work and family—juggling responsibility, time and energy between the two all the time. Sometimes, the reason for the crisis is said to be a redefining of family values—the choice of men and women to remain single, leading to a further fragmentation of the

244 Shoma A. Chatterji nuclear family. At other times, the rising crisis within the family framework is due to a new perspective on family created by same-sex partnerships—lesbianism and homosexuality. There are other alternatives too—old people’s homes, double-income-no-kids families, single-parent families resulting from separation, widowhood and divorce, and so on. There are live-in partners with or without children who wish to explore the finer nuances of relationships lived beyond the sanction of the church or priest or the marriage registrar. There are families with absent fathers not necessarily because the partners are separated or legally divorced, but because the father is away earning more money for the family. This may or may not finally lead to a legal split that reduces the cocoon of security and stability the family was initially expected to offer and, in consequence, increases the borders of its ambivalence. As more and more women go out to work, equations on the home front begin to face turbulent weather. It is an acceptable and necessary presumption that women be given equal opportunities for education and employment. But behind the closed doors of a home, equality is still a long distance away. While granting that the mother is the natural caretaker of the child, the crucial factor of joint parenting does not go down too kindly with the present young generation. Not many working women today are prepared to succumb to emotional and physical pressures arising out of home and work responsibilities. This is true even when a majority of women have to work out of economic compulsions. A national statistical update shows that 80 percent of women in the Indian workforce come from the economically deprived class and are forced to work outside home for financial reasons. Not undermining the contribution of the remaining 20 percent who support the intellectual strength of the country at large, one is still under an ethical binding to speak in favor of those who toil hard to meet the needs of basic survival. Sadly, the 20 percent often remain beyond the paradigms of socio-economic discourse. A few among this 20 percent are women who are contributing to the shifting nature of the family unit in a major way. Most people’s idea of a normal family is that of a married couple with children. Does this correspond with the reality of people’s lives any longer? In 2001, only 23 percent of British households consisted of couples, married or unmarried, living with dependent children, as compared with 35 percent in 1971. In 2001, 14 percent families

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consisted of people living on their own (Social Trends, 2002: 40).1 Marriage was considered to be the cornerstone of family life but in 2000 67 percent of respondents from the British Social Attitudes survey thought that it was alright for a couple to live together without getting married. According to David Morgan, “Family” represents a constructed quality of human interaction or an active process rather than a thing-like object of detached social investigation (Morgan, 1990: 16). There are re-marriages too, and all these have an impact on the national economy at large though these are not visible often because we choose not to see them and not because they cannot be seen. This chapter seeks to examine: (i)

(ii)

The socio-economic changes that are seeping into the family structure, consequently bringing in changes in powerrelations between partners, married, living-in, separated or divorced, or changing the very framework of the family when it is headed by a single parent in the absence, more often, of the father than of the mother; Celluloid depictions of the decimated Indian family in some films of Rituparno Ghosh.

Part I: The Impact of Socio-economic Changes on Family Values and Family Relationships in Urban India in the Twenty-first Century The Economic Implications of Divorce The urban world continues to shed silent tears over the impact of divorce on society, on the family, on the partners directly involved in the divorce, and especially on children. What escapes us is the fact that, like it or not, the splintering of families underscores a rise in

246 Shoma A. Chatterji production levels in the economy. The extended family comprising of the male head of a family with his wife, children, their families and grandchildren living under the same roof, eating out of the same kitchen and pooling in their labor and income resources to cover expenses is slowly on its way out in urban India. Exceptions are traditional business families where living under the same roof is directly linked to their business interests and any split within will inevitably lead to a split in business interests to the detriment of all concerned. In this sphere too, the positive effect of such split on market forces has remained a gray area. When the joint family breaks up to create several nuclear families, the first outcome is a rise in the demand for housing. The entire housing sector—real estate, promoters of real estate, construction, recovery of unused land—expands in monetary and business terms. Traditional homes covering spacious extent of premium land fall under the promoter’s axe and new skyscrapers take their place, mercilessly destroying a once-beautiful and expansive skyline. The environmental waste is taken for granted—lesser greenery in the cityscape, lesser land for children’s parks and playgrounds, narrower pavements and more human waste to litter the streets. But a capitalist economy thrives on such ecological waste instead of lamenting over it. As long as there is “development” at the cost of ecology, who cares? These market repercussions are multiplied when even the nuclear family breaks up as the result of separation or divorce. One of the partners must move out to seek accommodation elsewhere. Relocation means a rise in demand for housing all over again, notwithstanding the narrowing of the area of apartments to handkerchief-sized flats. There is an immediate rise in the demand for consumer durables— the partner who moves out with or without children must get a refrigerator, a mixer-grinder, a television set, furniture, a telephone connection, a gas connection, perhaps a computer, and other such paraphernalia. This leads to a considerable rise in the demand for all these goods, directly contributing to production, distribution, exchange and employment. While a couple lives together, its needs remain confined to a single refrigerator, a single television set, a single telephone connection and so on. The long-term and short-term effects are a continuous rise in the demand for consumer perishables—cereals, pulses, vegetables, etc. There is a rise in the demand for domestic help too. There are other benefits too—more money going into the

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exchequer by way of taxes under different heads, more employment opportunities across the board, increased potential for home business such as home-made catering, telephone banking, car-pool and so on. The happiest among everyone in the economy is the legal fraternity. The judiciary opens up possibilities of expansion with provisions of more family courts in the country. Sadly however, both the establishment at the central and state levels and the investment sectors has not been able to tap the infinite potential inherent in separated families. The financial infrastructure has not been able to adjust to this new family structure in the Indian economy. Banking, insurance and public issues have never bothered to create separate areas of savings and investment for separated couples. Till date, Indian investment companies and banks have no provision for housing loans for single partners of separated couples. This is a specific lack because repartnering or remarriage after separation and divorce is not common in the country. Loans for automobiles and twowheelers have no provision for separated partners though this could lead to much greater revenues than at present. Couples today have a much lower tolerance level within marriage than couples in their fifties and sixties. As a result, the divorce rates in urban metros are shooting up. The question of who is guilty is not important because couples are now looking at it as a question of choice. In the US, studies have shown that women’s increasing financial independence reduces their motivation to enter and maintain relationships (Sweeney, 1995). Consistent with this hypothesis, early studies typically found that women with limited economic resources were more likely to remarry than other women (Coleman and Ganong, 1990). However, this pattern may have altered due to the following factors: 1. Changes in attitudes and values regarding gender roles—such as the greater value placed on women’s economic achievements and men’s involvement with children; 2. Changes in the labor market—such as reduced employment opportunities for older men; 3. Changes in consumption patterns—which may make two incomes seem increasingly necessary to achieve a desirable standard of living; 4. Changes in law and public policy—such as substantial increases in social security payments and more rigorous child support enforcement.

248 Shoma A. Chatterji These changes reflect and reinforce the benefits for women of having independent financial resources, both in and out of relationships. In this context, repartnering may not be perceived as a solution to the financial strain of divorce—even for women with few economic resources. Besides, the social stigma attached to repartnering among women in India proves to be a big hurdle for young divorced women when they must choose remarriage both as a social and as an economic solution to their problem. India does not have any social security scheme for divorced partners who suddenly find themselves at the wrong end of the stick if they are not employed. Prolonged litigation pending divorce places further pressure on their finances, thereby also delaying any plans of remarriage or repartnering following divorce. Exchange theory conceptualises children as an economic appendage and as a barrier to new relationships because of the constraints on time and financial resources they impose. Looked at from a different perspective, children might be perceived as an alternative to a new relationship following divorce, particularly if sexual relationships are perceived as high risk and not reliable emotionally (Smart and Neale, 1999). At the least, children provide company and can act as the hub of an ongoing family life for the resident parent. Thus, banks, insurance companies and private financing agencies should open up provisions for loans on easy installments and low interest to fund court cases with security that does not place the litigants under further pressure. This might be done on a welfare-oriented basis such as banks taking up rural development of remote areas. This will automatically place hidden “ceilings” on exorbitant fees charged by exploiting lawyers since the supply and demand for lawyers will rise and tend to equality, thereby creating an environment of price-stability in the legal market. Shedding tears for a changing family scenario is of no use in an environment where change, as the clichéd saying goes, is the only thing that remains constant.

The Economic Consequences of Educating Daughters Fertility decline, a measure of development across the world, has a rather sinister significance in India. This lies in the fact that it targets

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the female sex exclusively. According to Sunil Gulati, Director, Census operations, the preference for the male child is still there. When this is supported by technology-assisted choice such as ultra-sound and amniocentesis, in spite of the legislative ban on the latter in several Indian states, the decision to get rid of the baby girl becomes that much easier. Haryana, for instance, has achieved the dubious distinction of topping the list of states with a fast-declining female ratio at 861 per 1,000 males. It is the worst when compared to the national female–male ratio of 933 females to 1,000 males. Unfortunately, this stems from the common notion that girls are a lifelong financial liability for the parents. If one probes a bit deeper, a completely different picture emerges, when placed against the backdrop of urban metros in the country. The direct connection that earlier existed between more sons and the rise in the family’s financial status has worn thin over the years. While the cost of raising sons has increased, the indirect cost of migration of employable sons from rural to urban areas has also gone up. These two hikes—the cost of education and the cost of migration—are eating into the long-term economic benefits of having and raising sons. Add to this the uncertainty factor that arises when the migrant son forms a nuclear family and cuts off the economic umbilical cord, his parents feel it would entitle them to a share in his high earnings. In cities, the prohibitively high cost of foreign education of a son extends beyond the benefits that are expected to accrue from this education to his parental family. Sons were economically independent only so long as they were considered pivotal in the family’s “income-acquisition” and “wealthaccumulation” strategies. This remained true till that time when education was considered for the elite and the expense of educating children was considered worthy only for sons. Today, education-forthe-elite has been replaced by the mass education system. This has made education accessible to both boys and girls. Mass education has, in an overall sense, increased the total costs of educating all children. But it has, at the same time, reduced the benefits accruing from the education of sons. The social and economic values of education have declined with the introduction of mass education. Economically, because mass education paves the way to ordinary jobs with low wages, static or little vertical mobility, and no career. Socially, because ordinary jobs with low pay do not fulfill social aspirations. This happens because mass education is neither need-based nor job-oriented. Despite these negative implications, mass education has increased

250 Shoma A. Chatterji the economic potential and the individual aspirations of daughters. Mass-educated girls have discovered that economic value not only contributes to their social and political status but also becomes a strong support system for their parental and matrimonial families. Dowry is the main reason why parents consider daughters to be an economic liability. The “perpetuation strategy’ still recognizes the son as the heir who carries the family line forward. With the wide popularity of mass education, there has been a multifold increase in the educational and employable opportunities of girls. Parents reluctant to send daughters for expensive courses in medicine and engineering have little reason to object to their higher education within the mass-education framework. Though jobs specific to these women are still low-paying and often smack of sexist strategies, daughters who are employed before their marriage provide tangible economic benefits to their parents. They are also in a position to save for their own dowry in case they agree with this system. Girls who get into employment during their college years often invest wisely in apartments with easily repayable bank loans. This effectively reduces the “burden” their parents consider them to be. For a girl who has brother/s, expensive education at a professional course of higher education is determined often by her individual merit. This should be good enough to ensure tution-waivers or scholarships so that the parents do not have to shell out the exorbitant fees. In this sense also, it is more expensive to educate a son than to educate a daughter. Middle-class families in urban metros are now beginning to weigh the merits and demerits of having daughters against having sons. An intelligent parent realizes that the social costs of having a daughter are more beneficial to old parents than those of having a son. The benefits accruing to parents who have spent on the education of their daughters through the mass education system far outweigh the costs that are incurred in such education. This also becomes a plus point when the girls get married since a working woman with a regular pay-packet is a personification of an on-going, lifelong “dowry.” Working outside the home widens their world-view, often leading them to choose their own life-partners. Not only many such self-negotiated marriages are free of the dowry baggage, but they often lead to more stable relationships based on mutual respect than the ones negotiated on the basis of economic give-and-take in the name of dowry.

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Perceptions of a complete family have changed among young, urban working couples in the country. They now choose to stick to the self-imposed one-child norm or decide to have no children at all. They are more or less gender-neutral about their offspring and are more democratic in their treatment of male and female children. Young couples that go in for adoption since they cannot have children of their own are noted for their tendency to prefer girl children over boys. However, mere quantitative changes in demographic planning patterns within the microcosm of the nuclear family are of little consequence unless these are backed by cultural persistence. Cultural persistence signifies a persistent hammering at the patriarchal system that considers daughters an economic liability (arising from dowry, marriage and education) and looks upon sons as economic assets (old-age security.) This implies the complete wiping out of evil social customs like sati, dowry, economically uncertain widowhood, and similar humiliating factors that oppress and insult women through slow and sure social conditioning. A beginning can be made by doing away with all symbols and manifestations of patriarchy such as suffixing the father’s/husband’s family name to one’s own. Another way is to persuade the State education machinery to introduce subjects and textbooks that are egalitarian, sex-neutral and democratic. But the lineage-perpetuation strategy with the son as the central figure will go on playing the hero in this play where patriarchy is the means and patriarchy is also the message.

When the Wife Earns More than the Husband Many women determined to make a success of their career in any field decide to remain single since marriage could bring complications when a wife brings in a five-figure income and the husband earns a four-figure one. With corporate salaries trying to keep tryst with the sky up there, with women topping the merit lists at professional and university examinations, these problems are getting more common than, say, they were a decade ago. Marriage threatens not only the career prospects of the wife, but even the harmony and peace that are

252 Shoma A. Chatterji anticipated in an ideal marriage. “Much more than money is at stake when financial roles are reversed. The “rules” of a marriage can change in unexpected ways. But couples who learn to handle the pressures often end up stronger,” says a marriage counselor from Calcutta. “The husband must be taller than you, older by a few years, perhaps, and definitely earn much more than you do,” my grandmother used to say, adding “otherwise, the apple cart of marriage will take a tumble.” This has more than a grain of truth in it as the rising divorce rates among highly successful women indicate. “When you are financially secure in your own right, a schism in your marriage has only emotional repercussions, not financial ones. So, instead of fighting tooth and nail everyday and turning the bedroom into a nuclear field, you choose to walk out of the marriage,” says Deepshikha, who divorced her husband because he could not adapt to her success. “As for social ostracism, you just learn to look the other way and concentrate on work. It is still the best therapy, believe me,” she sums up, wizened yet not bitter, with her marital experience. In a groundbreaking study released by the Families and Work Institute, USA,2 women earn half or more of the income in an astonishing 44 percent of dual-earner homes. Figures from the U.S. Bureau of Labor Statistics (1993)3 show that 22 percent of women earn more than their husbands, a rise from 17 percent in 1987. These figures reveal a sea change in American society that is turning the traditional family upside down. More than money is at issue. When wives are higher earners, and thereby the main providers, couples are forced to rethink the way they make decisions and take care of their children. For most couples, this implies a shift in the power-equation within the family, more complex terms of negotiation, and of course, sacrifices. Most Indian husbands do not quite care for these changes. Their patriarchal conditioning from childhood, where they have watched their fathers calling the shots and mothers tending to fathers and children, makes them feel humiliated or disappointed because this is not what they had bargained for by way of marriage. “If you compare the strides Indian women have made over the past fifty years with that of Indian men, you will find that the women have fared far better and are far ahead in terms of education, employment and development, in urban India. It is difficult for the men to absorb the shock of these jet-paced changes. Therefore, it is natural that they resent most of these changes,” said Vimla Patil, ex-editor, Femina, at a seminar on marriage sometime ago. She is right. Few Indian couples feel

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emancipated by these changes, preferring to share the rewards and responsibilities of supporting a family to being locked into old stereotypes. In this changing landscape, there are no role models, just reminders of a vanishing past. No poring through the classifieds in the morning daily, just day-to-day adjustments, small and big, to a situation our parents would not have faced in their wildest dreams. But they are learning, ever so slowly. They are learning to adapt to changes in career-jumps and pay-hikes for the wife. Urban lifestyles offer few or no option/s. Couples now need two incomes to settle their bills and pay the kids’ school fees or crèche money. According to the Families and Work Institute study mentioned above, 88 percent of women surveyed said that they would work part-time, rather than full-time, if they could still live comfortably. Thirty-one percent said they would prefer staying home if they could afford to, obviously because of small children whom they hate to leave behind. The Indian scenario, ironically, is not quite so bright. Roopa, newly married, chooses to live away from her husband because that would need her to quit her high-paying job as secretary to a foreign consul. She also earns more than he does. Her rationale is simple. “Let him begin to earn more and I’ll happily quit joining him and looking for another job, never mind the pay,” she says. Cool. Barry Dym (1995), Ph.D., a family therapist in Cambridge, MA, thinks men should deflect questions about their well-paid wives. A man should never feel emasculated by a wife who earns more than he does. Cloe Madanes4 advises couples to keep separate bank accounts and a common pot, contributing the same percentage of their incomes to each. Women are more willing then men to negotiate spending decisions, even when they have more financial clout. Collaborating on household tasks and childcare could also help diffuse tensions and prevent resentments. Talking openly about insecurities and frustrations will help couples air feelings that could sabotage their relationship. Success is being redefined in new terms according to the changing environment in husband-wife relations. We now have to reconsider what gives a person value, both as a professional and as a private person. “We need to understand that there are some jobs that will always pay less than others, and that it is a mistake to attribute the difference only to talent and hard work,” says Madanes. “But we also need to look at a person’s non-material contributions to the family. A lot of times, a man who is a good father and partner in running the home is a big help to his wife’s career.” There is no point in competing

254 Shoma A. Chatterji because both husband and wife have common interests so far as the family goes: children’s education, acquiring a house of their own, savings for old age, money for vacations. The more a husband and wife look upon themselves as “family” rather than as rival breadwinners, the more they can share in each other’s successes and failures, without keeping score.

Children of Single Parents The reality of being the child of a single parent is no longer exclusively confined to the early demise of one of the parents. Little is known about how the child of a single parent reacts to an environment in which one parent is missing. A single-parent family is a social aberration in a world in which a child opens his eyes for the first time to be greeted by two parents. M.K.Pringle, an educational psychologist, insists, in Needs of Children (1975), that a child develops through copying the behavior, attitudes and values of both his parents, who serve as his idealistic role models. “The child,” says R.J. Corsini (1999), “is also influenced by members of a family who are dead. Their memories linger and their attitudes generate nostalgia strong enough to influence the behavior patterns of the child.” The single parent child who is distanced from one parent has to cope with a concocted image of the lost parent if this distance begins very early in his/her life. The surviving parent is directly responsible for contributing to this concocted image. This parent either builds up the missing parent into a paragon of virtue or converts the absent parent into a scapegoat responsible for having burdened the surviving family with every imaginable problem under the sun. How does this child cope with the process of growing up? How does he cope with his schooling? With his socialization process where he feels a freak among peers who come from two-parent, “normal” families? Does his coping differ from children who live in a “complete” family with both parents? Some of these questions have been analyzed by Smita Gupta, a single-parent child herself, in her M.Ed. dissertation at the University of Bombay. Gupta says she has almost no recollection of her father, who died when she was a toddler. Along with two brothers, she was brought up single-handedly by her widowed mother, who had to hold down a job too. Gupta’s study, entitled A Psycho-Social

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Study of School Students Coming from Single-parent Homes in Relation to Their Performance at School (1992), opens up a small world of knowledge offered through similar studies undertaken by Western scholars. F.D. Breslin5 says that maternal deprivation can lead to listlessness, loss of appetite and retarded mental development. Inadequate mothering can lead to deficiencies in the way a child is held, fed and responded to. Such children are more prone to allergies, emotional disturbances and poor motor or intellectual development. Agatha Bowley6 says maternal deprivation can lead to bedwetting in a child unless he accepts his present guardian as his “mother” even if it is the father. Excessive fear, insecurity or aggression are said to cause bedwetting in a motherless child. In every single-parent family, the imprint of the personality, resources and limitations of the sole parent gets to be markedly stamped on the child. The child’s sense of identity in a two-parent family on the other hand is shaped by two sources of input. Therefore, the personality development of the single-parent child is almost critically dependant on this single parent’s resources, stability and methods of coping. Herzog and Sudia (1973) suggest that factors resulting from the absence of the father might contribute more to the delinquency of children than the actual absence of the father. The mother’s ability to maintain supervision and control over the child is hampered by the father’s absence. Problems come from depressed income, inadequate living needs, and mother’s psychological and behavioral reaction to absence or separation from the father. Community attitudes towards the child and his family also change when the father is absent. But the researchers also add that with proper handling by the mother, the child learns to resolve his problems of stress over a period of time. Gupta’s findings are interesting but not conclusive. She found that single-parent children had a lower level of emotional and social adjustment than children from complete families. She adds that these differences are marginal and are unlikely to have significant repercussions on their personal lives later in life. But their educational adjustment is quite low when compared with the educational adjustment of children from “intact” families. Gupta ascribes this to factors like greater burden of household responsibilities, lesser time available for studies, disastrously obsessive loyalty towards the single parent, natural feelings of being deprived of one parent, and feelings of insecurity

256 Shoma A. Chatterji and inferiority resulting from a cultural conditioning that has taught them that a single-parent family is a social aberration. Gupta laments the lack of research on the effects of parental breakup on the development of the child. “What little research there is,” says she, “is largely confined to self-selected, atypical groups, namely those seen in psychiatric wards and child-guidance clinics. We do not know for example, whether it damages the child the least to grow up in an unhappy home with both parents, or, alone, with one parent where there is no remarriage, or with one natural parent and a stepparent.” Although the “absent father” phenomenon tends implicitly to blame men for “moral irresponsibility,” there are many who come to the defence of young men, arguing that they are often full of hope on becoming fathers. Yet, because they lack certain relationship skills or do not receive much support, they leave behind children who will grow up angry and alienated. In the US and UK, the “crisis of fatherhood” has produced a growing number of self-help groups for men who want to become better fathers. In the US, groups such as the Promise Keepers and the National Fatherhood Initiative work with men to develop their family and fathering skills.

The Concept of Live-in Relationships The phrase “live together” might be a newly coined term in postmodern India, but this relationship can be traced back to Adam and Eve. They could be termed the first live-in couple in history. But the institution of marriage did not exist then. Besides, neither Adam nor Eve was aware of the logistics of their relationship. Their relationship survived basically on their dependence on each other in the midst of nature that drove them into the Darwinian battle for survival of the fittest. A registration certificate did not back this union of souls. Nor did marriage rituals or any mandatory symbols of marriage like the proverbial wedding ring or the mangal sutra show on Eve. One bite on that apple of desire and everything changed forever. The fig leaf gave birth to the first two “civil” and “decent” human beings on earth, bringing along the selfish need for security and stability in the relationship, culminating in the birth of the institution of marriage. This did offer stability and security in one sense. But in another sense

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marriage was tilted in favor of the husband who appropriated his wife as “property” and forgot that she too, was as much a “person” as he was. This appropriation was socially sanctioned through marriage symbols exclusively targeted at the female in this two-partner relationship. Interestingly, the wife was party to this total “appropriation” of her mind, body and soul in exchange for food, clothing and shelter. In other words, despite the religious sanctity marriage is said to be blessed with, in reality it was simple barter economy at work. Dr Ahalya Raghuram, Assistant Professor of Clinical Psychology in Bangalore, says, “A couple in a live-in relationship is especially vulnerable as the partners are under pressure to make the relationship work and also cope with an unsympathetic society and parental disapproval.” Alienation from one’s family, coupled with the insecurity of the relationship, can play havoc with a person’s psyche. A woman in a live-in relationship who suddenly discovers that she wants to marry, puts herself in a perilous position if her male partner does not wish to marry, and she unconsciously places him on a position of power, thus negating at one stroke the power equation a live-in relationship is supposedly based on. For mainstream people, things have been quite mundane, and sometimes, sad. The “mundane” relationships ended in marriage, which means there was nothing “rebellious” about these relationships to begin with. A few sad ones even ended in the death of one partner. Tarun Banerjee,7 a Calcutta lawyer, quotes the case of a 25-year-old woman who committed suicide when her live-in relationship began to crack up. By then, however, she had given birth to a child. Today her parents are left to look after the child. They are now trying to gain legal custody of the child from the male parent which, given custody laws in India, they are sure to lose. True that a child born out of wedlock is now entitled to his father’s legacy. But what if he has to share it with his father’s legitimate children born within marriage? Besides, he is not heir to the inherited property of his father though the legal children are. Socially, the child has to live under the shadow of social stigma because we still live in a society that recognizes marriage and does not recognize live-in relationships. This is the more true when one of the partners is already married with a separate family. Partners in live-in relationships however, have no rights on each other unless they go in for a legal agreement. This means that in case of a split, there will be no ownership or property rights. Children born in a live-in relationship are considered illegitimate. Partners have

258 Shoma A. Chatterji no rights to each other’s financial assets and verbal agreements hardly stand the test of law. Partners also cannot make end-of-life decisions for each other—about surgery, transfusions, cardiac pulmonary resuscitation and the use of life support machines. In the absence of a will, the deceased’s family has all rights. Are couples that opt for live-in relationships different from normal couples who conform to the social and legal laws of monogamy? “Yes, they are,” says Dr Somnath Banerjee,8 a Calcutta-based psychiatrist. “People who do not believe in conforming to social norms at all, people who are used to clandestine sexual relationships, people who are abnormally headstrong, have the inclination to get embroiled in live-in relationships. There are people who wish to enjoy sexual freedom without the responsibilities of marriage. Such people almost always get into live-in relationships. If either partner is unmarried, they marry as soon as they feel responsible. Or, they break off and the relationship could end on a sour note. “Let’s carry on as long as it lasts,” is the attitude. Some get involved only on the basis of sexual desire for each other. But finally, it boils down to the philosophy of freedom and enjoyment minus responsibility.” “I personally do not believe that live-in relationships could present society with a healthy, social environment. It is not an environment that permits the child born of such relationships a happy childhood. Marriage carries with it an aura of respect, never mind the fact that we know it to be a façade in many cases. The façade can be broken through and remedied by law and social action. But where the relationship itself has no social or legal sanction, it is a relationship without respect. And children are its worst victims. I consider it wrong to artificially impose a Western concept of man–woman relationship on the Indian mindset and expect radical results. Because live-in relationships are, in any case, temporary.” This comment came from Gillian Rosemary D’Costa Hart, the Anglo-Indian representative in the West Bengal State Assembly. An Indian court bestowed legal sanction on a live-in relationship between a married man and an unmarried woman against a backdrop of the USA lamenting its rising divorce rates. A couple of generations of latch-key children in US do not know what the word “family” means and look to India as an illustration in monogamous relationships stabilized through marriage. A couple of years ago a division bench of the Allahabad High Court offered one Payal Sharma the liberty to go anywhere and live with anyone.

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In a habeas corpus petition decided by Justice M. Katju and Justice R.B. Mishra, the court stated: “Petitioner Smt. Payal Sharma appeared before us and stated that she is about 21 years of age which is borne out from the high school certificate which shows that her date of birth is July 10, 1980. Hence she is a major and has the right to go anywhere and live with anyone. In our opinion, a man and a woman, even without getting married, can live together if they wish to. This may be regarded as immoral by society, but is not illegal. There is a difference between law and morality” (Judgement delivered on May 17, 2001 in Payal Sharma versus Superintendent, Nari Niketan and Others, C MP No. 16876 of 2001). Feminist organizations and believers in women’s emancipation have lauded this as a landmark judgement in favor of the woman because it gives her the choice marriage strips her of. She now has the freedom to choose the man she loves, to go wherever she chooses to go, to live with him as long as she likes, to leave him when she wishes to leave, and so on. Reduced to simple logic, she can now call herself a truly liberated woman. In one sense, this is true. But what if the other partner, the man, happens to be a married man with children to boot? This is precisely the point of debate in the Payal Sharma case. Without going into the legal implications, does this absolve the male partner of his filial responsibilities towards his wife and children, which includes living with them under the same roof ? In a country that legally punishes bigamy except in the case of Muslims, how can a Division Bench of a High Court pronounce a judgement that openly violates another law—the social, legal and filial implications that bind the husband in a Hindu marriage? “There is a difference between law and morality,” the learned judges said. Even if one concedes for a minute that there is a difference between law and morality (which again, is a debatable point), how do the judges explain the contravention of one law by another? What legal parameters have the judges conceived of about the children born out of such live-in relationships when other children born within wedlock also exist? N.R. Madhave Menon9 opines that the legal system has been derived by the State from the moral code. This regulated “sex relations outside marriage, fixed the age of marriage, prohibited homosexuality and delineated what was considered to be an acceptable relationship between the two sexes in social intercourse. These views are reinforced by religious interpretations and customary practices which received the binding authority of law,” says Menon. So, the judges were wrong

260 Shoma A. Chatterji in saying that law and morality are two different things. A murder is both morally and legally wrong. So is a burglary. The entire legal structure is founded on moral principles of right and wrong. An adulterous relationship between an unmarried young woman and a married man is morally wrong. Thus, to give it legal sanction is to deconstruct the entire principle on which law is based. True, that laws need to change and evolve, with new laws replacing the old. So do moral beliefs and principles. But they always go hand in hand and there is no reason why a court will flout morals in a single case that could lead to a general trend—a trend with consequences on women and family in particular, and the society at large. Feminists who have lauded this judgement are missing the wood for the trees. The “liberty” granted to Payal Sharma also means a violation of the wife’s right to a life of dignity and self-respect. And an absolute restriction placed on her marital right to live with her husband. It is “liberty” for one woman at the cost of “liberty” of another woman. Besides, when two women are bound to the same man, by marriage or by love, with sex being the lowest common denominator, it amounts to backtracking into the nineteenth century, when a man could have several wives and several mistresses at the same time. And no questions asked. “The financial framework of live-in relationships has not been explained at all,” says Tarun Banerjee. “How would a live-in relationship differ from marriage if the law sanctions both? How would the financial needs of the couple be looked after? If the man has to look after his companion’s needs, in what way then does she have a status different from that of a legally wedded wife? If the man happens also to be married how would he divide his financial responsibilities between his wife and his companion?” are some of the disturbing questions he poses and to which, right now, we have no answers. Gujarat for a long time had something called Maitri Karaar—a “friendship contract” entered into voluntarily between a man and a woman, which decreed that the woman would exercise no claim on the man during or after the relationship beyond “friendship.” The man in such relationships was always married and the woman was a single woman who was also responsible for the upkeep of her parental family. Since she knew that she could never marry, she and her family willingly consented to such a contract because this was the only way she could

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enjoy a physical relationship with a man. And no questions asked. When the story of Maitri Karaar blew up in the media many years ago, it was declared illegal and the “contract” became not even worth the stamp paper it was typed on. It was a sort of eyewash for a married man to take on a mistress from a respectable family.

Part II: An Exploration of the Decimated Family in Some Films Directed by Rituparno Ghosh Rituparno Ghosh (1961) In a little over a decade, Rituparno Ghosh, born in 1961, has established himself as one of the best directors in contemporary Indian cinema. Though he has largely worked in Bengali, his native language, with stories and themes that are rooted in Bengali culture, his films have broken geographical and linguistic barriers by reaching national and international film festivals. Having studied Economics at Jadavpur University, Ghosh chose a career in making advertising films. Ghosh had no formal training in any department of film making. Perhaps his desire to become a filmmaker lay in his genes, his father having been a noted maker of documentary films in his time. After having made around 400 ad shorts, many of which won prestigious awards, Ghosh shifted his focus to feature films. His first full-length feature film, Hirer Angti (1992), was produced by the Children’s Film Society of India. Though the film won an international award, it failed to get a public release in theaters. However, the film was later shown several times over at small festivals for children’s films and also on the small screen. The film looks like a product directed, put together rather—by an amateur trying his hand in a new medium. It is slipshod and handled half-heartedly. All his films have bagged national awards. A TV serial and countless ad films have won awards too, but Ghosh is far from satisfied.

262 Shoma A. Chatterji Ghosh feels that in Dahan, his third film, only five out of the 220 minutes bore the masterly touch of film making. As for Unishe April, this brought him the national best director award in 1996. “Barring some scenes, the film could have been improved upon.” While these two films “are quite important and relevant,” it is Asookh that was his “best and most mature film till then,” says Ghosh. “I try to analyze the reasons of vulnerability in a man or a woman,” says Ghosh. “If I am to portray a man as a protagonist I’ll have to establish why he is vulnerable and only then can I move on to the other aspects of the story.” Unlike his earlier films, which focused entirely on women, Asookh, adjudged the best Bengali film of 1999, explores a father–daughter relationship. Unishe April depicts a danseuse who, it is believed, has sacrificed her family for her profession, which leads to her later being held responsible by her daughter for the husband’s untimely death. However, as the film moves on and circumstances lead to a mother–daughter confrontation, it appears that it was the mother who had done all the sacrificing, including financing the daughter’s expensive medical education. The father wallowed in the self-pity that comes of being married to a woman much more talented and giving than he was. Dahan analyzes the relationship between a daredevil young schoolmistress and a house-wife who is molested in front of her husband and a crowd of timid passersby. He is now one of the most prolific among serious filmmakers in the country and he has by now directed around a dozen films, each one a statement of the position of the woman in the family either through classical literature, or based on an original screenplay, or inspired from a news story of a real incident in the life of a woman. The family as portrayed in the films directed by Rituparno Ghosh is counter to most perceptions of all conventional and traditional forms of this social institution. Through his films, beginning with the contemporary and post-modernist Unishe April to his latest period classic Antarmahal, one discovers that instead of worrying about the composition and structure of the family, he studies what families do and what his characters themselves consider to be “family.” This may or may not be in keeping with popular perceptions of family but it coincides with images of the family in real life quite often. He steers clear of the abundance of concern that literature and popular cinema have showered on the family as an institution of society. At the same time,

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his films define in minute detail the everyday activities of family life. This includes the ordinary ways in which families eat together (Asookh, Utsab, Titli), enjoy leisure activities (Titli, Bariwalli, Chokher Bali), and care for each other (Asookh, Dahan, Shubho Muhurat), which are not trivial but things that really matter to families. Stated simply, Rituparno’s celluloid family could be defined as a radical family in emotional and psychological terms, even where the family apparently seems to be quite conventional in its structure and its composition. The house/apartment/mansion that the member/s of the family inhabit in each film evolves into a character unto itself, and does not remain confined merely to being defined as the physical framework and environment within which the human characters negotiate their terms of changing interaction. This chapter seeks to explore the celluloid “family” presented by Rituparno Ghosh in five films—Unishe April, Dahan, Asookh, Bariwalli and Utsab.

Unishe April The timeframe is caught within a single day and night, the 19th of April, and the film borrows its title from this day. It is the death anniversary of Aditi’s father, who died when she was a small girl of maybe ten. When the film opens with a flashback to the father’s death and then zooms into the present, we find that Sarojini has just received a prestigious award for her singular contribution to the art of classical dance. The news of the award sets in motion a chain of events that finally lead to a confrontation between the mother and the daughter, distanced through what, on the surface, appears to be a clash of values but which has snowballed over time basically from a slow and sure breakdown in communication. Aditi’s consciousness is made up of memories of a dead father, his identity, his pain, and his alienation from his celebrity wife reflected as a kind of picture puzzle through various pieces of flashbacks from her point of view. Sarojini, on the other hand, has created her own space through her dance recitals; she is now focused on her dance classes, which she holds in her own house. She is aware of the alienation from her own flesh and blood, Aditi. She tries to build bridges. But her celebrity status comes in the

264 Shoma A. Chatterji way, increasing the chasm between the two. She tries to compensate for this gap in the motherhood experience by playing surrogate mother to her dance pupils who are devoted to her. Aditi plans to bring permanence to the chasm by announcing her decision to establish her medical practice permanently in Delhi, miles away from Calcutta, her mother’s base. Aditi, on holiday from Delhi, feels redundant in her mother’s larger world of fame, power and status. As she reflects and introspects on her past, the father stands out as a martyr. Sarojini, thrilled with the news of the award, does not seem to remember the anniversary, reinforcing Aditi’s conviction about her mother’s over-involvement in her love for her art, and therefore, in herself, so much so that in her world there is no place either for a long-dead husband or a living daughter. Ghosh has taken great care to choose the decor of the duplex apartment setting to establish a definite relationship between the decor and his two protagonists, the mother Sarojini and her daughter Aditi. The walls of the elaborately decorated and furnished drawing room downstairs are flush with huge photographs and posters of Sarojini bedecked in her dancing finery. The telephone on the writing bureau, the pen and the pad by its side, defines the method and the perfection in her life. Aditi’s bedroom is filled with memorabilia of her father with the fresh flowers on his photo emphasizing the importance of the date. The objects are symbolic of her choice of remaining trapped and she is crowded by things that constantly remind her, not only of her dead father, but also of the deep empathy she feels for him. The single-date calendar is a constant reminder of the day, its significance in the narrative and in the lives of these two women. It also brings out the typical attempt of a bourgeoisie household in a contemporary urban metro to make life stand still. Stretching the same argument, this symbolizes the emotional stasis of Aditi, though in terms of attainment she has proved her worth. But if one probes deeper, one will discover that her choice of medicine for a career is not an independent one. On the one hand, it is a conscious and a deliberate defiance of her mother. On the other, it is the sense of personal commitment she feels she owes her dead father, also a doctor. Beneath the surface of the medical career is her craving to belong, to hold on to her relationship, which, considering the boyfriend’s casual attitude to the relationship, is probably a stillborn one. Unlike the American

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melodrama, this function of decor does not extend to fix forever domestic property relations as a model of social life. The question of property relations does not raise its ugly head in an Indian bourgeoisie household because it is not really a model of our social life. Therefore, while it retains its bourgeoisie character, it does not guard its members from their emotional disturbances. The economic significance of the relationship between Aditi and Sarojini is brought out lucidly when her mother tells her that it was she who funded Aditi’s upbringing and her expensive medical education. The flashbacks narrated from Sarojini’s point of view, however, unfold the upholding of the same power-relationships that exist between a husband and his wife in a patriarchal order, where the husband is the main breadwinner and the wife merely offers a complement in terms of income, if at all she does earn. This highlights the fact that even with a significant financial contribution, the urban, enlightened, Indian woman is not free from the patriarchal power-base in the family. Sarojini has a male friend who Aditi suspects her mother had a special relationship with. But the mother dispels her doubts and now Aditi responds with sympathy for a young and beautiful widow who chose to fight it alone. In the final analysis, Aditi comes to terms with the fact that her own circumstantial victimization by her celebrity mother was an imagined one born out of her mother’s long absences, when she went to perform outside. But mainly, it sprang from memories of her father’s death during one of these absences for which she held her mother responsible. As day breaks, the conflict between the mother and the daughter gets resolved and a new family is born.

Dahan Dahan (“Crossfire”) opens with a voice-over of one of the two women who form the center of the narrative. This female voice, which is used as a framing device in this circularly structured film, destabilizes, at the very outset, the popular practice of using a male voice-over and thus registering the authority of the male. The female voice functions here, unlike in dominant cinema, in relationship to one of the

266 Shoma A. Chatterji major visible characters on screen. Dahan, based on a novel of the same name by Suchitra Bhattacharya, is actually a cinematic interpretation of a true incident that took place in Calcutta in June 1992. Director Rituparno Ghosh takes this incident, and the novel based on it, to make a strong statement, not only on the position of womanas-victim in Indian society, but also on audience expectations of female representation conditioned by popular cinema. Jhinuk is the independent, working daughter of a professor and is engaged to Tunir, a man of her choice. Romita is a housewife, married to Palash, chosen by her father, a corporate big shot. The two meet accidentally when five men try to molest Romita and carry her away. When the husband protests, they beat him up as well. This happens outside the Tollygunje Metro as the two are returning from a shopping trip. Jhinuk intervenes on their behalf and then persuades them to lodge a police complaint. The molesters escape in the melee. The incident is front-page news the next morning, turning Jhinuk into a heroine. Romita’s in-laws are grateful but change under pressure. Palash and Tunir dissuade the two women from appearing in court for their own selfish motives, dictated by patriarchal norms. Romita cracks under pressure and refuses to identify the culprits in court. Jhinuk’s evidence is turned against her, as the defence lawyer makes insinuations about her moral character. The molesters are released. What happens to the two women? Ghosh leaves this open, allowing his audience to draw their own conclusions, departing magnificiently from the original novel, leaving crevices and cracks, both in the narrative and cinematic spaces of an unusual closure. There are three families in the film. The first one is that of Jhinuk. She belongs to an upwardly mobile upper-middle-class Bengali family. Her father is a professor. The mother is a housewife, presenting the archetype caring and loving mother to her two children and submissive wife to the husband. Jhinuk is a schoolteacher and her brother is studying for an engineering degree at IIT, Kharagpur. They seem to present the picture of an ideal family, waiting to buy that piece of prime land to build a house, for the son to graduate, and for the daughter to get married to Tunir in the near future. The grandmother chooses to live apart in an old people’s home in the same city. This points to the subtle decimation that has crept into the apparently holistic family. Though her parents and brother are thrilled and feel

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justly proud of their brave daughter, trouble raises its ugly head when the court case against the molesters begins. As the film comes to a close and Jhinuk is preparing for her marriage, she is dogged by doubts about getting married to a man who is pressurizing her to back out of the court case because it is directly linked to his transfer and promotion. This, even before he has become her husband. Romita’s marital family is an extended one, with husband, his parents, his older brother and his wife. Her in-laws seem sympathetic towards her to begin with. But they stop her from identifying her molesters in court. She tries to call up Jhinuk, who she hardly knows, but hangs up the phone when Jhinuk picks it up. Her husband’s sympathy soon turns to anger when his office colleagues tease him and question him about the difference between molestation and rape. So, Romita’s family too, as her elder sister-in-law informs her one day, is not the well knit, structured and composed “family” it appears to be. Trina is in love with the main molester, the son of a powerful and influential father who can pull enough strings to get his son out of the jam. Her parents are very happy about her choice and the newspaper headlines about the molestation do not change their perceptions about him in any way. But, much to the shock of her parents, Trina staunchly refuses to go ahead with the engagement. Is Trina’s parental family, then, a fragmented one? Romita decides to take a break and fly off to her older sister in Canada, not sure about whether she will or will not come back. Jhinuk’s steps are slow, heavy and faltering, as she walks wearily out of the old people’s home towards the fenced gate of her grandmother’s old age home. The anguish and pain of the three women, Romita, Jhinuk and Trina are captured through subtly lit close-ups while the expressive faces of the actresses do the rest. Though Romita is beautiful, (an award-worthy performance by Rituparna Sengupta), Ghosh strips her of glamour after the molestation as she tries to cope with herself within her bedroom. Jhinuk’s cross-examination by the defence lawyer is intercut with her serious illness in bed, the mosquito curtain offering a false veil of security. Questions keep nagging us. What is the difference between molestation by outsiders and marital rape of the wife by the husband? What kind of “family” would one call it when a molested wife is raped by her own husband in anger and frustration as a sort of punishment dealt out to her in the full knowledge that she

268 Shoma A. Chatterji is the victim and not the victimizer? Through Dahan, Ghosh succeeds in freeing the portrayal of the family in cinema, both narrative-wise and cinematically, from its obstinate permanence of happy togetherness and transforms this rigid “image” into a surface which functions in complex and contradictory ways, rather than as a purely referential “commodity” offering one-dimensional meanings.

Asookh Asookh deals with the two things Rituparno is famous for—the loneliness of the individual, and the fragmenting of relationships in a post-modern situation. Asookh is like a sequel to Unishe April with the relationship reversed. In Unishe April, the mother was a danseuse, a public figure, and the daughter was an ordinary doctor. Their relationship is constantly under a cloud of misunderstanding created out of communication gaps, some circumstantial, some destined. In Asookh, the schism is between a daughter, Rohini, a renowned film star and her father Sudhamoy, who is unwillingly forced to depend on his daughter’s earnings. Ghosh calls it his personal tribute to parenthood, to the unit made up of father and mother. “Modern life distances us from our own parents to a considerable extent. I have tried to show this through Asookh. I am more interested in the subterranean layers of such relationships. Be it between mother and daughter, (Unishe April), be it between two young women bound only by the commonness of their gender (Dahan), be it between two unrelated men and women (Bariwalli) or be it between a father and his daughter (Asookh).” Through this father–daughter schism, he tried to explore how our mental states are vitiated by circumstances beyond our control, leading to a loss of faith. But being an optimist to the core, he finally comes to terms with the fact that “there is still hope for a restoration of the lost faith, leading to a liberation of the human spirit.” Tagore is omnipresent in the film. Rohini keeps on reciting Tagore from memory. Her boyfriend quotes and sings lines from Tagore and Rohini or her younger successor, a starlet, joins in. A large photograph of Tagore adorns the wall behind her bed. But all this is just in audiovisual terms. The spirit of Tagore is conspicuously absent. Tagore,

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who wrote “where the mind is without fear and the head is held high” in Gitanjali, would never have agreed with the emotional uncertainty and insecurity that dogs every waking moment of Rohini’s life. This very often happens because she suffers from acute insomnia and cannot sleep without a heavy dose of sleeping pills. She suffers from dryness in her eyes and is forever using eye drops to moisturize them. Like most female stars, she wears glasses in private and lenses in public space. The contradiction is that, for one who dotes on Tagore, to suspect her father for her mother’s illness being diagnosed as a case of possible immuno-deficiency syndrome, or to suspect her goodfor-nothing, unemployed, chain-smoking fiancé of a secret liaison with the starlet, is perhaps an insult to Tagore’s memory. Rohini perhaps would have been better off leaving the bearded fiancé, who offers a kind of moral support, which does nothing to resolve her fears. But looked at in retrospect, perhaps it is Tagore who helped her out of her conflict. Who knows? Ghosh resolves her crises in the closure of the film. She asks forgiveness from her affectionate father for having dishonored him with her suspicion, arrogance and rudeness. She learns to cope with her own disloyalty in suspecting her fiancé for his faithlessness. But all this is quite unbelievable for an actress, a famous film star because her very field of work spells out faithlessness at every step. It is a field where morality is an empty word, a phonetic sound, and an arrange-ment of alphabets that means nothing. Based on Ghosh’s own story, script and dialog, Asookh scores in terms of the tightly knit script, and flesh-and-blood dialog. The interiors conceptualized by Sudeshna Roy and the production design by Indranil Ghosh are realistic too, bringing out the spaces explored through the apartment where Rohini lives, through the make-up room where she spends a lot of her time, her bedroom, which is dark and dull, and the hospital where her mother lies ill. Debut-cinematographer Aveek Mukherjee’s camerawork struggles with the darkness he has to deal with, every step of the way. But there are sparks of brilliance, especially in Rohini’s bedroom and make-up room. Ghosh builds up a collage of images portraying the family through scenes drawn as if from real life. When the film opens, Rohini’s proud parents and the maid are watching a film starring Rohini on the small screen. The family eats home-cooked food before the mother is moved

270 Shoma A. Chatterji to the nursing home. In her absence, food comes in a tiffin carrier and Sudhamoy has to serve the food at the table. As Sudhamoy and Rohini dine together, Rohini reacts strongly to her father’s worry about her mother’s bowel movements, as they are eating, and walks away. When Rohini begins to avoid her father, there is this little girl who brings in fresh flowers into the home, like a ray of hope for the father, who is intrigued and sad about the way his daughter’s behavior towards him as changed for the worse. But the “family” in this film has one invisible member—Rabindranath Tagore. The poet emerges as an eternal companion, guiding and supporting the protagonist through all vicissitudes. Ultimately, it is Tagore’s interpretation of the universal religion of the Upanishads that prevails. Tamaso maa jyotirgamaya...: “Lead us from darkness to light.”

Bariwali Based on a short story of the same name by Rituparno Ghosh himself, who also wrote the script and dialog, Bariwali opens with the lines of a ritualistic wedding song welcoming the bride into her new home. The camera is fixed on the antiquated door of a large mansion. Slowly, as the credits end, the monochrome turns to color, in soft hues of brown, sienna and amber. The wedding song evolves into a leitmotif, recurring now and then as the narrative unfolds. Bonolata was almost married once. But her groom-to-be died of snakebite on the eve of the wedding. Since then her life is one long, metaphorical journey into nothingness, filled with dreams of the marriage that never was. It is as if she carried a family curse that gave the men an early death while condemning its last heir, Bonolata, to a life of isolation. Bonolata’s lonely nights are dotted with nightmares. She sometimes sees herself as a bride, while at other times it is her maid Malati who is in bridal attire. Red, the auspicious color for the Bengali bride, dominates her dreams—the bridal red of the sari and the veil, the red of the sindoor as she dreams of a married Malati calling out to her, the red paint splattered by Dipankar turning into blood splashing into her face. In real life, the bland colors of gray and white and light purple that she wears turn to bright yellows and greens when she falls in love with Dipankar.

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Bariwali presents a strikingly unusual picture of the “family.” It is a “family” consisting of a single member, Bonolata, surrounded by an old retinue and a young maid. Bonolata keeps herself confined to the spacious upper floor of the huge ancestral mansion in which she resides. She comes down for “emergency” reasons to repair a fuse, for instance. This “family” structure is punctured when the shooting team arrives from Calcutta, intruding into the physical space of the home, the social space of Bonolota and her servants, and the intimate, emotional space of Bonolota herself. This intrusion does not, however, violate the privacy of the family but changes the emotional stasis of its members nevertheless. Bariwali offers several points of view. One is the omniscient pointof-view of Ghosh, who wrote, scripted and directed the film. The second one is that of Dipankar the filmmaker, who steps into the dilapidated mansion of Bonolata, its present owner, to ask permission to shoot his film, Chokher Bali, based on the Tagore classic. The third point of view is that of Bonolata, whose small world suddenly opens up to welcome a larger, glamorous expanse she finds difficult to absorb and thus, falls in love with the 40-plus director. And four, the points of view of the four “observers”—Malati, Bonolata’s naughty but kind maid; Prasanna, the old attendant who has stayed on; Sudeshna, the film actress who plays Binodini in Chokher Bali; and Debashish, the strapping young art director of Chokher Bali. Surprisingly, while Ghosh uses his most sharp and acid pen to paint the character of Dipankar, he turns extra-soft while dealing with Sudeshna, the film star and Debashish, the art director. Bariwali is as much the story of Bonolata as it is of Dipankar, or Malati, or Sudeshna, for that matter. It would be a misnomer to believe that the landlady forms the focus of the film. She does occupy a major slice of the cinematographic and narrative space, true. But through her loneliness, her vulnerability, the frustrations and tragedy arising out of the enforced suppression of her sexuality, we learn as much about film people, film making and about the simplicity of life in small towns. For example, when Bonolata asks Malati to fetch a copy of Chokher Bali from the local library, Malati comes back and says, “They said it is difficult to locate a book if you cannot name the author.” Bariwali is also about female bonding, (Bonolata and Malati), about loneliness and isolation and betrayal of one human being by another. Yet, Bonolata of Bariwali is

272 Shoma A. Chatterji no martyr. She believes in trust and in love. The old attendant Prasanna has never betrayed her trust. Nor has Malati, who is more her friend and guide than her maid, and with whom, distanced in terms of age, lifestyle, class and attitude, Bonolata shares a strange bonding. If one cares to look beyond the immediacy of the film’s narrative and cinematographic framework, one will be able to see another portrait of a larger, extended and different “family” in the film. It is a picture of the film industry as a “family” peopled with polarized qualities of the self-centered, egoistic, opportunist and exploitative film director on the one hand and the exploited film actress on the other. The production designer presents the only “sane” voice within this team. The self-reflexive process of using a film-within-a-film is a fascinating revelation, a celluloid confession of sorts, by the filmmaker who creates, within the larger film, an objective distance between himself and his character—the filmmaker-in-the-film, who is a celluloid replication of the director himself. Mrinal Sen did this effectively in Akaaler Sandhane. One of the most brilliant self-reflexive statements on celluloid is Antonioni’s unforgettable 8½. French filmmaker Jean Luc Goddard used film-within-a-film for a few of his films. Bariwali thus evolves into (a) a medium of creative expression of the artist (director) through the aesthetic use of sound and image, and (b) his own reflection seen in the “mirror” of this film-within-the-film. When he blends these two, the third objective of the artist (director) emerges as a natural extension of these two, and this is (c) throwing a rope that bridges the gap between himself and his audience.

Utsab In Utsab, Ghosh opens the narrative through the video camera of a strapping young man, Joy, grandson of the matriarch, who lives alone in a sprawling mansion. Joy uses his camera to make observations on the house, the family and the festival. The Durga Pooja is the “peg” on which the film hangs. Joy wants to become a filmmaker, but has surrendered to his father’s wishes to do an MBA abroad. His comments on the trivialities around the house are allegories that bring alive his passion for films and filmmaking. “I have heard these pooja

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vessels were used by Satyajit Ray in Debi,” he says. “My mother told me this though she was very small then.” The camera pans across the house, explores the long corridors, the windows, the courtyard where the sculptor is putting finishing touches to the Mother Goddess and her children. Bumba, one of the matriarch’s grandchildren, sits in front of the sculptor, questioning him about Durga and her four children. Slowly, as we warm up to the family reunion, the cracks begin to show. The children want the house sold. The older daughter (Mamata Shankar) has problems with her husband, who has stayed back under the purported excuse of a business tour. The problems revolve around her earlier affair with a cousin, Sisir (Dipankar Dey in a brief appearance), who has now made it big and wants to buy the house. The younger daughter (Rituparna Sengupta) is about to split with her husband (Prasenjit), who chooses to drown his failure in the bottle and live off his wife. The younger son (Bodhisatta Majumdar) has problems with his present job and needs money. Aveek Mukherjee’s brilliant camerawork captures the shadows lurking behind the pillars along with the brilliance of the decor around the Durga icon, the single-umbrella Durga symbolizing the unity within an extended family. He grasps the frequent tears in Rituparna’s dark-circled eyes, the confused expression in Bodhisatta’s face when wife Monika (Anuradha Roy) tells him that she knew all along about his problem, the antique, marble-topped table in the matriarch’s bedroom as she prepares to retire for the night, closing in on every small detail. Arghya Kamal Mitra’s editing matches the rich quality of the film, while the single Tagore song acts like a metaphor, mending relationships, creating new ones, sustaining the ones that are already there. Sounds from outside the space of the film bring the outside world in at times, such as the blaring loudspeaker belting out old Hindi and Bengali hits from the neighborhood’s community pooja. The narrative is often broken into with insights from Joy, who is in a hurry to capture everything and everyone with his video camera. He keeps interspersing his close-ups with comments on the goingson, spiced up with his love for Bengali films. “Aparna Sen’s Parama opened with a close-up of the Durga icon,” he says, as he captures the Sindoor Utsav on Bijoya Dashami day. “Why must every married

274 Shoma A. Chatterji woman wear the regulatory uniform of the red-bordered white saree during Durga pooja?” he asks himself. Intricate womanly details like the women rolling out luchis or sorting out flowers for the pushpanjali enrich the tapestry of the narrative. The film closes with the nowfamiliar Rituparno insignia of hope and optimism. The house remains unsold, the matriarch now living with her youngest daughter and a now sober son-in-law, defining a life of contentment and happy reconciliation. The closing shot shows the clicking of the remote while they are watching Joy’s video film. The credits begin to appear. Rituparno is in total control. Whether it is Madhabi as the matriarch or the deconstructed Prasenjit as the younger son-in-law, each one lives the role he/she is called upon to play. Rituparna excels as the younger daughter while Ratulshankar sparkles in a wonderful debut. Arpita furthers the promise she revealed in Asookh. Rituparno exploits every nook and corner of the mansion, including its steps and dark corridors, through the generous use of mid-shots, longshots, close-ups and tight close-ups with Aveek’s fluid camera. He fleshes out every single character in the film—even the visually absent ones. He stresses the positive side of each character, making each resolution all that more credible and smooth. Dialog, one of his strongest points, is picked straight out of real life sans circumlocution, sans melodramatic embroidery, sans frills and with generous doses of humor.

A Summing Up One must draw attention to a strikingly unusual insight Ghosh offers, through Unishe April, into the place the kitchen occupies in the minds of two women. Surprisingly, it is the kitchen and all that goes into the making of an impromptu meal in the middle of the night that suddenly throw the doors and windows of communication wide open. The mother and daughter are trapped in an openness they are not prepared for but are forced to confront. I say “surprisingly” because the kitchen does not form a part of their respective public or private domains. The figurative cupboard, Aditi discovers, does not hide any skeletons, but only the tragedy of a woman who was/is misunderstood by her own daughter simply because she did not quite fit into the

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mold of an idealized mother-love which might have, in the long-run, metamorphosed into a stranglehold. The mood of the film begins to change once the camera follows the two women into the kitchen. Tins are opened, an old recipe notebook is found, there is a frantic search for a particular ingredient that must go into the one-dish meal. “Lets make it without the saffron,” says Aditi. “No,” says Sarojini, underlining her striving for perfection in every area of life. Then one tin exposes a long-lost bottle of French perfume Sarojini thought had broken long ago. “I hated that smell,” cries Aditi “because it reminded me of your absences.” The preparation of the meal is subordinated to the unfolding of layers of information and understanding between Aditi and Sarojini, as is the meal they share at the dining table and finish off to enter Aditi’s bedroom on the floor above. This use of the kitchen offers an insight into its identity in bridging this woman-to-woman relationship within the home. Note that in Unishe April neither the mother nor the daughter is a housewife in the ordinary sense of the word. The kitchen arrives like a point of catharsis in the narrative and visual space of the film. And having played its role, it recedes once more into the background, allowing the mother and daughter to re-occupy centerstage. The camera now moves upstairs into the girl’s bedroom, with noticeable paraphernalia for an elaborately, almost childishly, planned suicide. Sarojini chances upon the suicide note while Aditi is in the bathroom. When she comes out, the mother slaps her daughter; but instead of re-establishing the chasm, the slap brings them closer. One unique element in a Rituparno Ghosh script is its distinct structure, which changes with every film he directs. Unishe April opened with the shocking scene of an untimely and sudden death. Whispers and hushed tones underscored the grief of a little girl in shock, till we were surprised to discover that the entire unfolding was in flashback. The narrative of Dahan is sandwiched between letters penned by one of the two main female characters to her sister away in Canada. Asookh explores the cinematographic space with a structured narrative that moves in and out of film shoots, the make-up room of the film-star heroine, and the dark, brooding ambience of her bedroom as the camera closes in again and again on her loneliness, her deep emotional insecurity, and her sense of alienation. In Bariwali, he brings Bonolata down to repair a fuse gone wrong. Dipankar the film director steps in to help her out. The film closes on the same

276 Shoma A. Chatterji note. The film team has left, the fuse has gone kaput once again and Bonolata clambers downstairs to repair it herself, having come to terms with her loneliness all over again.

Conclusion The family’s relationship to the physical spaces it occupies is less important than its relationship to the emotional spaces created, sustained and destroyed between and among the members who constitute the basic structure of the family in the first place. The members’ relationship to each other and among themselves has long been a focus of literary, sociological, cinematic and historical discussion and debate. The family mirrors society and society reflects the family, where both are gendered in particular ways, especially within the patriarchal paradigm we seem to function in. Countless treatises have been written and archived and numerous seminars have addressed links between the different members of a single family and how these links strengthen, or get loosened, or break, or re-join over time, subject to socio-economic factors that are also in a constant state of flux. Gender assumptions have been employed, either with a bias, or based on a neutral hypothesis, to characterize these relationships and in the same way, have used the family unit to construct gender. Often left out of such discussions are the socio-economic spaces newly created under the demands of these shifting paradigms of family space. Critics since Virginia Woolf have explored the implications of a “room of one’s own,” dividing space into seemingly irreconcilable “feminine,” domestic domains and “masculine,” public arenas. This does not pertain any more, at least in the urban metros of Indian homes where the extreme constrictions of space in a very physical sense are taken for granted and without challenge because of sheer lack of possible alternatives. But extremely limiting conditions of physical space within the home can also create a threat by themselves by throwing a sparring couple at each other again and again if only by the sole reason of their not having a private space wherein they might reflect and introspect on the reasons of the sustained conflict between them.

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Notes 1. Social Trends: A National Statistics Publication produced to high professional standards set out in the National Statistics Code of Practice. Published with the permission of the Controller of Her Majesty’s Stationery Office (HMSO). 2. Every five years, Families and Work Institute conducts its National Study of the Changing Workforce (NSCW), the only on-going study of the U.S. workforce of its kind or scale. By surveying large, nationally representative samples of employed workers, the NSCW provides valuable, timely information on the work and personal/family lives of the U.S. workforce. It is the only study of its kind to provide 25-year comparisons, from 1977 to 2002, of life on and off the job. The study is widely used by policy makers, employers, the media, and all those interested in the widespread impacts of the changing conditions of work and home life. The 2002 report—Highlights of the 2002 National Study of the Changing Workforce—examines five topics in depth: z z z z z

Women in the Workforce, Dual Earner Couples, The Role of Technology in Employees’ Lives on and off the Job, Work-Life Supports on the Job, Working for Oneself versus Someone Else.

3. The Bureau of Labor Statistics (BLS) is the principal fact-finding agency for the Federal Government in the broad field of labor economics and statistics. The BLS is an independent national statistical agency that collects, processes, analyzes, and disseminates essential statistical data to the American public, the U.S. Congress, other Federal agencies, State and local governments, business, and labor. The BLS also serves as a statistical resource to the Department of Labor. In 2005, women who were full-time wage and salary workers had median weekly earnings of US$ 585, or 81 percent of the US$ 722 median for their male counterparts. This ratio has grown since 1979, the first year comparable earnings data were available; that year, women earned about 63 percent as much as men did. 4. Madanes, Cloe, family therapist in Rockville, MD, and author of The Secret Meaning of Money, 1994, Jossey-Bass Publishers, San Francisco. 5. Quoted by Gupta in an interview with the author. 6. Dr Agatha Bowley is consultant psychologist at the internationally famous Cheyne Centre for Spastic Children in Chelsea, London, England, and also the Surrey (England) Horsham and Crawley Child Guidance Clinics.

278 Shoma A. Chatterji 7. A legal practitioner based in Calcutta in an interview with the author. 8. A practicing psychiatrist in an interview with the author in Calcutta. 9. N.R. Madhave Menon; Chancellor, National University of Juridical Sciences, Calcutta, and Member, Law Commission of India. Madhave Menon is the former Dean of the National Law School of India, the immediate past-President of the Commonwealth Legal Education Association, and the Indian representative to the International Client Counseling Competition. He has previously been Head of the Department of Law, Delhi University; Principal of the Government Law College, Pondicherry (India); a Fellow of the American Council of Learned Societies; Editor of the Indian Bar Review; and Secretary of the Bar Council of India Trust. In 1994 the International Bar Association conferred on him its Living Legend of Law Award. His publications include Hand-book of Clinical Legal Education (1997), Social Justice and Legal Process (1985), The Legal Profession in India (1983), and Legal Education in India (1982).

References A study entitled Family Stress and Coping—A Decade in Review (Journal of Marriage and the Family, No. 42, 1983). Arendell, Terry J. (1987). “Women and the Economics of Divorce in the Contemporary United States,” Signs, 13(1): 121–35. Coleman M. and H.L. Ganong. (1990). “Remarriage and step-family research in the 1980s: New Interest in an old family form,” Journal of Marriage and the Family, Vol. 52, pp. 925–40. Corsini, R.J. (1999). The Dictionary of Psychology. Philadelphia, PA: Brunner/ Mazel. Dym, Barry. (1995). Readiness and Change in Couple Therapy, Basic Books. Gupta, Smita. (1992). A Psycho-Social Study of School Students Coming from Single-parent Homes in Relation to their Performance at School, M.Ed. Dissertation, University of Mumbai. Herzog, E. and C.E. Sudia. (1973). Fatherless Homes—A Review of Research, University of Chicago. Morgan, David. (1990). “Risk and Family Practices: Accounting for Change and Fluidity in Family Life” in E.B. Silva and C. Smart (eds), The New Family, pp. 13–30. London: Sage Publications. Pringle, Mia, Kellmer. (1975). The Needs of Children, Hutchinson & Company, London.

The Family in Flux 279 Rainwater, Lee. (1984). “Mother’s Economic Contributions to the Family Money Economy in Europe and the United States,” in Patricial Voydanoff (ed.) Work and Family: Changing Roles of Men and Women. Palo Alto, CA: Mayfield. Smart, C. and B. Neale. (1999). “Family Fragments?.” Cambridge: Polity Press. Sweeney, M. (1995). “Remarriage of Men and Women: The Role of Socioeconomic Prospects,” CDE Working Paper no. 95–08, Centre for Demography and Ecology, University of Madison-Wisconsin, USA. Ultasi, Agnes. (1986–2001). “Partnership, Solidarity and Transformation of Family Structured in Hungary.”

280 Meghna Gulzar

Chapter 16

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The “Reel” Indian Family Reflections from Celluloid Meghna Gulzar

The family has been one of the most important institutional pillars in Indian society. Any art form of society is reflective of its culture. The family has been a pivotal part of our artistic heritage and depicted in great detail, right from the Epics—the Ramayana and the Mahabharata. So much so that centuries later the most popular art form in India today—namely, Hindi cinema—still draws inspiration from them and churns out films of the family drama genre, albeit with a few modern shades. So resilient is the institution of the family that it has sustained the onslaught of technological revolutions, multinational companies, satellite television and the so-called shift to nuclear families, and constantly reinvented itself to sustain its position as the cornerstone of Indian society. It comes as no surprise then that television sets are bursting at the seams with family-based daily soapoperas, or Saas-bahu soaps as they are popularly known, and that the biggest box-office hit of 2001 was the lavish family film Kabhie Khushi Kabhie Gham. It would be prudent to point out at this juncture that the families depicted in the Saas-bahu soaps as also in Kabhie Khushi Kabhie Gham are a far cry from the families of our epics, fables and folklore, which were not afflicted with the maladies of excessive wealth and adultery!

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Which brings us to these pertinent but poignant questions: Has the complexion of the Indian family really changed so? Are its reflections in our cinema and television appropriate and accurate? Through this chapter, I will attempt to find an answer to these questions, although treading carefully because the road down the history of the Indian family as it appears on celluloid is long-winded and filled with complexities. Being just “one-film” old and not really raised on a diet of films, I do not consider myself an authority on Hindi Cinema. Therefore my observations will be like those of a lay member of the audience, watching the Indian Family as it has been reflected on screen through the years. “Mere paas maa hai…”—very few of us today are unfamiliar with this famous line from Deewar even though it was made way back in 1976, a story of two brothers on opposite sides of the law as well as the moral spectrum. Shashi Kapoor playing the righteous son proclaims to Amitabh Bachchan that he doesn’t need the bangla, motor or paisa because he has his mother—he has everything. This one prolific line is a defining example of the importance our films give to “the mother” as well as to “the family.” Right from the beginnings of Hindi Cinema, the family has been an important core of the film’s story or plot. The early films were primarily mythologicals or adaptations of our great epics, in which, as we all know, the family is a pivotal element. This trend continues till today—the Mahabharata has inspired not only various versions of TV serials, but also a modern adaptation on screen like Kalyug (1981) about two feuding industrialist families. Hum Saath Saath Hain (1999) is a twenty-first century take on the Ramayan, centered on sacrifice and filial duty. The families in the two films are vastly different, almost antithetical to one another. The Kalyug families are conniving and competitive, who stop at nothing, including murder, to achieve their ends. On the other hand, Sooraj Barjatya, the director of Hum Saath Saath Hain portrayed a family whose members are close-knit, emotionally attached, respectful and loyal to one another. When the mother banishes the adopted son from the family because she wants her sons to be the heirs to the family wealth, the younger brothers refuse to take their older brother’s place, and like Bharat in the Ramayana, refuse to sit on the elder brother’s chair! Which one of these two “reel” families is the true reflection of the real Indian Family?

282 Meghna Gulzar India is an effervescent combination of a myriad of castes and cultures, with their own distinct norms and ethics. This multiplicity is further compounded by the varying economic strata in Indian society. Naturally, a definitive portrait of the true Indian family gets blurred in this diversity. To further complicate matters, India has been producing an average of 400 films a year since the 1930s, and that is a conservative estimate. To dredge out the real Indian family from a plethora of about 40,000 films is quite a task! To facilitate the process, using economic background as the stratifying tool seems a plausible method. So we’ll divide the Indian family into the impoverished, the feudals, the nondescript middle class, the rich and the unbelievably super rich, and then examine their reflections in Hindi Cinema through the ages.

The Impoverished Poverty has all but vanished from the Hindi film scenario today. But the trials and tribulations of an impoverished family were a familiar theme in films in the 1950s and 1960s. The most memorable of these, Mother India (1957), glorified woman as wife, as mother and as a savior of honor. The film reflects the life of India’s poor peasant families and their exploitation by feudal landlords. It is a remake of director Mehboob Khan’s earlier film Aurat. “Radha,” played by Nargis, became the screen icon of the eternally suffering mother who is able to sacrifice her own son for the values she holds dear. Nirupa Roy carried the torch from her, from the 1970s onwards, as mother to Amitabh Bachchan, the “angry young man.” That dharma must prevail over familial bonds is a perennially favorite theme of Bollywood filmmakers. In Ganga Jamuna (1961), two brothers are pitted against each other, one a policeman, the other an outlaw. The policeman finally kills his fugitive older brother for the sake of justice. Decades later, in Shakti (1982), a father (Dilip Kumar) shoots his own son (Amitabh Bachchan) in the name of the law. The predominant issue in this breed of the Indian family was poverty, exploitation by the feudal lords and overcoming of hardships to emerge triumphant. Sometimes there was no triumph. Do Bigha Zameen (1953) tells of a dispossessed peasant who goes to the city

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with his son to earn money to pay back a loan. He becomes a rickshawpuller while his son works as a shoeshine boy. Eventually he returns to the village battered by the harshness of city life, only to find his land taken over by a city developer. It would be interesting to note that marital discord, adultery, generation gap or disintegration did not afflict the impoverished Indian family, at least in mainstream Hindi Cinema. These issues were dealt with in the so-called “parallel cinema.” I say “so-called” because I personally disagree with any art form being pigeonholed into categories for the convenience of the media. Nevertheless, it was around the 1980s that films depicting dysfunctional families in this economic background began to appear. Chakra (1980) is about a widow’s efforts to save her son from the criminals of the shantytown she lives in. She also has a lover, a truck-driver by whom she becomes pregnant. Govind Nihalani’s Aakrosh (1980) is a hard-hitting film about the frustration and helplessness of the tribals in India. “Lahanya,” played by Om Puri, is arrested for murdering his wife in a drunken state. Throughout the film, he maintains a silence, even to his defense lawyer Naseeruddin Shah, who wants to help him. Through the course of the film it is revealed that the wife was raped and murdered by local bigwigs. In a shattering climax, Lahanya kills his sister, saving her from the same fate that befell his wife. In Rihaee (1990), director Aruna Raje makes an imaginative social satire on the sterility of many marriages in rural India as the ablebodied men of the village migrate to the cities to work, leaving their women behind and returning only for brief periods every two or three years. In the interim arrives a raunchy young man, played by Naseeruddin Shah, who has an affair with and impregnates one of the women. The woman boldly faces her husband with the inevitable in the climax of the film. Films portraying women in a liberated light were made as early as the 1930s. Duniya Na Mane (1937), made by V. Shantaram, is about a young woman who has been tricked into marrying an old widower. She registers her protest by refusing to consummate the marriage. The widower passes from initial rage to frustration, ending in a sense of guilt and eventual suicide. The film became a big box-office draw, got rave reviews and aroused extreme reactions as well. Unfortunately, such a bold stance was limited to just a handful of films.

284 Meghna Gulzar In Dr Madhurika (1935) the wife, who is a doctor, sacrifices her profession to preserve the sanctity of the home, save the marriage from professional rivalry between spouses and play along in the role of the submissive Hindu wife. Feminists slammed it but the audiences loved it. It is probably this compliance with traditional values that restricts most filmmakers in exploring out-of-the-box ideals, particularly in mainstream films. Hence, in most films, the impoverished Indian family is united, close-knit and healthy in its functioning. Even Lagaan (2001), a film set in the rural milieu, though made in the twentieth century has poverty, the fight against the oppressive British regime and its taxation as the central theme. Not only are all the families healthy and functional, but the entire village is one close, extended family unit. For the maladies of adultery, bigamy and disintegration and the like to afflict it, the “reel” Indian family needed to have more money…!

The Feudals The above-mentioned disorders have afflicted the feudal Indian family incessantly over the years in our films. It is almost as if wealth brings with it the freedom or misfortune, as some might believe, that go against the accepted social and traditional norms. In this breed of the Indian family, honor is still important but morals and values tend to weaken. In Bimal Roy’s Devdas (1955), as in its previous and most recent versions, the status of the family comes in the way of love. This however, does not stop the protagonist from visiting a kotha, which was perhaps looked upon as a status symbol. It also permits an older man to marry a second time, a girl half his age and as old as his daughter. The woman as usual is meant to continue in the tradition of the submissive Indian girl with no protest, but for the symbolic oil lamp that keeps the flame of her thwarted love still burning. This subtle modification is only in the twentieth-century version directed by Sanjay Leela Bhansali. But the women in Zamindar families are not always this submissive—Paro does make a last-attempt dash to her mansion gates to

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see Devdas, in spite of being forbidden to do so. However, the gates close before she can make it outside. Chhoti Bahu (Meena Kumari) in Sahib, Bibi aur Ghulam (1962) takes to alcohol to keep her husband company, who indulges in nocturnal orgies. The film described the slow disintegration of a feudal family wherein men follow the tradition of the times and are given to drink, gambling and orgies with courtesans while their wives languish in neglect. Shyam Benegal’s first feature film Ankur details rural life and exposes the feudal system for its indifference and brutality. A Zamindar’s son arrives from the city to oversee his father’s estate. Bored and sexually frustrated, he seduces and eventually impregnates his attractive maidservant (Shabana Azmi), wife of a deaf-mute laborer. The image of the feudal Indian family is almost typecast as oppressive, amoral and severely derogatory towards women—of their own family and those outside it as well. Bigamy is quite an accepted norm in this milieu—right from Lal Patthar (1971), where the Thakur (Raaj Kumar) marries a much younger woman (Raakhee) in spite of “keeping” a woman (Hema Malini) before her, to Main Tulsi Tere Aangan Ki and more recently, Zubeida (2000). It is only in the last decade, with the emergence of new, younger filmmakers, that the image of the feudal family has been given a much-needed makeover. One probable reason could be that though Zamindars by lineage, the family is often depicted as having migrated to the city and is now in its new avatar of a respectable business family. Both the Thakur families in Mansoor Khan’s Qayamat Se Qayamat Tak (1989) are free from the vices of adultery, bigamy and courtesans. Once again, family pride comes to the fore and age-old enmity thwarts the love between the younger generations. Certain aspects still remain—the dominance of the patriarch in all decisions and the silent and obedient profile of the women in the family. One would hope that as the Hindi film industry is infused with newer talent and younger, cosmopolitan minds, films too would reflect a certain progressive thinking. The reality is quite contrary— the younger lot of filmmakers is in fact returning to the folds of the family, upholding traditional norms and age-old value systems. Only the packaging has become modern—wrapped in foreign locales, clothed in Western designer labels and dotted with marvels of technology like e-mail, mobile phones, zany sports cars and even

286 Meghna Gulzar helicopters! But that is the breed of the unbelievably super rich, whom we shall come to later.

The Nondescript Middle Class The middle class is considered to have the most conservative sensibility in Indian society. Yet in Hindi films the furthest liberties have been taken with its nature and characters. I therefore use the term nondescript, as it is virtually impossible to get one defining portrait of the “reel” middle-class family. Basu Chatterjee’s Sara Akaash (1969) is a moving study of an arranged marriage and attitudes within a joint family. Lack of communication between the couple and the tensions of joint family living compound the problems till the wife goes away to live with her parents. Her absence leads to realization, remorse and eventual happy reconciliation. A marriage crumbling under the mundanity of daily living has been a recurring theme in Basu Bhattacharya’s films Anubhav, Avishkar, Grihapravesh and his last film Aastha. The characters of all these films belong to the middle class and are disposed to marital discord, adultery and infidelity. A rare occurrence in Hindi films is when an adulterous wife does not repent of her behavior and stands by her acts and decisions. Paroma (1985) and, more recently, Astitva (2000) are two such films. That such taboo issues are only addressed in offbeat films is not entirely true. As early as 1963, mainstream filmmaker B.R. Chopra made Gumrah, in which a married woman (Mala Sinha) cheating on her husband (Ashok Kumar) sneaks off for a clandestine rendezvous with her lover (Sunil Dutt). On being discovered, the repentant wife returns to the family fold. The conclusion was a clear concession to the traditional morality of the Indian audience. However, it is important to remember that not all of the nondescript middle-class families are beset with marital problems. Bawarchi (1972) is a witty and humorous film about a cook (Rajesh Khanna) in a middle-class family riddled with petty problems like insufficient income, lack of privacy in a joint family, ego tussles, supremacy issues, and petty politics between the family members.

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The family drama genre is also called the “Madras Formula” as the majority of films in this genre are made in South Indian languages and by South Indian directors in Hindi—K. Vishwanath, Balu Mahendra, K. Balachander and T. Rama Naidu, to name just a few. Films like Sansar, Ghar Ek Mandir and others portray close-knit traditional Indian joint families where the men work and are the key decision-makers, while the women stay home and obediently agree with the men, upholding the virtues of silent-suffering and self-sacrifice. Financial hardship, quarreling brothers and exploitation by conniving relatives are the main problems of the nondescript middleclass Indian family. These films came to be made in the 1970s and 1980s, when there was enough crime and violence on the streets and on celluloid as well. It was the era of the “angry young man,” played to the hilt by the one and only Amitabh Bachchan, in film after film! At such a time, falling back on the security of tradition and family seemed to find favor with the audiences. Not too many people notice that these films carry sublime regressive messages with respect to women and their place in family and society. So resilient is the institution of family that even in the era of action films, the plots revolved around justice or revenge for wronged parents or suffering mothers in order to justify the action. Zanjeer (1973), Sholay (1975), Coolie (1983), Ram Lakhan (1989), and Agneepath (1990) are all about seeking retribution in the name of the family. The 1980s also saw the rise of television as an emerging mass medium. A soap opera could in a single night attract more viewers than the entire audience of a popular movie in a week! Serials like Hum Log and Buniyaad gripped the nation with their popular appeal. They are essentially sagas about Indian middle-class families and once again preach the values of joint living, familial duties and remaining united in the face of hardship. Not far behind was the appearance of the epics, the Ramayana and the Mahabharata, reinforcing the same traditional norms. Yeh Jo Hai Zindagi was perhaps the only serial at the time that depicted a nuclear family—a husband, wife and her brother. Everyone would agree that the 1980s were the worst period of Hindi Cinema with run-of-the-mill, meaningless films with hackneyed plots and worse performances, stuffed with mediocre songs and unnecessary violence. A new addition to the melting pot was the “angel of death” in variations of the rape and revenge formula. The ideal Hindu

288 Meghna Gulzar wife and virtuous woman had suddenly become a violent, gun-toting vigilante in films like Sherni, Khoon Bhari Maang, Pratighat (1987) and Zakhmee Aurat (1988). Competition from television and the increasing number of flopping films forced filmmakers to rethink their craft. Films had to get bigger and better, polished and well packaged. Foreign locales replaced Indian settings, the characters became more modern and contemporary and realism gave way to gloss, glamor and grandeur. The rich and the unbelievably super rich were on their way!

The Rich In its post-liberalization, post-branding age, India is looking more and more like a mini-Europe or the United States. People drink Pepsi, eat at McDonalds, wear Tommy Hilfiger, Gap or Armani, live in outof-Manhattan lofts and go to school (even actors in their late 20s and 30s!) that appear to have materialized out of Beverly Hills! However, the core of the film is still Indian. In fact, it could not be more traditional. The family is always sacred and so are the country and its traditions. In 1989, the Indian joint family came to the fore in Maine Pyaar Kiya. This breed of the rich family lives together, prays together and even plays cricket and Antaakshari together. Through various scenes and dialog it underlines the virtues of a good Indian wife— peeling peas being one of them—and denounces women who work, wear western clothes or have short hair. It professes that love can only be fulfilled with the permission and approval of the parents. Sacrificing love for the family has been a recurring theme in Hindi films. What was spun in Kabhie Kabhie is taken a step further in Dilwale Dulhania Le Jayenge (1995), where Shahrukh Khan, the slick young NRI, refuses to elope with his beloved Kajol and insists on winning the approval of her family instead. This NRI family, even though it has lived in England for over thirty years, still listens to Hindi film songs but jives to rock-n-roll on the sly. The daughters are fluent in bhajans as well as familiar with the various Indian rituals, especially Karva Chauth, the perennial favorite in Hindi films. Rani Mukherjee wears the skimpiest of clothes in Kuchh Kuchh Hota Hai (1998) but promptly sings Om Jai Jagdish Hare when dared to sing a Hindi song.

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The term ABCD (American Born Confused Desi) is alien to the NRI families of Hindi Cinema; they could give true-blue Indians a run for their rupee any day! No one has ever questioned what the young generation of “the rich family” does for a living. It is assumed that the boys take up their fathers’ business, but what of the girls? Why do we not see women as independent professionals in Hindi films who aspire to more than just marrying the man of their dreams? Why are these women from affluent families, with no dearth of resources at their disposal, still only reduced to ornate caricatures that sing, dance and observe traditional rituals and festivals? Traditionalism is not so bad … unless that’s all there is! In spite of all the exposure to liberalization and a global economy, the rich Indian family is still extremely conformist and traditional in their thinking. Hindi Cinema may have actually stepped back in time, in its attempt to gain audience approval at any cost! In Hum Aapke Hain Kaun? (1994), Nisha (Madhuri Dixit) is an educated and aware city girl. Yet she has hardly any objections and dutifully agrees to wed her elder sister’s husband in the best interests of her infant nephew. A plethora of causes has elicited the increased popularity of such family-focused films. The global market for Hindi cinema seems to desire a return to “culture.” Seeing cultural attire and traditions seems, to many people, the greatest and most familiar form of relief amidst the millennium craze, as also a reinforcement of their sense of identity. Only a handful of films depict the rich Indian family ailing with marital discord and familial disintegration—Silsila (1981), Arth (1983), Masoom (1983) and Ijaazat (1987), to name a few. Fire goes a step further to explore lesbianism between sisters-in-law. And most recently Mira Nair’s Monsoon Wedding is an in-depth and somewhat realistic portrayal of a rich Punjabi family with its fair share of problems. But as the stakes get higher, the films costlier and the “reel” Indian family becomes unbelievably super rich, the values and ideals they portray become more traditional, conformist and sometimes regressive. Anything and everything Western is looked down upon, except their designer labels and other status symbols. The new generation of filmmakers has their finger on the nation’s pulse. They understand that now you need to have odes, both to the gods and to the family. They are tapping nostalgia for a safer world where the family becomes an enclave protected by the tall doors of their sprawling mansions.

290 Meghna Gulzar As the rich Indian family becomes unbelievably super rich, they become more traditional instead of progressive and liberal. The most lavish example of the unbelievably super rich Indian family is the “Raichand Family” from Kabhie Khushi Kabhie Gham (2001). They send their children to study in foreign universities and are affluent enough to travel by helicopters. But their women are not allowed to have a say on any issue. The wife of this affluent patriarch is akin to a very glamorous version of the typical Hindu housewife. She submissively lets her husband banish her dear son from the family and out of pure reverence to her husband does not even try to contact her son for a decade! The father, an educated and worldly wise man and owner of a huge business empire, is rigid enough to expect his son to forsake his own love and marry a girl of his father’s choice. He even mouths autocratic lines like “Keh diya…” to end an argument, with him having the last word. In spite of the above critique, it must be acknowledged that these films have gone on to become top box-office draws, even setting historic collection records! They must have done something right… The opulence and characteristics of the rich has even trickled into our television serials in its plethora of “Saas-Bahu” soaps. The families are all into business and industry. The men run the companies and the women run the household. Once again, the joint family seems to be very popular and all the family members live together peacefully. The women dress in their finest saris and jewelry to go about their daily chores as well as the rites and rituals on festive occasions. However, for the purpose of longevity and for providing dramatic twists and turns, these normal, cohesive families are infused with villains and vamps—the conniving daughter-in-law, the greedy-for-inheritance son-in-law, the step-mother, et cetera. Extra-marital affairs and illegitimate children are added for extra spice. Television serials are spared the acid test of the box-office and the stakes are much lower, hence they can risk being non-conformist, to the point of being controversial. Let’s not get fooled that this is actually progressive in any way. It is at best, sensational. Films however, have a lot more at stake and therefore play safe with well-worn values and time-tested traditions. That they actually meet with success and acceptance brings me back to my question in the beginning of this chapter—if what Hindi films are portraying as the “reel” Indian Family is being accepted by audiences, is that then the real Indian Family?

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The truth is, the real Indian family is a little bit of all of the above. It is traditional in its beliefs, yet constantly trying to walk the tightrope between the parochial and the liberal. It is insular when it comes to values and family norms and yet universal in matters of honor and justice. It is vulnerable to the onslaught of urbanism and yet resilient enough to remain the focal point of Indian society even in the twentyfirst century. That our films, our television serials and our commercials still play the “family card” to stir our emotions is testament to the everlasting importance and strength of the Indian family. Just as the five-spices powder or Garam Masala, as we know it, adds flavor to Indian cooking, without which it would be bland, so also the Indian family is a zesty combination of traditions, values, maladies, weaknesses and above all, an innate strength to overcome it all… One we will continue to savor on screen and off it…

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PART 5

MEMOIR

294 Meena Alexander

Hunting for Fish 295

Chapter 17

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Hunting for Fish A Poem Meena Alexander

A highbacked room above a canal becomes our gathering place. Amma shrugs off a cotton blouse, unravels a six yard sari. Free of ancestral plots of pepper and cardamom. She is able to lift her knees and climb these wooden stairs. My son whose head just touches my belly button, Bounds away, tugging a train made of match boxes. There are sparks on the bridge below, Firecrackers perhaps? My year old daughter is gallivanting on her father’s back They are hunting for fish in the open air market. He is my husband and for long lapses I have shifted myself Against his blue waters and fled. In another life I will sleep the long sleep with him. Not here, not yet.

296 Meena Alexander I am a housewife still, I have work to do. The imagination presses against warm storage spaces. Underground chalices for flesh. I must open the bags my father packed before his last illness. But why are we in this room only blackened stairs will reach Above a canal of green blue water? Under water stones shift, our muscles knit, Plucking strength to lift worn suitcases packed with family photographs. Under sepia surfaces stir white ancestral bones Still smarting in their skins of fat. At the very end, we shall be cast—each soul in its morsel of flesh— As bread on the shining waters of Kochi.

Chapter 18

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The Family As I Saw it, as I See it Vidya Bal

I have been a journalist for more than four decades. My presentation today is primarily based on my experience while editing two magazines during this period. In the first 22 years of my journalistic career I worked for the magazine Stree (“Woman”) of Kirloskar Publications, which had a progressive outlook. For the last few years, I have been running the magazine Miloon Saryajani (“Women Together”), which I started in 1989.∗ As a journalist, I had the privilege of interacting with a large number of people and getting exposed to numerous experiences, situations and debates. I owe my development as a human being to all this. I was born and brought up in a typical Maharashtrian middleclass family and moved into a new but similar set-up after marriage. Till the age of 35, I was a typical middle-class woman—one who obediently stuck to the traditions, maintained the “aesthetics of silence,” and therefore never-never questioned the elders about why we lived the way we lived. I was a stereotype, you may say. The field ∗ Paper presented at the Fulbright-TISS workshop held on June 29–30, 2002 at TISS, Mumbai.

298 Vidya Bal of journalism taught me to ask questions. The journey began with me interrogating myself. I fought with my inner self. The process took me far beyond the questions that I raised and helped me stand by myself when it came to a crunch. I realized I was undergoing a growth process. My worldview began cutting across the narrow vistas of a close, traditional family. And soon, I found myself getting familiarized with the concept of an extended family founded on feminist ideology. Once started, the process gained momentum very quickly. It has not ceased till this date. Journalism also brought out the activist in me. While editing Stree I became a member of a group of women who founded Nari Samanta Manch (“Forum for Women’s Equality”) in 1989. Then I started the magazine Miloon Saryajani to provide space for women’s issues that were generally neglected by mainstream journalism. It is not a mouthpiece of any particular movement, but it does have an affinity with issues raised by progressive movements. In that sense, it is a “social magazine.” It strives to take the ideas promoting equality and humanity to men and women who reside just beyond the periphery of women’s movement. I thus live the life of an activist and a journalist. Miloon Saryajani regularly undertakes numerous activities that are complementary to the magazine’s philosophy. We have introduced Sakhi-mandal (“group of women friends”) in various cities, where women periodically come together to share one another’s problems/ views/achievements. These mandals also bring together readers, writers and the editor. Sath-Sath (“together”) is a forum for marriageaspiring youths who want to make the union a truly successful, interactive relationship based on equality and respect for each other. Therefore, this is a marriage bureau based on a totally different approach. Akshar-sparsha is again a library with a difference where people meet to share views about the books they have read. The magazine Nari Samanta Manch and all these activities keep me abreast of various aspects of women’s lives, which in turn enrich me as a journalist. This is a fascinating process similar to the water cycle in nature wherein I begin my journalistic journey by reaching out to the people and ending up precisely there! In the endeavor to make the readers and writers more communicative, I decided to take an unusual step. I was convinced of the fallacy in the notion that the editor was genius and an epitome of all the worldly knowledge, and therefore had the right to preach others.

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Departing from this norm, I decided that the editor would simply convey his/her views, allowing the readers to read freely. This enabled me not only to create a bond of mutual trust with readers but also to facilitate a truly meaningful dialog with them. The results were not forthcoming immediately. They came slowly but steadily. The stream of letters candidly reflected readers’ confusion and dilemmas with regard to the published literature in Miloon Saryajani. This positive change in the attitude of readers encouraged me to take another step. I always send personal replies to all my readers. Now I also started selecting those letters which had some social relevance. Without disclosing the identity of the writer and with her/his prior permission I started writing editorials on the issues raised by the letter-writers. The title of my editorial column was Samvaad (“Dialog”). This gave me rich returns. My level of understanding grew, the dimensions of the magazine widened and a meaningful bond was created between the readers and me. The experiments coincided with my growth pangs. I started understanding the limitations of middle-class ideology; it started reflecting in the magazine. The Stree magazine, despite its generally progressive outlook, had confined itself to the idea of making the middle class woman a better wife, a better mother and an ideal daughter. It tended to reinforce the notion that middle-class women had no questions, dilemmas in their lives. “Stree” did enrich to a certain extent the lives of the middle-class women as it published articles ranging from flower arrangement and recipes to politics, economic and social issues. But for me this was insufficient. “I was somebody’s mother, daughter, sister and wife; but I surely owe something to myself as a person, a human being. Does one simply wish it away?” Through my personal experiences I had learnt that a woman was suppressed even in an apparently decent middle-class family. Coinciding with this crucial juncture in my life, the International Year of Women was declared. The Women’s Decade followed. These developments emboldened me to steer Stree gently towards the feminist thought, as I began arguing through its pages that besides being a mother, a wife and a daughter, a woman was also an independent member of the family and the society. Every magazine automatically reflects the ideology of its editor. Obviously the change in me also started reflecting in Stree. Without hurting the sentiments of the readers, I successfully shut out, one by one, the typically “female” columns on hair-styles, flower arrangements,

300 Vidya Bal knitting and so on. I replaced them with debates through questionnaires and free flow of discussions on family issues. The dialog between the readers and me paved the way for new story ideas and even poems. Here I would like to recall a few examples. In 1976, we had published a special issue on women’s liberation. The cover story was on the “Woes of a Widow.” Other noteworthy topics included a debate on aspirations, experiences and turmoil faced by newly married couples. Anonymous articles of women venting out the sufferings wrought by their corrupt husbands and raised questions that challenged hallowed concepts and rituals such as importance of marital status, motherhood and ceremonies like Haldi-kumkum. This was about twenty-two years ago. I remember a story written by a woman from Goregaon in Mumbai, then a cluster of typical middleclass Maharashtrian families. The story was in a letter form, wherein a daughter wrote to her mother about her decision to marry a youth of her choice only after experimenting with staying together. She had attributed her independent successful personality to the upbringing and values nurtured by the mother. And hence, she “urged” her to be honest with these values and try and understand this “different experiment.” The story obviously created ripples in the society. I also remember two more letters wherein a woman in her sixties had urged me to discontinue her membership because she was unable to bear the mental disturbance created by the literature published in the magazine. The second letter was from a young working wife who too expressed inability to continue with the membership. Her problem was also somewhat similar as she was disturbed by the partial treatment meted out to her by the mother-in law, who behaved respectfully with the son by giving him tea in the sitting hall, while the daughterin-law was asked to fetch hers from the kitchen. The nagging feeling of being less than equal also reflected in the attitude of the husband, who used to snatch the newspaper from her hands. Although the incidents were seemingly small and insignificant, the magazine was instrumental in making her aware of the discrepancies and creating self-respect. She had opted for shutting down the doors to emancipation because she was well aware of the limitations of having to continue with the same family ties. She had expressed her inability to bear the stresses and strains out of her personal growth through the magazine on the one hand and the status quo imposed by the family

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members on the other. We published this letter without disclosing the identity and received about 250 replies to it. The very beginning of a story by Suniti Aphale was shattering enough for the so-called values and ethos of a family. It speaks of a widow standing by a window, witnessing the last journey of her husband. She is actually relieved to get rid of his clutches and decides to live by herself, enjoying the small, mundane luxuries of life like drinking hot tea and eating good food. This lady is born and brought up in an orphanage, and is married to the rector. She has adopted a son from the orphanage. But she receives another rude shock of her life when her son comes to her and tells her not to worry as he had decided to “look after her.” Once again her right to a self-reliant independent life is cruelly snatched away and the dreams of an emancipated life are thus smashed into smithereens. I also remember another story by Vijaya Wad on the life of a widow. After the untimely demise of her husband she stays single to bring up her son. The son gets married, settles down and now has a daughter. At this juncture the mother at the fag end of her life thinks about herself and decides to marry the music teacher of her grand daughter. This veteran teacher is loved and respected by all. But, except for the grand daughter, everyone in the house feels aghast at her decision to remarry at this particular juncture. The stories of noted feminist Gauri Deshpande titled Madhya Latpatit (“Shaky Middle”) and Dr Vidyut Bhagwat’s Garbha (“Foetus”) created ripples. These stories portrayed the intricate facets of the man– woman relationship that transgressed the unidirectional husband– wife bond. The negative responses outnumbered the positive ones. The International Year of Women and the subsequent Women’s Decade were the turning points in my life. Both raised society’s general awareness about women’s issues. Around this time, Stree carried a story about a nursing home in Pune. Run by a retired nurse, the nursing home ran a racket involving illegal exchange of infants. The modus operandi was perfect. The children of those mothers, who for various reasons were unable to nurture the child, were clandestinely passed on to infertile women. That episode set me thinking. I realized that both the females were victims of societal norms. The biological mothers were made to abandon (mostly female) children born out of rape or illegal sex to save the “family pride.” The infertile mothers, being victims of family and social barbs, were made to accept the child lest they would be outcast because of infertility. Based on this

302 Vidya Bal story, we at Stree raised questions concerning the hallowed concept of motherhood, the associated social norms as well as the various social compulsions that a woman has to face. We sought to know whether every single woman really yearned for children. Was this yearning truly personal? Or was she made to think that way by the society? Or worse, was she a victim of pressures and took recourse to motherhood in order to avoid insults and abandonment by her family? Even granting that Stree definitely had a progressive outlook, an investigative story like this was a decidedly bold step. Now let me come back to my observations about some of our contemporary story writers. I have noticed that the style of some story writers often reflects the transformations in their own thought process. For example, the women characters in Asha Bage’s stories, starting with her story Rukmini to the recent ones, have gradually become more confident, responsible and liberated; they now have convictions of their own. Her story Shuddha (“Pure”) is a remarkable one. The story talks about a newly wedded couple on honeymoon. The first three days have passed beautifully with both of them exploring the newfound sex experience. But this comes in the latter part of the story by way of flashback. The story actually begins with both of them traveling in a bus, trying to avoid each other’s touch even by accident. The mutual tension is perceptible. The reasons unravel as the story proceeds into the immediate past. It so happens that on an early morning on the second or third day of the honeymoon, she casually steps out of the hotel for a walk. Since he is fast asleep, she is alone. She is raped by unknown goons and returns devastated to share her tragedy with him. Both of them leave the town immediately on a two-day journey to Rameshwar. Noticing a drastic change in his attitude after the rape, she feels terribly hurt. The expression of affection, the caring touch, and the anxiety are all gone, to be replaced by cold aloofness on his part. At Rameshwar, he takes a holy dip in the sea and asks her to accompany him to the temple. She expresses inability saying she is into her menstrual period. The sentence instantly brings him tremendous relief as it suddenly dawns on him that the rape has, indeed, not made her pregnant! She now feels even more hurt than she did after the rape itself. Our society is now quite used to grown children migrating abroad, leaving their old parents behind. This phenomenon obviously affects family relations and therefore constitutes an interesting story subject. Sarita Padki’s story Jale (“Net”) is based on this subject. The son has

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migrated to a foreign country. His mother has become old but the bond between them has stayed intact. The lonely mother becomes ill. The son becomes restless. His wife is relatively unconcerned and hence reluctant to share his anxiety. He comes to India to nurse the mother and returns after her health improves. After a few days, she again becomes ill and subsequently dies. Meanwhile the wife also becomes restless by the frequently recurring memories of her old parents. Disturbed emotionally, she rushes to India to meet her parents. That is where the story ends. The story beautifully portrays the emotional bonds, with all their pulls and tensions, within a family in a peculiar situation. These are only a few noteworthy examples published in Stree and Miloon Saryajani. Though set against a family backdrop, they boldly comment upon the present family system, and hint at how it could or should be. They found their way to Stree and Miloon Saryajani almost naturally in view of the widely acknowledged progressive outlook of these magazines. Elsewhere one is flooded with stories depicting a “status quoist” attitude towards society and family. Miloon Saryajani went a step ahead of Stree to propagate the freedom of expression so far as feminist thought was concerned. One will notice that, strictly grammatically, the title of the magazine (“Women Together”) is female gender-specific although it does intend to embrace both genders among its readers and writers. So it could well have been Miloon Saarejan (“Everyone Together”). My contention is that for ages women have merged their gender identity with that of men. They have had no reservations about being clubbed with men when-ever the mixed group is referred to as “Saarejan.” Now it is time for the men to make a reciprocal gesture. I became an activist while working with Stree. I was already deep into the women’s movement when I launched Miloon Saryajani. I was now well aware of the issues though I wouldn’t say I had fully grasped and digested its ideological base. I had begun deliberating upon the concepts of gender equality, freedom, love, friendship, and a non-hierarchical structure within a family and without. I had also started practicing them as honestly as I could. Though I had not fully understood the ideology of social reformers like Mahatma Phule, Dr Babasaheb Ambedkar, Gopal Ganesh Agarkar and Mahatma Gandhi, I had begun realizing the significance of their contribution to society. Miloon Saryajani was launched against this background. My own experience as a journalist, the tremendous goodwill of

304 Vidya Bal likeminded friends, donations and other support from many of them, and an affinity with readers were all that was needed to start the venture. By now this venture has taken firm roots. Earlier I had worked on a project “Growing together” in the rural parts of Pune district. It enriched me to a great extent. The project helped me go beyond the values and life of the middle-class world. By this time I was also through with my family responsibilities and had actually distanced myself from my family. I had started staying on my own in a small flat inherited from my parents. The office of Miloon Saryajani was also located in my flat. Whenever someone asked me whether I stayed alone, my answer was a firm no, because I was staying with Miloon Saryajani! While running the magazine, I have constantly tried to translate into practice my faith in democracy, bringing in a nonhierarchical functional structure, an informal relationship with colleagues, and collective decision-making. Miloon Saryajani professes commitment to women’s issues. Although it does not claim to be a literary magazine, several renowned Marathi authors are its regular contributors. More importantly, the writings of not so well known persons also find an assured place in its columns provided they are authentic and based on telling personal experiences. They need not necessarily be of a high literary value. Let me give you just one example. In January 1989, Nari Samanta Manch had organized a meeting of destitute women in Pune. One of the participants was a woman from a respected, educated family. She was being tortured physically and mentally for years in her house. Yet she could never muster the courage to take the issue to the NSM until then. On the day after that meeting, she handed me a bunch of poems based on her personal experience. Although they could hardly conform to the literary norms of poetry, I published one of them with an editorial note that hailed the new found strength of the novice author. It is equally necessary to publish pieces of a literary value targeted at just above the lowest common denominator of the readers’ level of understanding. Unless this is done consciously and carefully, that level would never rise. The cover of Miloon Saryajani carries a line that says “It is a magazine that reinitiates a dialog with oneself.” True to that ethos, the magazine has serialized a number of articles raising new issues and opening up new vistas. For instance, Prabha Ganorkar wrote a nine-article critique of Gauri Deshpande’s writings. Dr Milind Watve, researcher and professor, wrote articles on the

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theme of “Nar-madi te Streepurush,” which traced the transition of gender relationship from males and females to women and men. Pushpa Bhave ran a column on contemporary politics. Efforts were also made to keep in limelight the thoughts of social reformers including Gopal Ganesh Agarkar, Dr Babasaheb Ambedkar, Mahatma Phule and his wife Savitribai, Pandita Ramabai and Tarabai Shinde. Miloon Saryajani is of course not an exclusive women’s domain. The 1990 women’s day special issue of the magazine was devoted to household chores. Among its contributors were Dr Baba Adhav, member of the Hamaal Panchavat and, equally significantly, one Dr Honwad who completed his Ph.D. abroad and voluntarily became a house husband after he returned to India. We made an appeal to men to write on interesting familial topics such as the traditional way of selection of a bride, male participation in parenting, father–daughter interrelationship, the lifestyle of activist couples, and so on. It received an excellent response. The concept of healthy co-living is a subject that calls for deep thought before marriage and sincere action after the marriage. Senior couples are invited to narrate and discuss their bitter sweet experiences to the youthful SathSath members on this platform. The reflection of all this cannot necessarily be straitjacketed in any of the conventional literary forms like story, poem or article. Miloon Saryajani respects this reality. Since family is a social institution, the changes therein are a direct derivative of the changes in the social fabric. However, one comes across as many writers and readers who are aware of this fact as those who are totally ignorant. While it is true that the institution of the family has a definite role in human life, it is equally necessary to appreciate that it is undergoing significant changes. Feminists often have to face the criticism of being wreckers of the family institution. But nobody bothers to understand what they have to say about this institution. Most people yearn for an assurance of companionship at several levels including personal, intellectual, emotional, economic and social. The family fulfills this need and feminists readily recognize this. As we all know, the multi-dimensional institution of family evolved in the course of time on the bedrock of blood relations. It had its own virtues as well as limitations including a hierarchical structure, discrimination on the basis of gender and age, and primacy to a direct blood relation. The feminist concept of an extended family seeks to overcome these limitations, recognize intra-family politics, and advocate equality, freedom, justice and love.

306 Vidya Bal It doesn’t deny a place for homosexuality among men and women. One must admit that the writers who can ably handle this entire gamut of a feminist family are very few compared to those who write about relations, pressures and tensions in a traditional family. Their following in the readers’ community is also limited. It is a sad reality of our literary world. Neither the traditional family nor the “new one” can be free of internal tensions. But the reasons vary. The fabric of the traditional family is rapidly acquiring a jaded look. One can, at best, be nostalgic about it but it wouldn’t help in practice. On the other hand, even the intricacies, pressures and tensions in the “new family” are still evolving. For example, the subject of man–woman “friendship” in the present day family calls for serious and responsible treatment on the part of the younger members as well as their seniors. The usual labels of an “affair” or “immorality” should not be allowed to cloud one’s vision. A few story writers like Saniya, Gauri Deshpande, Meghana Pethe and Chhaya Naik do seek to make a responsible and logical argument to this effect in their writings. One comes across several women in their stories who struggle to lead the life of a respectable “human being,” and yet the people around them fall miserably short of appreciating that effort. Most women have not yet been able to become truly self-reliant. But one can definitely notice their journey in that direction. The unfamiliar path is replete with hurdles, pitfalls and the resultant tensions. The women who have dared tread this path to self-reliance may be continuing with their family bonds, may have broken out, or may not have entered into them at all. But all of them appear to be constructing their own sphere of “friends.” On the face of it, they may be staying alone or they may be leading a married life; but they also enjoy being a member of an extended family. This extended family does not impinge upon their day-to-day life. It is not supposed to. The extended family expects them to be on their own in their routine life. But it also binds them together through love and care even while allowing enough space and freedom to all. Such examples may be rare, but even that rarity does not find an appropriate reflection in our literature. Many stories are set against a rural backdrop wherein child marriages are a major issue. The age limit for marriage set by the law is well known and justified. However, although defiance of law in practice is not defensible, one must at least understand and appreciate why this happens. The stark social rural reality manifests itself in

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many ways including premature physical relations and pregnancy, alcoholic husband, dowry, domestic violence, poverty, hard labor and exploitation in the workplace. An educated girl feels this pinch the most as she finds herself unable to adjust to the oppressive familial culture post marriage. Several stories portray all this quite well. Over the past 25–30 years my journalistic privilege has exposed me to the multiple facets of the institution of the family. There are several women whose self-esteem continues to be dormant and have therefore accepted their oppressive reality as fait accompli. The second rung comprises those at an elevated level of awareness, thanks to the efforts of the women’s movement. These women are perpetually restless; some of them also know the answers to a given problem, but they are unable to take firm decisions because of the highly restrictive social reality. That somebody like me born and brought up in a middle-class milieu could see through and analyze this whole gamut of a traditional family even while taking a broader view of the women’s movement was entirely due to the midlife intellectual journey I undertook. That is how I realized that the progressive struggle ought to interlink and complement various social movements such as those pertaining to women, Dalits, environment, alternative policy of development, eradication of superstitions, threat of nuclear arms, and so on. Miloon Saryajani is a medium for me to convey my perceptions of all these issues to our readers. It is an ongoing struggle to widen my own vision and that of Miloon Saryajani as well as that of its readers on issues ranging from the personal and the local to the global. The process has been far from smooth. There have been moments of mistakes, pitfalls, disillusionments and shocks. But there have also been moments of happiness. The rich experience garnered over decades has helped me tide over all this. It is not easy to bring about a quick transformation in our social surroundings, nor do I consider myself powerful enough to perform that miracle. Nevertheless my past 35– 40 years with Stree and Miloon Saryajani have enabled me to go much beyond being an editor to becoming a personal or familial acquaintance of a number of women. I draw immense satisfaction from this fact. I am also happy to note that Miloon Saryajani is in constant search of a place that lies a little short of academics and experts, and a little beyond activists. While it is true that many women writers do portray the effects of the changing social reality on the institution of family, they also suffer

308 Vidya Bal from social pressures while doing so. I cannot complete my presentation without referring to those pressures. A national colloquium was held at Hyderabad in July 2001 on a theme under the eloquent title of The Guarded Tongue. It was preceded by workshops in ten states of our country to discuss if women writers were under a constant watch from some quarters. Several creative women writers at the colloquium narrated their experiences and viewpoints in this regard while speaking on the theme of The Censor Within. The women in our society labor under the burden of their traditional socio-cultural image and their role in the family. They cannot unburden themselves and the rare one who dares invariably becomes a target of criticism from her husband, relatives and the society; in some cases even physical abuse is not taboo. Many renowned women authors disclosed this probably for the first time at these discussions. Let me quote here some of them. Love is an agent of censorship. We of the older generation of writers have been wearing the veil of censorship like a nine yard sari. What is most interesting is the censorship within us, the cultural policeman who is inside us. Scissors to cut with, a needle and thread to sew my lips with, if I write my subconscious, the earth will be covered with paper. For me creativity is like a raincoat. When I enter my house I hang the raincoat outside the front door. I long for the day when that raincoat becomes my skin.

These quotes of creative women writers have been expressed in different languages. But I think they all speak with the same tongue about our family life.

Chapter 19

™

Thoughts on Home… Nonda Chatterjee

… Aamar shonar bangla aami tomaye bhalobashi, Tomar aakash tomar bataash aamar prane bajaye banshi … (“My golden Bengal, I love you. Your skies and your breezes, play like a flute in my heart …”)

Or, Ki jadu bangla gane, Gaan geye danrh majhi taane Geye gaan nache baul, Gaan geye dhaan kate chasha … (“What is the magic in a Bangla song, That the boatman rows to this tune, The itinerant dancer twirls to it, The peasant sings as he harvests his paddy …”) —Tagore

Again, Home, home on the range, where the deer and the antelope play … Where seldom is heard a discouraging word, And the skies are not cloudy all day … —American Lyric

310 Nonda Chatterjee And yet again, Vande Mataram, Sujalam, sufalam, malayaja sheetalam, Shasya shyamalam, mataram … (“I bow to thee, mother, Amply-watered, Prosperous with fruit, Cooled by breezes, Green with growing grain, My mother …”) —Indian National Song by Bankim Chandra Chatterjee

This nostalgia for the eternal Eden, this longing for a spiritual identity that appears as an amalgam of prosperity, heart’s ease, happiness and song, an imagined community, largely mythical, can be summed up in one word, “home,” a place one can call one’s own, which one strives to reach and call one’s own all through life, yet which, for most of us, always seems to remain just out of reach till one’s dying day. It is significant that the three Indian songs were composed by people who considered themselves “dispossessed” by foreign invaders who had despoiled their precious land and deprived them of their identity, and who longed not only to restore the land to its pristine glory but also to regain their rightful place in it; whereas the American lyric was composed by folk who had dispossessed others, destroyed a way of life, a culture, and then were overcome by nostalgia for what they had done away with…. Both are constructs that owe more to emotion, imagination and romanticism than a clear historical perspective. I can clearly recall the euphoria that had Indians in its grip on August 14, 1947, when the leaders and masses were equally certain that the problems that had beleaguered the country through centuries would disappear like magic on the morrow, when India made her “tryst with destiny.…” It was short-lived, however, and the disenchantment that had begun with the partition deepened steadily through the years, and “home” remained as distant a concept as ever for the dispossessed who flowed into India and continue to do so till date, and the people who were in turn dispossessed by them in their own country, for land and resources cannot be stretched beyond a limit. In short, the reality could never catch up with the ideal, which was romantically conceived and was therefore largely imaginary.

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What then is “home”? Is it a place where family, country, culture, community, color, creed, prosperity are compatibly combined, mainly in memory? Does this “place” exist in reality, or is it merely a state of mind? For instance, a large section of the “post-independence, Western-educated, tennis-playing, mountain-trekking, Beethovenloving middle-class Indian society,” raised on a steady diet of Oxbridge lore, Dickens and Jane Austen, Shelley and Byron, Nelson and Marlborough, felt seriously alienated at the departure of the British and the consequent erosion of a way of life they had had held up as the ideal to be followed; nor could they bear the thought of returning to the restrictions, superstitions and intricacies of “typical Indian life,” as they saw it. Nirad Chaudhuri is a case in point. Most of these people, who pined for “the British way of life,” however, failed to realize that the change was a part of a historical process that had begun with Sarajevo, that Britain could not hold on to India for she did not have the economic strength to do, so that Indian Independence was an inevitability, not an achievement. That when Lord Edward Gray had said in 1914 that “lamps were going out all over Europe” he had made a greater prophecy than anyone realized at the time, but that it was only half a prophecy, for he could not possibly know at that point that “globalization” would replace “colonialism” in a matter of years and that new lamps would be lit, more powerful than the old by different powers, a replay of the Aladdin story…. Out of nostalgia, and because this life-style had conferred “elite” social status in the British era, these people quietly clung to their accustomed way of life, continued to live in houses with “chintz” curtains, read Victorian literature and cull their values from it, garden avidly, educate their children in missionary schools, speak English more fluently than their mother tongues, and in doing so and passing on to their progeny invaluable “cultural capital,” they created a class of people who would fit smoothly into the new “global society” which would ultimately dominate India. We have all heard people from West and East Pakistan speak of a “home” back home, where perfection was the order of the day, and smiled skeptically to ourselves…. As a wag once put it: If we could add up all the land and property these people left behind, we would have another planet earth!

Anglo-Indians always, in the post-independence era, referred to England or Australia as “back home” and thus drew down derision

312 Nonda Chatterjee on themselves for making “tall claims” from their “native” and slightly darker neighbors…. The story goes that an Anglo-Indian foreman was once directing an “Indian” worker in his duties, and every time he issued an instruction, he referred to the menial as “Midnight,” “Get on with it, Midnight” or “Shake a leg, Midnight.” Ultimately the fellow had had enough, so he turned around and said: Hey, who are you calling Midnight, you are half-past eleven yourself!

The pathos of these statements was obscured by the more obvious absurdity, and many of us failed to detect the longing that underlay these pronouncements, the desire of the dispossessed to regain property or status, however meager, that had constituted identity and given them a sense of “home” in a “past” and which, though largely imagined, had become the “whole truth” to them. The Bengali makes as fine a distinction between basha and barhi, “house and home,” as does the Englishman, and he is not merely distinguishing the temporary from the permanent, but also making an emotional distinction between “a mere shelter” and “a place where one belongs”; similarly, on all official forms in a system inherited from the British, a distinction is made till date between “residence” and “permanent residence,” the temporary and the ancestral. It is difficult to decide who influenced whom, for the Brits banished from “merry England” to the land of “heat and dust” suffered from acute nostalgia, quite often overlooking the fact that here they were willing exiles “making their fortunes!” Similarly, the “Babu” brought up on the definition of “happiness” that was almost an adage, believed that the “happy man” was he who was not in debt and who lived at “home,” (arini ebong aprabashi), and who, compelled to serve first, the East India Company and then “The Raj” for economic reasons, traveled most unwillingly a few miles from home to his place of work, after a week-long round of fond farewells! It is this longing for “home” that gave shape to “colonial India”— the mansions with their graceful columns, tall, green, shuttered windows, phaeton and later, car porches and deep “verandahs”; the “Civil lines” where officialdom, white and brown, lived in spacious bungalows set amid manicured gardens; the rolling cantonment areas with barracks and magazines, where military personnel held sway; golf courses, cricket pitches, tennis courts, clubs; monuments like St. Paul’s and Victoria Memorial, Lutyen’s Delhi. But the two areas

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which mirrored Britain most closely were the “hill stations” like Darjeeling, Simla, Nainital, and Mussoorie, where the natural landscape aided “recreation or transcreation” and the gardens with their herbariums, vegetable gardens replete with tomato, asparagus, lettuce, celery, rolling lawns with their mixed borders, English flowers, and sweet-pea lattices, roses, and orchards where raspberry and blackberry and creepers of strawberry vied with the mango and the “lichee.” It was in his garden that the Englishman came into his own as did his spouse, the “memsahib,” “monarchs of all they surveyed.” The more ambitious went in for features like the “serpentine with weeping willows,” rockeries, sunken rose gardens, green and summer houses, conservatories, lily pools. One hears of a railway officer, a Mr Rutherford, who refused promotion for fifteen years, till he retired from service so that in fact he could continue to live in the “homegarden” he had created in his official residence in Allahabad, and who was so heartbroken at the prospect of returning to England, his real “home,” that he spent his life’s savings to buy a cottage in the hills in India, where he could begin all over again with his garden, his concept of “home!” And he was not the only one; several English families preferred to stay on in India after Independence, for the spiritual transformation that had started unobtrusively had put down such strong roots that they could not face the thought of leaving this country. The British names on gate-posts in hill-stations and places like Macluxigunj in Bihar bear mute testimony to this “love of home” even today. Jim Corbett was heartbroken when he migrated to Kenya and the bond he had built with India survives till date in his everpopular books and the National Park named after him. But what of the “brown sahib,” the upper-class Indian educated in “public” schools abroad or missionary schools in India, “becoming men” on the playing fields of Oxford, Cambridge or even Sandhurst, deeply steeped in Christian culture, the Victorian and Edwardian social, political and scientific tradition, completely “at home” in the language, history and literature of the colonizer? Who rode and played tennis on terms just below “equal” with the Brits and were happy doing so? Who wanted their wives to come out of purdah and participate in the social scene, much to the chagrin of their more conservative elders? Where did they locate their identities and how did they deal with the crisis that was created by the struggle for independence? Which country would they call “home”? How would they fit into an “Indian India” after 1947?

314 Nonda Chatterjee Very badly, in many cases, particularly government servants like members of the Indian Civil Service, the Indian police, Indian Judicial and Medical Services, and educationists, whose main claim to distinction had been their “Englishness”; like beleaguered snails they carried their British “home” on their back and ignored as far as possible the changes that were taking place around them! I can still remember my uncle’s ( ICS and home secretary) outrage when my aunt suggested, very timidly, that we have puri and sabzi for breakfast one morning: “As long as I live,” he thundered, “breakfast will always be bacon, eggs and sausages accompanied by hot toast with butter and honey, followed by fruit!” None of us dared to question him, though, why dessert after dinner was invariably a native sweet, and why we had to eat it, dutifully, off the finest china with a “dessert-fork”!

There followed a period of push and pull between the proponents of “westernization” and “Indianization,” which put the post-colonial public psyche under severe stress. On the one hand, science, technology and need for modernization could not be ignored, and on the other, Gandhiji’s concept of “Ramrajya,” seemed to indicate a return to pre-historic times! A small problem I personally faced seems to sum up the situation admirably. In 1947 I was nine years old, reading English History happily with my mates in a convent school in class five, when the authorities realized the “horror” of the situation and decided to rectify it. The prescribed book, beautifully written and illustrated, was withdrawn immediately, almost as though it were obscene, and we waited with bated breath for “the better book.” It arrived in due course, written by an eminent historian and scholar who shall be nameless, 500 pages long, couched in impeccable English meant for university students. We could not understand a word, nor did our teacher, Ms Daniels, have any idea how to make it intelligible to us! After we had practiced weightlifting for a week, she told us to leave the book at home and to take down the notes she would give us, which we would just have to learn by rote. Was this the beginning of the “rote-learning” culture that is so prevalent in India even today, I sometimes wonder. It took a very intelligent and patient father a long time to explain to a nineyear-old the difference between “boring nationalist” and “attractive alien,” and why the first should prevail over the other, and in the end he did not make much headway. Perhaps his heart was not really

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in it? By the way, I found the book very useful when preparing for my Bachelor level examinations. This crisis of “home” continued through the 1950s while India bumbled her way towards political identity, directed by leaders who were more “at home” in English than the “national” languages! Pundit Nehru once came to our university to deliver the convocation address, and it was clear that the prospect of speaking in Hindi for forty-five minutes was an intimidating one for him. So when he asked us, rather tremulously, what language we would like him to use, and we chorused in one voice “ENGLISH!” the relief was so great that it hung almost palpable in the pin-drop silence of the huge “senate hall” packed with over a thousand students. Then he began to speak, and the wonderful rhetoric and measured cadences that had mesmerized even the British flowed in an enchanting stream for more than an hour, inspiring, practical and meaningful, one of the more memorable experiences of our student life. As we were coming down the stairs, still in a romantic daze after this wonderful speech, a snippet of conversation in Hindi between two fellow students hailing from a nearby village, dispelled much of the splendor and set us thinking. First student: What on earth was the fellow talking about? Made no sense to me at all.… He sounded more like an “Angrez” ( British) than Indian.… Second student: Exactly.… why have we elected one Angrez to replace another? What will he do for us? Perhaps he is a British spy? (My translation)

How was this huge dichotomy to be resolved? This conflict between “Indian-ness” and the colonial legacy was apparent in every sphere of life, and we, the young and female, were the worst victims. On the one hand the traditionalists in the family wanted us to take on the image of Lakshmi and dedicate our lives to hearth and “home,” while the avant garde said that “Independence” meant the freedom of the individual, the freedom to choose, the right to become career-women and eschew marriage, the right to go to hell if we chose to. Constant choices had to be made, in matters of food, apparel, individual style, books, movies, future plans, and whichever way we might veer, we were sure to come up against criticism, till it seemed we could do nothing right, and our self-esteem was eroded to pulp. For instance, I was told very seriously by my young, married aunt that it mattered little that I spoke English, read avidly, rode a bicycle, played tennis, could drive a car or, and, horror of horrors,

316 Nonda Chatterjee had friends of the opposite sex. What would matter in the end was whether I had learnt to cook, clean and sew, to please my mother-inlaw—that is, if I ever had the good fortune to be married! In later years I would have ample opportunity to ponder these words of wisdom! And what of the “homes” where we lived? Should they continue to reflect the erstwhile “Raj” style or should a more patriotic ambience be created? My uncle, who viewed life very seriously indeed, took to wearing wooden slippers, à la ancient seers, and threw every stick of furniture except a string-bed and a chauki out of his near-spartan room. But in the end decided to compromise on the armchair to which he was addicted, by arguing that armchairs had existed and been in use in India long before the Brits arrived on the scene; they had been called kedaras and been used by Hindus and Muslims alike. None of us had the courage or the inclination to debate historical issues with him, for we desperately wanted him to enjoy his chair, and he continued to do so as long as he lived with a clear conscience, on the basis of this historical justification! My aunt, his wife, was ordered to throw out sofas, tables and chairs and create a more “appropriate” atmosphere in the sitting room, which was very baroque with brass, copper, Kashmir carpets and velvet drapes, to begin with. So she got rid of the furniture, made seating arrangements on more carpets and used embroidered bolsters or gaon takias as they were called by fashionable, nationalist decorators, in elaborate formations to make her guests comfortable! She, also being a painter of some repute, covered the walls with large watercolors in The Bengal School style, of various mythological characters and situations, very colorful, romantic, even idyllic, underscoring the “Ramrajya” theme. So did many patriots pay their tribute to “free” India and salve their consciences about “doing their bit” for their “homeland.” I was married in the late 1950s into the traditional household of a family who had migrated from East Pakistan in 1947, a part of the “exodus,” and though the sons had acquired an education, held good jobs and were doing their best to fit into the Calcutta social scene, my mother-in-law found nothing to her satisfaction in “this hypocritical city.” To her it appeared that she was marooned in a sea of artificiality surrounded by people who did not speak her language, share her culture or understand her values. She would have liked her sons to marry girls from families such as hers, but her elder son who worked for one of the top companies of India where British traditions still

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held sway, realized the importance of an educated, “westernized” wife and put his foot down. He had met in Uttar Pradesh an aunt of mine who held a university degree, was an avid naturalist, entertained with great sophistication, and been greatly impressed. In addition to her in-law’s house, a massive three-storied building in the heart of the city, her doctor husband had built on the outskirts, on two acres of land, a beautiful “cottage” set like jewel in an exquisite, sprawling garden. Laid out to resemble his father-in-law’s, Civil Surgeon and famed horticulturist, renowned one in Lucknow, it was an English garden, with not one regular feature missing, but with an aviary and lily pool thrown in. Since it was a one-horse kind of place then with not much to do, all the young men in the company, particularly the young unmarried ones, gravitated to her “open house” as much for her famed “kebabs” as her scintillating humor and conversation. There on the velvet lawns of her cottage, the air fragrant with a thousand roses, under a starry canopy, these young men soaked up an entire culture along with the delectable eats that circulated constantly, served by her impeccably uniformed cook, Ashraf, and bearer, Afzal. One romantic night, with a couple of drinks and plenty of good food under his belt, my future husband asked my aunt to “find a girl for him like herself ”… and that is how we met…. I will not go into the adjustments my mother-in-law and I made to become the best of friends and live amicably together for thirty years, but one occasion that stands out in my memory as a “home affair” that I would like to mention. It was Christmas, and since there were a lot of British officers with their families residing in the “Company Colony” where we lived, plans for festivities were made well in advance…. There was to be carol singing, a children’s party, a fancydress ball on Christmas Eve at the club and a “burra lunch” at the Branch manager’s residence on the day itself. On Boxing Day a “shikaar” had been planned that would take us into the jungle thirty miles away for three days and nights, where the men would hunt and the families would have an extended picnic. Since I was a junior officer’s wife I had several duties to attend to, and it was not till two days before Christmas that I realized that I had done nothing for the house or for family members, and it was the first Xmas in my own “home.” For in my father’s house there were “many mansions” and we had celebrated every festival with gusto, whether it be Id, Diwali or Xmas, and the latter had meant hanging up our stockings on the eve, our

318 Nonda Chatterjee little hearts agog with anticipation and not forgetting the old chewed up sock for our dog Jimmie, who was the biggest baby, a tree in the “drawing room,” carols with neighbors, my mother’s rich contralto voice leading the choir, midnight mass at the nearby cathedral, readings from the Bible and Tennyson by dad, roast goose, a delicious pudding made by my mother that dad would ignite with brandy, and we, the family and guests, would wait in impatient anticipation for the blue flames to die down so we could tuck in! For us children, there were always silver coins and charms hidden in the pudding, and looking for and finding them was the high point of our evening! As we grew up, the stockings went into abeyance, but the rest of the ritual was faithfully performed every year. An uncontrollable nostalgia seized me and I called my mother to ask for the recipe for the pudding. She must have heard the wistfulness in my voice, but she merely said that she was sending us a pudding so I need not make it, but suggested that I buy the presents, and very nice ones for my mother-in-law. But this is where I ran into serious trouble. My mother-in-law threw a real fit saying that she had suspected all along that we were either crypto-Christians or belonged to the Bramho Samaj, that she found the entire concept of celebrating the festival repulsive, that she should never have allowed her son to marry into an “English-speaking” household such as ours, and that if this nonsense went a step further, she would return to Calcutta and never have anything to do with us again! In vain did my father-in-law, brother-in-law and husband try to reason and explain … she was adamant! Bruised and disappointed, I retreated into my shell and crept out of the house into the semi-wilderness that served for a park, hid myself in the shrubbery, sat on a fallen log that see-sawed, my favorite seat, and tried to think things through. I had been repeatedly told by my parents that the purpose of a festival in every religion was togetherness and the exchange of gifts signified goodwill renewed, hence, the oftener an occasion could be found, the better. Also that one learnt a great deal about a culture by observing its ritualistic norms. Dad had made me read before I was ten years old the stories of the great epics, the Bible and the Koran, and been delighted when I had observed sapiently that they all seemed to tell the same story! Due to this we had been so much “at home” on all these occasions, that no strangeness had been felt and they had just been a seamless part of the larger concept of “home.”

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But I had also been told that my husband’s home would henceforth be my second home and that I must make every attempt to be and make the other family members comfortable in it. That I must make adjustments in small matters gladly, but not at the cost of my basic values. That I was to influence and be influenced till a common rostrum was found, acceptable to both sides. I had listened dutifully, not quite realizing what a tall order it was for a girl in her early twenties. Now this had come up … an identity crisis of sorts, to use a clichéd term … Quo Vadis? Should I give in gracefully and call it a day? Or should I take a stand and try to get my way, purely as a matter of principle? But then, what of the togetherness that was the essence of a happy “home”? Would that be torn beyond repair by my action? Was I mistaking nostalgia and sentiment for ideology and allowing them to overrule empathy and practical sense? As I debated these issues, I remembered my mother-in-law telling me about Durga Pooja in her maternal grandfather’s house, when she was a child. They had been the local Zamindars, and during the four days, from Saptami to Bijoya, the entire village had participated in the festivities and been fed at the great house four times a day. So much kichri had to be cooked that it had to be stored in a room specially made for this purpose! And because she was so beautiful, she had been chosen for the “Kumari Puja” for three years, and dressed in resplendent red and gold, been the cynosure of every eye. And now? She went like everyone else to pay her respects in the local pandal where the rituals were never to her satisfaction. Was this protest her way of preserving the culture that had been and still was “home” to her? Much time had passed, dusk was setting in, my hands and feet were freezing, but I still sat on, unable to move. However, when I heard my mother-in-law’s anxious voice calling out to me again and again and asking me to come “home,” I got up and rushed, unable to see very clearly. Without a word she held out her arms and I ran into them with a sense of comfort I had never experienced before with her. Then she said, “Come with me, I have a surprise for you.” As we neared the house, I was surprised to find every light blazing, and in the verandah a welcoming committee that included not only the inmates but my parents and only sister, and inside, a tree loaded with presents, and on the dining table the biggest and most succulent Xmas pudding ever! My father had achieved this miracle by solemnly explaining to my mother-in-law that though we were definitely not

320 Nonda Chatterjee Christians, it was customary in certain circles in West Bengal to carry Tatta (gifts to the daughter’s house on festive occasions) for Xmas, and they had merely fulfilled their time-honored social duty on this occasion, specially because it was the first year of my marriage! I found out much later that my mother-in-law had not been taken in by this ruse, but had pretended to go along with the charade because she had appreciated my need; she had also realized the fact that I had been doing a lot of things that I had never done before, merely to please her and fit into the new “home” mold, and that had impelled her to accept the fable. The sociological lesson, “assimilation is better than elimination,” had been internalized with minimum pain by both of us and led to a strengthening of bonds. However, looking back today over a span of more than forty years, I can honestly say that the world, the “home” I knew with my own family, despite its apparent “alien” overtones, stands out in my memory as the only real thing for me. The unique culture disappeared with the people who created it, and it could neither be replicated nor recaptured even with our best efforts, except in conversations with my sister, the only co-sharer extant today. So, to reiterate, home is more a state of mind and has less to do with “place” than time, people and emotion. This attempt to reconcile the two cultures became the hallmark of the period till about the 1970s, when immigration on a massive scale turned the situation completely around and the second phase of cultural colonialism began. What many of us did not realize at that point was, that we were entering the second stage of globalization (what Thomas L. Friedman calls globalization 2.0, which had been prevalent in the West since 1800), as an independent entity instead of a British colony, and that the economic forces let loose by this huge change would shape the life of the intelligentsia and put cultural considerations and patriotism on the backburner, at least for the middle class. Education in India was still for the elite, jobs were few and far between, business opportunities practically non-existent. Staying “at home” was a luxury few could afford. On the other hand, there was a huge demand not only for unskilled labor but also for the educated and adventurous in countries devastated by the war. England was no longer the only Mecca, greener pastures beckoned, particularly the transatlantic. And so began in the 1960s the great exodus to the US, the land of millionaires and dreams, and the beginning of Diaspora and all that is consequent on it.

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But what of us who did not go away? Where do we stand today in terms of “home”? To what extent have we been able to create an integrated society that is “home” to all its indigenous citizens? What is supremely ironic is the apparent contrast between the young generation of jeans-clad, sneaker-shod, gum-chewing, laptop-carrying, jargon-spewing, bright young Westernized Indians on the make, and their consciously “Indian,” pyjama-kurta clad, jhola-toting ( cloth bag with long shoulder strap), slipper-shod, betel-nut chewing, Englishafter-a-fashion speaking young counterparts, equally on the make, for in truth they are not different at all. In their single-minded pursuit of wealth and success they have found “home,” and as blood brothers, world-citizens, appear very much “at home” in twenty-first century India. Only their methods, professional and political, are different. But what of the third group, the sensitive, socially conscious, those beset by doubt, the thoughtful, the creative, the idealistic, whose “imagined community” is vastly different from what they see around them? And then, the vast hordes who are still illiterate, unfed, unwashed, who still kill their daughters, and less often, sons to propitiate the rain-god—where do they fit in? Finally we, the elderly, who were born into the Raj but have lived the major portion of our lives in free India, who have made more adjustments than we can recount to fit into this country that has changed beyond recognition, whose near and dear ones all live abroad, who find communication an increasing difficulty? Yet whose heart still lifts with Tagore, for whom Durga Pooja is a significant festival, who try to keep alive the culinary skills of their ancestors, whose soul is wrenched when the Kalbaisakhi (“summer storm”) fills the pitiless blue sky with dark clouds, for whom the most precious memories are linked to this land … what or where is our “home”? Must we continue to look for “home” in phone calls, e-mail, the occasional visit, music, books, plants, work, but in this land to which we supposedly belong? Or should we bow to the inevitable, accept my initial thesis that “home” is and always has been in the “imagined past,” in the mind, and nowhere else, and give up the search?

322 Shashi Deshpande

Chapter 20

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Looking Back Shashi Deshpande

Our annual summer trip to my mother’s family home in Pune was the high point of the year for us. It was a heady combination of relief after the annual examination, the joy of a long holiday and the excitement of going to Pune, which, for us small-towners, was The Big City. To see the twinkling lights of the city in the early morning as we approached Pune, to get off the train and to find platforms full of bustle and noise was a stark, and, to us, a welcome contrast from our quiet little Dharwad station with its single platform. But the greatest pleasure still lay ahead, when the tonga ride through brightly lit streets ended in a narrow lane before the family house. The front door would open on our arrival to a babble of voices greeting us, invariably saying the same words: “How they’ve grown!” Everything here was the antithesis of our life in Dharwad. There we lived, just the five of us, parents and three children, in a large colonial-style bungalow with a sprawling compound and neighbors beyond shouting distance. This family home in Pune opened straight on to a lane, so narrow that you could imagine it was possible to shake hands with people in the house across the street. Early mornings, the voices of people who walked past the house were so clear you felt they were in the house. In fact, however, neither any voices nor anything happening outside the house

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really penetrated; for, inside, the house was a whole world, with so much happening that everything else was only a sideshow. The house, called a wada, was a sprawling three-storied one, with beautiful full-length arched windows with carved woodwork, huge doors that were rarely closed and more staircases than even we children could count. Just when you thought you knew them all, you would come across yet another hidden, rarely-used staircase. The mammoth front door, closed only at night, had decorative brass knobs and a large brass ring that operated as a knocker. The house had three courtyards which provided light and ventilation to the rooms overlooking them and to the passages alongside. There were many rooms which remained dark and dingy though, like the storerooms, or the small room where the women, after their morning chores were over, napped or read the newspapers. But to me the most memorable feature of the house, when I look back today, was the champa tree which grew between the cattle shed and the “back” door (adjacent, actually to the front door) of the house. It towered over the house, but there were daring souls among the kids who clambered on the tin roof of the cattle shed to pluck the heavenly fragrant flowers. Why is the house insisting on intruding when I’m trying to write about the family? I guess the truth is that I can’t separate them in my mind. And they were, in some way, mirror images of each other. The family was just as large, sprawling and complex as the house, and it had, like the wada, both its sunny and dark rooms. As children, we saw only the brightly lit rooms, though we did get occasional glimpses of the dark hidden corners during times of crises, when conclaves were held behind closed doors through which came raised voices or, when there was a tragedy in the family and the women retired to the dark rooms and spoke in hushed voices, their saris held to their faces. A vague memory of the women sitting in a silent circle after the untimely death of an aunt’s husband comes back to me almost like a scene of mourning from a play. Children accept families unthinkingly and so did I, in the early years, take this family for granted; its size and the complexity of relationships within it seemed perfectly normal. It was much later that I realized how unusual it was. Not because it was a joint family, which was quite normal then, but because of how distinguished some of its members were. The head of this family was my mother’s father— Babasaheb, or Baba as he was called in the family. I heard very recently from an uncle that he came from their village to Pune, his three

324 Shashi Deshpande brothers in tow, for the purpose of education. And educated they certainly were! Baba himself became a lawyer, one of the most successful lawyers of his times in Pune. He died when I was four and my memories of him are few and indistinct. But his personality dominated the family as greatly as his portrait did the large hall on the first floor. This had been his office and it continued to be known as “Baba’s room” even after a younger brother occupied it. For decades after his death people spoke of him as if he was still alive; stories of his generosity, his public work and concern for every individual in the family, including the widows, became legends. Sifting through the stories, I find his love for education the most significant thing about him—a love that made him scrupulous about the studies of all the children in the family, most unusually, of the girls as well as boys. All the children had tutors to teach them (torment them, they said later) after school hours. What gladdened him most when he came home was the sight of the children sitting in a row at their low desks in the large hall. My mother was the first female graduate in the family and the story was told of how he garlanded her when she passed her B.A. Years later I came across some of his letters to my mother and I was as much amazed by the chaste and beautiful English he wrote, as by the fact that he managed to mention, with affection and concern, so many members of the family in each letter. A widower himself, he had lost two wives, he looked upon all the children in the family as his own. No special favors were shown to his own five children, a fact that they much resented. Years later, I could hear echoes of this feeling in their words. The second brother was only a matriculate and worked in the Police Department. This uncle (Bhausaheb) and Baba were spoken of as being devoted brothers—my mother often invoked the Ram– Lakshman comparison. But unlike his brother, Bhau detested the idea of girls going to school. My mother and aunts often told us how they tried to sneak out without being seen by him, in order to avoid his snide remarks and nasty words which reduced them to tears. The third brother, Bapusaheb, was the intellectual one, the first LL.M in Bombay University and, for some time, the Dewan of a native State. He too was a widower and had only one son surviving. This son—my uncle—became a lawyer like his uncle and ended up as the Chief Justice of India. The equally illustrious fourth brother, Kakasaheb, was an F.R.C.S and worked with the Maharaja of Baroda. I later read in the Maharani

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of Jaipur’s autobiography that he was a close confidant of the family and that he had advised and helped her during her love affair with the Maharaja of Jaipur! A highly Westernized handsome six-footer, this Kaka could charm everyone. In the mornings, when he came down from his bedroom on the third floor, he would greet everyone— even the widowed aunts—with a “Good morning.” We children giggled at this incongruity, but the aunts loved it. The two children of his first wife were brought up along with all the other children in the wada, this large brood of motherless children being looked after by the widowed aunts. Not surprisingly, these children regarded themselves, not as cousins, (an un-Indian concept, anyway) but as brothers and sisters. Even real siblings were not as close as those who grew up in the wada together. The greatest insult one could pay the other was “You never lived in the wada! What do you know?” The four brothers had an only sister, whose lively good-looking and affectionate children were in and out of the wada as well; some of them lived there, and one married her cousin eventually. A widowed step-sister of my mother’s and her two children were brought back to live in the wada by Baba. A very independent woman, my aunt eventually had her own establishment in the wada. Their dingy rooms were the center of attraction for us, because of her four grandchildren and our aunt’s son, a lotus eater, whose life consisted of playing cards, going to movies and races. He was the wit of the family, a general favorite—and the despair of his mother. He got movie magazines from the subscribing library, which I read avidly, becoming familiar in the process with names like Lana Turner and Ava Gardner. I was so starved of reading material in Pune that I even read my cousin’s betting books! Later, when I became older and bolder, I began creeping into Baba’s room, quietly taking books out of the unlocked book cupboards. I remember reading John Gunther’s Death Be Not Proud. There were many more who counted as family: families of married daughters, of daughters-in-law, (my mother’s long-dead mother’s sister was Mavshi to the entire family), close friends, the family priest, a doctor uncle’s compounder and so on. Only one person, my mother’s stepbrother, a doctor, moved away, taking his share and building himself a bungalow on Deccan Gymkhana. The parting had been acrimonious and he would not allow his family to visit the wada. His sweet-tempered wife and docile daughters did not dare to disobey, but those in the wada enjoyed making clandestine visits that were laced with guilt and excitement. In spite of this bad feeling with the

326 Shashi Deshpande family, this uncle took another widowed sister’s children into his home and educated them. And when my mother was suffering from T.B., he looked after her, on the condition that no one from the wada would visit her. Of course, there was a conspiracy to flout this condition! During the summer vacations, the house was chock full. All the children, and mothers like ours, who came without their spouses, slept in the big hall on the first floor. My most vivid memory of my stay in the house is of waking up to the chirping of the sparrows in the courtyard. Of hearing the tinkle of cups and saucers and slurred still-sleepy voices coming up from the open dining space. One of the two widowed aunts was in charge of the early morning tea, a long drawn out program. She sat patiently, continually making fresh tea as people woke up at different times. We children had our own programs—playing cards, (occasionally the adults joined, becoming as boisterous as us), outings to the parks, to a movie, to Parvati Hills. Sometimes we tagged along with an adult to go shopping on Lakshmi Road. There were visits to the temples with an aunt or a grandaunt. Once each year there was an ice cream making program. The ancient ice cream machine was brought out and everyone had a go at turning the handle. No ice cream ever tasted as delicious as the tiny saucers of the watery stuff we finally got. We accepted the fact that the adults had their own programs that we could not join in. Plays were very popular but taboo for children (some children grumbled about this) since they went on till the early hours of the morning; we stirred in our sleep when we heard them coming home, “ssh”ing to each other as they tiptoed to bed. But children were taken to weddings. Family politics and kinship decided who went to which wedding, and adult whims decided which children accompanied them. I can still remember how beautiful and regal the women looked, dressed in their jewelry and their nine-yards Chanderi and Benarasi saris! And how an uncle, looking intently at his wife, asked, “Doesn’t she look like the Maharani of Baroda?” She blushed and we felt uncomfortable at the adult emotions that made themselves felt in this remark. Family weddings, of course, turned the house topsy turvy; mattresses were spread at night everywhere and there were long queues for the two toilets and bathrooms. These weddings brought out both the best and the worst in the family. There was a tremendous sense of togetherness; it was always “we” or “us.” Everyone chipped in with their own areas of expertise. One aunt was an expert in decorative items, another knew every ritual, and yet

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another specialized in ukhanas (poetic couplets, containing the husband’s name, which the bride, and often other women too, had to recite). But weddings brought out certain exclusions as well. The wealthier ones and those with better positions were projected as the face of the family, and their higher status recognized in many ways, one of which was the silverware that VIPs ate out of. Even as a child, I could feel the undercurrents of resentment, the sore feelings this produced, which perhaps is why I cannot bear even to look at, leave alone eat out of a silver plate! In general, however, the family hierarchy was scrupulously observed, people ranked according to age and generation. I can vividly remember the ceremony, when each family gave gifts to the bride/groom and parents, and how carefully the order of seniority was followed! I’m sure there was always some heart-burning, but luckily children don’t know these things. Years later, I wrote in my first novel of women who had been addressed as Kaki, Mami, etc., for so long that no one knew their names. In my mother’s family too, all daughters-in-law became Vahini (“brother’s wife”). They were known as Vahini throughout their lives, though the husband’s name was sometimes added as an identifying prefix—Appa’s Vahini, and so on. Daughters-in-law had to be scrupulous about the way they addressed their in-laws. I remember how strange my sister and I found it to be respectfully addressed by our cousin’s wife, who was the mother of four, with a tai suffixed to our names. We were her husband’s sisters; so, never mind the fact that we were just girls in short frocks, we had to be given our due respect! I don’t know whether this was part of all families, but I remember how proud the family was that they gave their daughters-in-law an honored place. (This was always said by the daughters—was it envy that provoked the remark?) In turn, most daughters-in-law had a fierce pride in the family. Like all families of the time, this family too had its share of widows. I came to know their stories much later; at the time, however, they were just this Kaki and that Kaku, each having her place and role in the life of the house. One of them, widowed at the age of eleven or twelve, was, in spite of her ugly red sari and shaven head, a beautiful woman, with liquid dark eyes and the slim legs of a model. There was never any cruelty; in fact these women were much wanted. One could be cynical and say that this was because they were workhorses; but I know that there was a great deal of affection too. Which is why it took me years to realize the tragedy of their lives. A woman who

328 Shashi Deshpande had never known what marriage was gave the motherless children the tenderness they longed for. She was the one sent to help daughters during their confinements. And it was she who gave us (and our mothers and aunts as well) oil baths and made special ladoos for our breakfast. Another widowed aunt who was not shaven because her brother had fought against it, had a sharp mind, and my grandfather, I heard later, often said that she should have been a lawyer. She was also considered a very fair-minded woman and unlike the other grandaunt, she had no favorites. At our age, we took these women and the way they cared for everyone for granted. The ones we admired and were fascinated by were the young and “fashionable” uncles and aunts. They formed a circle within the family, having their own activities, their language, and their secrets. My mother, being slightly older, having married a Kannada man, and living in relatively distant Dharwad, was out of this circle, something that she resented all her life. We too, as being a daughter’s children and living in a small town, felt ourselves, at times, outsiders. And then, suddenly, when a cousin said, “We are all Baba’s family, aren’t we?,” we belonged. The statement was clearly an echo of something an adult had said, a result of some crises, perhaps. But we were guilty of practicing exclusions as well. The widowed grand-aunt’s sister’s granddaughter longed to be accepted as one of the family. “Take her out with you,” our grand-aunt would plead with us. “Yes,” we would say and then scheme to find ways of avoiding her! Generally, however, the politics of inclusion and exclusion passed us by. It was the mothers who were passionately concerned and touchy (as my mother was) about these things. We were unaware of feuds, though my sister got caught in a one as an innocent messenger carrying mangoes to a granduncle from an aunt. Later, we realized that the orchard from which these mangoes came was “disputed” property, but at the time the explosion that followed the “gift” left my sister bewildered and trembling. This schism later split the family, the aunt and uncle making a separate kitchen on the first floor. Which meant that there were three kitchens in the house now, which made it awkward for guests, because to eat in one house or the other was to make a statement about where your allegiance lay. My sister and I visited the wada once during the Christmas vacation when we were living in hostels in Bombay. We were welcome in all the three places, but the house looked sad. Something had gone out of it. The main house downstairs had only three old people living in it—two widowed grand-aunts,

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and an old grand-uncle. But family feeling still existed, for when I was to get married, the uncle who had separated from the family long back offered my mother his bungalow for the wedding. The entire wedding took place in his house, all the preparations were made in the wada and everyone pitched in to help. A few years after that, the third brother, Bapusaheb, died. So did my uncle, who lived on the first floor. Bandicoots were running wild, making huge tunnels in the walls at night and leaving piles of debris in the morning. A decision was taken to sell the house. The story goes that the Judge uncle stood there until the house was demolished—as if keeping it company to the last. It seemed that with the death of the house, the family too had reached its end. People moved away, and though most were in Mumbai and Pune, without the old house there was no getting together. The judge uncle, who, after all the four brothers died, became the family head, seemed to have inherited Baba’s role and kept in touch with everyone. Perhaps it helped that he had married his own cousin, his aunt’s daughter, who had lived in and known the wada. When he became the Chief Justice of the Supreme Court, he invited the entire family to Delhi to participate in his investiture. But distance and a lack of shared interests made for a gradual and easy parting. The younger generation is, of course, totally disinterested. Nevertheless those who had lived in the wada together still have close bonds. The other day a cousin rang me up and said her son was returning to Pune in a new job. “But he won’t live with us,” she said, adding, “We have another flat on the floor above ours, he will stay there.” It was the “we” that caught my attention. I knew she was using the pronoun to include me—it was “our” flat. Just the way people had spoken in the days when they lived together. Everything was “ours,” nothing was “mine.” Strangely, I, who had never really lived in the wada, could not let the house go. After it was demolished, it kept coming back to me in my dreams. Night after night I saw it as it had been, inhabited, bustling with people, I heard voices, I vaguely glimpsed faces, known and unknown. It was out of these dreams that my first novel Roots and Shadows was born. Much of it came from my memories of the family in Pune. In time, questions darkened some memories: Why were women’s lives lived so much in dark rooms? Why did an eleven-year old have to live a life of deprivation because someone they called her husband had died? And how was it that men could marry again— and yet again—and have mistresses too after their wives died? The

330 Shashi Deshpande seeds of so much more that became part of my writing lie in that family. I think it was there that it began—my struggle to understand the complexity of human beings and of human relationships, the dilemma of our life-long yearning for love and our struggle against bonds. The words “a novel about a family” are often used as a derogatory label, but I believe, as I once wrote, that “in the family, you can see, in a microcosm, the politics of a nation.”

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Chapter 21

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Small-Scale Reflections on an Ancestral Home Makarand Paranjape

The title of this memoir alludes to a poem by A.K. Ramanujan. I don’t know if the house I write about resembles his. Ramanujan’s house is definitively retentive: not only does “nothing/that ever comes into this house/goes out” (Ramanujan, 1976: 102) but also “nothing stays out” (ibid.: 105). In the case of my house, it is the opposite. Everyone left or died one by one. The house emptied out and slowly became quite different from the home of an extended family that it once was. Though I never lived in it and only visited it during the summer holidays, my ancestral home did contribute to my self-fashioning in significant ways. My earliest memories of our homestead in Umbergaon, where my father’s family comes from, go back to my infancy: the incredible discomfort of the sweltering summers there, the horrible train journeys, the dreaded visits to the outhouse by the compound wall, sooty lanterns, half-clad, aboriginal servants, and the heat boils which I used to get. Then, blurred images of many cousins, aunts and uncles, the sickening politics of mothers looking out for their own even while maintaining a semblance of impartiality, the anxiety in the house over the expenses arising out of so many guests, the rides in the tonga, the mango-room full of ripening fruit, prayers intoned in the evening

332 Makarand Paranjape and glorious star shot nights on charpoys in a yard freshly sprayed with water and smelling of champak blossoms. This was a large house of three stories, with over fifteen rooms. When you entered from the main road through a small wooden gate, you saw a verandah with benches and large, teak easy chairs. The flooring of the entire house, except for a few special rooms, was mud with cow-dung moppings. The verandah led to a smallish sitting room with cane sofas and my grandfather’s writing table. It also had an ancient clock which had to be wound every day and its time adjusted by six minutes. Adjacent was the shrine room, with the idol of the family deity, Lakshmi-Narayan. A priest came daily to perform pooja. Then you entered the main living area, a largish room with little furniture on the sides but a large swing bang in the middle. This room mostly served as a passage to the inner apartments. It opened to another verandah, much smaller, facing the large front yard, ending in the cowshed. This living room had two other smaller rooms facing the yard. One was a dressing room. It always smelled of rose talcum powder, afghan snow, eau de cologne, and hair oil. The latter was for some reason red in color. The ladies would lock themselves in there to dress. The other room was full of medical paraphernalia including homeopathic and allopathic medicines, an enamel enema bowl, red salve, rats bane, scissors, lint, bandages, syringes, and all sorts of junk. Halfway through the living room, opposite the door to the drawing room, was another door that lead to a large passage and a flight of stairs. Later, some bathrooms would be built adjoining the passage, but earlier it used to house large and shiny copper vessels in which drinking water was stored. Our well had been “polluted” some years ago because someone had died in it. So all our drinking water came from one of our neighbors. This bringing of water was a daily and onerous exercise. In this passage were also coconuts from our orchards left to dry and large urns full of grain. There was enough to feed a large number of people for at least a year. I realized later that such measures were necessitated by the frequent famines that dogged India during British rule. There was no food security, so it was incumbent upon families to store grain that would last months of adversity. The rice had to be husked, cleaned, and stored with castor oil, which kept away pests. There was a storeroom and a flight of stairs going up at one end of the living room. Walking through the passageway, you came to the dining room, which was a long room where fifty people could sit

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down to eat. In those days, there was no dining table; we sat on the floor on wooden pats. From this room, you descended three steps to reach the smoky kitchen, with its wood stove. When there weren’t too many people in the house, we ate in the kitchen. Children were fed first. But among the adults, my grandfather always ate first, with the other men, while the women ate later. The meals were delicious, everything grown on our land including the rice and vegetables. Even the rotis, I remember, were made from rice flour. We ate them steaming, with dollops of butter. From the kitchen, you went out to the backyard. This had the tulsi vrindavan, a beautiful shrine with basil which was worshipped by the women everyday. Further away, there was also a bath house built around a well. Water was heated in brass boilers. The toilets were by the wall, with straw buckets underneath. Most of us found them hideous and frightening though now I see them as much more ecofriendly. Upstairs, the house had one large and grand room called the diwan khana. This was done up for special occasions but otherwise we simply lounged around in it. It had chandeliers, mirrors, a large Ravi Varma print of a girl on a swing, and solid granite flooring. It also had a large and imposing safe, which was so exciting to open. Of course, there was hardly any money in it. There were four or five bedrooms around this main room. There was one more floor, but it was totally out of bounds to children. I did go there to find an attic with all kinds of junk, truck axels, tonga wheels, pumps and motors, large tin trunks, stacks of paper and so on. It was in this stack that I saw the insurance policies of my great-grandfather, a famous pleader and gentleman farmer. The company was Sun Life Insurance, incorporated in Toronto. I doubt whether my grandfather got anything from these policies. The journey from the country to the city is one of the quintessential metaphors of Indian modernity. We all have memories of this move, whether in our own generation or that of our immediate forbears’. Indeed, this is the theme of many a modern literary and cinematic classic in India, for instance, Pather Panchali. Such a move is also accompanied by the shedding of the extended and the beginnings of a nuclear family. I wrote about some these memories in a poem composed when I was half-way across the world in another continent.

334 Makarand Paranjape My Buried Youth in Umbergaon Each vacation, we measured our years by the progress of the new tar road. Electricity had come when I was very young, but the servant quarter was yet unwired. A flickering wick on the earthen floor cast warm, inviting shadows. There, at sundown, the handymen relaxed on haunches, softly chatting, and their beedies, with each deep puff, fiercely glowed. In the little room to the right of the hall ranged sooty lanterns, ready for special use— like when you had to, after dark, visit the latrine which was by the distant compound wall, or when unexpectedly, the electricity went off. On the dark, empty beach, there we could be free to play out our fantasies. Two cousins in pony tails, flushed with youth, would pretend to be film stars. They taught us, in English, to say “Hi” and “Bye” which was pretty ahead of our times in 1965. The wind sighed its longing through the evergreens, and the sea complained constantly even when out of sight. By sunset, we had to leave though our castles were incomplete. On the way back, a broken club-house and tennis court always spiced our curiosity: who could have played tennis, here in this remote, undeveloped village? The spacious wash house was built around the well. It was dark and cool, even in the hottest spells: if you came in from the bright warm sun, it took some blinking before you could see clearly again. In the large well hung a deep and friendly silence. Its stones were mossed and slippery. When you let go the rusty bucket, the wooden pulley whirred. The splash that followed was always superficial: you had to wait for the bucket to drink its fill before plying the pulley, whose old handles were smoothened by rough palms. When the dripping bucket emerged, the brown, whiskered cord glistened, wet and taut. In the morning, still together, but not so well-disposed standing in single file, we brushed our teeth, grumbled,

Small-Scale Reflections on an Ancestral Home 335 and the dark gutter was streaked with our white spittle. An old bronze boiler supplied the hot water. The aunts, with soap and towel, retreated into the smaller rooms taking one bucket of well-water, another steaming hot. They warmed the stone seat before closing the door; then, emptying pitcherfuls over their shoulders, the bath. Before supper-time, long prayers had to be intoned. Perched cross-legged on a broad, creaking swing we feigned earnestness by swaying to the beat, but when left to ourselves, never failing to skip. By nine, we lay on charpoys in the yard, gazing at the sky. On moonlit nights, the yellow champak was fragrant and luminous; there were earth smells too, the plants being freshly watered, and in season, the lush scent of mangoes ripening in the porch. The custom was to tell each other stories, until no one spoke except the cicadas, who kept tedious vigil without repose. My great-grandfather built that mansion for a sum of only rupees six thousand. (But that was in 1907.) He was a pleader in the Thane district court, sufficiently modern to smoke. His brand: 555s, which then came in round tins. With cane, topi, and waxed moustache, he is portrayed upstairs in black-and-white. In a dusty closet rest some of his things: an ancient iron safe effectively conceals debentures and bonds of poor investments, an insurance policy that returned no yields. Dozing undisturbed for decades, cob webbed shelves retain withered tomes, ledgers, rusted biscuit cases, invoices, faded letterheads, clotted ink, quills, lacquered paperweights; underneath, on the chest, bandages, enema equipment, enamel bowls, scented water in sealed bottles, rusted scissors, red salve, rats bane, ointment, tincture iodine, epsom salts... I could, of course, go on, but to cut the long story short, when the road reached the shrine of the Monkey God, as you are likely to have guessed by now,

336 Makarand Paranjape we went far away from our ancestral home. That summer, hoping, as usual, to return, I hid something precious in the pigeon cote in the musty alcove over the parlour door. Now continents later, unsure of my past, in vain I try to recollect that nuance. I know I mourn a conventional loss— you too, I dare say, wistfully long for one or two memories, misplaced beyond recall. My childhood belongs to another tongue, it briefly came back to me just now, like snatches of a forgotten song. You don’t blame me, do you, for writing these fragments down?

Despite the slightly self-deprecatory distancing that the tone of the poem accomplishes, this house is deeply etched in my consciousness. When I was eight, my upanayanam, or thread-ceremony, was held in this home. It was a huge event, with so many family and friends in attendance. I had never felt so important in my whole life. At the same time, the rituals seemed to have little to do with me but were some kind of social obligation. No one explained the full significance of either the mantras or the rites to me. It was a rite of passage that I could not comprehend. Yet, there was a certain solemnity to it. Especially when my father recited the Gayatri mantra in my ear. It was like a surge of power, uniting me with a very old racial past. Later, I had to pretend to go around the village begging. My cousins were the first to give me bhiksha or alms. They washed my feet and gave me goodies to eat. There is a picture of me in a dhoti, with a cap and umbrella, doing what was supposed to be a round of alms-seeking. When I returned to public school after the ceremony, my friends teased me about the sacred thread. Mr Browne, the Anglo-Indian Physical Training instructor, called me and said, “No discrimination in this school; you’re just like anyone else.” I had no clue what the fuss was about, but I took off the jenou. It was only many years later that I understood not just the inner significance of that ceremony, but also the sad inequalities that had dogged the system, and the sordid politics that subsequently took advantage of it. While I was still in undergraduate college, my grandfather died in 1979. I never went to his funeral though I would have liked to. Instead,

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my father, uncle, and other members of the family paid the obligatory visit. My grandfather was our main link with that house. He died at 85, fairly sturdy and active till the last two or three years of his life. He was a good looking man, with an air of almost regal dignity to him. He was also widely known and respected not just in Umbergaon, but all over Western India, especially in family circles. I still remember how we as children vied with one another to press his feet when he returned from our farms. I was quite a cheeky grandson, not at all intimidated by him. I asked him, “Whom does this benefit? You or me?” He said, “You. You will get punya by serving me.” I retorted, “Or is that only a trick to extract service from others?” He smiled benevolently, but once or twice I did succeed in rattling him. The family legend was that my grandmother died of repeated child births. She had borne seven or eight children, of whom six survived. Apparently, the doctor had warned my grandparents that more children would pose a serious health hazard to her. In the family circles, my grandmother, who died when my father was seven or eight, was almost a saint. Her pictures were in the pooja room and elsewhere. Everyone said what a lovely person she was, quiet, confident, dignified, and loving. My dad told me how she was the only one who’d loved him. He had tears in his eyes when he spoke of her: “After she left us, we grew up more or less on our own, tended to by aunts and other relatives. Those were really bad times. The family fortunes were on the decline. There were debts and litigations. One by one, we all left Umbergaon to make our way in the world in Bombay, Baroda, or elsewhere.” Having heard these stories, I once asked my grandfather why he persisted in having so many children. He looked at me surprised and annoyed. His usually magisterial demeanor now appeared creased. He said, “What do you mean?” I replied, “What about birth control?” He was taken aback, but replied, “In those days, what did we know about these things.” I persisted, “Then how about self-restraint?” He said, “Easier said than done.” The conversation ended abruptly, but I never ceased entirely to feel that my grandmother was somehow a victim of this man’s lusts. My grandfather was also a bit of a reader. Our house had all kinds of English books. Usually they were popular—or what used to be popular in those days. Alexander Dumas in translation, for example, or The Song of Hiawatha by Longfellow. I remember reading The Count of Monte Cristo in one day, sitting up all night to finish it.

338 Makarand Paranjape My grandfather, after briefly acknowledging my feat, also chuckled, “Did you get the moral of the story? Never trust a woman.” Another book I remember reading is John Reed’s Ten Days that Shook the World about the Bolshevik revolution. Though I went on to study literature later, I never read these books again. After my grandfather died, I think I must have gone there just once before leaving for the U.S. The family priest looked at me much before I’d even started applying to universities abroad, “You will become a Doctor.” I said, “How can I? I’ve opted for English.” He retorted, “Isn’t there another kind of doctorate? The one you get after studying lots?” I was eighteen then, with no intention whatsoever of pursuing a career in academics. My last visit to Umbergaon was in 1986. A few months earlier I had returned from my stint abroad, armed with a Ph.D. Somehow the family priest’s prophecy had come true. Now I wanted also to take my wife to the house, which with all its associated lore was the source of my knowledge of my paternal family and thus a large part of my identity as well. We only stayed for a few hours, then were back to Bombay. My daughter, who was born a few years after, has never once visited Umbergaon. So much has happened in these twenty or more years. Not just my two elder uncles, but my father also passed away. There were both emotional and economic convulsions which shook up the joint family. One cousin and my youngest uncle still live there, managing what is left of the family lands. In fact, I don’t feel like going there partly because it is in such a tender place in my heart. I would rather it existed for me as I remembered it rather than as the real place it still is, changed by all these years.

References Paranjape, Makarand. (2001). “My Buried Youth in Umbergaon,” Used Book, pp. 25–27. New Delhi: Indialog. Ramanujan, A.K. (1976). “Small-scale Reflections on Great House,” Ten Twentieth-Century Indian Poets, pp. 102–05. New Delhi: Oxford University Press.

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Chapter 22

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Indian Families in the World Forty Years in Manitoba Uma Parameswaran

I come to this topic of Indian Diasporic Families Today from a nonacademic perspective. I am a writer and this chapter is about my thoughts on Indian families in the diaspora. I am hardly qualified to talk about Indian families in India. I grew up in India of the 1950s, and have lived in Canada since 1966. My view is not only through a diasporic lens but through the astigmatic lens of time. I am now where I saw earlier immigrants as being when I first came to Canada, namely, quite out of step with contemporary India. So, I shall confine myself to the Indo-Canadian experience, with brief forays into reminiscences. Some years ago, when I showed the script of my play Rootless but Green Are the Boulevard Trees to a colleague in the Theater Department, he said every scene was written very evocatively but in total he did not know what to make of it since it did not have a major protagonist. I explained to him that precisely was my point, that the whole family is the protagonist, which is why each of the seven main characters in the play occupies center stage for about an equal length of time.

340 Uma Parameswaran So, when I expanded the play into a novel titled Mangoes on the Maple Tree, I used as epigraph a statement from Clark Blaise’s Days and Nights in Calcutta, “Family, family, family. In India, all is finally family.” India and the Indian diaspora do not have a monopoly on this, of course. I have always found the double-edged words of Faulkner’s Ab Snopes (in Barn Burning) very powerful: “You got to learn to stick to your own blood or you ain’t going to have any blood to stick to you.” ∗∗∗∗ Definitions and perceptions differ not only between countries but within generations in the same country. When I was growing up in central India, my uncle came down from the U.S. for a visit. My friends couldn’t believe I was niece to a famous scientist and would ask, “Your mother’s real brother?” “Your mother’s own brother?” “Sagga bhai ?” In a culture where a brother of a wife of a second cousin twice removed by marriage was considered part of the family, one needed to make some hard distinctions to get the coordinates right between a birth-sibling or “uterine brothers” (a term popular with my grandfather’s generation) and other brothers. Now, as many of us in India lament, families have become very small, not only due to drastic population control policies (which magically made families smaller without halting the sub-continent’s exponential population growth—this is what Naveed in Rushdie’s Shame is all about) but because urbanization has affected the way we see “family.” I now live in a culture and country where the extended family is not the norm and the “nuclear family” is rapidly changing its parameters. The nuclear family (which at one time meant father-motherchildren) is getting larger by the day. Time was when a wedding reception-line consisted of the bride and bridegroom, and their parents who numbered a maximum of four. Today, in our age of amicable (and some not-so-amicable) divorces, the reception line consists of two or three step-parents for each of bride and groom, not to mention three of four offspring of each by earlier marriages. And of course, there are the siblings and half-siblings of each of bride and groom, with their present and ex-spouses and their own children and their present spouse’s. Not to forget, in especially amicable divorces, the two or three ex’s each of bride and groom.

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Time was when we got our family identity by tracing our lineage to one of the sages, and by being associated with some ancestral village, or some sub-caste of a sub-caste. In other parts of India, the family name was a clear signifier, but not in the south. A point about my Tamil Nadu Brahmin sub-culture: traditionally, we had no surname as such—each has his/her own given name as his/her last name with two initials. The extended family shares the same first initial (for the name of the village) and siblings share the same second initial (for their father’s name) as well, thus compacting in the name itself everything one needs to know about a person’s identity and family. In days of yore, we had sonorous, polysyllabic names for which one needed long breaths—Tiruvenkateswaran, Vaitheeswaran, Parameswaran, Brigajambal, Mangayarkkarasi—now you know why pranayama was prescribed as a must for everyone childhood on. Consider the hoary custom of preserving family lineage, which can be seen at a traditional marriage ceremony where one can hear Sanskrit mantras majestically enunciated by the priest as he leads the bridegroom through his vows. Build your own example by inserting long traditional names: “I, (put in your favorite polysyllabic name here), the son of (put in another good polysyllabic name here), and grandson of (another and longer name here), great-grandson of (you can put in one of the same names as above, since it was common to name a son after a grandfather or great grandfather) of ABC gotra, (and of the village of DEF in the district of GHI,) do promise etc., etc.” Now, as anyone who has sat through a traditional ceremony of marriage knows, these identifying tags are repeated many times over, and it is small wonder that everyone agrees that though they might not understand a word of the vows that are being taken (which is one reason we so blithely enter the holy state of matrimony) it sounds very impressive. Poetry scores over practicalities, and that is not such a bad thing. It is said that James Joyce, psyching himself for his morning hours at his writing desk, would read aloud what he had written the previous day. His cleaning maid would stand by the door and listen, because, she said, though she could not understand anything, it sounded like music. ∗∗∗∗ For a member of the Indian diaspora, there are three families, the first one in India, and the second and third outside India. The second

342 Uma Parameswaran family is the family in one’s city of residence, which consists of South Asian Canadians, that is, people who trace their origins to India, Pakistan, Bangladesh and Sri Lanka, and not just those from India. The third family is the “desi diasporic family,” which comprises people from India who live in North America or are connected through cyberspace. We, the diaspora, are a user group and our families in India are very user-friendly, as most middle-class people in India know by now since almost every family has at least one member who is an NRI (non-resident Indian.) We rush back into the arms of the family, and exploit them to the nth degree. I say this through one of my characters, Malini, in a novella titled The Forever Banyan Tree, which I have just completed. Malini was married into the Silicon Valley.... [and came for three weeks every other year.] It was always the same. She would arrive in time for the Music and Dance season, and be chauffeured from one sari store to another, from one craft complex to another, from the store to the tailor to the place where they stitched falls for the sari.... In between, she would make rushed visits to family and friends, and to her in-laws, all the time bemoaning how little time she had, how hot the weather was, how she had to work so hard back in California, weighed down, what with the house (3,200 square feet) and work (both she and her husband earned six-figure salaries) and children (they were long past the age of heeding their parents). She would attend one or other dance concert in the evening, dressed to the nines, though somewhat out of step with the current fashions and colors. She would bring her old saris and blouses and give them away to the servants, who waited on her hand and foot, and then she would go back with two bulging suitcases full of new saris and blouses and beautiful handicrafts.

The family bonds that develop outside India, as I said, are with fellowdesis in this part of the world. The bond we desis feel in cyber-space recognizes no national boundaries. I am on several internet discussion groups, and it feels good to talk to people on the same wavelength; as a writer. I feel I have a more discerning readership among the desis south of the border or as far away as Europe and Australia than among non-Indian fellow-Canadians. A.K. Ramanujan has a poem where the persona tells his wife that there are things they cannot enjoy together because they did not share the same family background and childhood spaces. The shared space for members of first-generation

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diaspora is their common childhood in India, regardless of the region, religion or economic status. In practical everyday life, this shared bond between desis is often an anchor for the diaspora. M.G. Vassanji, in The Gunny Sack, speaks of how any newcomer to any East African town had only to go to the house of the mukhi and all his problems of settling down would be solved. When my husband and I first came to Winnipeg, (about forty years ago), there were fewer than eighty people from India, but mukhis could not have helped since it was a very diverse group already, from different regions and religions of India. The mukhi’s place, however, was taken by the telephone directory. In those days, there were no organizations within the community, but since the telephone directory was there, I use this ploy in my story, The Door I Shut Behind Me, where Chander looks up the phone-book for names common to his fellow passenger Agrawal’s home state in India. Today, phone books of bigger Canadian cities can direct one to the community organization, or place of worship, of one’s choice. In the 2006 Winnipeg phone directory, there are four listings starting with “India,” one with “Hindu,” four with “Islamic,” and two with “Sikh.” The restaurant guide lists nine restaurants with sub-continent cuisine. A newcomer has only to go to any of these places to find help or company to see him through the first year of his arrival in the country. When I first came to Winnipeg, though there was no grouporganization as such, by word of mouth alone we “found” each other and felt a togetherness that anyone who was from India was part of the family. Students from India, who lived in groups of three and four in apartments, were regularly invited for weekend dinners by those of us who were married. Very soon after I arrived, one of the early pioneers, the Sarwates, left Winnipeg. I heard that during the Diwali weekend they hosted everyone in Manitoba who had come from the sub-continent. I looked up their house out of curiosity. It was small. In those days, insulation materials were of poor quality and houses were small in order to save on heating charges, since the temperature is below zero for five months of the year. I could imagine sixty people crowded into it, without much elbow room but happily celebrating. After we arrived, the Sarwates’ place was taken by one Rev. P.K. (Kodanda) Raman, a Tamilian who had walked from Rangoon during the exodus of the Second World War, and been befriended by missionaries, who converted him. Christmas time at the Ramans had everyone from India at their

344 Uma Parameswaran apartment on Langside Street. Other weekends, it was business as usual, a dozen guests for dinner. As the population of those from the sub-continent grew, divisions grew based on language. Though the numbers within “Families” did not decrease, the parameters of identity did. Malayalis (many of whom were Christian nurses who had sponsored their husbands) lived close to each other. I’ve heard that in another city, not Winnipeg, most of the nurses from Kerala lived in the same apartment block, and baby-sit each other’s children, car-pooled to work, and often cooked together. Then came Bangladesh, and Bengali-speaking people became a tight-knit family, and they still are, such is the strength of linguistic bonds. About the same time (Idi Amin, remember?) came a huge influx of Gujaratis from Africa, and they are the most organized subgroup from India in North America. Today, not only do they have language and bhajan classes, Navaratri dances and very well established routines for rites pertaining to births, marriages and deaths, but they have directories by caste and sub-caste for all of North America! Not necessarily a good thing, but talk of “family-sense” where language supersedes country. There is another new “family” in the making in the city where I live. A group of South Asian Canadian professionals, doctors mainly, formed a group so that their children could socialize, the ulterior intent being that the younger generation could find marriage partners in the same “doctor-caste.” ∗∗∗∗ Now, with a population of at least ten thousand1 from the subcontinent in the city of Winnipeg, one’s heritage language is still the strongest bonding factor for the adults. Most recently, though, this glue is in danger of drying out, and religion as a bonding factor is getting stronger and stronger. The implications and deductions from such observations need to be charted by sociologists, not by a writer or literary critic that I am. However, it is clear that there is no unifying factor that anchors the Indo-Canadian community. While it seems that the intensity of “family” bonds is inversely proportional to the number of people from India, there are two other factors as to why this strong identification and empathy that the first generation of Indian immigrants had for fellow immigrants and their own families is weakening. One factor is that there is a divide between

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new immigrants and those who came earlier. India has changed greatly in the last thirty years, but we who came earlier remember only the India in which we grew up, not even the one we left as an adult. I say this in one of my first stories, The Door I Shut Behind Me (1967). They spoke of old films, while Saigal sang on in the background. There was deep nostalgia in the air. What astounded Chander was that they spoke of a distant past…. To some of them trams still trundled by on the streets of Madras … and Lala Amarnath’s double century against Don Bradman’s eleven was still the greatest event in cricket history.

The disjunction between such memories and the realities lived by the more recent immigrants becomes a barrier in intergenerational communication, as I point out further in that story. ∗∗∗∗ In the mid-1970s, Canada’s Family Reunification Policy opened the door for the sponsorship of parents. While it had many positive aspects, I briefly wish to explore the negative aspects, mainly the intergenerational disjunction within the extended family where the parents have been sponsored. It is not uncommon to find, in the province of British Columbia especially, families that consist of a married couple with basic education who emigrated from India, two sponsored parents from India, and two or three Canadian-born youngsters. Traditional family roles take a beating in this kind of situation. The grandparents lose their traditional position of authority and power, since they are financially dependent on their adult son unless they find a job. Moreover they are not proficient in English. In colder provinces such as Manitoba, add the factor that they have to depend on their adult children for transportation (it being too cold for walking to busstops), and you see how the cards are stacked higher against them. The parents learn functional English fast enough, but their accent and grammatical expertise fall way behind their children’s within two or three years of the children starting school. (Two days ago, I was at the Pharmacy counter, where the woman—from the Philippines— had to speak through her six year old son to explain what she wanted.) Indian families are known for spoiling their children, and these other factors exacerbate the weakening of parental authority. I have no empirical data to substantiate my theory, which is that while parents in lower income families manage to keep their control

346 Uma Parameswaran and authority over younger children despite language-lack, the grandparents often lose out in a big way when they come as sponsored parents. No doubt, this phenomenon of lost authority is growing in India as well, but I sometimes feel that sponsored parents are exploited to be cooks and babysitters in return for a roof over their heads and the emotional satisfaction of being near their son. Sadhu Binning is a writer who lives in British Columbia. He has dealt with such family situations in his plays. In one, there is a man who sends his parents to a fruit-harvesting camp so that he can rent out their basement room and get some money. The exploitation often goes further—the sponsored parents become a source of income once they have been here for ten years, because anyone who is over 65 years of age and has lived in Canada for ten years after the age of 18 is eligible for Old Age Security cheques. To have a cook and babysitter who works for free and pays for her board and room! I personally find it absolutely abhorrent that parents are made to live in the basement, and are expected to stay there when their adult son is hosting a party upstairs. No doubt it happens all over the world in all types of families, but I find it so abhorrent that I have not been able to write a story about it. The reasons are peripheral to the topic I am presently dealing with, and have to do with a diasporic writer’s dilemma of portraying the negatives of my ethnocentric “family,” and thereby further feeding negative stereotypes that exist in the average Canadian’s perceptions. However, make no mistake, despite losing the position of authority with the grandchildren, the proverbial in-law oppression is often as strong in Indo-Canadian families as in India. With the increase in Indo-Canadian population, and the self-ghettoization that goes with it, all the negatives of India are alive and compounded in Canada. It might change, and one hopes it will, but given that new sponsored parents are coming from India every year, and that a great many Indo-Canadians have arranged marriages with brides from India, one cannot hope for much. I would not be surprised if the ratio of in-law oppression is greater among the diaspora in Canada than in India. Vassanji’s The Gunny Sack has a wonderful metaphor of Scherazade’s box of memories and artefacts that Indians carried to East Africa. Regrettably, some of the contents of the boxes of modern day immigrants cannot be romanticized away. There is something toxic about carrying traditions in one’s immigration suitcase.

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The tendency of fellow Indo-Canadians, when such instances are suspected, is to turn a blind eye, and “to mind our own business.” I develop this in The Sweet Smell, which is about a young woman who comes to Winnipeg to join her husband and is thrown out by her in-laws from the extended-family home. I have made the in-laws sponsored parents, but they retain their authority in this particular household. Their demand for dowry after the wedding is not met with: Tarun’s parents sent between-the-lines messages through go-betweens that they wanted a cash settlement. Just what was traditional, they maintained. Their family’s airfare, for example; five of them had flown at their own expense from Canada at high season fare, and they had assumed, so said the middleman, that Pappaji would reimburse their fare. And then the clothes for family members; they had explicitly said they did not want any because Indian clothes and fashions were unsuited for Canada, but they had implicitly assumed that Pappaji would give them cash instead, three suits for the men at five hundred dollars each. And the wedding itself—what a small affair it had been, certainly not what they had assumed an old established Jaipur family would provide for them and their guests. But what was past was past. Never mind. But they did expect a cash settlement, ten lakhs surely was not unreasonable for a foreign-based sonin-law. There were minor confrontations, and then a major one just before they returned to Canada.

Namita, the main character in the novella, goes to the temple, thinking she could get some help. She meets Charu, another abused woman, who has this to say: All these ladies, not one has any real empathy. Men are like that, they said. They’ll come around, they said. Don’t wash dirty linen in public— that’s their favourite line. Which makes me wonder how many of them are putting up with horse manure and not letting on. Not one will help? Not that I know of. I came here thinking I’d get some help from someone who’d understand our culture.

The C.B.C. (Canadian Broadcasting Corporation) has several documentaries on the oppression of South Asian Canadian women by their in-laws. These are documented cases of dowry-oppression, of murder while on a trip to India (taking the young woman to India to kill her so they can return without a trace of their crime) or murder

348 Uma Parameswaran here in Canada. The in-laws take possession of the young woman’s passport, making her a captive, to live in slavery here or sometimes to be killed in India. A bride, in an arranged marriage, usually comes as a sponsored immigrant. A sponsor is required to swear to assume all financial responsibility of the sponsored immigrant for five years, but those who renege are never brought to justice. Within two years after the first wife literally or figuratively disappears, a new bride arrives from India. ∗∗∗∗ There is yet another factor that is shaping the Indo-Canadian family— intracultural marriages and inter-racial children. This is a vast area, and I shall limit myself to listing two possible areas of exploration. In my generation, a great many more men than women came out to study in North America. It was to be expected that many of them would marry white spouses. The inter-racial children of these unions usually marry whites. This browning of Canada, as I call it, can be celebrated or it can be mourned as a loss of Indian identity. A study that cries to be done is whether inter-racial marriages are more common among people from certain regions of India; my totally hypothetical theory, arrived at from the Winnipeg sample alone, is that south Indians tend to marry non-Indians more readily than do those from other parts of India. The new diaspora (I exclude those who came before the 1960s) have not lived long enough for valid surveys on third generation Canadians of part-Indian origin. But there just might be a smaller ratio (ratio, not numbers) of inter-racial marriages as the increase in the community population supports a growing trend towards intracultural (that is, between Indo-Canadians of different regions/languages/religions of India) unions. This is probably what a diasporic family thinks of as a happy ending or a happy beginning. Such is the tendency to cling to old concepts of family, that most parents I have talked to hope to have a sense of continuum as the family moves through lines of regional, linguistic, and religious, differences, a continuum that they fear is absent in inter-racial marriages. The theoretical bases of such assumptions stand on shaky ground, but anecdotally I have heard Hindu parents express their pleasure that their son or daughter is marrying a Muslim or Christian from India or the Middle East, and not a white person! They feel a cultural affinity.

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Language, culinary preferences and religion are three traditional bonding factors in the nurture of “family sense.” There are the two old adages: the family that prays together stays together, and the family that eats together stays together, and as I’ve said earlier, a common language is a bond that scores over a common nationality or religion. However, all three are eroding even where the parents are both from the same Indian background. The erosion accelerates with each generation, and/or with interracial unions. Take a fairly typical IndoCanadian family. Language: Pre-school children learn the mother’s language. However, once the children start going to school, they rapidly move towards English as their first language. This might be a little different in British Columbia where the Punjabi population is very large. Eating together: Whatever the reason, in more and more families, we see two types of meals being prepared—one for children and one for adults, and two different times for the daily dinner—one for the children and one for the adults. It could be that the father comes home much later than the children and so the children eat early and the parents late. Or it could be culinary preference, that children prefer a western or more hybrid kind of food while the parents prefer regular Indian dishes. Religion: Attendance at places of worship has increased dramatically in recent years, and this is not necessarily a good thing, especially considering the politicized roles taken by some gurudwaras, and more recently by some mosques in Canada. Today, there are six gurudwaras, two mosques, four Buddhist churches, and four Hindu temples in Winnipeg. Two of the temples are run by the Hindu Society of Manitoba and one by Caribbean-Canadians.2 Someone really needs to study the curious phenomenon of Hindu offspring of the diaspora in Canada who, while not knowledgeable or interested in Hindu practices, nevertheless opt to have a Hindu wedding ceremony, in addition to a church wedding if they marry Christians. Even more curious is the willingness of the Christian partner to participate in a non-Christian ceremony. Canada is a multicultural family. Repeat the slogan often enough and it might happen. In Winnipeg, the Hindu wedding as ceremony and as event has been fairly standardized. There is an evening of sangeet, in addition to various bridal showers organized by different parties (bride’s friends at work, old school friends, and friends of the parents). The marriage

350 Uma Parameswaran service, complete with sacred fire and music, is conducted in Sanskrit, with English translations, usually at a particular hotel that seems to have cornered the Indian clientele by having an Indian chef on their staff. We even had a wedding where the street was closed to traffic (by order of the Mayor) for the bridegroom to come on a mare, to shehnai music. Winnipeg, being still a small place compared to Toronto and Vancouver, draws a fairly large segment of the desi family to most weddings, with a minimum of four hundred guests. The nonIndian guests are a small minority, and often see the event as rather chaotic and exotic because guests chat all through the ceremony, unlike in a church wedding, where the whole service is solemn and well rehearsed. The reception is equally loud and chaotic, with illfunctioning stereo systems and endless lines at the buffet table, followed by a dance with a yakking DJ or emcee, and music from Bollywood. An Indo-Canadian wedding is a regular festive event in full-fledged desi tradition. It is a social event one cannot afford to miss if you are part of the desi family. As definitions and perceptions of what constitutes “family” changes with increasing numbers of Indians in Canada, we just might be losing the all-embracing sense of family that existed thirty years ago, that anyone who had roots in undivided India (even if they arrived via other parts of the world) was part of “family,” to be of help and to be helped. Also, because of the felicity with which natal families from India get to visit Canada, and because of various natal family members being strewn all over North America, we might be moving back to seeing “family” as restricted to those related by blood or marriage. But as far as social events go, the desi family is a strong unit where family festivities flourish and family gossip thrives, even if there are very few resources for members who really need help. Because new immigrants from India are coming into Canada every year, bonds to India, and local self-ghettoization, will continue at the collective level. However, as more and more of the succeeding generations shed their hyphenated status, and prefer to call themselves Canadians rather than Indo-Canadians, it will be interesting to see what happens to the Indian family in Canada.

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Notes 1. The mini-census of 2005 records the population of the province as 1.2 million, of whom 670,000 live in Winnipeg. In the census of 2001, there were 12,135 East Indians in Manitoba, 6,440 of whom were born outside Canada, and 5,485 of whom are Sikhs, and 3,835 Hindus. Six thousand said their heritage language is Punjabi, and 3,250 that it is Hindi. It also records that there were 5,095 Muslims and 5,745 Buddhists. One needs to note that not all of these people have come directly from India, or are of South Asian origins. For comparison, note that there were 31,120 Filipinos in Winnipeg in 2001. 2. Raj Kumar Hans has written about the role of gurudwaras as cultural sites in British Columbia (in Fractured Identity, 2003, 217–33) and Harold Coward about Diaspora practices of Hindus (in The South Asian Religious Diaspora in Britain, Canada and the United States, 2000, 151–72).

352 Uma Parameswaran

PART 6

DIALOG

354 Sanjukta Dasgupta and Malashri Lal

A Dialog with Amartya Sen 355

Chapter 23

™

A Dialog with Amartya Sen Sanjukta Dasgupta Malashri Lal

Questions from Malashri Lal and Sanjukta Dasgupta and answers from Amartya Sen In your chapter titled “Women and Men” in The Argumentative Indian you have made a categorical distinction between “well being” and “agency.” Do you think it is at all possible for the average Indian woman “homemaker” to become an active agent of social change? There are many instances where we have come across our students securing jobs in schools or colleges, who are being coerced into surrendering their salary cheques to their husbands for domestic peace and harmony. Amartya Sen: The circumstances are often extremely adverse for the exercise of agency by women, but nevertheless the answer to your question is, I think, yes. First, even when the freedoms that a woman (or for that matter, a man) can exercise to make deliberate decisions are constrained and even when the power to carry out those decisions is also restricted, these freedoms and powers Question 1:

356 Sanjukta Dasgupta and Malashri Lal are not typically entirely absent. Renegade women have rebelled courageously against masculine authoritarian order in all kinds of extremely difficult circumstances and some times have had achievements of considerable significance, against many odds. Even though it is, ultimately, important to be realistic about what can be achieved, we must also take into account the fact that sometimes we fail to exercise our freedoms by taking our decisional powers to be even more limited than they actually are. Fear is sometimes more crippling than reality. Second, what people in adverse positions can achieve depends also on whether they act entirely alone or in conjunction with others. There is strength in the unity of the deprived and underprivileged. This is the basis of working class agitations, women’s movements, and organized protests by social underdogs in general. A single family to be displaced by a huge dam may not be able to get anywhere in protesting about this, but when many such persons join together, there is power in voice and volition, whether or not they ultimately win. This is why women’s organizations are right to press for these joint actions against shared adversities, and also why feminist theorists are also correct in emphasizing the importance of class action. Third, it is extremely important to acknowledge and focus on the constraints that bind women and keep them in little boxes. The removal of these constraints and captivity has to be, in itself, a major goal of political action and social agitation. To take something as “desirable but completely impossible” can be a prelude to losing the fortitude to fight against injustice. The possibility of change is also a part of the manifest reality of the world in which we live. Question 2:

This morning’s newspaper (The Statesman, March 23, 2006) has a first page news with the title “When glory brings abuse at home” referring to Commonwealth Games gold medallist in pistol pairs Saroja Kumari Jhuthu being served an ultimatum by her husband,

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a Major in the Indian Army, to give up the sport. When interviewed by a Melbourne TV channel about this matter of family discord Saroja reportedly said that being an Indian woman she could do little to save herself from such abuse. Both Saroja and her husband belong to the educated cultured Indian middle class. Does this suggest that education can contribute to a liberal outlook up to a certain degree and centuries of patriarchal oppression are responsible for gender inequality? Amartya Sen: Saroja is pointing to an on-going inequity, and this is where the value of her statement lies. But just as people were surprised by the fact that an Indian woman can win an international competition in a field linked with arms and warfare, they may also be surprised that Indian women, if they are not as resigned as Saroja seems to be in that statement, can change the on-going inequity, through courage and defiance. Saroja is evidently an excellent user of the pistol, and maybe her success and—if she so chooses—her determination not to take things lying down can have some impact on the social picture as well. Her education should help her in this, rather than hindering it. The need for enlightened and reasoned social understanding is very important in the fight against inequalities in general. And surely education cannot but be a major ally in this battle. You have referred to the “inequality within families as cooperative conflicts.” This apparent oxymoron that has been internalized within the family system denies agency to women and other dependents in a family. However, recently a counter discourse seems to be emerging about men being equally disempowered within the patriarchal system and are tortured and exploited by “self seeking” women. Your comments please. Amartya Sen: I don’t know from where the counterstatements you cite come, but one need not be very surprised by the presence of essentially reactionary arguments as a response to forces of change. This surely is a sign of progress, Question 3:

358 Sanjukta Dasgupta and Malashri Lal dialectically speaking, since such “counter-discourse” would not have emerged but for some success of the transforming “discourse.” Contemporary regional literature, films, TV serials and even advertisements very often consolidate the stereotypes about ideal Indian womanhood though exceptions exist. Cultural representations instead of trying to interrogate gender inequality seem to romanticize the self-effacing role of woman as homemaker, caregiver and the nurturing role of mothering all members of the family, irrespective of age. Therefore concerns about dowry deaths and female feticide do not feature as a social problem that needs to be engaged on an emergency basis in both the print and visual media and literary texts, though it has to be admitted that the culture of silence and voicelessness perhaps is no longer total. How can change be instituted in such family dynamics? Amartya Sen: Certainly public discussion and social agitation can play big parts in the process of social change. I do not, however, entirely agree that “dowry deaths and female feticide do not feature as a social problem.” In fact both have received some considerable exposure in the media; we should not deny positive developments in the media if only because such denial only makes people more frustrated about the possibility of change and encourages them to be fatalistic and resigned to the continuation of inequity. As you say, “the culture of silence and voicelessness perhaps is no longer total.” On the other hand, we cannot be satisfied with what has been achieved so far, and— without denying the progress that is already occurring—we have to work for more recognition of deprived and discordant voices and for speedier social change. You are right that romanticizing the “self-effacing” role of women can be a very retrograde move. Aside from its negative practical implications, it also produces epistemic confusion by turning disadvantage and Question 4:

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deprivation forced, directly or indirectly, on people into an alleged case of willing and noble self-sacrifice. It is only with the real freedom to choice that the idea of sacrifice and of self-effacement can make any sense. Tolerating injustice is more a sign of docility than of nobility.

360 The Indian Family in Transition

About the Editors and Contributors Editors Malashri Lal is Professor, Department of English, University of Delhi, and Joint Director of the University of Delhi, South Campus. She has earlier served as Director, Women’s Studies and Development Centre, University of Delhi (2000–2006). Professor Lal is the recipient of several fellowships, including the Fulbright, the ShastriIndo Canadian Institute, the British Council and the Rockefeller Foundation. She is a former Fellow of the Indian Institute of Advanced Study, Shimla and has served on international juries for literary prizes such as The Commonwealth Writers Prize, London. Professor Lal has authored The Law of the Threshold: Women Writers in Indian English (1995, reprinted in 2000), edited a collection of essays titled Feminist Spaces: Cultural Readings from Canada and India (1997), and co-authored Female Empowerment (1995) and Interpreting Homes in South Asian Literature (2007). Her recent co-edited publications include The Home and the World: A Window on Contemporary Indian Literature (2002), Women’s Studies in India: Contours of Change (2002), and Signifying the Self: Women and Literature (2004). She is currently engaged with a research project titled “In Search of Sita” and a book on Women’s Writing in Asia. Sanjukta Dasgupta is Professor and Former Head, Department of English, Calcutta University. She is a poet, critic and translator and her articles, poems, short stories and translations have been published in distinguished journals in India and abroad. Her published books include The Novels of Huxley and Hemingway: A Study in Two Planes of

About the Editors and Contributors 361

Reality, Responses: Selected Essays, Snapshots (poetry), Dilemma (poetry), First Language ( poetry), Her Stories (translations) and Manimahesh (translation). Professor Dasgupta has been the recipient of numerous awards and grants, including the British Council Charles Wallace Scholar grant; Fulbright postdoctoral research fellowship; Fulbright Alumni Initiative Award; Fulbright Scholar in Residence at State University of New York, Oswego, New York; Australia India Council Fellowship; Visiting fellow at the Centre for Women’s Research and Gender studies, University of British Columbia, Vancouver, Canada; Associate Fellow at Indian Institute of Advanced Study, Shimla; and Visiting Fellow at the Women Studies and Development Centre, University of Delhi. Professor Dasgupta is Deputy Coordinator of the UGC DRS (SAP) project; member of the advisory committee of the Women’s Studies Research Centre, Calcutta University; Chairperson of the Calcutta University, Undergraduate Board of Studies (English); member of The West Bengal Central School Service Commission; and a member of the Calcutta University Senate and co-opted member of the Board of Undergraduate and Postgraduate Studies (ENGLISH) of Assam University, Silchar. She is also Associate Editor of the Journal of Women’s Studies, Calcutta University.

Contributors Alladi Uma and M. Sridhar teach English at the University of Hyderabad. They have been working in the areas of Translation and Comparative Literature. Their recent translations are Mohana! Oh Mohana and Other Poems (Sahitya Akademi, 2005), Beware, The Cows are Coming! (Sahitya Akademi, 2003), and Ayoni and Other Stories (Katha, 2001). They have helped edit special volumes of Indian Literature and The Book Review on Contemporary Telugu Writing. They were awarded the Rentala Memorial Award for 2005 for their contribution to translation of Telegu literature. Amartya Sen is Lamont University Professor, and Professor of Economics and Philosophy, at Harvard University and was until recently the Master of Trinity College, Cambridge. His books include Rationality and Freedom (2002), The Argumentative Indian (2005), and

362 The Indian Family in Transition Identity and Violence: The Illusion of Destiny (2006), among others. His research has ranged over a number of fields in economics, philosophy, and decision theory. Sen received the Nobel Prize in Economics in 1998. Arpa Ghosh is Senior lecturer in English in Vivekananda College for Women, Calcutta University. Her areas of interest are Western and Indian literature, films and creative writing. Her short stories have been published in The Statesman. Bonita Aleaz teaches Political Science at the University of Calcutta. Her publications include Emergent Women: Mizo Women’s Perspectives; Struggles of Indian Federalism Case of Punjab; and Ethnicity, Nations and Minorities: The South Asian Scenario (co-edited with Lipi Ghosh and Achintya Kumar Dutta). Her collaborators in the writing of her contribution are Amenla Aier, a lecturer in Bishop’s College, Calcutta; and Anshely Sumi who runs a prominent NGO looking after the welfare of women and children in Nagaland. Esha Dey is a novelist, short story writer, critic, and translator. She was a former associate professor in the Department of English, Utkal University, Orissa. She now resides in Kolkata. Irma Maini is Associate Professor of English in New Jersey City University. She is co-editor of a collection of critical essays, Multiethnic Literature and Canon Debates (SUNY Press, 2006). Her articles have been published in MELUS, Families: A Journal, The Literary Criterion, Modern Language Studies, and The Commonwealth Quarterly. Jayita Sengupta is a Senior Lecturer and Head, Department of English in South Calcutta Girls College, under Calcutta University. Her areas of research include gender studies and translation. Her publications include: Relationships, Sirshendu Mukhopadhyay’s short stories in English translation and In The Other Bengal: A Creative Travelogue. She has also edited The Muffled Heart: Stories of the Disempowered Male. Her most recent book is Refractions of Desire. Judith E. Walsh is professor at the History and Philosophy Department at State University of New York the College at Old Westbury, and a Research Associate at Columbia University’s Southern Asian Institute. She is the author of Growing Up in British India (1983), Domesticity in Colonial India (2004), and a textbook on India, A Brief History of India (2005). She has also published a volume of her own

About the Editors and Contributors 363

translations from Bengali language domestic manuals, How to be the Goddess of Your Home (2005). Makarand Paranjape is a widely published literary critic, poet, novelist, and professor of English. He has authored and edited over twentyfive books and has more than hundred scholarly papers to his credit. Currently the Chair of the Centre for English Studies at Jawaharlal Nehru University, New Delhi, he is also the Principal Investigator of the project on “Science and Spirituality in Modern India” and the Coordinator of the UGC Special Assistance Programme on “IndoCentric Approach to Literary Studies.” He is also the founding editor of Evam: Forum on Indian Representations. Mary Mathew is an associate professor of English and interim associate Dean of the College of Liberal Arts in North Carolina Central University, USA. She has written several books and articles on diasporic literature and has presented numerous papers at conferences in the United States, India, and the United Kingdom. Meena Alexander’s poems have been widely anthologized and translated. Her works include Raw Silk (2004); Illiterate Heart, winner of the 2002 PEN Open Book Award; and Shock of Arrival: Reflections on Postcolonial Experience (1996). Her memoir Fault Lines (1993) appeared in a new expanded edition in 2003. She is the editor of Indian Love Poems (2005). Currently she is working on new poems and a book of essays. She is Distinguished Professor of English at Hunter College and the Graduate Centre, City University of New York. Meghna Gulzar began her career as a freelance writer for The Times of India and other publications in 1989. Her poems have been published in anthologies of the Poetry Society of India. Her first feature film, “Filhaal” (2002) was based on the subject of surrogate motherhood. “Because he is…” her biography on her father, esteemed poet and film-maker Gulzar was published in 2004. Meghna Gulzar’s latest feature film is “Just Married.” Mukul Mukherjee is an economist. She did her doctoral studies in Delhi School of Economics. After her retirement from Delhi University she has been associated with research and teaching at the Women’s Studies Research Centre of Calcutta University. Her recent work includes A Situational Analysis of Women and Girls in West Bengal and Marketable Skills in the Wake of Globalisation, both published by the National Commission of Women.

364 The Indian Family in Transition N. Venugopal Rao is a trained economist who has been working as a journalist for the last twenty five years. He is also a poet, literary critic, translator and public speaker. He has over ten original Telugu and ten translated books to his credit. Naina Dey teaches at Maharaja Manindra Chandra College, Kolkata, under the University of Calcutta. She has translated works by Rabindranath Tagore, Ashapurna Devi, Suchitra Bhattacharya, Anita Agnihotri, and other noted Bengali authors. She has also several miscellaneous publications in a number of esteemed academic journals, newspapers and magazines to her credit. Nonda Chatterjee is Principal of The Cambridge School in Kolkata. She is an educationist and a counseler with an interest in literature, history, music, teaching and gardening Her first book,The Strawberry Patch—a collection of short stories—has been published by Penguin Books in 2004. Pushpa Bhave has taught for thirty years at Ruia College in Mumbai. She is a renowned drama critic for Marathi theatre. Her areas of interest are dramatic aesthetics, Marathi theater and social history, subjects on which she lectures at universities in Mumbai and Pune. Sarah Lamb is Associate Professor of Anthropology at Brandeis University. Her books include White Saris and Sweet Mangoes: Aging, Gender and Body in India (2000), Everyday Life in South Asia (2002), and a work in process, Aging Across Worlds: Generations, Gender and Ambivalent Modernities in India and America. Shashi Deshpande has eight short story collections, nine novels, a collection of essays and four children’s books to her credit. Her novel That Long Silence won the Sahitya Akademi award. A number of her novels and short stories have been translated into different languages. Her latest novel is Moving On. Shoma A. Chatterji is a freelance journalist, film critic and author based in Kolkata. She has authored seventeen books on gender, cinema, urban history and short fiction. She won the National Award for Best Film Critic (1991) and for Best Book on Cinema (2003.) She is currently doing her Ph.D. in the History of Cinema under D. Chittabrata Palit. She is also writing a book on food as lifestyle.

About the Editors and Contributors 365

Sutapa Chaudhuri, Ph.D., is lecturer in the Department of English at the Bhavnagar University, Gujarat. She studied English literature at Calcutta University and linguistics at Wayne State University, Michigan, USA. She lives in Bhavnagar, Gujarat. Her research interests include Women Studies and poetry. Uma Parameswaran has held various positions, including Professor of English at the University of Winnipeg, and member of the National Council of The Writers’ Union of Canada. Her recent publications include award-winning What was Always Hers (short stories), The Sweet Smell of Mother’s Milk-Wet Bodice (novella), Mangoes on the Maple Tree (novel), and Sisters at the Well (Poems). She lives in Winnipeg, Canada. Vidya Bal is a journalist, activist writer and Editor of the Marathi feminist journal Miloon Sarayajani. Vidya resides in Pune, Maharashtra.

366 The Indian Family in Transition

Index Aakrosh (film), 283 Aastha (film), 286 Aastha (old age home), Kolkata, 89 Aayojan, 226, 227 Abduction, 73, 75 “absent father”, phenomenon, 256 access, to housing by women, 69; to money in rural areas, 69; to resources by women, 66 Acchamamba, Bhandaru, 205 Adalja, Varsha, 180, 181, 185; women characters in works of, 182 Adarsh Nari, women as emblems of, 175, 176, 177, 183 Adhav, Baba, 305 adoption, of children, 251 adultery, by women, 47 adulterous wife, 39 Advaitam, 234 advertisements, on television, 26, 27 Agarkar, Gopal Ganes, 303, 305 Agarwal, Bina, 12 age, and erosion of agency, 69–72 aged women, illiteracy among, 71; living in rural areas, 71; risk of death among, 71; widowhood among, 71 ageing, forms of, and family, 82, 99; population in India, 82 agency, 23, 62; age and erosion of, 69– 72; denial of, 24; women and, 61–78, 355, 357 Agewell Foundation (NGO), New Delhi, 89 aggressive male behavior, within home, 74

Agneepath (film), 287 AIDS-related deaths, in Nagaland, 108 Ainaa, 235 Akaaler Sandhane, 272 Akadanu Phool, 183, 184 “akhuaye”, 106 Akjon Bhalo Swamir Jibne Ekti Raat, 155 Akshar-sparsha, 298 Al Hidayah, 128 Alcoholism, 189; issue of, in Dattani’s plays, 200 Aleaz, Bonita, 23, 103 Alexander, Meena, 29, 295 alienation, suffered by women, 211 Alladi Uma, 25, 231 Aloino Centre, Nagaland, 114 Altruism spirit, 106 Amar Jiban, 20 Ambedkar, Babasaheb, 303, 305 American family, transformation in, 12 American modes of aging, and family, 93 Amrita, 176 An Anecdote to Boredom, husband-wife relationship in, 139–40 Anandamath, 129 analysis, and exploration, 208–9 ancestral home, reflection on, 331–8 Anderson, Benedict, 215 Angami, Neidonuo, 115, 116 Angami Nagas, land holdings among, 118–19 Anglo-Indians 311–12 Ankur (film), 285 Antarmahal (film), 262

Index 367 Anubhav (film), 286 Anurupa Devi, 148 Ao Baptist Tetsur Mungdang, in Nagaland, 119 Ao Nagas, 119; behavioural disorders among children of, 107; women, relationship with family, 118 Aphale, Sunita, 301 Appa Rao, Gurajada, 203, 205, 210 Appadurai, Arjun, 213 Ardhanarishwara, concept of, 126 Armed Forces Special Powers Act, 110 Arth (film), 289 Ashapurna Devi, 24, 134, 142, 148, 201n, 226, 229; fictions of, 221–30; novels of, 191 Ashok Kumar, 286 Ashon, 136 Ashwanam, 237 Asookh (film), 261, 267–9, 275 Assault, 73 Atharva Veda, on women, 127 Astitva (film), 286 Ato Tuku-Swargo, 156 Aum, as mystic logos, 126 Aurat (film), 282 authority, exercise of, 62; and power of women, 67 autobiography(ical), as contested category,164; critics of, 166; history of, 165; studies,165; theory,167 autonomy, assault of women’s, 67; of women, 63, 66, 68 Avaiyar, 129 Avishkar (film), 286 Azmi, Shabana, 285 “Babu”, 312 Bachchan, Amitabh, 281, 282 bachelors quarters, of Naga/ Mizo communites, 106 Bage, Asha, 302 Bal, Vidya, 297 Balachander, K, 287 Bandipotlu, 232 Bandyopadhyay, Bibhutibhushan, 221 Bandyopadhyay, Tarashankar, 221 Banerjee, Ranjan, 81, 96

Banerjee, Somnath, 258 Bannerjee, Tarun, 257 Bariwali (film), 270–2, 275 Barjatya, Sooraj, 281 Basu, Bani, 136, 142 Basu, Chhabi, 229 Basu, Pratibha, 148 Batiwala, Srilatha, 66 Batris Putlini Vedana, 181 battered women, 75 Bawarchi (film), 286 Becker, Gary, 64 belief systems, 20 Benegal, Shyam, 285 Bengal, family life in the 20th century in, 22 Bengal School style, 316 Bengali fiction, 25 Bengali men, relationship with wife, 51– 2 Bengali society, respect for elders in, 96; Hindu society in the nineteenth century, 51 Bengali women, discourse on nineteenth century, 52; need for reform and adaptation by, 48; reeducation of, 36– 7; writings of, 148 ‘benevolent dictatorship’, of male head, 64 Beteille, Andre, 19 Bhabha, Homi, 216 Bhadramahila, 129 Bhagwat, Vidyut, 301 Bhakti movement, 127 Bhansali, Sanjay Leela, 284 Bhattacharya, Basu, 286 Bhattacharya, Suchitra 70,265 Bhave, Pushpa, 25, 164 Bhirbhum District, in West Bengal, village study of, 82 bigamy, in films, 285; punishment for, 259 bindi, and status of women, 178 The Binding Vine, 139 Binning, Sadhu, 346 bisexuality, concept of, 126 Blaise, Clark, 340 Boltu Maun, 183

368 The Indian Family in Transition bonding, emotional, 11; factor in family, 306, 349 Bowley, Agatha, 255 Brahamans, on women, 127 Brahmin sub-culture, of Tamil Nadu, 341 Brahmanical order, patriarchal, 24, 128; rigidity of, 128 Brahmo Samaj, 36, 37, 53n, 128 Brahmos, 22; and social reform of women, 38 Bratakathas, 146 Bravely Fought the Queen, 188, 189, 197, 199, 201; approach to hypocrisy of upper-middle class, 190; characters in, 190–1; male chauvinism in, 194 Breslin, T.D., 255 bride burning, 143 bride price, in Telugu literature, 203 British colonization, impact on socioeconomic structure in India, 127 British judiciary, 21 British rule, in India, influence on state apparatus and cultural development, 20 Brontë, Charlotte, 217 Brown, Linda Keller, 160 Buddhism, 127 Buniyad (TV serial), 287 Catherine the Great, of Russia, 36, 38 Census, of 1991 on age group, 70; of 2001 on life expectancy at birth (LEB), 70 Ch. Usha Rani 237 Chaka Chakini Adhunik Bodhkatha, 179, 183 Chakra (film), 283 Chakravarty, Uma, 129, 130 Chalam, 204, 229; on family institutions, 209 Chandlano Vyaap, 178, 186 Chandrabati, 147 Chandrannu Ajwalu, 185 Chani Bor, 182 chastity, female, 65 Chatterjee, Bankimchandra, 129, 130, 310 Chatterjee, Basu, 286 Chatterjee, Nonda, 29, 309

Chatterjee, Shoma A., 26, 243 Chattopadhyay, Saratchandra, 223 Chaudhuri, Nirad, 311 Chaudhari, Raghuvir, 176 Chaudhuri, Sutapa, 174 Chchinnamasta, 222–9 Chen, Martha Alter, 24 Chhoti Bahu, (film), 285 child/children, abuse, 22, 72; bride, plight of, 21; care, 16; illegitimate, 257; labour, 72; marriage, issue of, 36, 42, 46, 306; molestation in plays of Dattani, 193; in Naga family, 118; prostitution, 72; psychosomatic problems among, 106–11; of single parents, 254–6 Children Film Society of India, 261 Chodorow, Nancy, 166 Chokher Bali (film), 22, 271 Chopra, B.R., 286 Chowdhury, Sutapa, 25 Christian culture, 313 Christian missionaries, old age homes run by, 85 Christianity, in Nagaland, 117; and transformation in Naga society, 120 Church, role of, in child development in Nagaland, 107 Cohen, Lawrence, 84 collective Indian identity, 13 “collectivism”, 105 “colonial India”, 312 colonial legacy, conflict with “Indianness”, 315 Committee of the Status of Women, observation on widowhood, 71 Communist ideology, 208 communitarianism, in practice, 103–6 community/civil society, institution of, 17; “life” of Nagas and Mizos, 106; participation in Nagaland, 116 community senior centers, in USA, Indian aging in, 82 compassion, virtue of, 36 conflict, “co-operative”, 29; generational, 84; of interest, 17 conjugal, intimacy and friendship, 52; relationship, 19

Index 369 consumerism, 84, 246; role in domestic tension, 211 Coolie (film), 287 Corbett, Jim, 313 Corsini, R.J., 254 counselors, for elderly, 89 “cruelty”, to women at home, 73 Cry the Peacock, 139 culture(al), 12; collusion, 216; generational divides in, between parents and children in USA, 90; identity, of immigrant families, 214; shock, 16 daasi, wife as, 177 Dabydeen, Cyril, 219 Dadaji vs. Rukhmabai, 21 “Dahan”, 70 Dahan (film), 261, 262, 265–7 Dahar, narrative of, 275 Dalal, Bharti, 186 Dalit women, autobiography of, 164; consciousness of, 166–7 Dance like a Man, 189, 193 The Dark Dancer, 219 The Dark Holds No Terrors, 139 Darshak, Manubhai Pancholi, 176 Das, Jibananda, 221 Dasgupta, Sanjukta, 11, 355 Dattani, Mahesh, character portrayals in plays of, 201; joint families in plays of, 25; study of plays of, 188–201 daughters, devaluation of, 65; economic consequences of educating, 248–51; as economic liability, 251 ‘daughters-in-law’, era of, 97; honored place for, 327; and mother-in-law and ‘sharing’ of the son, 24; voice and authority of today’s, 84 Davidar, David, 75 Death Be Not Proud, 325 Debi, 272 Debi, Jyotirmoy, 131, 132, 148 decimated family, in Rituparna Ghosh’s films, 261–74 decision-making, exclusion of women from, 77–8; power of women, 63, 209; women’s agency in, 66–9 Deewar (film), 281

Demonising Homosexuals in India, 195 dependent women, 16 Desai, Amrapali, 181, 183 Desai, Amrita, 139, 142 Desai, Tarini, 178 Deshpande, Gauri, 301, 304, 306 Deshpande, Sarita, 139 Deshpande, Shahi, 29, 139, 142, 322 “desi diasporic family”, 342 Dévasia, Amrita, 138 Devdas (film), 284 “Devdasi” life styles, 127 Devi Chaudhurani, 130 “devoted wife”, 43 Dey, Dipankar, 272 Dey, Esha, 25, 145 Dey, Naina, 24, 221 Dharma, 50; fulfilling, 176 Dhurjatiprasad, 221 Dialog, 29 dialog form, use of, 49–50 diaspor/diasporic, books, 214, 215, 339, 320, 342–3; communities, 213; experience of immigrants, 218 Diddubatu, 204 Dignity Foundation, home for elderly, 89 Dikri nu Dhan, 183 Dilip Kumar, 282 Dilwale Dulhania Le Jayenge (film), 288 Dishantar, 177 Distances, 219 divorce, economic implications of, 245– 8; rise in, rates, 252 Dixit, Madhuri, 289 Do Bigha Zameen (film), 282 docility, female, 65 Doctorow, E.L., 19 “doing gender”, concept of, 140 domestic, disharmony, 207; harmony, 20; tension in Telugu stories, 211; violence, 22, 63, 189; analysis of, 73; and negation of women’s human rights, 72–8; work, participation in, 62 domination, between members in family, 62; dyads and, 43–5 The Door I Shut Behind Me, 343, 344 Dooram, 234 Douglas, Mary, 157, 160

370 The Indian Family in Transition dowry, deaths, 75, 358; as economic liability, 250; problems of, 22 Dr Madhurika (film), 284 Drèze, Jean, 72 drug abuse, by Nagas, 107–8, 121n Dukh ke Sukh, 179 Dumas, Alexander, 337 Duniya Na Mane(film), 283 Dutt, A.K., 38 Dutt, Sunil, 286 dyadic relationships, 52, 54n dyads, and dominance, 43–5 Dym, Barry, 253 economic decision-making authority, 68 economic self-reliance, by women, 78 education, as active agent of social change, 15; and changes in family, 20; and emancipation of women, 132; in India, 320; in Naga society, 121; spread of, in nineteenth century, 128; of wife, 44; of women/female, 20, 22, 78 egalitarian relations, between men and women, 64 Ekaal, 156 Elangtsür, Naga women’s participation in, 119 elderly, care facilities of, 22; population in India, 70 Eliot, 221 emotion(al), commitment, 14; security, 17; space, in Rituparno Ghosh’s films, 275; ties with children living abroad, 90 empowerment, of women, 65, 66, 77, 154–5; issue of, 22 Engels, Dagmar, 22 Engels, Frederick, 12, 22; on women’s status, 64; English, fictions, 139; use of in Mahesh Dattani’s plays, 189 Englishman, 313 equality, notion of, in Gujarati writings, 186 Etzioni, Amitai, 105 eavesdropping, as an issue, 46, 47; by women in Satyacaran’s texts, 48

exiled life, books on, 215 expatriate Indian fiction, 215 exploitation, of women in Gujarati writings, 182 extended family, 306, 341; concept of, 305 extra-family aging centres, 84 False Documents, 19 family, as agency, 12; aging and emerging forms of, 99; -based soap operas, 280; bond, 306; outside India, 342, 344; concept of, 12, 175; contesting the ideology of, 183; definition of, 11, 12, 243; disintegration of, in Gujarati writings, 179; feminist critique of, 63; and freedom, debate on, 179–81; and gender in Gujarati women’s writings, 177–8; and household, 61; as gendered structure, 64–6; imagined, 145; institution of, 307;/kinship structure, institution of, 17; lineage, preserving, 341; as mainstay of elderly, 66; as part of women’s experience, 166–7; portrayal in Ritupar no Ghosh’a films, 262; power structure in, 145; as primary institution of human society, 62; relationship within, 323; as site of resistance, 178; as a social institution, 63; and society, 19; space, contemporary, 29; studies, 14, 15; system, categories of, 18; evolution of, 20; trees in India, 17; and “unity”, 15; values, 243; and women in Telugu literature, 203–11 Family Reunification Policy, Canada, 345 female, disempowerment, 198; feticide, 22; identity, debate on, 180; infanticide, 72, 358; male-male ratio (FMR), 70; ratio, decline in, 249; selfhood, concept of, 166; space, 197– 8; victimhood, 16; vulnerability, 63 Feminine Identity, 127 feminine obsession, with body, 148 feminist economics, 14 feminists, 305–6; politics, influence of, 209

Index 371 fertility decline, 248 festivals, purpose of, 318 feudal Indian family, in Hindi cinema, 284–6 fiction, English, 13; society, family and self in, 125–43; women as victims in immigrant, 218 films, representation of families in, 26, 28 finance(ial), empowerment of women, 151; independence of women, 247–8 Fire (film), 289 Forbes, Geraldine, 18 Forster, E.M., 218 Forever Banyan Tree, 342 freedom, family and, 179–81 “freedom for women”, ideas of, 182 Friedman, Thomas L., 320 Gandharbi, 136 Gandhi, Mahatma, 54n, 303, 305; concept of “Ramrajya” of, 314 Gandharbi, 140 Ganeshan, Indira, 217 Ganga Jamuna (film), 282 Ganorkar, Prabha, 304 Gender,12; based-sharing of resources, 62; categories of, 178; discourse on, 180; equality, 30, 182; equity, 64; importance of, in Gujarati families, 175; inequality, 22–3; issues in Telugu literature, 203; justice, 30; patriarchal notions of, 178; and personalities in Gujarati women’s writings, 174, 177; portrayals, changing profile of, 181– 4; position, 17; and power relations, 13; relations, 26; social construction of, 14; stereotypes, 112 Gellner, Ernest, 214 Gerontologists, 84; on institutional means of support to elders, 94 Ghar Ek Mandir (film), 287 Ghare Baire, 22 Ghosh, Amitav, 216 Ghosh, Arpa, 25, 188 Ghosh, Indranil, 269 Ghosh, Rituparno, 26; family in films of, 243–76

Ghosh, Shailabala, 148 girl child, discrimination of, 193, 208–9; unjust treatment to, 189 Global Politics, 214 “globalization”, 84, 210, 320; and diasporic family dynamics, 213–19 Goddard, Jean Luc, 272 Goldman, Anne, 158 Gray, Edward, 311 Griha Lakshmi, 38; romance in, 49 Grihapravesh (film), 286 Grihashutras, on women, 127 Grihini, 155 grand-mother, role of, 18 group identity, security of, 11 Gubar, Susan, 139 Gujarat no Nath, 176 Gujarati families, in fictions, 25; real and imagined, 174–87 Gujarati fiction, 175 Gujarati women, family as integral part, 179; gender in the writings of, 174 Gulati, Sunil, 249 Gulzar, Meghna, 26, 280 Gumrah (film), 286 Gunther, John, 325 Gupta, Smita, 254, 255, 256 Gupta, Tapati, 223, 225, 226 Gusdorf, Georges, 165 harassment, of women, 74 harmonious family, in Telugu literature, 206–7 Hart, Gillian Rosemary D’Costa, 258 Hema Mailini, 285 Hejmadi, Padma, 216, 217 Hindi cinema, 280; era of “angry young man” in, 287; feudal Indian family in, 284–6; impoverished families in, 282– 4; non-descript middle class in, 286– 8; the rich in, 288–91; story plot on family in, 281 The Hindu Family and Development, 125 Hindu law, Brahmanical version of, 128 Hindu patriarchy, 147 Hindu social institutions, impact on social and economic development, 125

372 The Indian Family in Transition Hindu wedding ceremony, in Canada, 349–50 Hirer Angti (film), 261 HIV-patients, in Nagaland, 108–9 home, and food in Interpreter of Maladies, 157; and “house”, 312; thoughts on, 309–21 “Home for senior Citizens”, Kolkata, 87 Homosexuality, 189, 194; issue in Dattani’s plays, 200 “house”, and home, 312 housework, by women, 46 Hum Aapke Hai Kaun (film), 289 Hum Log (TV serial), 287 Hum Saath Saath Hai, 281 human rights, women’s, and domestic violence, 72–8 Hunting (poem), 29 Hunting for Fish, (poem), 295–6 husband, as head of Naga family, 117– 18; supreme position of, 45; and wife, and earnings by, 251–4; relationship, 50 Hymavati, Mandarapu, 232 Ibsen, 199 ideal Indian family, 13 “ideal woman”, 175 “identity”, 28, 178; denial of, 24; relocating, 140–3 illiteracy, among women, 71; among rural women, 71 Ijaazat (film), 289 Illalkagaane, 211 Imaginary Homelands, 158 Imagined Communities: Reflections on the Origin and Spread of Nationalism, 215 immigrants/immigration, 320; cultural identities of, 214; food habits of, 160; identification and empathy among, 344 imperialism, cultural aspects to, 215 impoverished family, in Hindi cinema, 282–4 incest, 72 inclusion and exclusion, politics of, 328 “independence”, 315

Indian families, in transition, 13; in the world, 339–50 Indian Penal Code, section 498A on domestic violence, 73 “Indian-ness”, 13; conflict between colonial legacy and, 315 “Indianization”, 314 indigenous communities, 105, 108 individualism, 84, 192 individuality, 18 Indo-Canadian community, 346–7 Industrialization, 84 inequalities, in family, 14 inter-racial children, 348 inter-tribal violence, Naga women’s intervention in, 111 interdependence existence, concept of, 166 International Year of Family 1994, 12 International Women’s Decade, 209, 299, 301 interpersonal relations, within domestic space, 14 Interpreter of Maladies, politics of home and food in 157–63 The Intrusion and Other Stories, painful moments of women in, 139,140 Jabeen, Mahe, 234 Jainism, 127 Jasmine, 216 Jaya, 148 Jaya, S., 233, 235 Jayaprabha, 234 Jayaraj, 81 Jejeebhoy, Shreen J., 67 Jher to Pidhan Che Jani Jani, 176 Jhuthu, Saroja Kumar, 356 Jogini, 237 joint family, 66, 150; breakdown of, 83– 5, 246; in Mahesh Dattani’s plays, 25; and retardation in economic growth, 132; system, 16; hypocrisy and hollowness in, 188–201 Joseph, Sara, 138, 142 Journalism, 298 Joyce, 221 The Journey, 217

Index 373 Kabhie Kabhie (film), 288 Kakar, Sudhir, 127 Kalidasa,150; women characters in plays of, 129 Kalyug, 281 Kannabiran, Vasanta, 233, 235 Kanyasulkam, 203 Kapadia, Kundanika, 133, 179, 180, 183, 185 Kapoor, Shashi, 281 Karunam (film), 81 Katju, Justice M., 259 Kedaras, 316 Khabhie Khushi Khabhie Gham (film), 280, 290 Khan, Mansoor, 285 Khan, Mehboob, 282 Khan, Shahrukh, 288 Khandwala, Anjali, 178, 186 Khanna, Rajesh, 286 Khoon Bhari Maang (film), 288 Kibbutz, 62 kinship bonds, 17, 29 Kipling, R., 214–15 Kohima Chamber of Commerce, 113 Kolkata, old age homes in, 85, 100n Konni Padyalu, 235 Kripa Foundation, Mumbai, 113 Kuchh Kuchh Hota Hai (film), 288 Kundera, Milan, 25, 158 Kutumbarao, Kodavganti, 229 labour, gendered division of, 186 Lagaan (film), 284 Lahri, Jhumpa, 157–63 Lakkhir Panchali (song), 147 Lal, Malashri, 11, 355 Lal Patthar (film), 285 Lamb, Sarah, 23, 81 Lawrence, 221 Laws of Manu, on restriction on women’s freedom, 126–7 Laxman rekha, 174 Layla, 155 Leelavati, 129 Lewis, 4 life expectancy, at birth (LEB), increase in, 69

literacy, among women in Nagaland, 120 literary and cultural representations, 16 literary texts, families in, 25 live-in relationships, concept of, 256–61; financial framework of, 260 loneliness, problem of elderly people, 95 Longfellow, 337 Lukes, S., 77 Madan, T.N., 125, 132 Madanes, Cloe, 253 “Madras Formula” films, 287 Mahabharata, 146; and familial relationship, 17; TV serial, 281 Mahalaxmi, 178 Mahanirban Tantra, 129 Mahasweta Devi, 133, 135, 142, 148, 222 Mahendra, Balu, 287 Mai Tulsi Tere Aangan Ki (film), 285 Maine Pyaar Kiya (film), 288 Maini, Irma, 26, 157 Maitri Karaar, 260–1 Majithia, Sunita, 182, 183, 184 Majumdar, Bodhisatta, 272 Majumdar, Leela, 148 Majumdar, Matilal, 91 male child, preference for, 249 male chauvinism,194 male domestic oppression, in Dattani’s plays, 190, 191 male ‘head’, 64; as altruistic decisionmaker, 62; of families, 18 male machismo, 16 Mallick, Sanjay Basu, 106 man/men, as head of households, 66; idea of new, in contemporary Gujarati writings, 185; and manliness in Gujarati literature, 177; status of, 20; and woman relationship in uppercaste/class communities, 15 Mangal Kavya, 147 Mangoes on the Maple Tree, 340 Mani, A.S., 235 Manu, on status of women, 127 Mara Ghar Ne Umbaro Nathi, 175 Marathi Dalit autobiography, family in, 25, 164–72

374 The Indian Family in Transition marital, bliss, 20; infidelity, issue of, in Dattani’s plays, 189, 200; relations, 13 market, institution of, 17 ‘marriage’, 47, 256; age at, 39; and companionate, 50; compulsory, 22; concept of, 18; debate on, 180; and family in Britain, 245; among Nagas, 117, 118; system of negotiated, 140; tolerance level in, 247 Marx, Karl, on slavery and serfdom in family, 22 Marxist politics, influence of, 209 “masculine”, aggressive, 195; -feminine identities, 141–2 Masoom (film), 289 mass education system, 249–50 materialism, 84 Mathew, Mary, 26, 213 matrishakti, power of, 195 Mazha, 138, 142 McGrew, Anthony, 214 medicare, for senior immigrants in USA, 92, 93, 94 Meena Kumari, 285 Mehd, Swati, 180, 183 Mehendi Streela Vignyapti, 238 Mehta, Dhirendra, 177 Mehta, Ila Arab, 179, 181, 183 Mehta, Saroj, 180, 183 Mehta, Sarojini, 179 Memoir, 29 Menon, N.R. Madhave, 259 Meyeder Moner Katha, 131 Meyemanush, 229 middle class, in Hindi films, 286–8; in India, 13; women, 299 The Middleman and Other Stories, 216 migrant middle-class, cultural shock and confusion among, 26 Miloon Saryajani (magzine), 297, 298, 299, 303, 305, 306; on women’s issues, 304 Mish, Georg, 165 Mishra, Justice R.B., 259 Mitra, Arghya Kamal, 273 Mitra, Peary Chand, 129 Mitra, Premanandra, 221 Mitra, Satyacaran, 22, 35, 36, 37

Mizos, community life of, 106; spirit of “tlawmgainha” among, 106 Moatsü festival, women’s participation in, 119 modern families, and independent living, 81–99 modernity, 83 modernization, impact of, on family, 243 monogamy, 126, 258 Monsoon Wedding (film), 289 moral conduct, 40 Morgan, David, 245 mother, -daughter-in-law relationship, 223–4; position of, in joint families, 195; role of, in Naga society, 116, 117 Mother India, 282 “motherhood”, 104, 234; concept of, in Nagaland, 111–12, 119; and maturity of women, 217 Mothers Hope, Nagaland, 114 mothers-in-law, and daughter-in-law and ‘sharing’ of the son, 24; dominancy of, in plays, 191; role of, 18 Mt Gilead Home, Nagaland, 115, 116 Mudra, 236 Mudra: Vanitala Kavitalu, 231 Mukherjee, Aveek, 269, 273 Mukherjee, Bharati, 216 Mukherjee, Mukul, 23, 61 Mukherjee, Rani, 288 Mukhta, 210 Mumbai Police, 73 Munshi, Kanaiyalal, 176 Muralavallamma, 211 Muslim personal law, 128 Mussell, Kay, 160 My Buried Youth in Umbergaon (poem), 334–6 Nabar, Vrinda, 13 Naboth, 215 Naidu, T. Rama, 287 Naga families, essays on, 23; marriages among, 117, 118, 119; patriarchal system among,118; women and, 103– 21; access to private and public space, 112; education of, 118, 120; rights and role of, 119, 120

Index 375 Naga Hohos, 114 Naga Mothers Association (NMA), 104, 110–16; formation of, 115; HIV/ AIDS Care Hospice, 115, 116; and Naga women’s organizations, 111– 12; Youth and Women’s Welfare Organization, 116 Naga nationalism, 111 Naga People’s Movement for Human Rights, 116 Naga society, community participation in, 106, 117; psychosomatic problems among children, 106–11 Naga Students’ Federation, 116 Nagaland, conflict between armed forces and militants, 111; drug abuse in, 108; HIV/AIDS cases in, 108–9; underground groups in, 115 Nagaland Baptist Church Council (NBCC), 110 Nagaland State Development of Health Services, 109 Nagaland State AIDS Control Society (NSACS), 110 Nagaland Weavers Association, 115 Naik, Chhaya, 306 Nair, Mira, 289 Nana Ranger Deen Guli (Bengali television show), 28 Nandy, Ashis, 132, 225 Nannalni Konali Ratenta, 235 Narayan, Shovana, 94 Nari Samanta Manch, 298, 304 narratives, of elders, 83 National Crimes Records Bureau, report on cruelty towards women, 74 National Family Health Survey (NFHS), report of, 68; survey report on domestic violence against women, 75, 76, 77 National Sample Survey (NSS)data, on aged women, 71 National Socialist Council of Nagalim, 112 Nationalism, 42, 129 nationalist movement, and change, 20; spread of, 208; women in, 129 Nations and Nationalism, 214 ‘native women’, 45

Navasmriti, 234 Naxal movement, 149 Naz Foundation, 195 Needalu, 233 Needs of Children, 254 Neelimeghalu: Streevada Kavita Sankalanam, 231, 235 Nehru, Jawaharlal, 104 Neidonuo Angami, 104 Nelson, Emmanuels, 213 ‘new patriarchy’, and definition of women, 54n Nihalani, Govind, 283 Nikanth, Vidyagauri, 180 Nirmala, Kondepudi, 232, 235 Nirupama Devi, 148 Niyoga, 131 non-governmental organization (NGOs), AIDS programme in Nagaland, 110; old age homes run by, 85, 89; women’s approach to, 72 North Eastern States, drug abuse in, 107–8 nuclear families, 16, 17, 66, 82, 246, 340; and marital relationship, 150; urbanization and, 132 Nyay, 179, 183 old age homes, 81, 82, 84, 85–8; concept of, 96; meals in, 86; in Telugu society, 210 On a Muggy Night in Mumbai, 189, 194, 199 oppression, of women, 22, 24 organization, 78 Owen, 221 Oza, Suhas, 178, 183 Padki, Sarita, 302 Padma, Kuppili, 205, 210 Pal, Dhirendranath, 36, 38, 40, 44, 49 “parallel cinemas”, 283 Parama, 273 Parameswaran, Uma, 29, 216 Paranjape, Makarand, 29, 331 Parameswaran, Uma, 339 parents/parental, authority and control in joint families, 189; cruelty, in Dattani’s plays, 200; of NRI children, care of, 88–9

376 The Indian Family in Transition Paroma (film), 286 A Passage to India, 218 Patel, Dhiruben, 180, 183 Pathak, Saroj, 183, 185 Pather Panchali (film), 333 Patil, Vimla, 252 patriarchy/patriarchal, 128, 145, 152, 233; British, 24; concepts, 52; control, 127; discourses of family,178; Hindu, 130; joint families, 17; misogyny, 35; nature of Indian society, 66; and notion of gender, 178; old and new, 41–3; order, Brahmanical, 24; reconstruction of, 128; structure, 13, 128 Pautraboron, 134–5, 142 Payal Sharma case, 259 Pempudu Talli, 229 pension, received by women, 70 Permanent Settlement Act of 1793, 127, 128 Peterson, 14 Pethe, Meghana, 306 Phule, Mahatma, 303, 305 Phule, Savitribai, 305 Plato, 39 Pliny, 39 Poetry, 25; self and family in Telugu Women’s poetry, 231–9 Polyandry, 17 Polygamy, 17 “Pooja”, 27–8 Poverty, 129; and care of elderly, 84 power, and authority, 67; relations, 14 Prabhutva, 177 Prapti, 183 Prasenjit, 272 Pratighat (film), 288 Prayogam, 210 Pravabati Devi, 148 pre-marital courtship,13 Premchand, 229 Pringle, M.K., 254 Prostitution, 42, 47, 129 Protection of Women from Domestic Violence Act, 2005, 74 Psychosomatic problems, among children, 106–11 Punaragaman, 179

Purdah, 19; issue of breaking of, 38 Puri, Om, 282 Putlir Kathaa, 149 Qabaddar, 236 Qayamat Se Qayamat Tak, 285 Raaj Kumar, 285 Raakhee, 285 Raghuram, Ahalya, 257 “Raj” style of living, 316 Rajakeeya Kathalu, 210 Rajasekhara Charitra, 206 Rajan, Balachandra, 219 Raje, Aruna, 283 Rajani, Patibandla, 231 ‘Rajee’ vanalu, 231 Ram Lakhan (film), 287 Ramakrishna, 53n Ramalakshmi, K., 210 Ramanujan, A.K., 331, 342 “Ramrajya”, Gandhiji’s concept of, 314; theme, 316 Ramayana, 146, 281; and familial relationship, 17 Ranganayakamma, 211 Rangarao, Vani, 233, 235 Rao, Kodavatiganti Kutumba, 204 Rao, N. Venugopal, 25, 203 Rape, 73, 74, 139, 140 Rashsundari Devi, 20 Rath, Humanshu, 89 Rathod, Parul, 181–2, 183 Ratulshnakar, 273 Ray, Bani, 145 Ray, Rajat Kanta, 15 Ray, Satyajit, 272 Raychoudhuri, Girijaprasanna, 36, 38 Recasting Women, 129 Reed, John, 338 “reel” Indian family, 280–91 religion/religious, 12; and Indian diaspora, 349; movements, 127 resistance, gesture of, 191 Revati Devi, 234 Rigveda, on life of freedom and strength, 126 Rihaee (film), 283

Index 377 rituals, performance of, for a good husband, 146 ‘romance’, in fictions,13; Indian attitude to, and family structure, 13; Western view of, 13 romantic intimacy, 48–50 Rongsen, M., 105 Roop Kanwar case, 143 Rootless but Green are the Boulevard Trees, 216, 339 Roots and Shadows, 329 “rote-learning” culture, 314 Rowbotham, Sheila, 166 Roy, Anuradha, 273 Roy, Bimal, 284 Roy, Nirupa, 282 Roy, Raja Rammohan, 128 Roy, Sudeshna, 269 rural mindset, and children as support system, 94 rural women, domestic work by elderly, 71; study of, in Tamil Nadu, 68; in rural Uttar Pradesh, 67–8 Rushdie, Salman, 158, 218, 340 Saalabhanjika, 205, 210 Saas-bahu soaps, on TV, 280, 290 Saat Paglan Akashman, 179, 180, 185, 186 Sahadharmini, Vedic principle of, 129 Sahib, Bibi aur Ghulam (film), 285 Samskar, 21 Saniya, 306 Sansar (film), 287 Sanyal, Sulekha, 148 Saptapadi, 179 Saptapari, old age home in Kolkata, 88 Sara Akaash (film), 286 Saraswati, 148 Saraswati Chandra, 175, 176 Saraswati, Dayanand, on motherhood, 130; on role of Indian women, 130 Saratchandra, 147 Sarika Pinjarastha, 183 Sarkar, Tanika, 20 Sarpa Parishvangam, 232 Sastry, Sripada Subrahmanya, 204 The Satanic Verses, 218 Sath-Sath, 298

Sati, 43, 44, 127, 141; abolition of, 20, 128 Sati-Sabitri-Parampara, ideal of, 131, 134 Satyabans, women as, 131 Satyacaran, 36–7, 41, 42, 44, 45, 46, 47, 48, 50; misogyny of, 52; on redefinition of ‘wife’, 39; on reform, 52; on widow remarriage, 43 Satyarth Prakash, 130 Satyavathi, P., 211 Saugandh, 185 Savitri, 232 Sceats, Sarah, 159, 163 Scott, James, 63 seclusion, female, 65, 129 Sei-Sab Swapnagulo, 154 self-creation, autobiography and, 166 self-sufficienct, of elders, 94 Sen, Amartya, 15, 18, 29, 61, 64, 65, 72, 133; dialog with, 355–9; on family, 64–5 Sen, Aparna, 273 Sen, Gita, 66 Sen, Keshub Chander, 37 Sen, Mrinal, 271 Sen, Nabanita Deb, 227 Sengupta, Jayita, 24,125 Sengupta, Priti, 186 Sengupta, Rituparna, 272 senior citizens/elderly, care of, 23; clubs, 90; material and social support to, in joint families, 83; transnational movement of, 90–3; see also elderly senior peer organizations, 89 sex, abuse of children in Dattani’s plays, 200; preference, 65 sexual harassment, 73 sexual impulses, of women, 47 sexual intercourse, 39 sexual promiscuity for men, 47 sexuality, of women, 47, 130, 131, 148 Shadow Lines, 216 Shah, Naseeruddin, 283 Shakti, 126, 282 Shame, 340 Shankar, Mamata, 272 Shantaram, V., 283 Shastras, 21

378 The Indian Family in Transition Shatru, 186 “Shed No More Blood”, 115 Sheela Subhadra Devi, 235 Shelat, Hemanshi, 180, 181, 182 Sheth, Usha, 175 Sherni (film), 288 Shimray, R.R., 105 Sholay (film), 287 Shrimali, Chandra, 182 Shudras, 127 Siddhartha Gautama and Gopa, in Satyacaran’s text, 50–1 Sidney, Philip, 38 Silsila (film), 289 Singh, Amrita Tyagi, 13 Singh, Gopal, 81 Sinha, Mala, 286 Sita, sufferings of, 141 skill-building, by women, 78 Smith, Anthony, 213 Sneharahityam, 232 “sobaliba”, spirit of, among Ao Nagas, 106 social change, process of, 358 social reform, movements, 128, 307; for women, 129 social reformers, on reconstructing the images of womanhood, 131 social transformation, 82 society, in Indian fiction, 125; in NorthEastern Indian, 103 socio-economic structure, shift in, 16 solitary living, by aged, 88–90 son(s), preference for, in Dattani’s plays, 191; submissive, in joint families, 196 Soti, Binodini ebong aami, 151–2 South Asian Canadian women, oppression of, 347 South Asian Indian population, in USA, 82 Sparsanuraganni Alapistoo, 234 spiritual benefits, family and, 98 Sridhar, 25, 231 Srivastava, Siddarth, 195 Stacy, Judith, 12 Stanodayini, 133, 134 State, institution of, 17; role of, and family, 66; welfare programmes for Indian aged in USA, 82

stereotypical roles, of women, 182 The Story of Draupadi’s Disrobing, 142 Stree (magzine), 297, 298, 299, 302, 303, 307 Streer Patra, 22 Streevidya, 205 Stri Prati Swamir Upadesh, 22, 35, 36, 37, 39, 43; misogyny in, 45–8; romance in, 49; wife in, 39 Stir Sahit Kathopakathan, 40–1, 49; wife in, 40 strife, in family in Telugu literature, 207–8 subjugation, between members in family, 62 Sukh ke Dukh, 183 Suksari Katha, 146 Suleri, Sara, 218 Sumi Spaces, 216 Sundari Malua, 147 Sunder Rajan, Rajeshwari, 142 Super Mom Syndrome, 211 Superstitions, 45, 46; of ‘native women’, 43 Supplement Security Income (SSI) Program, for senior citizens in USA, 93, 101n surrogate sons, 84 Suvarna, 178, 180, 181, 186 Swapno ek Rang, 186 Swarajyalakshmi, Chillarige, 235 Swarnakumari Devi, 147, 222 Swarupa Rani, 237 Swayamvara, in Vedic age, 126 The Sweet Smell, 347 Tagore, Rabindranath, 22, 136, 223, 309; in Rituparnao Ghosh’s films, 268 Tamil Nadu, female infanticide in, 72 Tara, 189, 192–3 Tata Institute of Social Sciences, on aftermath of domestic violence, 73 television, impact of advertisements on, 27; serials, 290 Telugu speaking people, analysis of families among, 25 Telugu literature, reflection of family and women in, 203–11

Index 379 Telugu society, and literature, 204; gender sensitive approach to, 204 Telugu women, self and family in poetries of, 231–9 Thikkaanaa, 152–4 Thirty Days in September, 189; child molestation in, 193 Tiger’s Daughter, 216 Tirachee, 233 “tlawmgainha”, spirit of, among Mizos, 106 Tou To Kevu Saru, 178, 186 Towards Equality, 18 tribal/indigenous life, 105 Tripathi, Gowardhanram, 175 Tsüki, Naga women’s participation in, 119 A Typical Son, 210 Uberoi, Patricia, 14, 19, 23 Ughada Akash No Ek Tukdo, 178, 183 Uncle Monkey, 216 Unishe April (film), 261, 262, 263–5, 274– 5 United Nations Declaration on Elimination of Violence Against Women, 1993, 73 United Sates Bureau of Labor Statistics, on earning by women, 252 United Nations Declaration of International Year of the Family, 1994, 12 United Sates, material and social support to senior immigrants, 92; migration to, 320 Upanayanam (thread ceremony), 336 Upanishads, on women, 127 upper-middle class, hypocrisy, 189, 190 urban areas, breakdown of joint families in, 84 urban India, impact of socio-economic changes on family values and relationship, 245–8 urban lifestyles, 253 urban middle class, sociological study of, 19 urban women, education and decisionmaking by, 69 urbanization, 84; impact on family, 243

Utsab (film), 272–4 Vaidya, Bharati, 183 Vaishnava cult, 129 Vaishnavism, 129 Vanaprastha life phase, 87 Vantillu, 233, 237 Vasudhaiva Kutumbakam, comcept of, 16 Vedic age/times, patriarchal joint family in, 17; society in, 126 Veersalingam, Kandukuri, 203, 206 Veil, 135–40 Vidyasagar, Ishwar Chandra, 128 Villette, 217 Vimla, 233, 237 violence, against women, 63,72 Viparyas, 183 Vishwanath, K., 287 Vistaar, 179, 183 Vitantuvu, 229 Voices in the City, 139 Volga, 210, 234 Wad, Vijaya, 301 wada (house), 323, 325 Walsh, Judith, 22, 35 Watsü Rogo Mungdang, in Nagaland, 119 Watve, Milind, 304 weddings, and family, 326 Weldon, Fay, 228 Western civilization, 125 Western educated Bengali men, and ‘romantic love’, 50 Western sources, 38–9 ‘Westernization’, 84, 314 When Mr Pirzada Came to Dine, 161 Where Shall We go this Summer, 139 widow(s), 327–8; as female-headed households, 71; as inauspicious, 178; plight of, 21; remarriage, issue of, 36, 40, 42, 43, 47, 54n, 131; system, 128; restrictions on, 25; stories of, 24–5; vegetarian food for, 24 Widow with Sons, 229 widower(s), living conditions of, 72; population of, 71 widowhood, 127; among aged rural women, 71

380 The Indian Family in Transition Wife, 216 wife, battering, 75, 76–7; devoted, 41– 2; and husband, and earnings by, 251–4; redefinition of, in novels of Satyacaran, 39–41 Wifehood, Sati Sabitri Parampara, 127 Williams, Raymond, 167 Williams, Tennesse, 199 Wirth, Louis, 132 woman/women, of advancing age, 70; and agency, 25, 61–78; in decisionmaking, 66–9; in changing pattern of Indian society, 126–32; condition of middle-class, 131; dependent status of elderly, 70; education of, 38; in Telugu society, 206; emancipation of, 128; in Telugu literature, 206; family and, 132–5; in Telugu literature, 203– 11; freedom and power of, 355–6; in Gujarati writings, bondage and subordination of, 179; characters in, 179– 80; concept of new, 185; as rebels, 183; home education for, 44; identities and role models, 165; as impure, 127; and Naga family, 103–21; as

outsider in the family, 18; poetry by, family representation in, 25; reform of social conditions of, 44, 54n; role of, in family and society, 18, 132; servitude of, 22; status of, 20, 64, 65; stereotypical portrayals of, 235; stories on single, 210; valorization of, 129; as victims of immigrant fictions, 218; vulnerable position of, 63; writers in Bengal, 20, 147 Woman versus Womanliness in India, 132, 225 womanhood, changing face of Indian, 129; stereotyping of, 358 Woolf, Virginia, 276 working women, and home and work responsibility, 244; marries, as home breakers, 28 Yeh Jo Hai Zindagi (TV serial), 287 Zakhmee Aurat (film), 288 zamindars, empowerment of, 127–8 Zanjeer (film), 287 “zhai”, spirit of, in Poumai Nagas, 106 Zubeida (film), 285