Marriage, children (Getting married, having children)

Marriage, in Hindu theology, is a sacred duty. According to the Shastras, marriage diminishes some of the sin that one inherits from birth. While few of us today are aware of what the Shastras prescribe, the feeling of obligation or duty continues unabated. Yet, given the overall trend of departure from religious dogma in our country, there are increasing numbers of us who choose to not get married- either in the so called ‘marriageable age*’ or even at all. The question then arises- how does the society deal with such recalcitrants? 

If still in the ‘marriageable age’, a double whammy ensues- the family coaxes, and peers cause disquietude.

Inquisitional methods are applied, either to the face or behind the back. ‘Why isn’t he/she married?’, ‘Is there a medical reason?’, ‘Must have had their heart broken’, ‘Did no one find them attractive?’, ‘too selfish’, ‘must have taken a vow’… the list is as long as the contour of ignorance itself.

Beyond this 'admissible' period, the gaze of prying eyes begins to transfigure- from baleful contempt to inflated sympathy. Take the example of the 'unmarried bua (aunt)', a common fixture in Indian films. One need not elaborate further.

Yet, the decision of not getting married does not evoke as strong a passion as does the one of not having children. This is terrifying for society, completely beyond its grasp. Stupefied by incomprehension, the only comeback that can be churned here is one of pretentious sympathy. When one sees a couple beyond the ‘reproducible age*’ without children, showers of pity begin to fall. These showers become tempests as the specimen being judged advances in age. An old, gray haired, ‘childless’ couple is perhaps the strongest sympathy magnet in Indian imagination. It does not matter whether this couple voluntarily chose not to have children, or even if they could not reproduce themselves, are perfectly okay with it, and chose freely not to adopt. 

Justice (Retd.) Katju rightly calls India a 'semi-feudal' society. It remains to be seen when and how we allow those amongst us to assert themselves without fear, who we have not allowed to do so in the past.

*marriageable age/reproducible age:

For men- not fixed, obviously

For women- up to 30; based of late on the largely unscientific myth that women above 30 have ‘complications’ during delivery

Experiences in England

This past month, I have been attending a course in London on Human Rights. The demographics could not have been more diverse: the professor a Syrian British scholar trained in the US, and the classmates including students of law, international relations, and journalism from France, Italy, Germany, and Taiwan. The experiences and viewpoints that each of us contributed in class reflected our diverse cultures, ideologies, and backgrounds.

Needless to say, the program turned out to be enriching beyond words.

Upon its close, I can think of certain notable factors which, in my opinion, made the course so rewarding.

As a student who has had the experience of going through the education system both at home and now abroad, I was able to observe in England two striking things which were a complete departure from the system in India:

1.    The professor as a professional

In our country, the culture (deriving from ancient spiritual and cultural ethos) places the people in our everyday lives on distinct pedestals. Parents and teachers, above all, are explicitly ordained to be at par with God himself. Owing to this, for better or for worse, the possibility of having a relationship among equals is eliminated. Obedience is the cornerstone of this contract, with little room for discussion or consensus, forget dissent.

In England, the professor is a professional and nothing else. They only expect the student’s commitment to the course, and little else. They are held in high regard, not because of any spiritual or cultural factors, but because of their knowledge and experience. In the classroom, this fundamental difference has a tremendous impact on how discourse occurs. The classroom thus becomes a beacon for open discussion, explanation, and debate, with each person equal to the other, including the professor.

2.   Learning method and exam pattern

The semester exam in India is, in all truth, a memory test. In engineering, for instance, one is supposed to write theorems and solve numerical questions by remembering formulae. In law, entire provisions, authorities, and case laws are expected to be memorized. The other students in my class in London were baffled when I told them that I had key provisions of the Indian Penal Code memorized.

As most of the grading is focused on reproducing from memory, few are interested in attending lectures, and prefer studying at home. If they do at all, it is only to save themselves from punitive action later. For most, the subject is not learnt in class, but during the month-long ‘preparatory leave’.

In London, to my great surprise (and happiness), we were not expected to memorize a single word. We were, however, expected to thoroughly read and reflect upon an extensive set of ‘required readings’ and ‘recommended readings’. These included textbooks, journals, research papers, newspaper reports, online video discourses, and magazines, to name a few. We were not expected to ‘learn by heart’ a single definition, equation or formula. Instead, we were expected to assimilate the learnings from this diverse literature, and formulate our own argument. The grading depended on how well were able to articulate the learnings into own words in the exam.

These points are an attempt to highlight the differences between the two countries, with the aim to stir the debate on what we want our own educational system to be.

Finally, it would not be prudent to jump to the conclusion that the entire Indian system is substandard. The academic community in India is not very far behind in either diligence and commitment to the cause of education. However, even they agree that an overhaul is necessary. The world’s sixth largest economy deserves a system that propels it to even greater heights in its tryst with destiny.

Cadell or Veer

‘Independence’

At the turn of the 20th century, when Indian politics was led by Bal Gangadhar Tilak (the ‘Father of the Indian Unrest’), its raison d’etre shifted from achieving social reform as espoused by Phule, Sir Syed and Ranade, to achieving political reform. Achieving social reform as an objective, by completely cooperating with the imperial government, was replaced by the goal of attaining of self-rule or ‘Swaraj’ (according to Ambedkar at the cost of the former). Since then, ‘Swaraj’ would end up defining the country’s political trajectory. Subsequently, Gandhi and Nehru also made ‘Independence’ their life’s objective, so much so that Nehru, during his 1937 election campaign, called for people to vote for the Congress ‘only if they believed in Swaraj’. Tilak, Gandhi and Nehru were all convinced that British rule was the root of all evils plaguing the country, and that only in its removal lied the country’s salvation.

Then, as it happened, legislation after legislation, through Morley-Minto, Montague-Chelmsford and the Cabinet Mission, the colonial enterprise came to an end. Now that the ‘natives’ began to rule the roost, and every successive government with their complacency and ineptness ended up making the British look good, the need to demonize the European ruler was increasingly felt. Soon enough, the Congress Party propaganda machine with unabashed use of state machinery began eulogizing the ‘Independence Movement’ while idolizing its leaders. The country’s history textbooks in their anti-Anglo Saxon zeal not only erased pro-imperial narratives, but also the legacy of intensely patriotic yet pro-British leaders such as TB Sapru and MR Jayakar from public memory. An entire generation grew up believing that before the Battle of Plassey, India was a ‘Sone Ki Chidhiya’, some sort of celestial Dwarka, Atlantis, Neverland or Utopia; and that the British ‘looted it all’. And obviously, that the spectacular and immaculate representative governments since 1947 have only had their problems because of the ‘colonial past’.

Another evil to accompany the first

While the anti-British propaganda machine ran unabated for 70 long years, India witnessed the rise and then domination of another very similar rhetoric in the same timeframe: Hindu nationalism. They are indeed quite similar as they are both rooted in hatred, the former of the European, and the latter of anyone but the Hindu. The world got to see how comfortably they could work together in Maharashtra of the 1990’s, during the heyday of the Hindu nationalist Shiv Sena in the state politics. The first domino to fall was the name Bombay, to be replaced by the Marathi equivalent ‘Mumbai’. As Suketu Mehta points out in ‘Maximum City’, all major cities in the world are called differently in different languages. London is called so in English, while in French and Spanish it is Londres. Cairo is called so in English, while in Arabic it is Al Kahira. Bombay similarly was called so in English, in Hindi as Bambai, and in Marathi and Gujarati as Mumbai.

Yet, we saw the combination of anti-European and communal rhetoric trump common sense, and the city was renamed. Following this was the rampant renaming of streets earlier named after Europeans. The more prominent roads were renamed after Hindu or Marathi leaders, and the other smaller streets after the grandparents of the highest bidder. Never mind the historical or cultural significance that these old names bore. After all, Europeans are monsters; there is no question of them having done anything good for India.

Cadell vs Savarkar

The road outside my apartment in Mumbai is one of the city’s principal arteries since British times. When built during the first two decades after 1900, after the Bombay Municipal Corporation decided to commission the suburbs Dadar, Sion, Matunga and Wadala, the road was named after the British army officer Thomas Cadell. Cadell was a war veteran who had played a key role in suppressing the Sepoy Mutiny in 1857. Now, the Sepoy Mutiny was a revolt waged against the British authorities of the time, not by the common populace, but by the princes, landed aristocracy and feudal families whose inheritance was threatened by a legal instrument called the Doctrine of Lapse. These rulers had no love for the populace, and they called off the revolt the moment Queen Victoria declared the safety of their fiefdoms in 1858. Social reformers of the time including Sir Syed Ahmed and Jyotiba Phule had thanked the country’s lucky stars that British rule was restored.

Then in 1909, Vinayak Damodar Savarkar wrote the book ‘The Indian War of Independence’, painting the rebellion as if it were something momentous like the Fall of Bastille or the Russian Revolution. The Sena government, which regarded Savarkar as one of its sources of inspiration, had found a golden opportunity to correct a ‘historical injustice’. 

And hence as fate would have it, Cadell Road was renamed Veer Savarkar Marg.

To pay homage to the imaginary ‘War of Independence’ perhaps. Also, never mind the fact that a large portion of the Cadell road houses the Kapad Bazar, a large Muslim ghetto, whose residents now are forced to write in their home address the name of a man who hated their existence. Oh, maybe that part was deliberate. (Savarkar fervently hated the British and the Muslims both; calling for the removal of Urdu, Farsi and English loan words from Marathi.)

It is a known fact that hatred is brilliant vote-catcher. But it is also unquestionably true that hatred as a public policy inflicts deep wounds on the society, which are very difficult to heal. Such anti-social ideologies must be countered for the good of the nation. But while in opposition, the true liberal must understand and accept that not all those who adhere to hatred in their lives or politics are essentially evil. The objective of the liberal movement should be to convince its opponents of the virtues of pluralism, equality, and tolerance, while exposing the ugly face of communalism. The true victory of liberal thought in India will be the day we as a country look at our experience with the Delhi Sultanate, the Mughals and the British from a dispassionate standpoint, not through a jaundiced and partisan lens.

Why we must oppose a ban on the Burka

The Burka or the headscarf is perhaps the most controversial of apparels worn in the world today. It is upheld by several traditionalists as well as ordinary Muslims, and continues to be one of the most frequently worn robes among Muslim women. Fashioned differently in different parts of the Muslim world, from a simple headscarf in Iran and Turkey to a stringent head-to-toe cover in Saudi Arabia, this custom has been criticised by several progressives and reformists everywhere. Interestingly, the Burka has also faced strong criticism from the Christian and Hindu right wing elements, and governments in France, Belgium and the Netherlands have banned the practice altogether. Now, with the rise of the social media propelled ‘alt-right’ in today’s age, the movement to get the Burka banned seems to be getting steady momentum, with Germany also proposing similar legislation. In such a politically volatile atmosphere, it is only fit that only a healthy debate should be allowed to dictate the terms of our society’s discourse.

Enough has been already written on how the practice of wearing the Burka came into being, how it has continued over the centuries, and how its affects the status of women in our society. Yes, it can conclusively be said that there remains no scientific reason or human necessity today which demands this practice. Apart from the continuation of traditions or customs, there is no purpose that the Burka serves. Its critics, however, claim that the robe itself is a form of suppression and misogyny, with the its sole purpose being to ensure the subservience of women to men. This is a very good argument, and those in favour of the Burqa have been unable to provide any convincing counter-narrative. 

I agree with the critics in their analysis of the problem, but I stand vehemently opposed to the solution they propose(a ban). A ban on the Burka, I am convinced is ill-conceived, and its implementation even self-defeating on two levels. 

One: True ‘good governance’ implies that the government’s job is only to ensure the implementation of the country’s constitution, and to uphold the rule of law. This in itself is one mammoth of a job. The government should have no business in interfering in matters which cause no detriment to the constitution or the rule of law. I make this point for the government’s non-intervention particularly in this case, since the adherence to this social practice results in no direct infringement of a woman’s fundamental rights, and neither brings into jeopardy her physical or mental well-being as defined by law. While I do agree that the Burka is undesirable, it is the job of a vibrant civil society, and not the ruling government to ‘reform’ (actually intervene in) people’s lives. This is certainly not a thumb rule, and the government indeed must act if there is real damage or injury if being caused. Over the past two hundred years, the Government of India (both imperial and representative) has been benevolent in its abolishing of widow-burning or sati, child marriage, and female foeticide, among many other abominations. After a dispassionate and critical analysis, one would agree that wearing the hijab as a custom, however unwanted, cannot match the criminal consequences of these other evil practices. Hence the government should only stay away from this matter.

Two: The implications of such a ban. The proponents of such a ban are under the impression that a ban would ‘liberate’ Muslim women from the clutches of the generally misogynistic and patriarchal societies that they are a part of. They overlook the simple fact that no ban on any clothing can solve the real problem- the society itself. This ban, in fact, would make the problem much worse, as it would take away the little mobility and freedom that women from such close-knit communities have in the first place. 

I can explain my case with a simple example: the Muslim women who frequent a jogger’s park  in my neighbourhood (Scottish Garden in Mahim). After around 8PM, when most of the regular crowd leaves, the largest demographic left in this park is that of Burka clad women. Mostly homemakers, they come to the garden in search of some fresh air and a refreshing walk. Do the proponents of the Burka ban (so called reformists)  really think that if a ban is implemented, that these poor women would still have the freedom to leave their houses for an evening walk? In all probability, their families would ensure that they remain confined even those few precious hours that they today have to themselves (notwithstanding while wearing a Burka). My heartfelt question to the proponents of the ban is, what right do you have in stealing the few hours of freedom that these women enjoy today?

'Freedom'