Voices: The Sanction of a Man
A woman’s ordeal with patriarchy—from day-to-day matters to life’s milestone events such as getting married.
“Ghar mein koi adami to hoga?” (“There must be some man in your home?”)
The police officer was getting increasingly exasperated with me. A few minutes earlier, on my way to work, I had executed a neat turn on my motorcycle into a side road in Vasant Vihar, New Delhi. In a hurry to make it to the office on time, I had completed missed the newly installed ‘One Way’ sign and now I was standing in front of a burly police officer who was sitting atop an equally burly Bullet motorcycle.
I was not the only driver to have made that mistake. More and more motorists were being flagged down by a gleeful assistant. I produced my driver’s license— everything was in order. Now it was time to pay the fine. All traffic fines had to be paid by appearing at the local court. For my district, that happened to be at the Delhi-Haryana border.
The officer, familiar with the place, thought it was not a suitable place for a young woman to go on her own. Send your father, he said.
“Sorry, he’s no more.”
“Brother?”
“We’re a family of daughters.”
“Chacha, mama, taya…koi adami to hoga?”
I shook my head as he went down the list of close male relatives. None of them lived in town. The officer almost threw my license back at me in a gesture of annoyance and asked me to go away.
That was the first time I had trouble with officialdom after my father had passed away, and I had been asked to bring a male representative of the family. But it certainly was not the last. In the months that followed, when official papers had to be transferred to my mother’s name, both my sister and I came across men sitting behind desks who summarily dismissed us and instead asked to speak to our brother. These exchanges tested our patience. Not only were the officials rude but their attitudes were so different from what we were used to.
It took the author hanging her feminist hat for a bit to finally make arrangements for her wedding ceremony, while her then fiancé was working overseas.
Growing up, I had had a very different experience of gender roles. Not one given to a patriarchal worldview, my father encouraged independence for my sister and me. He gave us chances to build our confidence so that we would be able to stand on our two feet. When we were in high school, my sister and I went on train journeys by ourselves to visit extended family. By the time we started college, we were managing our separate bank accounts. I did not think much about his actions till decades later when I met women my age or older who had never been given the opportunity to handle their own money or travel by themselves.
Father-less, brother-less, I felt my life was carrying on just fine and I did not feel the need to have a man speak for me, save on one occasion. After the upheaval of a divorce, I was getting ready for a new phase in life. I was getting married again. In my mind, the biggest hurdle was emotional—could I trust my judgment again? Could I believe that marriage would work this time around? Little did I know that the practical details of getting married would prove to be a challenge as well.
For various reasons, my fiancé and I settled on the quickest option suggested to us—to have an Arya Samaj wedding and to have it registered. We wanted to take care of the details ourselves, wary of involving our families. On my side, having gone against my mother’s wishes the first time around, I was not willing to eat humble pie. His parents too had not been overjoyed at his choice of a bride. Marrying a woman with a failed marriage was still taboo, especially if the groom himself was not a divorcee. Our families were welcome, we said, but only as guests.
As he was working overseas, I decided to take charge of the logistics. How hard could that be, I thought to myself. I was a capable 32-year-old woman handling different projects in my professional life. It had to be just a question of getting details in place.
I arranged for a meeting with the manager of an Arya Samaj temple. The priest would also be there, I was told over the phone. Both men looked very surprised when I walked into the room alone. The manager’s expression went from surprise to disapproval when I stated my case. There was no way he could discuss anything with me, he said. A woman could not take on the task of arranging her own wedding. Now, if there was a father or a brother, even if it was a younger brother, he’d be happy to talk to them. I walked out of the room, saying words more or less to the effect that I did not need anyone to do the kanyadaan, that I would give myself away.
As I marched down the stairs, fuming, the priest followed me. Though he was appalled at my lack of tact, he was willing to help. If I could find a venue, Arya Samaj temple or not, he’d be happy to officiate.
I felt deeply unsettled. As an earning member in society, I was at par with men in certain aspects. I could be the owner of a house, a vehicle, a luxury item and no one would raise an eyebrow. But in decisions that impacted my life the most, I needed the sanction of a man. I was going on about my troubles to a friend, a young man in his 20’s. “My father can help,” he offered; and after a look at my fierce expression, he added hastily, “If you want.”
That night I spent a long time mulling over my situation. In the morning, I hung up my feminist hat with a promise that I would come back to it at a later date. Right now, expediency was more important than ideology.
My friend’s father introduced himself as my uncle and helped arrange for a venue. Now I had a venue and a priest. But a host of other details still had to be taken care of. It would have been impossible to do it all by myself and I finally sought help. My family rallied around me, graciously letting go of the fact that I had chosen not to involve them in my plans from the beginning. Instead of being a lone warrior trying to take on the world on her own, now I had the support of loved ones.
And chance had another gesture of comfort in store for me. Shankara Kendra in Vasant Vihar, the venue for my wedding was the same place where my oldest sister had got married years ago when my father was alive. My memories conjured him up in that hall, exchanging lighthearted comments with his cousins, making others laugh with his easy charm and warm smile. Though he would have frowned at my quick temper and angry outbursts, I think he would have given his full approval to the fact that I had taken the most important decisions of my life on my own, that I had the courage to end an ill-suited marriage and was willing to seek happiness again.
Atlanta-based Aruna Padmanabhan is a freelancer who writes about her penchant for eco-tourism, nature, society, and culture.
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