Why are we still uncomfortable with the idea of widows finding joy and meaning in life?

I was around eight-nine years old, when my grandfather’s sister arrived from Mangalore. She towered over me, despite her stoop, her grey-blue eyes resting kindly on my face, her knobbly fingers stroking my cheeks. There was something different about this figure clad in a rough muddy red nine-yard sari and a white blouse, with elbow-length sleeves and buttons that reached her throat. I noticed her bare arms, neck and ears, which was unlike the other women in our house, whose ears flashed diamond earrings, whose necks were adorned with a mangalsutra and whose wrists made music as the gold bangles they wore clinked together. It was when the sari pallu covering her head slid down her neck that I noticed her shaven head. I remember gasping almost audibly, though she was quick to pull it back over her head.

Never having seen a woman with a shaved head before, my spontaneous reaction was to ask my mother why grandma wore her hair so short, only to be shushed into silence. Mother’s eyes conveyed that I was never to speak about it again. I must have appeared rude to the grandma, as I watched her from the corner of my eyes wondering why she wore the same muddy red sari and white blouse every day, till I saw one set spread out on the clothesline and another on her body, and realised that it was her ‘uniform’. It was when an older friend who had came home to play with me remarked, ‘Oh, your grandmother is a vikesha, just like my Sumati Ajji, who lives in our village,’ did I realise that there were other women like her. Varsha told me that vikeshas were women without hair; whose heads were shaved when their husbands died. ‘My Ajji too wears the same sari,’ she said. I remember snuggling up to grandma several times a day, wanting to hug her, an inexplicable sadness enveloping me.

My mother was widowed at 23, and I had heard how, when some relatives had approached her to remove her mangalsutra and wipe her forehead, a beloved, firebrand elderly relative, ‘Ba’ to the young and old, had stepped forward like a warrior, her hands on her hips, daring anyone to do that. She was a rebel, way ahead of the times, and sensitive enough to stop the cruel practice. When I was older, mother told me how Ba had commanded, ‘Go, take a bath and leave the rest to me.’ When mother had come out of the shower, Ba had dried her hair, braided it, and adorned it with a fragrant mogra gajra, applied a red kumkum tikka on her forehead and insisted that she wear a printed floral sari. Such was Ba’s vehemence that none dared to oppose her diktat. Mother had the support of her parents too, who encouraged her gently to complete her graduation, appear for qualifying exams and take up a job in a bank.

Not all women are so fortunate. I remember a widow shrinking back, as I applied haldi kumkum on her forehead, as I did, to the other women accompanying her, and then being admonished for my ‘blunder’. From that day onwards, I stopped following the custom that is followed in some homes, of applying haldi-kumkum (reserved only for a sumangali– a married woman whose husband is still living) while taking leave of women guests. I did not want to be party to this discrimination. I also stopped conducting the haldi-kumkum ceremony to which only sumangalis are invited. Blindly following prescribed customs that blatantly marginalised a few revolted me, and I realised that being vigilant, questioning and taking concrete steps, however small, were fairly effective forms of protest.

When I got married, mother refused to ‘give me away’. Despite the liberalism she was exposed to, her mind was so conditioned that as a widow she was unlucky, her fears made her resolute. My cajoling had no effect on her. The family opined that it was her comfort that mattered. One of my regrets is not knowing her mind before the ceremony, for had I the slightest inkling, I would have opted for a registered marriage. I have seen several other widows in the family shrinking away from performing religious rites. Nobody seems to mind, so deep-rooted is its acceptance.

A few things have certainly changed. Widow remarriage is no longer as taboo as it was. Education and financial independence have ensured that widows do not have to toe the line of regressive customs, at least in urban areas, though I say this more out of observation than any statistics at hand. We still hear stories of unwanted attention and ill-treatment at the hands of family members. Though we have come a long way from the horrendous practice of Sati, we need greater humanitarian strides if we are to speak of the true empowerment of widows. The plight of the widows of Vrindavan, driven out of their rightful homes, and living in penury and loneliness, comes to my mind, as also that of widows around the world who are ostracised or branded as witches.

It’s time we acknowledged that a bereaved woman going through the emotionally wrenching event of losing her life partner does not need a misogynist code of social conduct that disarms her. All she needs is a way forward to lead a highly meaningful and joyous new life.

(Source: She The People TV)

Single mother conducted her daughter’s kanyadaan

She was both mother and father to her daughter Sandhya. There was no question who would perform the Kanyadaan, writes Anakha Arikara in TBI. Read on: 

The picture is of a young bride, as the groom ties the auspicious mangalsutra around her neck.

It is a typical wedding picture, until you look closer, and see that the bride is sitting on her mother’s lap, in what is traditionally known as the practice of Kanyadaan.

The ritual holds particular significance in Hindu weddings, where it is the father who presents the bride to the groom, entrusting his daughter to him to cherish and care for, for the rest of their lives. When the father is not present, the honour goes to an uncle or any other male relative.

So when Raji Sharma, a single mother, stepped up to give away her daughter, Sandhya, many people were intrigued, and amazed that a woman had broken all conventions to perform the Kanyadaan!

“When Sandhya wanted to have a Hindu Brahmin wedding, the one thing I was worried about was Kanyadaan. In my daughter’s case, I wanted to take on the father’s role, but I didn’t know if my family would support my decision, or if I could even find a priest who would do it,” recalls Raji.

However, when she told the family about her desire to play a part in the auspicious ritual, they welcomed the idea with open arms and an open mind.

“They told me that as I have been both her mother and her father throughout her life, there was no question that I should be one who performs the Kanyadaan,” she says.

The family then set about finding a priest who would agree to such an unconventional wedding! Their search brought them to Raghavan, the priest who conducted the ceremony, and he had no qualms about it.

And thus, it was Raji who proudly gave her daughter away, a moment which was clicked flawlessly, by wedding photographer, Varun Suresh. On his blog, he remembers that the wedding was unlike any other he had attended.

“This wedding definitely got the better of me. The sheer extent of happiness that was shared and celebrated was humbling. I can easily say, even if this wedding lasted another week I would have shot through every second of it without breaking Facebook with my complaints,” he writes.

Raji’s journey hasn’t been easy. Hailing from a family settled in Chennai, she relocated to Sydney, Australia, after her marriage. Seventeen years and two kids later, she went through a divorce and had to rebuild her life again.

“I was at risk of losing my job, and I was going through a tough period in my life. I used to tell myself to think of and be inspired by the other Indians who had just landed in Australia and were trying to build new lives. With my amazing kids for support, I was able to get through it,” she recounts.

Raji is someone who believes that everything happens for a reason in life and every challenge teaches new skills. She says being the youngest sibling in her family, and relocating to different cities throughout her childhood gave her two admirable qualities: resilience and acceptance.

Today, she is a hardworking single mother, who has a great job at VMWare, and two wonderful kids, Sandhya and Mahesh, her pride and joy. She is also a passionate cook, and teaches cooking on the weekends!

When people see that photograph, they don’t see a woman going against tradition. They see the pure, unadulterated joy of a family.

They see a mother whose heart is filled with pride and love for her daughter—and that is really what makes a mere ritual, something of meaning and beauty.

Coral or CORAL? Here’s how mangalasutra rumours swept Karnataka, Telangana

A rumour has been sweeping rural parts of northern Karnataka and Telangana that it is not auspicious for women to wear coral beads in their mangalsutras as it would impair their husband’s health.

Gripped by panic, women have been removing coral beads from their mangalsutras and breaking the gemstones.

The panic began Tuesday evening in parts of Ballari, Koppal, Chitradurga and Gadag districts. In Gadag district, villagers of Harlapur and Hombal said they have received calls from relatives in Ballari and Chitradurga urging them to remove coral from their wedding necklaces.

In Telangana, rumours that wearing mangalasutras at night would lead to personal problems swept Gadwal and its neighboring mandals in Jogulamba Gadwal district.

Married women from Gadwal, Gattu, Rayapuram, Penchikalpadu, Poodur, Erravalli mandals removed their mangalasutras Tuesday night and wore them again Wednesday morning.

Local women said the rumour blew in from Raichur district in neighbouring Karnataka.

"It spread like wildfire in our district. We were told that the red beads in the mangalasutra would cause problems in our families. We were asked to remove the mangalasutra at night and wear it again in the morning," said a woman who did not want to be identified.

Rationalists debunked the rumours. Federation of Indian Ratonalist Associations (FIRA) president Prof Narendra Nayak blamed some TV channels for triggering the 'coral hysteria’ in Karnataka.

Activists in Ballari informed Prof Nayak that some TV channels triggered panic among women by claiming that the coral beads caused cancer.

Puzzled by this, Prof Nayak found the answer in an online abstract in PubMed (a reference centre with millions of citations to articles in biomedical journals). The abstract was titled "Methodology of building up and validation of models for carcinogenic potentials of drugs by means of the CORAL software.’ "TV channels mistook it for coral beads and concluded that it causes cancer,’’ Prof Nayak said. He added that chemical compounds from coral are in fact used to treat cancer, AIDS and pain.

(Source: The New Indian Express)