The problem

MOST writing on women in India (or Indian women) inadvertently makes for grim reading – narratives of patriarchal exclusion. We are reminded of declining sex ratios, sex-selective abortion, a neglect of the girl child when it comes to education and nutrition, early marriage, multiple pregnancies, discrimination in matters of inheritance and property rights and an invisible ceiling in the job market. It is thus not surprising that the rare woman who breaks through these multiple barriers and leaves a mark on society tends to be iconised. Though whether we learn from the lives of these ‘extraordinary’ women, in particular leveraging their struggles to engender a more level playing field for their less fortunate sisters, remains questionable. India, after all, retains a vast capacity to ‘elevate’ individuals and issues to a level of irrelevance.

Take the commonplace renderings of the panch-kanyas – Ahalya, Draupadi, Kunti, Tara and Mandodari – singly and collectively invoked as role models for the new Hindu bride. Venerated for their tapas and sacrifice, it is rare to come across a more complex rendering of their lives, despite the labours of feminist scholars. Is this because even the mythic reality of their lives might immeasurably complicate the lessons dinned into our women from the earliest years – to be compliant and subservient, even when wronged?

A recent article by Pradip Bhattacharya (Manushi 140) ‘Of Kunti and Satyawati: Sexually Assertive Women of the Mahabharata’, makes for instructive reading. Not just because of the unusual control both women display over their sexuality and individuality but equally because of their role in subverting the rigidities of the caste order. Kunti, the mother of the Pandavas, begets her children through sambhoga with the gods, necessary given the impotence of her husband and the need to keep alive the family line. She is also a Yadav, an OBC in current parlance.

Satyawati, the mother of Ved Vyas, author of the epic, is a fisher-girl (low caste), who subsequent to a pre-marital encounter with Sage Parashara marries Shantanu. She not only deprives Devbrata, Shantanu’s first born, of the throne of Hastinapura, but when her own sons die childless, arranges niyoga for the daughters-in-law to keep alive the family line. And for the purpose, she invites, not a high caste Kshatriya or Brahmin, but the mixed-caste Vyasa, her first born from Parashar. Rarely is it realized that the premier clan of mythic India, the Kuru vansha that traces its lineage from the moon, reflects a subverted caste order, thanks to the machinations of Satyawati.

Given the symbolic space myths occupy in our society and consciousness, such unconventional renderings remain uncommon. It is far less troubling to present sanitized versions of great women – goddesses, saints, and the rare ruler – to claim for ourselves a civilizational legacy which accorded a central and venerable status to women. In the process we also displace potential challenge to a social order which has so far refused to grant women genuine equality.

It is troubling that more modern biographies too find it difficult to break out of this mould. Be it accounts of Laxmibai, the Rani of Jhansi and undoubtedly an inspiring figure in the 1857 mutiny, India’s first war of independence, or of the many women who played a stellar role in the anti-colonial struggles of the 20th century – what we get is an Amar Chitra Katha rendering of great Indian women, antiseptic and hagiographic. It is no surprise that the autobiography of Laxmibai Tilak, Smriti Chitra (published in Marathi in four parts between 1934 and 1937; English translation, I Follow After, OUP, 1950) was introduced as mandatory reading at the school level in pre-independence Maharashtra. Laxmibai lived a difficult life. A child bride to Narayan Waman Tilak – poet, ascetic and a prominent convert to Christianity – she was routinely left to fend for herself. Not only did she overcome the many hurdles – the stigma attached to conversion, illiteracy, poverty – she both educated herself as also went on to make an amazing contribution to the cause of girls’ education in the early years of the previous century. What, however, really intrigues modern day feminists is that the autobiography carries no strain of reproach towards her wayward husband. Possibly, this was one reason why our reformist pedagogues deemed her a worthy role model for the young.

There is indeed much to celebrate in the lives of Indian women – past and present – and not only those from more privileged backgrounds who chose difficult paths to engage in public service. Fortunately, we now have a small, though growing, body of literature that focuses on ‘ordinary women’ from varied social strata, and their struggles to realize their potential. And while, in the main, the focus remains on the heroic, the extraordinary nature of their achievement, we also learn about them as women in all their complexity.

This issue of Seminar profiles a few such women who in their diverse settings and strivings provide inspiration that the battle for gender equality remains joined.