India in Love

by Ira Trivedi

  When we arrive at their small home on a surprise visit, the couple is staring at the TV with blank-eyed expressions, huddled in thick winter coats and hats, given the cold weather and lack of heating. Everything in the house is neatly placed. The tidiness of the small hallway is juxtaposed against strident outbursts of fluorescent plastic blooms placed all over the house. A glass cabinet displays a collection of soft toys and plastic dolls. Amal works as a stenographer at the district court; Anjum runs a ladies’ boutique from home. They have been married for six months; this is Anjum’s second marriage and Amal’s first.

  Anjum talks about her first marriage with a nervous and haunted air. Things deteriorated when she discovered her husband having an affair with her sister-in-law (whose husband was in the Indian army and often away), whom he gave money to after sex. While married to her first husband, Anjum befriended Amal who was her sister-in-law’s landlord. When Amal found Anjum’s husband having sex with his tenant, he immediately reported this to Anjum.

  ‘So you fell in love?’ I ask Amal, and he smiles shyly.

  ‘Very suddenly,’ he said. ‘After her divorce, I thought it was my duty to marry her.’

  Amal tells me that according to Islam there should be no unmarried women in society, and it is the duty of a man to marry a woman. Amal takes this seriously, and when he saw Anjum in her awful situation, his heart went out to her. His parents, though, have not approved of his marriage to an older, divorced woman and have disowned him. He is hoping that their minds will change soon when they come to understand that he is following the Prophet’s teaching.

  Thirty-eight year old Anjum is the mother of two children, a twenty-year-old son, and a pretty eighteen-year-old daughter, both of whom live with her first husband. Anjum gets no maintenance from her husband. Despite his flagrant infidelity, the Qazi has not pushed him to give either the mehr or iddat and a battle in court will take years.

  Anjum remembers the days after her talaaq, when she had no money and no home. She spent her three-month iddat period, during which she was prohibited from re-marrying, at her relatives’ homes. Her children sneaked her money, food, and clothing. She says it was the worst time in her life.

  Anjum’s story is not uncommon in the Muslim world. Women divorce their husbands, yet they never get their mehr or iddat. The patriarchal Qaziat will do nothing about it, and battles in civil court take years. Divorce has always been a confusing and controversial subject in the Muslim world. Should it be dictated by the Qaziat or by civil laws in court? There are technically two sets of matrimonial laws for Indian Muslims—Islamic law, and civil law dictated by the constitution of India. Tradition encourages following the rules of the Qazi, but modern times mean the Indian courts increasingly hold sway.

  According to Ghazala and Aftab, divorce rates among lower and middle-class Muslims in Bhopal have tripled in the past decade. The reasons they cite for increasing divorce are the ones that I have already come across—women’s financial independence, less willingness to adjust, and changing expectations of marriage. There are a few things that are unique to Muslim marriage though. Divorce is relatively simple to get under Shariah, sometimes as easy as saying ‘talaaq’ three times. Muslim divorces are much easier to execute than Hindu divorces (or any other religion’s for that matter), which entail many trips to court, expensive lawyer fees, etc. Divorce is less of a taboo in the Muslim community because it is mentioned in the Quran. The nikah is a contract between two people and the Quran has given every marriage the option of talaaq.

  Ghazala and Aftab invite me to their home to have lunch. The tiny, crowded house is bustling with activity. An old lady, Ghazala’s mother, is muttering to herself, lying on the couch under a thick quilt. Ghazala and Aftab’s gregarious nineteen-year-old daughter, Baby, is cooking lunch. Rajini, a stout young lady with a sad, angry face is busy rolling candles. She was hired by Ghazala to work in the candle-making business after they met at a divorce counselling session. She was married at sixteen to a man in the village, but soon got a divorce because a city girl like her could not adjust to rural life. Though she is only twenty-three, she has lost faith in marriage.

  Another woman, Kiran—a hired help, is flipping rotis on the stove. She smiles sweetly at me from the kitchen. I can tell that she wants to talk to me, but she is shy. Ghazala tells me that Kiran’s husband has asked for a divorce twice and has even approached the courts, but Kiran refuses to give it to him. She has a young son, and she wants the father to be around when he is growing up.

  Ghazala too has a story of divorce. Ghazala’s eldest son, Baba, was divorced six months ago. He was married to Fatima, Ghazala’s niece, in an arranged marriage. A few days after the wedding, Fatima collapsed. After a series of hospital visits and tests, the doctors diagnosed her with an incurable gastric condition and declared that she was unfit for married life, which basically meant that she was unfit to have children. Ghazala complains that her son only had intercourse with Fatima three times since she was too unwell most of the time. On those rare occasions, she lay in bed like a vegetable for days afterwards.

  Ghazala insinuates that her relatives were aware of Fatima’s condition. Arranged marriages can reveal unpleasant surprises, even when you marry within your extended family, which is standard practice in the Muslim community. After a year-and-a-half of marriage, during most of which Fatima was ill, Baba, encouraged by his parents, divorced Fatima.

  As Ghazala narrates Baba’s divorce story, I wonder if Baba would have divorced Fatima if there had been love in their marriage. In a contractual, arranged marriage such as his, being unaware of the spouse having an incurable condition is definite legal grounds for divorce. Poor Baba, I can only imagine his plight.

  Baba, a sulky-faced young man, walks in while we are eating. He says hello and then disappears inside. Ghazala lowers her voice so that he can’t hear us. She tells me that he is still reeling from his divorce and can’t bear to hear the word ‘divorce’. She laughs, saying that this is very hard to avoid, especially in the home of two divorce counsellors.

  Making sure Baba is not around, Ghazala rummages in a cupboard and brings out some dusty photo albums. She tells me with pride that Baba’s Mumbai wedding was lavish and celebrated with much dhoom-dhaam. Though her son is divorced, Ghazala is still proud of the wedding. I recall that Shiny’s mother too felt this way when she showed me Shiny’s wedding album. Sometimes in India, the wedding can be more important than the marriage. I remember a wedding planner once telling me that couples find it easier to call off the marriage than the wedding.

  After lunch, Baby and I get chatting. Baby is a confident young woman studying Fine Arts at a local college. I ask her if many girls have boyfriends at her all-women’s college.

  Most girls have boyfriends, she says. The ones who appear to be the most conservative, dressed in abayas and burqas, are usually the most daring. Baby tells me that these girls go on dates stealthily, abandoning their burqas after college and cruising around town with their boyfriends. I am not surprised by what Baby tells me. On a trip to hill-top, a local tourist spot (aptly named because it sits on top of an isolated hill) and in the ubiquitous coffee shops scattered across town I notice many young couples romancing. I wonder how these young women navigate these two worlds—of strict tradition and of modern love. The changes that India is going through are hardest for women; will modern young Muslim women like Baby accept the antiquated practice of triple talaaq? And if not, how will they deal with it?

  On my last day in Bhopal, I find myself back to where I started, at the Qaziat, where I attend an ijtimah—a congregation of Muslim women leaders.

  In the large grounds, I see an endless sea of colourful burqas. Women are sitting on the floor, and women are giving fiery speeches in Urdu on the dais. Many children run around, while their mothers chat languorously, basking in the warm winter sun. Groups of women are sitting in circles and sharing their lunches. Others are sprawled on the mats, napping.

  The one thing I no
tice is that all females—women, girls, and babies—are veiled. I too have wrapped a shawl around my head. I am shocked most by the miniature burqas that the little girls wear, some of them mere toddlers. Walking through the crowds I almost trip over a little girl, wobbly on her feet. She is wearing a baby pink burqa that matches her frock. This is the first time in India that I have seen girls this young wear veils. When I tell my mother, who has lived on and off in Bhopal for the past thirty years, about the veils, she too is shocked. Bhopal has never had a tradition of the veil. In fact, the Begum had abolished purdah during her reign.

  On stage, an old woman is speaking ardently, occasionally breaking into screechy screams. She speaks in Urdu, and the only words I understand in her inflammatory speech are ‘United States of America’. Ghazala translates for me. The speaker is talking about how the United States of America is responsible for all terrorism, which in turn is responsible for giving Islam a bad name. Next, a flinty faced woman with eagle eyes comes on stage. She, too, speaks in Urdu, though she interjects her speech with some Hindi and English. I can tell by the way she speaks English that she is fairly well educated. In her thirty-minute speech she talks of how the US is home to ‘think tanks’ that control the media in all parts of the worlds. These think tanks, she says, are anti-Islam and are spreading anti-Islamic notions worldwide. Most other speakers continue in a similar vein. A man speaks bombastically on how Muslim men must discipline and tame the wife. Everyone seems to be listening calmly. I am surprised that some of these women haven’t gotten up and thrown him off the stage because this is what I feel like doing. Ghazala too seems shocked by the things that we hear.

  At the ijtimah, an event meant to spark positive discussion amongst Muslim women, fundamentalism is in full view. Speakers harp on about Islam protecting its traditions, which many speakers believe is under threat from America. I think back to a book I read by sociologist Anthony Giddens. He writes: ‘Fundamentalism is a child of globalization, which it both responds to and utilizes. Fundamentalism isn’t just the antithesis of globalizing modernity, but also poses questions to it, the most basic of which is, can we live in a world where nothing is sacred?’247

  The women who I hear speaking on the dais, the Qazi and the Muslim Law Board are fundamentalists who are trying to protect their tradition from a rapidly globalizing world. In a fast-changing society like India, religion is one the few things that remain constant. Fundamentalism is a call for people to stick to the old ways, to cling on to something from the past rather than make sense of the confusion that prevails.

  On our way out, a grumpy old woman, with droopy features and a sagging face, stops to talk to us. Safina is Ghazala’s friend and is on her way to meet the Qazi to resolve a worrisome problem. A fraudulent Qazi, a real menace to society, has set up shop in old Bhopal. This spurious Qazi has been signing off on talaaqs so that men can re-marry while he pockets the mehr that they should be paying their wives. He has also been performing nikahs without witnesses and the consent of family elders.

  Ghazala suggests that the police be informed. Safina complains that the police did try to intervene, and the fake Qazi was briefly arrested, but there was an outcry, even by those that he had defrauded. People felt that a holy man should not be put behind bars. The fake Qazi was released and is now back to his old ways. Safina is hoping that the real Qazi will neutralize this fraud. I am not so optimistic. I see the Qazi approaching in the distance. Before he spots me, I quickly escape.

  The word ‘nibhana’ has no exact equivalent in English. The closest translation that I can come up with is ‘fulfil with a sense of duty’, and the word is almost always used in the context of relationships, particularly marriage. It is a term that I hear a lot during the days that I am studying divorce. Elders say that the reason why there is so much divorce is because there is no concept of nibhana anymore. Young Indians do not want to stay the course of the marriage because they are impatient and are unwilling to change for anyone else. ‘Wo nibha nahi sakte,’ (They cannot fulfil their relationships), elders say with disappointed shakes of the head. Today’s tempestuous generation is not willing to forsake its happiness, even temporarily, for the greater good of the family. Marriage, they say, takes time and patience. No marriage is perfect from the beginning.

  Nibhana is a befitting word because so much is encapsulated in it. Marriage is, at the end of the day, a matter of staying the course, of adapting, of living not only for yourself but also for your family. But individuality too is increasingly important, especially in young India. Marriage in India is going through a change like it has never seen before. Divorce can be argued to be a good thing. It signals the liberation of women who are willing and able to say no and step out of awful situations. It can also be argued as a damaging consequence, especially if there are children involved.

  The tenfold increase in divorce rate is severely detrimental to the development of children and for the first time in this country, a large number of kids will be raised in single parent homes. On the flip side, maybe a lot more women and men will be in equal relationships. As nibhana loses its place in shifting Indian society, a new Hindi word for divorce might just usurp its place in our vernacular.

  MODERN LOVE

  LIVING IN

  Beaming like a newly-wed bride, Garima eagerly shows me around her studio apartment in Model Town. The small apartment is decorated with black-and-white pictures of her partner Suketu and herself. Carefully tended money plants bloom in wine bottles. Suketu plays with a small kitten on the zebra-print futon, a stereo warbles out Hindi tunes in the background. Suketu is now lying on his back, and a tiny second kitten, the size of a rat and the colour of curdled milk, crawls on to his forehead. The original kitten, quite a bit bigger than the milky runt, is now on his stomach. Garima lets out a shriek of joy, runs into her bedroom and brings out a heavyweight camera and starts taking photos. Suketu poses languorously, professionally.

  It seems to be nuptial heaven in this small apartment, except Garima and Suketu never want to get married. They have been living together for the past six months after having dated for a year. Garima, my newly hired research assistant, had invited me over to her apartment across town to play chess and to meet her two adopted kittens, Pugli (silly) and Pidi (tiny). I wasn’t particularly interested in either activity, but I was curious to check out Garima’s digs, and meet Suketu, the boyfriend whom she lived with and spoke so much about.

  Suketu is dourly enigmatic and less friendly than I had imagined. He is reticent, and when he does speak, he has a strange spasmodic way of speaking—fast, in convulsive sentences, the words bumping into each other. He is very evidently conscious of his good looks—the chiselled jaw, the large prominent forehead, the sideburns trimmed sharp as knives, and shoulder-length hair which he wears in a tight, greasy ponytail held by a feminine velvet scrunchy. He perches tentatively on a sofa, holding a joint aslant, which he passes on to Garima, who then passes it along to me.

  I ask Garima about her thoughts on marriage, and she grimaces, ‘I don’t believe in marriage. Marriage slows you down. I believe in living life in small instalments.’

  Suketu adds to this, ‘We believe in living life light. Marriage makes things so heavy. This is much simpler. Who wants to bear the brunt of eventual marriage, eventual in-laws, eventual children and eventual grief?’

  ‘For the year that we were dating, we were practically living together in Suketu’s hostel room. Getting an apartment together was the natural next step. We give each other a lot of space because we know that people have a high propensity of taking over each other’s lives. We don’t want that,’ says Garima taking deep drags of the joint, the end of which is so close to her fingertips that I am afraid she will burn herself.

  Garima and Suketu question the entire concept of marriage. Garima’s mother threw away her career as a schoolteacher for her father and she sees her parent’s joyless marriage, arranged when her mom was sixteen, as a habit more than a choice and something sh
e will never opt for. Why should she? She needs no man to support her, so why would she ruin her life with marriage?

  Soon the apartment is sheathed in a nimbus of smoke. Suketu begins talking, fuelled by the joint, ‘It was difficult finding an apartment, and most realtors immediately refused when they found out we were not married. They don’t want singles, because they think they are trouble, but when they found out we were a couple, but not married, they thought we were criminals or worse. They may have overlooked criminal records but wouldn’t rent to us. Fortunately for us, the woman who owns this apartment got divorced here. You know how people are so stupidly superstitious, no one was renting the place and that’s how we got it,’ he says with a grin.

  I had heard these complaints before. It was difficult for unmarried couples to rent apartments. Often realtors told potential tenants to get married and then to return.

  ‘What about friends and family, do they know?’ I asked.

  ‘We try not to tell too many people because we know how cheap mentalities are. Eventually people find out, you know how nosy they are. Our friends thought it was a bold step, but also a good idea, especially because we save so much money,’ says Suketu.