Hasmukhlal Kantilal Shah hailed from one of the most
hardworking families of the late 19th century, Khangra, a small
hamlet situated in the north-east of Gujarat. Having grown up in a joint-family,
Hasmukhlal witnessed his parents labour in the semi-fertile fields, yielding
crops for the British Raj. Naturally, he took to the fields like fish to water,
even before he was a teen. But the young man had a different vision. He was
tired of the oppressive British policies. He intended to not only meet their demands
but also spare himself enough surplus which he could sell to the general public
through the bazaar. Within no time the young farmer became the greatest trader
Khangra had ever seen. So much so, the British began respecting him for his
efforts of self-sustenance. Such zest for independence in a young man was tough
to find in a country ruled over by another. Therefore, Damyanti’s father sought
for Hasmukhlal as a potential groom for his daughter. The families met, the
marriage was arranged and the couple took vows to love each other, and, be
equals.
Along herself, Damyanti brought ample good luck to Hasmukhlal,
and her mother’s advice to compromise under all circumstances. While
Hasmukhlal’s business flourished, his pride also soared higher. And with that
came authority and arrogance. The first to bear the brunt was none other than
his own wife. Hasmukhlal’s ever growing ego engulfed his marriage. He never
allowed Damyanti to take any part in the business or to leave the house to work
in the fields. She wasn’t consulted about any decisions whether business or
personal. She wasn’t even allowed to have a say in the number of children she
would eventually give birth to. This finally lead to her demise at the age of thirty-six,
while delivering her sixth child. Before her last breaths, Damyanti cried her
heart out to her eldest daughter, Kasturi. She not only entrusted her with the
responsibility of raising the siblings but also gave her an advice she hoped
her mother had given her: Adjust, but do not compromise your dignity in the
marriage.
Kasturi never had the best of upbringings despite her father
having boatloads of cash and a step-mother who took care of the siblings. She
was the neglected child since she was the eldest. That never bothered her. What
she always dreaded was a fate similar to her mother’s. Her last words haunted
Kasturi more than the death itself. Eventually, she was married into a family
with connections to the British Royalty, which was a matter of pride for
Hasmukhlal. Customs and traditions were a matter of honour in this family. Although
her husband wasn’t exactly like her father, Kasturi could see hints of
dominance, which she could make do with. But her ill-treatment at the hands of
the in-laws was what she could not bear. She was taunted for the most trivial of
mistakes and lectured for how she lacked any sophistication. The husband barely
took her side and Kasturi always felt a misfit in the glitzy family. She wasn’t
spared even in front of Lord Willingdon, who was invited for dinner to
celebrate his appointment as the newest Viceroy of India. Kasturi lamented the
fact that her mother did not live long enough to guide her through such
turmoil. But she wasn’t going to let her own daughter go through what she went
through. So, in the winter of 1939, while seeing off her daughter during the vidaai,
Kasturi offered Manjushree a golden advice; she requoted her mother’s words,
barring the word “adjust”. So, Manjushree left her father’s palace with a car
full of sarees, jewellery, a butler and one invaluable piece of advice: Do
not compromise your dignity in the marriage.
Now, Manjushree was born with a silver spoon, got all the
pampering in the world and received education in law at the Gujarat University.
And, her husband was an equal match. Handsome, charming and an avid cricketer.
But he had one flaw: Drinking. Having a peg or two, post a session of cricket
with his high class Indian and Brit friends, was a ritual for Jeetendra. He
would down an entire bottle of whiskey just to win a friendly bet. In an
inebriated state, Jeetendra would become a beast. More often than not,
Manjushree would be at the receiving end of such behaviour. Even after giving birth
to two sons and a daughter, Jeetendra would come home drunk in broad daylight.
15th August, 1947 was just around. While the nation was celebrating
its independence, Jeetendra mourned the demise of his friendships as all the
Brits returned home. To see her husband frustrated at the lack of recreational
activity, Manjushree left her job. But most of her time together was spent in quarrels
and literal fist-fights. Ultimately, just like India, Manjushree fought for
independence. She divorced the madman and moved to Mumbai where she raised the
three children on her own. When it was time to get her daughter, Rupal,
married, Manjushree spared her some advice: Do not compromise on anything.
Although Rupal wasn’t as lucky as her mother Manjushree, in
terms of having a lavish upbringing, she was equally driven in terms of having
a career and independence. After getting a medical degree from the Mumbai
University, Rupal practiced pathology for a while. She fell in love with Praful
and went on to marry him. This was the first time in the family’s tradition that
a woman married someone of her own choice. And what a decision it was! Praful turned
out to be the best husband that any of Rupal’s ancestors had ever had. He was
supportive of everything and was the calmest person one could meet. Both, husband
and wife, worked and lived a happy life until Shweta was born, in 1993. Praful
coaxed Rupal to quit her high paying job in order to raise their daughter. Years
passed, Praful’s business never reached the heights he had dreamt of, but it
was good enough to take care of his wife and two daughters. However, at fifty,
Rupal looked back at life and thought she underachieved and neglected her
dream. She could not fulfil her wish of becoming a pathology expert. She had to
be financially dependent on Praful, which wasn’t always easy. So, before Shweta
could even reach a marriageable age, Rupal told her to neither compromise
nor let go anything.
Today, at 25, I, Shweta, am just recovering from a bad
break-up. I followed my mother’s advice and did not let go my boyfriend’s
simple wish of not posting my picture in a mini-skirt on social media. I feared
I would go through a similar ordeal my mother and other ancestors went through.
This is my third break-up. Every time a man tries to stop me from doing
anything, I revolt. I end up doing so even if a man denies me something out of love
and care. The rebellious streak in me is a result of the make-up of my DNA.
Suppression breeds rebellion. I wish my great-great-grandmother had the courage
to revolt. Or, the mothers of all the men which my family’s women met, taught
their sons how to treat a woman. Perhaps I wouldn’t be as aggressive as I am today.
Perhaps I would still be with the first love of my life. Perhaps I would have
learnt to adjust wherever it be right. Perhaps everything would be alright if
my great-great-grandfather wasn’t such a douche.
P.S. Khangra is a made-up village. Gujarat University
came into existence in 1949, much later than Manjushree could have gone to
study law. These liberties have been taken only to give this piece some historic background.
