by Ira Trivedi
I ask Sharma what will happen to my poor friend Shiny. Much to my relief Sharma doesn’t seem to be too worried about his case. Over 60 per cent of contested divorces eventually go on to become divorces of mutual consent since it is difficult to prove mental or domestic cruelty. Cases go on in court for years, usually till one person decides to re-marry, and agrees to reach a settlement. The divorce then takes place by mutual consent. Shiny has already done his time in jail and it is unlikely that he will go behind bars again. The case will go on till Shilpa’s family decides to end the trial and settle on a sum of money. In an ironic twist of fate it seems that divorce, like marriage, is simply a game of numbers.
♦
An adorable young girl dressed in a frothy pink and yellow frock runs past us, and Shiny’s face suddenly lights up. He touches her hand as she runs past. I can tell he loves children. This toddler is just about the same age as his daughter, Pinky, whom he was forced to leave when she was only a few months old, because the trouble with his marriage had already begun.
In the labyrinthine legalities of divorces, economic tug-of-wars and, ultimately, broken families, what will happen to children? Many children will grow up in broken homes and there will surely be consequences.
‘I don’t want her growing up being taunted by children because her parents are divorced,’ says Shiny, looking sadder than I had ever seen him. With a defeated expression, Shiny looks up at me, ‘I wanted to get married desperately because it was my duty to my parents. I wanted to have a child desperately because it was my duty to my ancestors. I wanted to get a divorce because it was my duty to myself. How long can one keep doing their duty? When will I get to live?’
To this I had no answer. All weekend, I have heard of duty from Shiny and his parents. In this home, duty is of utmost importance. Shiny’s mom lived to do her duty to her husband. Shiny’s father worked and lived out of a sense of duty to his wife and son. Shiny’s main goal in life now seemed to be performing his duty to his parents by taking care of them.
The concept of duty, or dharma, is ingrained in Hindu philosophy and is thought by many to be the most important pillar of life. My grandfather, to this day, leads his life based on dharma, doing what he should be doing, not what he wants to do. I don’t think Dadaji has done anything in his life for the sake of just having a good time. My parents, too, lead their lives like this, though to a smaller extent than my grandfather. I do not follow my grandfather’s or parents’ way of life. I live a far more selfish life and I only care about dharma when it applies to me. I have a dharma to myself to fall in love with my husband. I have a dharma to myself to get divorced if I am deeply unhappy in my marriage. My dharma to myself is far more important than my dharma to anyone else—my parents or my progeny. Maybe I am selfish, or maybe it’s just that my dharma has been diverted. I feel dharma towards other things, like my work, my career, my creative spirit, my individuality. These are probably things Dadaji never felt.
Shiny is caught somewhere in-between. He has a duty to fall in love but then he also has a duty to his parents to have an arranged marriage; he has a duty to himself to get divorced, but then he also has a duty to keep his parents happy and safe and, at the same time, a duty to protect his daughter from ostracism. There is an entire generation of soldiers fighting this dharmic battle and people like me, Shiny and millions of others are caught in this crossfire.
GOLDEN TEMPLE
The sun rises on the Golden Temple, casting its iridescent rays on to the tranquil Pool of Nectar. There is not a single sound of human dissent despite the 20,000 odd people here, not a cry, not a squeal, not a laugh. Gentle hymns echo from the gilded sanctum sanctorum from which this holy shrine gets its popular name.
Shiny has brought me to this estuary of peace in Amritsar on the last day of my trip. Though this is a Sikh shrine, the Golden Temple is a place of worship for people across faiths. Shiny has offered to take me to more temples in the area that he regularly visits, but I refuse. One is enough for me. I enjoy temples, but the number of people that throng temples is increasing and they are exhausting to visit. In this fast-changing world, people like Shiny and Chhoti Masi are turning to religion and spirituality as an anchor more than ever before.
Shiny walks with a resigned gait and sloping shoulders, he prays ardently, prostrating himself at the entrance with his forehead on the cool marble floor. Shiny never wants to get married again, he wants to lead a spiritual life and be a good son to his parents, a good father to his daughter. In the early morning light Shiny’s face is a perfect picture of peace, just the way I remember him from the Sivananda ashram. His trial is likely to go on for many years. The future is uncertain, but Shiny is optimistic. He holds to the one thing that he has now, an undefeatable faith in God.
♦
Back at home, I stay up reading the journal that Shiny kept before he separated from Shilpa. What strikes me most is that his estranged relationship is so much like mine. Vinayak and I have many of the same problems that Shiny and Shilpa had—money, family, his future, my future, our future, and our fights take on a similar tenor. As Shilpa told Shiny, I tell Vinayak that his best is not enough for me, that I deserve better. We both say really nasty things to each other, he gets angry and sinks into a hole. I feel for Shilpa because I can relate to her frustration. In these journals, Shilpa behaves like a monster, and at times, I do too.
What Vinayak and I share, that Shiny and Shilpa do not, is love. In an arranged marriage one is meant to marry from the head, not from the heart. Maybe Vinayak and I can work through it, because we are both willing to work and want it to work. Shiny uses his first marriage as an example of the lack of any guarantee of staying together in a love marriage, even with the best of intentions. That said, Shiny’s first wife never had a desire to make the marriage work, just a sense that marriage was necessary. There was a mismatch of expectations, and this led them to exercise the freedom that they had and step out of an unhappy marriage.
As India falls in and out of love in droves, I wonder what is at the heart of the change. The old guard discourages love marriages, saying they lead to divorce. Statistically speaking they are correct, divorce is higher amongst couples who marry for love, but this is a chicken-and-egg argument. It can be argued that people who marry for love are those who broke free of societal norms in the first place and, in that same spirit of rebellion, are more likely to break free of unhappy, unsatisfactory marriages.
A 2005 study examining marriage satisfaction amongst Indian couples in arranged marriages, and US couples in love marriages revealed that there was no difference in marriage satisfaction levels between the participants.245 What was different between the two groups were their views on ‘love wellness’. American couples thought that being in love was a strong indication of current and future marital success. Indian couples looked at things a little differently. They didn’t expect love at the start of their marriage, they expected love to grow as they got to know each other.
According to the study, ‘In arranged marriages, individuals marry according to family wishes, and the focus is on accepting and adjusting to their family’s wishes. Thus love is viewed in a different manner by persons in India and is not seen as a necessary precursor to marriage. Instead, love is expected to grow as spouses learn more about each other as the years go by.’
The question then arises: Do arranged marriages fail because of a low level of intimacy and commitment? Some maybe, but not all. I have seen plenty of couples in arranged marriages deeply in love because they share the same values. Family involvement in arranged marriage is an added benefit because it breeds a deeper sense of commitment. Love over family is the modern Indian marriage mantra. One can argue that a higher marital dissolution rate is the price for our individual pursuits of happiness. Neither of these is going away anytime soon. So what happens to marriage then?
SHAH BANO
In the heart of every Muslim woman in Bhopal survives a magical island. She traces it back to a vision
, of four women who ruled and guided the destinies of the state for more than a hundred years. They ruled like men, rode horses and elephants, wore no veil, and were referred to as Nawabs. In today’s Bhopal, a city that has moved like any other, their memories live on, striking echoes in the daily lives of people—Anees Jung, Night of the New Moon
The first divorce case any lawyer learns about is the Shah Bano case. When Shah Bano, a sixty-five-year-old Muslim woman asked for an increase of 80 to her 100 monthly maintenance from her ex-husband, little did she know that she would go down in Indian history and the judgment would spark off a communal war that would singe India for years to come.
The year was 1985 when the case that Shah Bano Begum from Indore had been contesting against her husband for seven years reached the Supreme Court of India. Her husband’s lawyer argued that he had the right to be exempted from paying maintenance to his divorced wife as he was a Muslim and came under the jurisdiction of Shariah or Islamic law, not Indian civil law. Under Shariah, Muslim women had no right to alimony after the three-month iddat period246 following the dissolution of the marriage. A Hindu judge ruled against her husband, stating that every Indian citizen came under the purview of Indian law. This caused an uproar among the conservative sections of the Muslim community, particularly members of the Muslim Personal Law Board, a body formed in 1973 to uphold Islamic values.
Shah Bano became a subject of parliamentary debate—should different communities have different personal laws? Then prime minister, Rajiv Gandhi, succumbed to pressure from Muslim fundamentalist groups demanding a separate Muslim law and in 1986, a retrograde law called the Muslim Women (Protection of Rights on Divorce) Act was passed. This act nullified the Shah Bano ruling in the Supreme Court, and stated that the Muslim personal law would be considered in all cases of Muslim women. Starting with this verdict, a series of incidents unfolded that antagonized the Hindu community and in their anger, Hindu right-wing groups demolished the Babri Masjid in Ayodhya. According to mythology this was the exact spot where the Hindu god Ram was born. This led to savage, bloody, communal riots across the country, in which thousands of people died.
Bhopal, the capital of Madhya Pradesh, is a sleepy town. It is also a beautiful town, situated on the banks of a glorious lake where the remains of Mughal rule are still visible in numerous structures. Many a tourist has stumbled upon Bhopal and been awestruck by its charm and cleanliness, wondering how it ever got left off the tourist map.
Unfortunately, Bhopal is world-famous for only one thing: the gas tragedy in 1984, under the shadow of which I was born: a disaster in which a chemical leak from the Union Carbide plant in town had a devastating effect—several thousand people were killed, and many thousands more were crippled for life. It is sad that this incident has tarnished the reputation of the city, for Bhopal is a unique town with a unique history. In Mughal times, the city of Bhopal was said to be the second most important Muslim city in India. In Bhopal, women ruled in dynastic succession throughout the nineteenth and twentieth centuries in spite of both British and Islamic strictures against female rule. Perhaps the most notable of the ruling Begums of Bhopal was the last Begum, Nawab Sultan Shahjahan Begum, a strong advocate for Muslim women’s rights.
Since the time of Shah Bano, there has been much controversy and confusion around divorce and divorce laws amongst Muslim women. The situation has only worsened over the years, with the sharp rise in divorce rates amongst Muslims all over India, including Bhopal, and I have come to this town to understand why.
THE QAZI
I start my research at the Qaziat, the focal point of all matters of Islamic religious law in Bhopal, which is the office of the Qazi-e-Shahar—the judge ruling on all matters of Islamic law.
The Qaziat is contained in a sullen-looking building, the exterior of which has been painted a seasick green, and the interior of which has the distinct feel of a government office—a dank room with high ceilings and peeling walls that resemble feta cheese. Qazi Syed Mushtaq Ali Nadvi is an owl-eyed man with a long beard, dressed in a long, black, terylene jacket, a pair of badly cut white trousers, and a black skull cap.
Our ensuing conversation has more than a touch of irreverence to it. The first thing that he disdainfully tells me is that if I were a Muslim girl, he would not talk to me unless I covered my head. I am glad that I have a woollen scarf in my bag, which I wrap tightly around my head. The Qazi pounds facts about Muslim procedure like nikah (marriage) and talaaq (divorce) into my head, like nails into a piece of knotty wood.
The first talaaq is considered to be the first divorce. This is a revocable divorce and the husband and wife can get back together within the iddah period, measured by three menstrual cycles of the wife. Once the first iddah is complete, divorce is irrevocable, but the husband and wife can get another nikah if they choose. If the husband and wife have not sorted out their differences, then a second ‘talaaq’ is said, and another three-month iddah is completed. After the third iddah and final talaaq, husband and wife are declared ‘ida’, or separated.
During the separation period or iddah the woman receives iddat—a form of maintenance from her husband. After three months of the iddah, husband and wife are divorced and all maintenance is stopped. If a man proposes talaaq, he can divorce without his wife’s consent, but he must pay her mehr (a sum decided before marriage) and also iddat. A woman, too, can ask for divorce through a khula, where she pays her husband dower, or property, but she cannot divorce without her husband’s consent.
I understand that Muslim divorce laws are skewed in favour of men, and this explains the controversy. Indian Muslim laws also permit triple talaaq when a man simply utters ‘talaaq, talaaq, talaaq’, and the divorce is complete without separation. Certain Islamic countries, like Egypt, Iran, Jordan, Morocco, Yemen and Sudan, have banned unilateral triple talaaq through codified law. It cannot be abolished in India unless the All Muslim Personal Law Board agrees to do so, but the all-male body is adamant about sticking to its old ways and at the moment there is little scope for change.
The Qazi is evasive on the subject of divorce. He does not divulge divorce numbers, though he is the man who knows it all because he signs off on all such decisions. I unsuccessfully probe him and eventually give up. When I ask him about the rise and reasons for it, he scowls at me. ‘There has been a small rise, but that is inevitable.’
Why does he think there has been a small rise in divorce? I persist.
‘It is because laws in Hindustan are very liberal. In Islamic law, no woman should live without a nikah. Today all sorts of bad things are happening because of this new free culture and new divorce laws,’ he says.
I want to remind the Qazi that under Islamic law, divorce or talaaq has always existed. In many ways, the Quran is a forward-thinking text, and it forecasted that divorce would be an integral part of the marriage model in the future and gives clear-cut instructions on the execution of divorce.
Since the time of Shah Bano, the judgement has been overturned, and now all Muslim women have the choice to apply to Indian courts in the case of divorce. The Qazi, though, doesn’t believe in courts and the Indian law. He believes that all Muslims should come to him to resolve all matters of marriage and divorce. It is a pity that this misogynistic Qazi is in charge of so many (married) lives.
I think back to the Begum of Bhopal who had built the Qaziat that we sat in. She was known best for mixing the traditional with the modern in just the right proportions. Clearly her ideals had long been forgotten.
I finally get the information that I want when I befriend one of the Qaziat bookkeepers, Ali, who informs me that over the past five years that he has been recording numbers, divorce has tripled, and many more women are now filing for divorce than men. He is keen to talk about divorce and launches into a personal tale.
Ali’s twenty-five-year-old daughter has recently been divorced. She had an arranged marriage and went to live in Hyderabad with her husband. Before her marriage, she worked as a
nurse in Bhopal, but in Hyderabad, her in-laws did not want her to work. The marriage lasted for a year before she moved back to Bhopal. Ali tells me that the reason his daughter divorced was simply because she wasn’t happy and that she didn’t love her husband. Ali ruminates, ‘In our time, all this love-shove didn’t exist. We just married the woman that our parents chose for us. Now girls have all these conditions. I don’t understand my daughter, so how am I supposed to find her the right boy?’
Ali doesn’t look particularly vexed about his daughter’s future, perhaps because he sees so many cases of divorce that he has become desensitized. His daughter has resumed working as a nurse, and Ali is confident that she will re-marry one day. As I step out of the Qaziat, I see a group of men huddled in a circle, drinking cups of tea. They are dressed in loose kurta-pajamas and lace skullcaps. Their eyes are lined with kohl, they sport henna-ed beards, and their feet are encased in dusty plastic sandals. They are enveloped by that distinct air that bullies have, and passers-by, sensing it, stay a safe distance away from them. Ali whispers furtively in my ear that these men are agents.
‘Agents?’ I ask.
He explains to me that these agents offer husbands to newly divorced women. In return, they get a portion of the woman’s mehr. Under Shariah law, a man is allowed four wives, so it is not difficult for these agents to find husbands for these recent divorcees. Ali tells me that most of these agents have married several times, and if they find a woman attractive, or if she comes with a handsome mehr from her ex-husband, they usually marry her themselves.
As I walk past these bullies, they quietly stare at me. Ali tells me later that the agents were inquiring about me, asking if I was on the market and how much my mehr was.
♦
Ghazala is a small dark woman. She is missing two front teeth, and her waist-long braid is grey, but she has a smooth, youthful face that makes her look years younger. Her husband Aftab is fair, elegantly handsome, with laughing eyes. They are an interesting pair, as opposite as opposites can be. He loves talking, whereas she has a calm, benign intensity and can listen for hours. He is jocular, always laughing, and she is serious, smiling rarely. Together they run an NGO in Bhopal, resolving conflicts in matters of matrimony. During my time in Bhopal, Ghazala, Aftab and I travel sandwiched together on his scooter: a thin Aftab, a plump Ghazala, and a tall me at the back, holding on for my life as we zip around visiting couples with interesting divorce case histories. One afternoon, the three of us visit Anjum and Amal, a couple who have recently been married, courtesy of Ghazala and Aftab’s counselling.
