Abiding Strength

--Will Durant 
in the Story of Civilization

The Ganga flows. At an awkward bend it changes course, at another it becomes a thin trickle. And where it runs dry, new life springs from the fertile river-bed, lush and green. Like the Indian family, which has survived countless generations, at times unchanged, basking in a common heritage, sometimes flowing in different directions, at times shattered and then, like tender, new saplings in springtime, clustered together again. To write new history on the vast canvas that is our social fabric, weave new patterns on its colourful tapestry. Has anything changed as we stand on the threshold of a new millennium? The joint family to which we trace our roots may be a fading institution but it hasn’t been completely obliterated from the annals of Indian family history yet. Its ideals of support and sharing live on, manifesting themselves in the smaller units which the pressures of modern society have spawned. A land of inexplicable contradictions, it is but natural that India has no single pattern that has emerged. Socio-economic compulsions have forced some families to separate into nuclear units, some have remained timelessly bound together by age-old traditions, driven by the same compulsions. Every family seeking its own space, own identity. Some well-ensconced, some still building on the ties that bind. Within the parameters of a society which has welcomed and absorbed change with the same ease. The Indian family, like the many faces of Eve, is embodied in a single entity - togetherness. It is interpretation, though multi-hued, is but the same. The story of the Indian Family.

One night, three years ago, Vandana Sharma’s husband just upped and left. Vanishing into the night and from her life, leaving her with a seven-year-old daughter. The 35-year-old didn’t break. Rather, she drew on all her reserves, which included her parents’ support, to rebuild from scratch a life which for many would have lain in pieces. Not only has she fitted the pieces together, she’s done it so well that the cracks hardly show. Cemented over with grit, determination and willpower, and the belief that daughter Varini, now 10, and she make as good a family as any other.

"I never consider ourselves as not being a family," says Vandana. Bright and chirpy Varini chips in with "whenever I’m out with friends and it’s late, I always say ‘I have to go back to my family’".

So, how does a family of two work? "Hardly a problem, but I do have to put in 150 per cent," says Vandana with a laugh. More important, says she, is the understanding she shares with her daughter. Also, points out Vandana, "it’s still not that difficult for a single parent to survive in India if you have a family support system like I have in my parents and sisters, enough money, an asset like a house and a good child". Taking a break from work now, she fills the time between taking Varini to school and collecting her at the end of the day by lending her voice to commercials and documentaries and reading the English news on All India Radio.

"Emotionally, it was difficult in the beginning but my daughter gave me the strength to carry on," she says. An exceptional student at school, Varini also seems to have inherited her mother’s pragmatism. She encourages Vandana to get on with her life and "quit moping". Neither have time for that, though. The usual weekday routine yields to hectic activity onweekends. They go on regular outings or simply play a game of badminton on the lawn outside their modest and tastefully-decorated dda apartment in Delhi.

Is their life then any different from the stereotypical family of three or more? "Not really but, like I said, I need to put in 150 per cent. There’s the rest that needs to be filled up. I don’t know what that is, let’s say whatever it is that fathers do," admits Vandana, not as a complaint against the world but in an honest assessment of her role as a single parent. There isn’t any man’s or woman’s world, she feels. "It’s just a complete world if the two are together." If not, that’s okay by her too. She’s a survivor with a family of her own.

As for Varini: "I sometimes tell mama that my father’s name is Vandan Sharma and my mother’s name is Vandana Sharma." And her family is complete.

It’s a tree with a record. The family tree, that is. The little boys who tug at the pig-tails of their sisters; uncles who take the boys along to the local deity and aunts who pack rotis and sabzi for their lunch at school; grandparents and aunts who sing the local lore to lull them to sleep at night.

It’s a sight to watch them break bread together, the Narasinghanavars of Lokur in Karnataka. In terms of sheer numbers and amity under a common roof, members of this family leave an indelible impression. At least 170 of them cram into two dining halls and a dark corridor that connects with a row of rooms.

For five generations, the Narasinghanavars have lived as a single family unit, sharing alike the responsibilities, the prizes of labor, the joys of a new arrival and the grief over a tragedy.

It’s amazing how they plan out the family budget. The annual income is about Rs 15 lakh, of which annual savings are Rs 1.5 lakh, which is earmarked for acquisition of new property. The family shops on two occasions annually - dasara and the eve of Mahavir Jayanthi, the clothings bill running up to Rs 70,000 each time. Even weddings are a group affair involving eight to 10 youths.

Says Bheemanna Narasinghanavar, 70, third of the four Narasinghanavar brothers of the current generation: "Nobody has ever walked out over a monetary dispute. A group of six or seven of us are joint owners of the land."
Gangamma, wife of the second brother, Lokappa, can’t recall her age. All she can tell you is that the family needs one bag of jowar every day to make sufficient number of rotis. There are a few odd members who have gone into service. But most of the men are content with the income from the property of this unique family. And cherish the bond that holds them.

Not many politicians are handed out a welcome the portly Srikanta Datta Narasimha Raja Wadiyar receives when he visits villages during polls. Villagers touch his feet while others borrow money to put up welcome arches and buy garlands for him. The old recall his ancestors’ generosity. And the raja comes up trumps even if time doesn’t permit him to tour the entire constituency.

Politics plays a marginal role. Wadiyar is revered so because he’s the scion of Mysore’s royal family. As the representative of a family with a 600-year-long history, the 46-year-old raja is flustered over this "special treatment". Rues he: "I can’t be human and walk into a store or a restaurant without people gathering around to pay respect. I don’t have privacy."

Even in his student days, the Yuvaraja (prince) had to bear with this. In 1972-73, Wadiyar was chosen to represent Mysore University in a cricket tourney at Hyderabad. He chose to travel with the rest of the team to Chennai and Hyderabad in a third class compartment. However, word spread and people rushed with cameras or simply to catch a glimpse of His Highness.
Wadiyar’s father Jayachamaraja was the last ruler. He was anointed the maharaja on September 8, 1940. Ten years later, he decided to join the republic. Then, his kingdom had expanded to 29,458 square miles or a state equal in size to Scotland. He was paid the second highest privy purse in India until the privilege was abolished in 1970.

The raja hails from a dynasty founded in 1399 by two young scions of the Yadava dynasty, Yaduraya and Krishnaraya.The Wadiyars are descended from the Yadurayas, whose kingdom flourished between 1578 and 1612, with Seringapatnam as the capital. The Wadiyars were overthrown by Hyder Ali. With the defeat of his son Tipu Sultan in the Fourth War of Mysore in 1799, the Wadiyars were restored to power.

There’s another aspect about his royal status this Congress MP dreads: being approached by all for funds. "Everyone thinks that as a descendant of the royal family, I’m loaded with money. It’s a different matter that we are living on a shoestring budget." He has spent a large sum on prolonged legal battles against the Karnataka government’s decision to take over the Mysore palace.

He feels traditional rituals in Indian families as well as the concept of marriage will continue through the next millennium. "Even in the West, where the divorce rate is high, more people are settling for marriage. There may be a few cases of live-in relationships but my feeling is that Indians will continue to believe in marriages."
He prefers to be independent and not remain part of a joint family, a tradition he believes is on the wane. "Once you have your income, you would want to lead an independent life." A royal inference.

Godfrey and Shoba. No surnames. Which, for them, like "orphans", is just an appendage. At Mumbai suburb Borivili’s Bhaskar Kolikar Chawl, their nameplate may well be the "orphan" family, though their nine-year-old daughter Sharon is the blessing somewhat overwriting it. Godfrey, 37, carries the burden of his desertion with a fragile strength, with Shoba as his prop, Sharon his hope. His eyes cloud over even today: "My mother comes from a well-off family that opposed her relationship with my dad. She left me in a dustbin." The contours of his personal map changes occasionally since, for consolation, he dips into imagination’s dark ink. He sums up his three-year adoption by a Goan family, from which he ran back to the orphanage, starkly: "I used to be tied up. Forced to eat hot masala as punishment. Beaten with a thorn stick." Traumatised, even today a violent situation sends him scurrying behind his wife.

A drop-out who smoked, drank, squandered his Rs 800 (earned as sacristan) trying to win non-friends till Shoba’s proposal. He gave up drinking and smoking overnight, bought the one-room that’s today patched with borrowed tiles and love. When both said "I do," the trappings, though borrowed and donated, were fairytale. The white dress, three-tier cake, confetti, friends, Rs 40,000 as a gift from church-goers and the gold set. Shoba was no tragic Jane Eyre. "At Maniketan Home, I was everybody’s favourite.My family gets VIP treatment even now." Shoba, who toddled into the home as a three-year-old with her sister just a year older, had always, unlike Godfrey, an overdose of love. Today, she passes this around, increasing her circle of friends (she is the soprano at the local church). She natters as Godfrey teases. Both strip hardships down to puns. Being an orphan means, says Godfrey, she’s lucky to be on a "bus withoutsaas".

But life’s been no rollercoaster. There have been brakes. They lost their second child. Both have been to the Gulf, leading hard lives, sacrificed togetherness for a nest egg that’s fast depleting. The neat home needs urgent repairs. Both intend to go back, leaving Sharon behind with neighbours, for between their jobs as hotel boy and teacher, they make Rs 2,700 monthly - an amount that straps their ambitions for their child. Since Sharon should get all that they did not get, they tend to expend more than love on her. Most of the daily provisions are bought off the erratic tips earned by Godfrey who has no ambitions. His timidity limits his career choices. He will work only with those who leave intact the shreds of his dignity. Everybody tells him he should learn driving. "I can’t, " fears Godfrey," I’ll be terrified.I’ll go hit somebody. I cannot handle any troublesome situation. I begin to tremble." But coming to terms with the lack of ambitions have been easy for both. Their aim in life, just now, is to be on a par with others of their milieu.

Wide-eyed, gentle Sharon is not allowed to feel the pinch - they splurged Rs 15,000 on her First Holy Communion. Whatever the financial crunch, the family puts aside at least Rs 100 per month for her in fixed deposit.

But more than the money, it is Shoba’s circle of friends who give Sharon a sense of belonging and love that both her parents, particularly Godfrey, lacked. Her little mezzanine floor "room" at home is every child’s envy - a dream dollhouse, complete with tiny step ladder, miniscule gate and a cherished privacy that’s only shattered with children’s laughter. She intends to be an air-hostess. Her parents will leave her with no choice but to fly high. For, to erase their own deprivation, they have hitched her wagon to a star.

Yes, I have five fathers, no four, one has expired," says Bachan Singh of Tator village in the Jaunpur block of Tehri Garhwal. The shock his words deliver is not exactly cushioned by his next statement: "And I have three mothers." Bachan Singh belongs to a community in the Mussoorie hills whose traditions, they claim, have been handed down by none other than the five Pandava brothers and who, folklore has it, spent their years in the mountains where the Jaunsar and Jaunpur blocks are entrenched, separated by the brilliant blue-green Yamuna. From them sprang the custom of bahupati or polyandry, except the community of about a 100 villages have, through the centuries, redefined the parameters of polyandrous customs. Incorporating elements culled from India’s fathomless social order. Evolving but never dissolving, maintaining their identities through large joint families and a sexual freedom which to the uninitiated defies logic. But for this mainly agrarian community, it’s a familial system resting on the solid foundations of unity and basic economics.

Rooms have only been added to Bachan’s house, no walls have ever been built, dividing the family of 40. Ludar Singh Rawat, 72, the present head of the family, presides over three brothers, three wives, 10 sons, six daughters-in-law, 10 daughters, all of whom are married, and an equal number of grandchildren.Five of his sons, including Bachan, are married; the eldest, Gaj, boasts two wives, one of whom is the village sarpanch; Sultan and Bikram are married to the same woman, Bachan and Diwan had one wife between them till Bachan married again.

"Marriage, however, does not not automatically signify ownership," explains Bachan. According to custom, it’s the eldest male member of each generation who does all the marrying, representing his siblings when it’s their turn. The women enjoy as much right, if not more than the men, to choose their sexual partners within the family. As much as the brothers share wives, the wives in turn are free to cohabit with any one, more or all of her husband’s brothers. "Widowhood is unheard of here. If one husband dies, the woman has many more to look after her." There’s one clause here though - the age divide between the man and the woman should not be too wide.

It’s obvious then that the differences in strength and sexuality which now divide the sexes hardly exist here. The woman here is no sexual toy, rather a robust animal at par with her man, sexual freedom imbuing her with a confidence and arrogance which rests with flamboyance on her feminine shoulders. Flaunting long, dangling earrings, Binita, Sultan’s wife, smiles coquettishly: "Where’s the problem? How can there be jealousies when we all enjoy the same position of respect?"

Draupadi of the epic didn’t have a choice when it came to accepting her husbands. Binita or her mothers-in-law do.Says Bachan: "If my wife decides she doesn’t like me anymore, she’s free to ignore me and carry on with her life with any of my other brothers or more." But it’s not promiscuity, the Rathore family hastens to add. Their definition of promiscuity is when sexual relations develop outside the marital home. Simply because the question of paternity is at stake. Permissive traditions within the family ensure that there’s almost no adultery. Children take the name of the eldest brother, as simple as that, and like all their parents belong to them, they too belong to all of them. "In each generation we try and replicate the bond that existed among the Pandavas," says Ludar.

There’s peace and harmony within the Rawat household. "Our customs have survived because they cater to all our needs, all our aspirations," explains Bachan. It’s economically viable in a hard terrain where land holdings are small and could be separated by heights of 10,000 ft. Manpower only adds to economic prosperity, the land remains undivided. From being small-time farmers, the Rawats have increased their holdings to 12 acres, own two water-powered flour mills, a tailoring shop, a provisions store and a mango orchard. "All our resources are pooled and my father acts as the treasurer," says Bachan, who holds a job with the Red Cross.

Kedari, wife of patriarch Ludar, takes a long drag of her hookah, and finally speaks to make a point. "Do you realise," she says, "that this age-old bahupati and bahupatni tradition of ours also keeps the birth-count under control?" A quick mental calculation proves the validity of her statement. Five brothers with three wives would make for a smaller family than five males with an equal number of wives. Point taken. She laments though that modern education could be responsible for the breakdown of the system and its ultimate extinction. "If our tradition of the joint family as it is breaks up, the entire social and economic structure will collapse."

The signs are already there. Kedari’s grandchildren, all of whom go to school, have now started calling some of their fathers and mothers ‘chacha’ and ‘chachi’ as against the earlier custom of calling all of them ‘baba’ or ‘ma’; at most with the prefixes badi or chhoti. "They go to school, associate with social set-ups very different from ours and have started getting self-conscious," explains Bachan. Sardar Singh, a cousin, makes a simple yet wise observation. "You see," he says, "‘baba’, ‘mama’ are all words which bring the lips together and, therefore, signify a coming together, the very essence of the joint family. ‘Chacha’, ‘chachi’ require a separation of the lips. Draw your own conclusions from that."

For the moment though, they are secure in their own world designed to suit their own specifications, uncaring of modern society’s definitions of morality, chauvinism or women’s rights. And so the lineage multiplies, carrying with it a tradition Draupadi may or may not have approved of.