by Sharell Cook
Yama realised that he had been tricked. He remained silent for a minute, then smiled.
‘I appreciate your persistence. But what I like more was your readiness to marry a man you loved, even though you knew he'd only live for a year. Go back to your husband's body, he will soon wake up,’ Yama said, as he released Satyavan's soul.
Savitri returned to the banyan tree where her husband's body lay. She devoutly began walking around the tree, in a traditional Hindu form of worship called Pradakshina. As Yama promised, her husband came back to life. And, as stories go, they lived happily ever after.
This tale, from the ancient Hindu text the Mahabharata, forms the basis of Savitri Brata. A day of fasting and prayer for the wellbeing of husbands and a happy married life, it's observed once a year by married women from Orissa and other parts of eastern India. The wives in my new Indian family undertook it ardently.
Not being religious myself, I'd never understood the reason why people ritually fasted. Why willingly deprive the body of the important food and nutrients that it needs? I reacted apprehensively to my in-laws' invitation to participate in my first Savitri Brata. Fasting, let alone subserviently fasting for my husband's wellbeing, wasn't something I could readily see the benefits of. Being non-traditional, Aryan also knew and cared little about the occasion. But my desire to learn about Hindu customs led me to do it.
On the morning of the occasion, I ate only fruit. As I dressed, I dabbed a line of red sindoor between the part of my hair, stuck a round bindi between my eyebrows, lined my arms with bangles and placed my mangal sutra around my neck. I already wore a nose ring, ankle and toe rings. Adorned with all the symbols of marriage, I was ready to leave the house.
‘I'll expect a great gift from you for this,’ I jokingly told Aryan.
I'd discovered that it was customary for husbands to reward their wives' devotion and sacrifice with gifts.
Maliha had bought new saris and prepared thalis (platters) containing a variety of fruits, some flowers, a coconut and a selection of items reflective of a married woman. There were bangles, sindoor, bindis and other cosmetics. We each took a sari and thali to the temple where, covering our heads, we offered each item to the gods to have it blessed. We lit incense and gave the flowers to the gods, placing them around their feet.
Behind the temple was a large banyan tree. Its root, stem and branches symbolically represent the holy trinity of Hindu gods – Brahma, Vishnu and Shiva. On the day of Savitri Brata, the banyan tree also represents Savitri and the story in the Mahabharata. As we walked around the tree like Savitri once did, we made offerings and tied cotton threads to it. The thread, which holds a sacred place in Hindu rituals to evoke the blessings of the gods, also becomes a symbol of strength when wound around a tree.
At Maliha's home after the puja, we ate the fruit and put the cosmetics on each other.
‘This is the fun part of the day,’ she explained to me.
I believed her, because I was actually having fun.
‘Back in Orissa large groups of married women will get together, sing and recite the story about Savitri,’ she further elaborated.
Later in the afternoon, Aryan arrived with my gift.
‘You have to touch his feet to receive his blessing first,’ Maliha told me.
Touching a person's feet, considered to be the lowliest and most unclean part of their body, is a great sign of respect. Aryan looked on with amusement and disbelief as I did as instructed. He handed me a lovely earring and necklace set.
Participating in the ritual provoked unexpected feelings and realisations in me. Far from the day of deprivation I had expected, it was instead a day of female bonding and enjoyment. Eating only fruit for the day cleansed and purified my body, while the legend and ritual guided my mind towards the purpose to be achieved.
What woman didn't want her husband to live a long time and her married life to be happy? It didn't matter if Savitri's story was real or not, it gave meaning to the ritual, and the ritual gave focus to my abstract thoughts. For that short time, I was able to detach myself from the world, raise my consciousness and be part of something much larger.
The experience and my greater understanding led me to think more about religion, particularly Hinduism with its rich mythology, millions of gods and multiple pathways. On the surface, it seemed like an unfathomable fairytale. Yet, deep meaning resided within, which really resonated with me. That is, the notion that everything is actually an aspect of a greater, infinite and omnipresent whole. Just like the one sun has many rays, the whole has many manifestations. Each Hindu deity represents a particular energy. This includes Krishna, who embodies joy, freedom and love; Kali, who represents the realities of life and death; Durga, the divine mother goddess who protects mankind from the evil of negative emotions such as greed, hate and envy; and Rama, who is the model of right action and virtues. And Hinduism encourages followers to worship that which appeals to them, depending on their circumstances and what they need in their lives. There is no set path.
When I first visited India, I saw many colourful pictures of Hindu deities. They are immensely eye-catching, and beloved of tourists. But did people seriously pray to these weird and wonderful characters with animal heads and multiple arms?
I was always attracted to the graceful white woman, albeit with four arms, who was accompanied by a swan and strummed a veena (string instrument). I later found out she was Saraswati, the goddess of creativity and learning, and partner of Lord Brahma who created the universe. Her whiteness is a symbol of purity and simplicity. Her four hands represent the four aspects of human personality involved in learning: mind, intellect, alertness and ego. She plays the music of love and life with two of her hands, and in the remaining two, she holds sacred scriptures and a lotus, the symbol of true knowledge.
Although Hinduism interested me, I still baulked at the superstitions that many Hindus believed in. As a married woman there were many odd customs to follow that contradicted my own.
‘Once you're married, you shouldn't say your husband's name,’ my sister-in-law Amita told me.
This was, again, due to folklore and the desire to prolong the husband's life. There's an ancient belief that saying the husband's name shortens his lifespan, and many traditional Hindu wives still follow it. Other pious Hindu wives choose not to say their husband's name out of respect for him as head of the household.
‘How am I supposed to get his attention then?’ I asked.
‘You say suniye! (Please listen.) If you want to be really respectful, you can also say aji sunte ho.’
‘What's that?’
‘It means “dear, can you hear me?”’
It all sounded so unnatural and unnecessarily formal to me.
‘And what about if I'm referring to him in conversation?’ I wanted to know.
‘You should call him “my husband”, “he” or “him”. It's okay, you can also call him by a nickname, just don't say your husband's name,’ Amita advised.
I usually called Aryan by a nickname when I was speaking to him, as he did me, so it wasn't much of a problem when we were alone. However, when I was talking about him to his family, his name invariably slipped out. They were kind enough never to reprimand me, but I really didn't want his parents to think I was shortening their son's life by saying his name.
My efforts not to say Aryan's name carried into daily life as I tried to make a habit of it. Gradually, it became ingrained and I grew less aware of it. But others noticed. One evening before our Hindu wedding, Aryan and I were having dinner with my friends and family from Australia.
‘Why do you keep referring to Aryan as “him” all the time? He's sitting right next to you, why don't you say his name?’ an outspoken family friend commented, implying I was being rude. Another clash of cultures!
‘I'm not supposed to say his name,’ I started to explain.
Everyone was astonished. Back in Australia, names were important but in India they're shunned. In India, elder
s are called ‘aunty’ and ‘uncle’, and peers ‘sister’ and ‘brother’, even if they're not related in the literal sense.
Besides new customs to follow as a married woman, there were also numerous ornaments to wear. Much as I admired them, as a person who wasn't fond of wearing a lot of jewellery, I also found them cumbersome and constantly worried about losing them, or scratching them, or dropping them. In contrast to the western wedding ring, most Hindu women will usually be adorned with at least five – and often more – signs of marriage: red sindoor between the part in their hair, red bindi on their forehead, nose ring, mangal sutra necklace, bangles, anklets and toe rings.
Just as wedding rings are exchanged in a western marriage ceremony, Aryan had placed the mangal sutra around my neck and sindoor on my forehead when we'd gotten married. I'd also been given bangles, toe rings and anklets by my new Indian family. Traditionally, the ornaments are meant to awaken the divine feminine energy, protect against evil forces and serve as an obvious reminder of the woman's married status. Their origins, like many things in India, are steeped in mythology.
For Hindu women there's no finer example of a devoted wife than Parvati, partner of the all-powerful Lord Shiva. After the death of his first wife, a devastated Lord Shiva apparently turned his back on the world and retreated into a life of solitary meditation. Without his energy, the cosmic order became unbalanced, allowing the demon Taraka to overrun the heavens and earth.
Parvati was the only woman capable of luring Shiva out of isolation and into marriage, eventually resorting to becoming an ascetic herself to get him to notice her. Their ensuring sexual union and love story is legendary, making Parvati a source of power for all married women. Red sindoor and bindis are associated with her female energy, and it's believed that she protects the marriages of all women who wear them. Many ancient Hindu texts also mention the use of red sindoor.
The bindi is strategically placed on the forehead between the eyebrows, where the third eye chakra is located. Wearing it at this latent location of wisdom and intuition serves as a focus for spiritual growth. It's also believed to help retain the potent kundalini energy that rises up through the chakras, from the first chakra at the base of the spine.
The Hindu equivalent of a wedding ring, the mangal sutra, doesn't have as long a history as the sindoor and bindi. It's not mentioned in any scriptures either. Instead, in ancient Hindu weddings, a yellow thread (called a kankana bandhana) was simply tied onto the wrists of married couples to protect against evil energies. The design of the mangal sutra, however, is steeped in folklore. The strings of black beads, which the necklace is made from, are believed to absorb negative energies before they reach the bride and her family, thus providing protection from the evil eye. Hindu women are very superstitious about the mangal sutra, and consider its loss or breakage to be very inauspicious.
Unlike gold, which is most popular in India, my bangles were made out of deep red glass, while the toe rings and anklets were silver. There were reasons for this. The glass and the sound the bangles emit as they clink together are believed to provide protection from negative energies. It's easy to spot a newlywed Hindu woman: she's the one with rows of bangles extending most of the way up her arm. Married women continue to wear at least a few glass bangles, and will smash them when their husbands pass away. Accidental smashing of the bangles requires immediate replacement, lest their broken state brings about the husband's misfortune or death. Some women even gather the pieces up and kiss them three times to ward off any untoward impact.
The lesser metal of the toe rings and anklets reflects the belief that gold, a symbol of status associated with the goddess Lakshmi, should only be worn above the waist. As a result, the lowly and impure feet are never adorned with gold.
My toe rings had an ornate Oriya design with three small bells attached to them; I was to wear them on both of my second toes. They were exotic and I adored them. I really did have rings on my fingers and bells on my toes. My anklets were also decorated with small bells. Like the sound made by bangles, the noise is believed to offer protection from negative energy.
I also wore a nose ring. I'd had my nose pierced in Melbourne, even before going to Kolkata. It was always something I'd felt like doing, but it had never been appropriate while I dressed in suits and worked in an office. My mother put nose piercing in the same category as tattoos, and along with most of western society, associated them with rebellion. It didn't take her long to see my new adornment sparkling under the light at the kitchen table soon after.
‘What's that on your nose? Your nose isn't pierced, is it? What did you do that for?’ She was suitably aghast.
Her only consolation was that I could at least take it out, unlike a tattoo. Poor Mum!
In India, the reaction to my pierced nose was entirely different. I'd always worn a discreet diamond stud in it.
‘Now that you're married, you must wear something bigger. This is too small,’ my in-laws commented, referring to my tiny diamond.
Feeling encouraged, I went out and bought myself an actual nose ring, with a row of little diamonds. It was noticed and accepted immediately.
‘This looks beautiful. Very suitable,’ people admired.
I constantly wore my wedding ring, toe rings, anklets and nose ring. Sometimes, I added a bindi. The other items, I reserved for festivals and when visiting my in-laws. I was scared of something happening to my expensive mangal sutra, and I'd accidentally broken some of my bangles (no doubt shortening poor Aryan's life span again!) as I was so unused to them. I didn't want to break more.
Admittedly, there was another reason why I didn't want to wear so many visible signs of marriage. I'd thought that being married would put a stop to people's curiosity about my relationship with Aryan. I thought wrong. If anything, it aroused more curiosity. And, as a bonus: perplexity. Our marriage made a mess of India's strict social hierarchy.
In Indian culture there exists an overwhelming compulsion to classify and rank people based on certain qualities. The way a person is treated in India is very much based on their position in society and the power it affords. Upon meeting someone, the first thing an Indian will usually do is determine that position, and act accordingly. This is one of the reasons why they ask so many intrusive questions.
‘What does your father do?’, ‘where do you live?’, ‘are you married?’, ‘do you have children?’, ‘what's your qualification?’ and even ‘how much do you earn?’ are all questions aimed at uncovering a person's social standing. Caste, which is usually revealed by a person's surname, has, in the past, been the overarching factor. These days, it's not enough to make an accurate assessment. Other factors also taken into consideration include occupation, relationship status, skin colour, ability to speak English and whether the person has any important connections. Ultimately, it's money and looks that count the most. A good-looking unmarried man with fair skin and a professional occupation, but with only medium English, would still be placed higher than a married man with good English but dark skin.
This system of social stratification is most absorbingly reflected in the matrimonial ads for arranged marriages. (Admittedly, the classified ads in any paper are a wonderful repository of human emotion, from hope to delusion, but whatever floats your boat.) It's in the matrimonial columns of India's newspapers that the preoccupation with status is dramatically revealed. The credentials of potential brides and grooms are audaciously listed and suitable alliances are invited. A typical ad may read:
Delhi based reputed Medico family seeks alliance for their beautiful, fair, smart, slim daughter 23/5′5 MBA (U.S.), pursuing CPA from US, and working in respected bank in US. Looking for tall, handsome, below 28, well placed professional. Preferably qualified Medico. Match from Status family only.
Before about 1990, it was families with connections, grooms in the government service and English-speaking brides who were most sought after. It's a huge contrast to the 1930s and 1940s, when a typical matrimonial ad cons
isted of a desire to find a ‘Handsome, healthy, virgin girl. Western fashioned, highly educated need not approach’.
Of course, hierarchies exist everywhere. The movie industry has one, schools have one, companies have one. What's incredible about India's hierarchy is the sheer volume of people, a population of over one billion, that it incorporates and how it's managed to remain intact for so long. Its future is uncertain though, as external forces such as the intrusion of the west, have been slowly putting pressure on the hierarchy.
Although I was a casteless foreigner, my white skin and the perception of wealth and power that came with it unwittingly catapulted me to the top of the tree. Hundreds of years of British rule had left its mark on India: above all, they succeeded in creating an elite group of English-speaking Indians who copied them and tried to be as British as possible.
Many Indians gave up their dress, speech, mannerisms and style of living to acquire that of the British. In return, they were rewarded with a place in the new hierarchy of power, status, upward mobility and greater income. By measuring their worth in terms of how well they were able to imitate the British and be accepted by them, these Indians set a difficult standard for those who followed in their wake. It seemed to have created a school of thought where anything Indian was inferior to anything western.
Not surprisingly then, the fact that I was married to an Indian was greeted with shock by many people. When strangers saw us, they had difficulty believing we were married, or could be married. No doubt, the height difference of around 10 centimetres had something to do with it. Yet, it was more than that. It was about perceived status and placement in the social hierarchy. Aryan was neither high caste nor professionally qualified, nor did he have a forceful demeanour or commanding presence. He wasn't perceptively powerful. Hence, people either thought I'd married ‘below myself’ or wondered what was wrong with me because I hadn't snared a doctor or engineer.
The fact that I wasn't from a ‘status family’ and the suitability of our personalities didn't come into it. Such things were overridden by my appearance. It was automatically assumed that, because I was white, I had money and influence. Doors opened for me, invitations flowed, staff fell over themselves to serve me and if I complained about something, people took me seriously. Not being anyone noteworthy, it felt very odd to be treated that way. It was also a curious notion because the west certainly isn't respected for its moral behaviour, or rather, its perceived lack of morality. The explicit sex scenes on television and in films have led Indians who have little contact with the west to think that white women are ready to have sex with anyone who comes along.