S G

T I S

Series Editor: B.S. Baviskar

O B S

Volume 2: Urbanization in India: Sociological Contributions

Editor: R. S. Sandhu

Volume 3: The Sociology of Religion in India

Editor: Rowena Robinson

Volume 4: The Indian Diaspora

Editor: N. Jayaram

Volume 5: Tribal Communities and Social Change

Editor: P. M. Chacko

Volume 6: The Family through Abstract and Lived Categories

Editor: Tulsi Patels

Volume 7: On Civil Society: Sociological Contributions

Editor: N. Jayaram
_________________________________________________________
________________
T I S ,Volume 1
_________________________________________________________
________________

S G

T F
S K

Editor
S R

Foreword by
K C
Copyright © Indian Sociological Society, 2003
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or utilized in
any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including
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without permission in writing from the publisher. References to Internet
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nor SAGE is responsible for URLs that may have expired or changed since
the manuscript was prepared.
First published in 2003 by
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 Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Sociology of gender: the challenge of feminist sociological knowledge /
editor,
Sharmila Rege; advisor, KarunaChanana.
p. cm.—(Themes in Indian Sociology)
Includes bibliographical references and index.
1. Women—India—Social conditions. 2. Sex role—India. 3. Feminist
theory—India. I. Rege, Sharmila. II. Series.
HQ1742S69 305.42'0954—dc21 2003 2002155170

Sage Production Team: Amarjyoti Dutta, Radha Dev Raj and Santosh Rawat
 Dedicated to the late
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C

List of Tables
Series Note
Foreword by Karuna Chanana
Acknowledgements
Introduction Feminist Challenge to Sociology: Disenchanting
Sociology or ‘For Sociology’?
Sharmila Rege

Part I Conceptual Issues in Feminism, Anthropology

and Sociology

1. Feminist Social Theories: Theme and Variations

Beatrice Kachuck
2. Problems with Patriarchy: Conceptual Issues in
Anthropology and Feminism
Patricia Uberoi

PART II Gender and Social Institutions

Section A: Family, Marriage and Kinship

3. Single- and Dual-Earner Couples: Economic Status and

Marital Power
 G. N. Ramu
4. Who Gains from Matriliny? Men, Women and Change on
a Lakshadweep Island
Leela Dube
5. Gender and the Khasi Family Structure: The Meghalaya
Succession to Self-Acquired Property Act, 1984
Tiplut Nongbri
6. The Impact of Egyptian Male Migration on Urban
Families: ‘Feminization of the Egyptian Family’ or a
Reaffirmation of Traditional Gender Roles
Homa Hoodfar

Section B: Work

7. Women and Development: A Profile of Active

Agricultural Producers
Raj Mohini Sethi
8. Female Participation in Farm Work in Central Kerala
C. V. Kala
9. Joiners and Non-Joiners: A City Suburb and its Women’s
Club
Pat Caplan

Section C: Education

10. Female Sexuality and Education of Hindu Girls in India

Karuna Chanana
11. Unequal Schooling and Reproduction of Social Inequality
in India
 Padma Velaskar

Section D: State

12. Gender in the Making of the Indian Nation-State

Maitrayee Chaudhuri
13. Bodies of Evidence, Bodies of Rule: The Ilbert Bill,
Revivalism and Age of Consent in Colonial India
Judith Whitehead
14. Dalit Struggle, Nude Worship and the ’Chandragutti
Incident’
Linda J. Epp
Related Readings in the Sociological Bulletin
About the Editor
About the Contributors
Index Keywords
L T

3. A summary of characteristics of respondents

1
3. Means, standard deviations and differences between means for DEWs
2 and DEHs on specific decision-making items
3. Means, standard deviations and differences between means for SEWs
3 and SEHs on specific decision-making items
6. Occupations of husbands and wives
1
6. Sources of financing migration
2
7. Changes in female occupational pattern in Himachal Pradesh (rural)
1
7. Proportion of cultivators and agricultural labourers to total workers in
2 four districts of Himachal Pradesh (1981 Census)
7. Size of the land-holding and average number of days worked by men and
3 women in a year (rabi and kharif);
7. District-wise distribution of respondents according to sex and the
4 number of days of agricultural work done in a year (rabi and kharif)
7. Distribution of respondents by sex and by the number of days of the work
5 done in various aspects of cattle care
7. Average number of hours per day per activity spent by women and men
6 in cattle care
7. Activities-wise distribution of average number of days in a year and
7 average number of hours per day in domestic work
7. Decision making by gender
8
8. Sex-wise distribution of work
1
9. Comparison of joiners and non-joiners on the basis of community
1
9. Educational levels of joiners and non-joiners
2
9. Comparison of husbands’ educational levels of joiners and non-joiners
3
9. Comparison of husbands’ occupation of joiners and non-joiners
4
9. Household composition of joiners and non-joiners
5
S N
The Indian Sociological Society (ISS) was established in December 1951
by Professor G. S. Ghurye and his colleagues in the Department of
Sociology at the University of Bombay. The ISS soon launched its biannual
journal, Sociological Bulletin, in March 1952. Since then the journal has
appeared regularly for the last fifty years.
Started on a modest scale, each issue of the journal usually did not
contain more than a 100 pages. During the initial years, the print order did
not exceed a few hundred copies. The Bulletin has now matured into a
respected professional journal both nationally and internationally. Since
1989 it is a fully refereed journal admired for its academic content and the
high quality of its production. Very few professional associations in India
and other developing countries have been able to achieve and sustain the
kind of scholarly reputation acquired by the Sociological Bulletin.
The ISS celebrated its Golden Jubilee in 2001, and to mark the
occasion it decided to publish a series of seven volumes, called Themes in
Indian Sociology, based on articles published in the journal during the last
five decades. When the proposal was placed before the Managing
Committee of the ISS, it received wholehearted support and several
colleagues came forward to help implement it. The 100 issues published
during the period contained about 500 articles on a variety of subjects
concerning society and culture in India and abroad. The authors’ list
included almost all the leading names in Indian sociology and social
anthropology. For the students of sociology and allied disciplines, it was a
virtual goldmine of sociological knowledge. Some of the papers were
considered landmarks in the development of the discipline and had
acquired the status of ‘classics’ in sociological literature.
Unfortunately, some of the issues were out of print and scholars faced
difficulties in consulting them for study, teaching and research. The
Managing Committee decided to republish some of the seminal papers in
suitable volumes under appropriate themes to make them easily available.
The committee identified a number of scholars who were specialists in
their respective fields, and asked them to edit these volumes. Senior
colleagues, well known for their expertise in respective fields, were asked
to act as academic advisors and to write appropriate forewords for the
volumes with which they were associated.
Each editor has selected ten to fifteen articles related to his/her theme,
arranged them in a meaningful sequence, and written a comprehensive
introduction to place the articles in the context of overall development of
the field. The editor has also given a list of articles related to the field but
not included in the volume, discussing briefly what they contain and why
they could not be included. This has made each volume a self-contained
guide to the concerned field.
We have great pleasure in offering the following seven volumes under
the series:

1. Sociology of Gender. Editor, Sharmila Rege. Foreword by Karuna

Chanana.
2. Urbanization in India: Sociological Perspectives. Editor, R. S.
Sandhu. Foreword by V. S. D’Souza.
3. Sociology of Religion in India. Editor, Rowena Robinson. Foreword
by C. N. Venugopal.
4. The Indian Diaspora. Editor, N. Jayaram. Foreword by S. L. Sharma.
5. Tribal Communities and Social Change. Editor, P. M. Chacko.
Foreword by K. Suresh Singh.
6. The Family through Abstract and Lived Categories. Editor, Tulsi
Patel. Foreword by A. M. Shah.
7. On Civil Society: Sociological Contributions. Editor, N. Jayaram.
Foreword by Satish Saberwal.

I hope these volumes will be useful to students, teachers and researchers in

sociology, social anthropology and other social sciences.
I would like to record my thanks to Omita Goyal and her colleagues at
Sage Publications for their wholehearted support to the project. I am
grateful to my colleagues in the ISS who came forward to work on these
volumes as editors and academic advisors. This is a result of their willing
cooperation.

B. S. Baviskar
Series Editor
Themes in Indian Sociology
F
During the last quarter of the twentieth century, feminist knowledge has
expanded the boundaries of sociology. Rigorous feminist critique of
mainstream sociological theories and paradigms has raised new questions,
broadened the frontiers of sociological knowledge and given rise to reflexive
sociology. Simultaneously, new developments and differences within
feminism have led to a variety of viewpoints and perspectives. Some
scholars talk of feminism while others would rather use women’s studies
instead of gender studies. There are those who prefer sociology of gender
rather than feminism or sociology of women. In spite of differences, there is
recognition of the problems of women, of women as actors and of looking at
social reality from women’s perspective. These internal criticisms have
strengthened and expanded the boundaries of feminist knowledge.
While feminist research has thrown a challenge to established theories
and perspectives, mainstream sociologists have been raising questions about
women’s studies and sociology of women. Theoretical arguments are given
to prove that sociology of women is intellectually soft and that its growth has
made sociology softer. As if sociology was not a soft social science before
the emergence of women’s studies. Instead of being disheartened by these
criticisms, feminists have to remind themselves that opposition to new ideas
has a history in the sociology of knowledge and feminist knowledge is no
exception.
From sex to gender, from women’s studies to sociology of women and
gender, a lot of ground has been covered. Women’s studies has to be
understood in the context of the genesis of women’s movement and its
location within it. Established Indian women scholars and activists
emphasize the difference between women’s studies and gender studies. They
refrain from using gender because it diverts the focus from the specific
problems of women. On the other hand, the extension of focus from women to
gender issues and the use of gender as a conceptual category along with class
race, ethnicity and caste has expanded the horizons of sociology. Without
taking a combative position, Sharmila Rege highlights the discourse on the
sociology of women and sociology of gender in her introduction. However,
one is constantly confronted with the question of the location of sociology of
women and of gender on the periphery or the margins and on the academic
borderlands of sociology.
Hence, the creation of institutional space within the discipline and
departments of sociology has been a slow and tortuous journey. It is still an
unfinished task. The ambivalence of a majority and the negative stance of a
few reflects on the ambiguous position of feminist sociology which can be
seen in the absence of treatment of gender from the core courses or the
mainstream courses in sociology. Rege identifies three broad responses of
Indian sociologists to accommodate feminist contributions, namely, inclusion,
separatism and reconceptualization. The pedagogical implications of these
deserve to be considered seriously. Therefore, while the debate about the
space to be given to gender in sociology goes on, the question that has to be
addressed is whether sociology of gender has been allowed to grow
organically within the sociology curriculum or whether the ‘engendering of
sociology’ has taken place or not. Rege refers to the pre-institutionalization
phase of sociology as ‘more than a sociology of absences of women’. The
institutionalized phase of sociology has yet to give full recognition to the
scholarship generated by these developments.
The collection is very broad in its range and perspectives. This volume
has been put together as a part of series of publications sponsored by the
Indian Sociological Society (ISS). The articles selected for the volume were
published during 1976–2001 in the Sociological Bulletin, the official journal
of the ISS. They are contributed by sociologists and social anthropologists,
which is a reflection of the intersection of the two disciplines in the Indian
academia. The contents of this valuable and timely book cover the life stages
of women in different social institutions such as the family, school and
workplace. The articles are supported by a very forthright and incisive
analysis of the sociology of gender and feminist scholarship in the
introduction. Rege has succeeded in encapsulating a very broad range of
issues relating to the study of gender within the discipline of sociology along
with providing a comprehensive survey and an overall view of interest in
women and gender as reflected in the Sociological Bulletin during the last
five decades. The introduction provides an interface between gender issues
and sociology. It also raises the issues of the margin, the periphery and the
centre without diverting the main focus from gender. It will undoubtedly give
a historical perspective to the understanding of the sociology of gender and
push forward the frontiers of feminist knowledge.

Karuna Chanana
A
It is difficult to find adequate words to acknowledge all the teachers, friends
and colleagues at the Department of Sociology and Women’s Studies Centre,
University of Pune. In different ways they have shared in the project of
engendering sociology, an engagement that began with my doctoral work. I
owe a special debt to my thesis supervisor, Professor D. N. Dhanagare who
encouraged me to re-read the history of sociology in India through a feminist
lens and to Dr Vidyut Bhagwat, Director, Women’s Studies Centre,
University of Pune, who besides intellectual comradeship provided ‘space’
for border crossings between sociology and gender studies. Professor Ram
Bapat has been throughout the last decade, for me, as for many others, a
source of intellectual support. The dialogue with Dr Patricia Uberoi began
with her comments on my thesis on gender-sensitizing sociology, and her
comments on the issue have continued to influence me through interactions in
workshops and seminars. Discussions with Dr Kushal Deb, especially on
practising engaged sociologies have been very meaningful and have helped
me to believe in the journey of which this book is a small part.
Manisha, Vaishali, Swati, Anagha, Pratima, Sulabha, Lalita and Rohini
have participated and contributed in different ways to the attempts of doing
engaged and passionate sociology in a regional university. Students at the
Department of Sociology and the Women’s Studies Centre, University of
Pune, have helped shape practices of feminist pedagogies.
The Golden Jubilee volumes planned by the Indian Sociological Society
catalysed the task of putting together a collection on feminist sociological
knowledge in India. This volume would not have been possible without the
encouragement of Professor B. S. Baviskar and the dialogue on the collection
with Professor Karuna Chanana. To them I owe special thanks.
Thanks to Anil and Mira, who patiently helped me with the tedious task of
proof reading and formatting the manuscript. I am grateful to Ms Ashtekar
and MrPawar and the library staff at the University of Pune who helped me to
track down old issues of the Sociological Bulletin.
 This book is for ‘Neeraben’, Professor Neera Desai and her generation of
scholars who worked ‘double day’ to engender sociology and discipline
gender studies in India. I hope that these activist scholars will see in this
book something that my generation has inherited from them.
INTRODUCTION

F C S :
D S ‘ S ’?1

Sharmila Rege

There is no doubt that the re-emergence of feminism and the women’s

movement in the late 1960s and early 1970s has had a significant
impact on the discipline of sociology (Reddock 1998).

As a statement that appears in introductory textbooks and handbooks of

sociology published in the 1990s, it sounds like a statement of the obvious.
Yet three instances in the 1990s, each in different ways concerned with the
heritage and challenges to social knowledge, would prove otherwise. In
1998, before the XlVth World Congress, the International Sociological
Association (ISA) published a series of volumes. These volumes were
explicitly concerned with underlining social knowledge in the different
regions of the world, an effort to raise the regional profile of the ISA and to
internationalize its membership. Research Committee 32, a committee on
Women in Society (WIS), had been established in the 1970s in response to
demands by feminist and women sociologists. Despite having taken up issues
of regional composition and internationalization in the past, the WIS was not
consulted. In the first three regional working conferences there was no
member of the committee on WIS and all paper presenters were male. The
ISA had to be reminded of its commitment to gender balance and it was
argued that there was still a need to introduce feminist sociological
knowledge more widely (Christiansen-Ruffman 1998). The result of all these
reminders was a pre-Congress volume on the Global Feminist Enlightenment.
The introduction to the volume clearly stated:
 This is only a beginning at the dawn of the feminist enlightenment ....
The layered structures and processes of patriarchal domination resist
both inquiry and change (Christiansen-Ruffman 1998: 11).

It may be recalled that in the early 1970s, Jessie Bernard (Bernard 1973)
argued that the revolutionary moment for feminists in sociology has arrived
and declared the beginning of the feminist Enlightenment in sociology.
Twenty-five years is a long time for just a ‘beginning’ to persist and calls for
a review of the seemingly obvious feminist challenge to the discipline.
Consider the second instance, the Gulbenkian Commission on the
Restructuring of the Social Sciences (1996) which was created with the
explicit aim of reflecting on the existing disciplinary structures and of
‘opening the social sciences’. Again an aim shared and addressed in several
ways by feminist scholarship in the academe. Yet, the Report of the
Commission only grudgingly admits to the feminist challenge. Consider these
lines in the ‘report:

Dissident voices—notably (but not only) feminists—have questioned

the ability of the social sciences to account for their reality .... In many
ways the current denunciations of these disciplines ... are to some
extent merely a repetition of earlier criticisms ... but earlier criticisms
were largely ignored (ibid.: 51).

The agency of feminist critiques and scholarship is undermined by rendering

their critical reconceptualizations as repetitions of earlier criticisms.
The observations of the Equality of Sexes Committee of the British
Sociological Association (BSA) present the third instance.

The setting up of women’s studies courses has been primarily of

interest to women .... There is pressure on women to undertake the
burden of course development in this area .... All male sociologists
need to recognise the significance of challenges made by feminist
ideas throughout sociology and to re-examine the power relations
within which they themselves operate (BSA Standing Committee on
the Equality of the Sexes 1986: 360).
The three instances of the ISA, the Gulbenkian Commission and the BSA
draw attention to issues related to the permeation of gender in the
organizational, intellectual and institutional practices of the discipline.
Feminist scholarship, though more commonplace than two decades back,
remains at the margins of sociological knowledge. In the graduate and
postgraduate sociology curriculum, gender remains an optional issue and few
students are exposed to gender as a concept, let alone feminist scholarship.
Several compilations of feminist scholarship in sociology (Campbell and
Manicom 1995; England 1993; Lorber and Farrell 1991; Myers et al. 1998;
Risman and Schwartz 1989; Wallace 1989) have sought to fill the intellectual
gaps. Feminist sociologists have made collective efforts to mainstream
feminist sociological knowledge through forums like the Sociologists for
Women in Society, Research Committee on Women in Society of the
International Sociological Association and the Equality of Sexes Committee
of the British Sociological Association. These transformations are products
of an intellectual and political context and are not confined to academic
theory. They influence and are influenced by the contours of feminist and
other related politics. Obviously, feminist critiques of the discipline have
traversed complex paths and one needs to look beyond a ‘stages approach’ to
grasp these feminist transformations.

F C S :B
‘S ’

Across the world, the gender politics of second-wave feminism has been
intertwined with the introduction of the concept of gender into the
professional work of sociologists. The intellectual issues, therefore, cannot
be divorced from the political in doing sociology of gender. With the
emergence of second-wave feminism and the slogan of ‘personal is
political’, feminist social scientists began to underline the gaps between their
experiences as women and their sociological knowledge. Sociologists and
their professional bodies were indicted for being androcentric and the
hegemony of patriarchy in sociology was elucidated. Bernard (1973) in the
now classical essay on the history of the American Sociological Association
outlined the feminist challenge to sociology as the fourth revolution in the
discipline. The validity of the challenge, she argued, would rest on the
reactions of sociologists to the feminist challenge. During the same decade,
Rossi (1964) underlined the significance of the social character of the
differences between the sexes over the physiological differences. In a sharp
critique of the acceptance of psychological ideas and conservatism in
sociology, she outlined the penetration and persistence of the feminine
mystique and the maternal myth in the academy and the labour market.
Institutional change in matters of childcare, education and residence were
marked as a prerequisite for the goal of sexual equality (ibid.). Acker (1973)
addressed the absence of women in stratification studies and explained it in
terms of the major assumptions in stratification literature about the social
position of women. She suggested that feminist reconceptualizations of
stratification studies would lead to a better understanding of social structure.
A number of criticisms of the content and methods of the discipline were put
forth (Oakley 1972; Smith 1978; Stanley and Wise 1983). Despite its claim
to value neutrality, sociology, they argued, was a ‘malestream’ discipline
which had been mainly concerned with research on men and by implications
with theories for men. Findings based on all male samples had been
generalized for the whole population, and issues and areas that concerned
women were seen as personal and outside the purview of the academic. Even
when women were included in the research, they were often presented in a
sexist manner. Sex and gender were seldom seen as explanatory variables
and the explanatory theoretical paradigms often naturalized women’s
subordination on biological grounds. Women thus were hidden from the
sociological gaze, both theoretically and empirically (Abbot and Wallace
1990), and feminist sociologists were concerned primarily with underlining
sociology as at best sex-blind and at worst sexist. This was a period of
disenchanting sociology as the entire mainstream came to be declared
malestream. The absence of women in the cognitive structure of the
discipline was highlighted. All efforts were directed towards establishing
women’s experiences as significantly different from men’s and incorporating
women’s perspectives as theorists and subjects of study.
 The feminist scholarship since these pioneering critiques is often
organized into different phases or stages of transforming traditional
sociology. The first stage is seen as one of underlining the absence of women
in the cognitive structure of the discipline. The second stage is conceived as
focusing on the differential sex roles and gender inequalities in society. The
third stage is seen as one moving towards the conceptualization of gender as
a social structure while the fourth stage is seen as one of realization of the
intrinsic linkages between gender and other matrices of structural
inequalities. Such a ‘stages approach’ at first does help to organize the
varied and vast range of writings of feminist scholars. However, such an
organization of feminist sociological knowledge misses several important
issues since such a cumulative transformation approach assumes that one
stage either supplants or builds upon the former. Moreover, it sidelines the
fact that scholars writing in the same period may, so to say, belong to
different phases. More important, the fact that feminist scholarship has been
largely interdisciplinary and marginalized except in ‘enclaves of women’s
studies’ means that a neat stage-by-stage transformation is next to impossible.
Some scholars therefore conceptualize the changes in terms of different
intellectual genres rather than cumulative phases or stages (Myers et al.
1998). Feminists themselves are not in complete agreement about the way
forward for their critiques of the discipline. Therefore, feminist
transformations in the discipline can be more adequately organized into
different intellectual genres than into cumulative stages. Besides organizing
the feminist critiques of the discipline into different intellectual genres, it is
important to categorize the responses of the discipline to these critiques.
There have been three broad responses to the feminist critiques of the
discipline: inclusion, separatism and reconceptualization. While the first
kind of response integrates women into the cognitive structures of the
discipline, it leaves the assumptions of the mainstream discipline
unchallenged. The second response, the separatist position, argues for
sociology of women from a woman’s standpoint. All women are seen as
sharing a common position derived from their marginalization and
exploitation in a patriarchal society. The effort is to conceptualize the social
world based on the experiences of women. Such a position not only leaves
the mainstream unchallenged but also in a reverse way reiterates the division
of women to experience and men to theory. In terms of making a difference to
the academe too, separatism can only lead to ghettoization of feminist
sociological knowledge. The third position of reconceptualization seeks to
move beyond a filling in of gaps and separatist knowledge. It seeks to
integrate feminist challenges to the discipline in ways that lead to a
reconceptualization of the sociological categories. From such a position,
then, the project is not one of mere inclusion of women but of challenging
some of the taken-for-granted dichotomies like public vs private or domestic
vs paid work. Each of these positions may be seen as employing the different
strategies in feminist theory (Squires 1999). The first position of inclusion
proposes to move towards a non-sexist sociology through the inclusion of
women. The second proposes a strategy of reversals, the reworking of
sociological knowledge from the standpoint of women, thereby moving
towards a particularity of women’s sociology. The third position of
reconceptualization often operates through a strategy of displacement, so that
deconstructive techniques may be employed to challenge accepted meanings.
Nevertheless, displacement alone may not be an adequate basis for
reconceptualization, which is an on-going and uphill struggle.
In the last two decades or more, the central category ‘woman’ in feminist
theorization has come to be challenged as a homogenized notion. Trends in
postmodern feminism have assumed a nominalist position and have
challenged the use of the category ‘woman’ as essentialist. Several trends in
black and Third-World feminism are different in that they had sought to
historicize the differences of sexual orientation, class, nation, race and caste
that exist between women. The postmodernists argued that feminist goals
could not be conceptualized in terms of the needs and interests of white,
middle-class women. Black feminist sociologists like P. H. Collins
underlined the ways in which different epistemologies promote the interests
of different groups and how oppositional knowledge is subtly suppressed
(Collins 1989). There has been a shift to the category of gender as against
women, not only because it allows a relational analysis but also because it
allows for an analysis of interlocking structures of oppression, namely, race,
gender, class, etc. Several courses on sociology of women have come to be
renamed sociology of gender, in some cases, without much change in the
content of the courses. This may be a result of the confusion over the category
of gender caused by its varied use over time and at micro- and macro-
structural levels. Some discussion on this category is called for especially
since women-centred concerns are being replaced by gender-centred ones in
curriculum transformation too.

F S W S
G

Much of the feminist scholarship over the last twenty-five years or more has
been directed towards underlining the social construction of gender. It sought
to establish sex as biologically determined and gender as socially
constructed. However, the constructionists do not agree over the causes of
the sex-gender distinction. They vary over their conceptions of gender as a
manifestation of the contingent stereotyping or of structural power relations.
Moreover, differences arise over whether one considers these structures in
the singular or the plural. The issue of race was central in propelling these
debates on gender as multiple structures of power. Several arguments were
put forth to move beyond class and race as mere additives to gender.
However, with the linguistic turn in theory, gender theorization has shifted the
focus from material to discursive structures. In such discourses on gender,
femininity and masculinity have no ontological foundations and is conceived
as relational and contextual (Squires 1999). The neat distinction between the
biological and the socially constructed is rendered increasingly untenable as
the body came to be seen as transformed in social practice. Proponents of
this position insist that gender cannot be conceived merely as the cultural
inscription on a pre-given sex. It must also designate the very apparatus by
which sex is produced as natural (Butler 1990). Thus, gender is a
construction with no necessary relationship to particular bodies or
sexualities and in the final analysis appears as a manifestation of texts and
cultural practices. With this cultural turn, gender in feminist theorization
appears more as a cultural difference than a social hierarchy and feminist
politics is surrendered alongwith metanarratives. Jackson (2000) advocates
a sociological feminism as a corrective to the cultural turn and delineates
four intersecting levels of social construction, namely, the structural, the
discursive, the everyday lived and the subjective. She argues that the social
world includes the cultural, the realm of the symbolic and discourse.
However, the cultural is not all there is to the social as the social is
concerned with issues of social structure and situated social practices. It is in
this context that sociological feminism has much to offer through an analysis
of the different and intersecting facets of social construction of gender.
The study of gender in sociology first emerged in the research on sex
roles. Under the influence of role theory and functionalism, gender was
conceived as an achieved status accompanied by a set of patterned gender
roles. Feminist sociologists critiqued such a conception as overlooking
historical change, reifying expectations and marginalizing the politics of the
structures of domination (Connell 1992; Stacey and Thorne 1985). Connell
conceptualizes gender as a system of relationships that cut across race, class,
age and institutional boundaries. He dismisses the concept of patriarchy and
outlines a gender order as a site of relations of domination and
subordination, struggle for hegemony and practice of resistance (Connell
1992). Some scholars have conceived gender as a dimension of multiple,
interlocking systems of domination (Chow et al. 1996; Collins 1991). They
argue for a simultaneity of class, race and gender and conceptualize them as
different but interrelated axes of social structure. They outline a structural
matrix of domination which affects individual consciousness, group
interaction and group access to institutions, power and privileges. This goes
beyond an additive model of class, race and gender and also distances itself
from the popular model of diversity and multiculturalism. Models of
diversity highlight the cultural diversities among women while overlooking
the issues of power and hierarchy that are structured by class and race. Some
feminist sociologists have sought to reconceptualize gender, using an
ethnomethodological approach. West and Fenstermaker (1995) conceptualize
race, class and gender as emergent properties of the social situation that are
not reducible to role expectations. They highlight the simultaneity of
experience of race, class and gender in face-to-face interactions. ‘Doing
gender’ and ‘doing difference’ approaches have been critiqued for
overlooking the institutional basis of power and decontextualizing the issues
from the histories of gender, race and class studies (Collins 1995; Thorne
1995; Weber 1995). There have been attempts to conceptualize gender as a
social institution (Lorber 1994) and not as a matter of interpersonal relations.
Lorber (ibid.) sees gender as an institution that establishes patterns of
expectations for individuals, orders the everyday social processes, is built
into major social organizations and is an entity in and of itself. This approach
seeks to draw out the ‘paradoxes of gender’. Thus, gender remains much
contested but an indispensable concept: contested because some scholars
challenge this shift from women to gender and indispensable to others
because they see it as allowing for a more inclusive analysis of the human
experience based on intersecting structures of domination, difference and
diversity.
Feminists with varying intellectual frames of reference have put forth
diverse positions about privileging the category of gender over women.2 The
shift from women to gender has been viewed by some as a replacement of the
study of sexual inequality with the study of the differences between the sexes
(Evans 1990). They make a case for the continuing usefulness of the term
‘woman’ for analysis as against the category of gender. The category
‘gender’ is seen as diverting the focus from specific issues concerning
women both in the political and academic sphere. However, feminists,
especially Third-World, black and Dalit feminists, have underlined the
dangers of presuming a set of common meanings for the category women.
They have argued that the category woman universalizes and homogenizes the
experiences of white, middle-class and upper-caste women. On the other
hand, the use of the category gender allows for the analyses of differences of
race, class, caste, nation and sexual orientation between women. The use of
the category woman assumes commonality between all women and can at
best allow the analysis of the differences among women in an additive or
add-on manner. In the analysis of a caste-based society, for instance, such an
assumption of commonality amounts to a reiteration of the normative status of
the upper-caste women. Often the commonality between women is assumed
on the basis of their experiences of victimhood as ‘women’ in a patriarchal
society. Such an assumption not only universalizes the concept of patriarchy
but also argues as if the oppression of caste and class is located in some
‘non-woman’ part of Dalit women. The use of the category gender allows for
an analysis of the interlocking structures of oppression and, in fact, goes
beyond the analysis of the differences among women by underlining the
gendered nature of caste and class oppression. In the academic sphere it
establishes gender as an axis of social stratification while in the political
sphere it underlines the inevitability of gender as a concern for all
emancipatory struggles. For those of us concerned with engendering
sociology, it means moving from a sociology of women to a more inclusive
sociology of gender. As Moore (1988) has argued, it was not until the
anthropology of women was able to make room for gender that its potential
to fundamentally reconceptualize could be more fully realized.

S G I :T R
M A W

Sociological knowledge in India, as elsewhere, has been bound

intellectually, organizationally and culturally as a community of scholars
sharing certain premises. Feminist critiques of the discipline have not only
explored the way in which gender permeates the field of study, methods and
approaches to sociological knowledge but also the organizational structures;
this is not to claim that these are completely separable. Analyses of the
teaching and research programmes of undergraduate and postgraduate
departments as also the programmes and publications of national and
regional associations provide insights into the impact of gender studies on
the discipline. There is reason to believe that boundaries created by
institutions and professional associations may be firmer than those created by
the intellectual. Firmer boundaries are mapped through the construction and
reconstruction of the curriculum and the practices and programmes of the
professional organizations of sociologists. Feminist sociological knowledge
has posed challenges to the intellectual concerns of sociology as also to the
ways in which the discipline is organized professionally and institutionally.
The challenges posed by feminist scholarship to the content, methodology
and epistemology of the discipline can be more easily enumerated than those
posed to the organizational and institutional practices. The impact of feminist
scholarship on the institutional and organizational practices of sociology
needs more exploration. Further explorations into the varying conceptions of
women/gender in the biographies of professional organizations, journals,
academic departments, curricula and pedagogic practices and the careers of
individual practitioners could provide important insights.
Systematic reviews of the development of sociology in India (Dhanagare
1993; Mukherjee 1980; Oommen and Mukherji 1986; Singh 1996; Unnithan
et al. 1965) provide a framework for analysing the trends in Indian sociology
over the years. Almost all commentators see the origins of social
anthropology and sociology in the encounter between the colonial
administration and Indian society, the Occident and the Orient, and tradition
and modernity. Travelogues, tracts, studies on castes, tribes, village
communities, languages and land tenurial systems are seen as inspired by the
need for basic data for colonial administration. The ‘indigenous sociological
imagination’ of the social reformers, often referred to as the ‘pre-
sociological reference groups’ (Mukherjee 1977), constitute the beginnings
of the discipline. Most commentators argue that this indigenous pre-
sociological intellectual tradition, however, influenced the later development
of Indian sociology and social anthropology only marginally (Dhanagare
1993: 35). A search for the ‘origins’ of the ‘visible woman in Indian
sociology’ would lead us to argue otherwise. The agenda of the liberal
reformists and revivalists of the nineteenth century set the contours for the
‘woman in sociology’ in the cognitive structures of the discipline. Thus,
space within the sociological discourse came to be granted either to the
woman in the ‘texts’ or the ‘middle-class woman’ in the context of
modernization. Despite the study of caste having been almost synonymous
with Indian sociology, Jotiba Phule had to wait for a sociological analysis
until Omvedt’s work (1976), and ‘Kulambini’ his analysis of the differences
among women still awaits one. Thus, it is the reformist concern with the
qualities and domain of women of the middle classes that instituted the
savarna, middle-class woman as the object of the sociological analysis of the
status of women in India.
In the hierarchical structuring of knowledges in Indian universities,
sociology as a ‘residual category’ was relegated to a subordinate position. It
was added on to departments of economics or social work and in the struggle
for survival, sociology and anthropology often developed a symbiotic
relationship (Dhanagare 1993). In the pre-1950s (pre-institutionalization)
phase of sociology, it is significant that though centres emerged at
Bombay(now Mumbai), Calcutta(now Kolkata), Lucknow, and Mysore, these
did not consolidate into schools. While studies on family, kinship studies,
castes, social structure in a village and the problems of urbanization emerged
at Bombay, Calcutta produced large-scale social surveys on tribes, peasantry
and famines. The work at Lucknow suggested that the rigid boundaries
between disciplines be reviewed critically, and D. P. Mukherji (1958) even
suggested the need for the sociologist to turn from description to
prescriptions that could emerge only from stated value-choices. It is
important to note that this phase is marked by theoretical pluralism and a
questioning of the myth of ‘value-free’ sociology. It is no surprise then that in
this phase women are visible in the ‘unexpected zones’, e.g., female sexuality
(Ghurye 1953) or ethics of feminism (Wadia 1923). In an obituary to A. R.
Wadia, C. Parvathamma (1972) recalls his explicitly stated and acted upon
opposition to the caste system and the innate links between sociology and
humanism that he sought to explore. Wadia’s Ethics of Feminism (1923) is
probably one of the first attempts in sociology in India to explore the effects
of feminist thought on marriage, motherhood, home life, education and
professions. Hate’s thesis on Hindu women (1946) and S. C. Dube’s review
of the roles of men and women in India (1963) were written during this
preinstitutionalization phase of sociology. Both these works are often quoted
by sociologists working on women-related themes prior to the establishment
of women’s studies as a formal area of enquiry.
Irawati Karve’s explorations into issues related to marriage, family,
motherhood using legends and folk songs, her essays, novels and short stories
need deliberation. Karve has often been excluded despite her encyclopaedic
work and the reason suggested has been that the work is outdated. A feminist
re-organization of seminal readings on marriage, family and kinship (Uberoi
1993) underlines the centrality of women’s everyday lives as a factor in
Karve’s comparative analysis of North/South kinship patterns and the impact
of changing Dravidian kinship patterns. Despite the sharp disagreements
expressed by anthropologists and feminist critiques about the Brahmanical
underpinnings of her works (Bhagwat and Rege 1993) her contributions
remain significant. Her paper, ‘The Indian Woman in 1975’ (Karve 1966),
which was a projection of future patterns of life for Indian women, was
based on an analysis of census data. Not only does she note the adverse sex
ratio and the regional and cultural difference therein but also clearly projects
that increased educational and employment facilities will not mean more
choice in marital matters for women. She points to ‘special areas of
education’ for women and comments on the greater proportion of women than
men in sociology. There are critical observations about the bulk of
employment for women coming from agriculture and their decreasing
numbers in textile mills.
Thus, the pre-institutionalization phase of the history of the discipline can
be read as more than as just a ‘sociology of absences of women’. The task in
sociology, unlike in history or economics or literature, was not that of making
visible the invisible women. The central importance accorded to the study of
the family, marriage and kinship in sociology had meant that women had been
visible but their experiences had been ignored. As Dube (2000), in an
autobiographical account of doing gender and kinship in India, states:

My “state of art” report on kinship and family in India, done in 1970–

72 for the Indian Council of Social Science Research, was based on
extensive survey of anthropological and sociological literature: it
brought in women only contextually. It had very little, directly
focusing on issues concerning women (ibid.).

However, feminist critiques of the disciplines in the 1980s began to

underline the wide gap between the everyday worlds of women and
sociological knowledge. The most immediate task at that time seemed to be
to underline the ‘mainstream’ as the malestream, thereby articulating a one-
dimensional feminist disenchanting of sociology. The focus, therefore, was
on the underlining of the invisibility of women in sociology. A more
discerning sensitivity is probably called for in reading ‘gender’ in the
different phases in the growth of the discipline. It is important to trace the
influence of the particular trajectory of institutional expansion of the
discipline in India. Did the institutional expansion adversely affect the
visibility of women in the cognitive structures of the discipline? Why did
gender not become a variable for sociological analysis in a phase that
brought visibility to the sociologists in India? These are only some of the
questions that feminist sociologists need to address.
The institutional expansion began in 1952, as the knowledge/methods of
sociologists and social anthropologists became ‘usable’ by the state.
Sociologists were required to outline the social determinants and
consequences of state-sponsored development. Issues that did not fall within
the purview of economists became the prerogative of the sociologist and, as
the need for trained personnel increased, the University Grants Commission
(UGC) sanctioned several posts in sociology (Srinivas and Panini 1986). It
is important to note that this expansion, courtesy the Community Development
Programme (CDP; 1951–70) and the Ford Foundation, meant a strong dose of
modern survey research methods imported from the United States. Research
technology became the need of the day and there was neither the inclination
nor the time to reflect on substantive issues in methodology (Dhanagare
1993). This period of visibility for the sociologist saw an estrangement of
the discipline from history, economics and political science. This phase of
institutionalization comes almost close to what feminist critiques conceive as
of invisibility of women in the discipline. The earlier voices on theoretical
pluralism and myth of value-free social sciences were almost lost under the
burden of institutionalization and the paradigmatic axioms of structure
functionalism and research technology. The analysis of institutionalization
and critiques of paradigmatic axioms are, therefore, inseparable. In this
context, the continuities and discontinuities between the institutionalization
and the post-institutionalization phase of the 1970s and 1980s need attention.
The trend reports of the Indian Council for Social Science Research
(ICSSR) suggest that in addition to caste, stratification studies, social change
(modernization of tradition), family, marriage, industry (managerialism),
urban and rural society became areas of core concern (ICSSR 1972, 1985).
In a review of the themes/abstracts of doctoral theses (1975–90) completed
in universities in Maharashtra, an increasing interest in studies on specific
caste and adivasi communities and specific categories of workers (several
on badli workers) is apparent. The extent to which such studies were
influenced by the radical new social movement of the period is debatable.
The number of theses on Dalit communities marked an increase but the
epistemological claims of the Dalit movement were not addressed. These
studies are clearly limited to the ‘marginal man’ in Indian society and his
relative deprivation, his reference groups and social mobility (Guru 1999).
There are several studies on the Muslim community, most of which feminize
the community. These studies centre on the ‘problems of Muslim women’,
namely talaq, purdah and lower rates of education. Thus, as observed by
Uberoi (1993), differentiation seems to cut across sexual hierarchy only
along communal lines.
Studies on women marked an increase after the publication of the Report
of the Committee on Status of Women in India. The World Plan of Action
for the Decade for Women gave priority to research activities in all aspects
concerning the situation of women. The Government of India had drawn up a
Draft National Plan of Action for Women which laid emphasis on research
that could identify the impediments to women’s full contribution to the
development programmes (Desai et al. 1999). The ICSSR constituted an
advisory committee on women’s studies and its booklet categorically called
for a critique of male-centred social sciences and an emphasis on women
from the marginalized sections of society. In 1985, the UGC appointed a
standing committee on women’s studies which enabled it to introduce the
first sponsored programme of promoting centres for women’s studies within
the universities. The twin origins of women’s studies, from the movement and
from the top by the UGC, without much interaction with the university
authorities, has posed several conceptual and operational problems (Desai et
al. 1999). Thus the increased interest in research on women often translated
into studies on dowry, unmarried mothers, modernization among women,
female criminality, problems of female folk artistes, employment among
Brahman women and impact on family patterns and domestic servants in
urban centres. A careful look at the subtitles of the theses completed during
this period reflects the frame of the research question. Studies on the
education and employment of women are subtitled ‘a study of social change’
or ‘modernization and impact on family patterns’. While studies on dowry,
divorce, unmarried mothers, folk artistes are framed within the study of a
social problem (Rege 2001), the post-expansion phases in the development
of the discipline, especially the late 1970s and 1980s, did bring women back
into visibility. However, the legacy of the earlier phase continues, in terms of
limits set on questions that are asked on what counts as proof and methods to
generate knowledge. Explanatory frameworks are largely sociolegal and the
‘historical changes in the status of women’ are articulated in terms of the
‘texts’. Studies on the contemporary status of women in India are located in
the dominant framework of modernization. The dominant explanatory
framework is the Parsonian paradigm of two roles of women and role
conflict. Such a cognitive frame necessarily excludes the possibility of any
analysis of the source of gender inequality in the public and the private
spheres. Thus, a concern with gender disparities in socialization ends on a
plea for an attitudinal change while those concerning rural women prescribe
‘modernization’ as a solution. This apparent lack of interpenetration of
sociology and the women’s movement is further borne out by the near
absence of sociological analyses in the women’s movement.
The challenges posed by feminist scholarship and the women’s
movements to these received frameworks in the sociology of caste, family,
kinship, marriage, work and stratification have been well analysed (Desai
1998; Dube 1984, 1996; Ganesh 1995; John 1997; Niranjana 1992; Rege
1994a; Uberoi 1989). This feminist scholarship, as noted by these scholars,
has been largely interdisciplinary, and in a sense, therefore, outside the
purview of the typical student of sociology prior to introduction of courses
on sociology of women. Interdisciplinary feminist challenges, if taken note
of, are often ‘disciplined’ in the thesis. Strategic exclusions/inclusions of the
‘feminist challenge’ have to be managed in order to avoid the perennial
questions about the sociological nature of the content and methodology. An
engagement with the issue being studied is met with the reminder of the
divide between the diverse interest in the ‘social’ of the activist and the
sociologist in the ‘social’. Interdisciplinary feminist contributions may be
incorporated in the description of the problem while the explanatory frame
has to be ‘sociological’. Thus, boundaries of ‘good sociology’ are drawn
around general laws, scientific method and a segmentalizing of human reality.
The core of the discipline is sustained through the taken-for-granted ways of
perceiving social reality—despite an expansion in the subject matter— often
to include the marginalized subjects. The marginalized, be they women,
Dalits, adivasis or the labouring classes, despite their inclusion in the
substantive areas, remain on the periphery of the cognitive structures of the
discipline. The intellectual and practical base of the core is sustained through
several dichotomies: social/political, social world/knower,
reality/knowledge, objectivism/subjectivism (Hegde 1989), book view/field
view, macro/micro, all of which firmly keep out praxeological issues.
Intellectually, the centre coheres more than the margins occupied by several
‘others’ engaged in a critique. Further, these critiques from the several
‘others’ on the margins often exclude each other in that they present the
classic case of sexless caste/class and the classless/casteless gender.
Despite this apparent coherence at the centre, there has been an anxiety about
the margins and loss of certainty. Articulations of feminification of theory
(Gupta 1995), claims of ‘balkanization of sociology’ and ‘meritocracy’
critiques of Mandal (Beteille 1997) are only some of the cases in point.
Gupta’s (1995) views on feminification of theory and Beteille’s views on
feminism in the academia present examples of dismissals of feminist
scholarship by sociologists in India. As Tellis (2001) has observed, the
strategy employed in such a dismissal is one of relegating as prurient, trivial
and unacademic any academic and political writing on gender. Gupta
underlines the importance of disciplinary boundaries and of objectivity for
the discipline of sociology through an exercise in feminist bashing (Gupta
1995). Based on a very selective and partial reading of western feminist
texts, he concludes that:

Feminist studies are, therefore, largely about how women give life,
about how they know about life, about childbirth, about menstruation,
about suffering without adequate symbols or even about the joys of
lesbianism (ibid.: 620).

Several feminist sociologists and anthropologists responded to Gupta’s

‘indisciplined outpourings’ (John 1995) on the feminification of theory. They
underlined the gross distortions in Gupta’s reading of feminist theory and the
omission of any discussion on Indian feminism. The intellectual arrogance of
male academics in dismissing an entire system of thought and movement with
a cursory examination of the segment of its theories was sharply critiqued
(Chakravarti 1995; Ganesh 1995; Haider 1995a; John 1995; Karlekar 1995;
Poonacha 1995; Thappan 1995). Beteille (1995), commenting on feminism in
the academia, begins by granting that the developments in women’s studies
have generated enthusiasm in the academic world. However, assuming that
all of women’s studies is exclusionary, he concludes on a different note. He
argues that unless diverse viewpoints, the perspectives of both the sexes, are
accommodated, women’s studies would damage the credibility of the very
institutions in which they are located (ibid.). Both the sociologists who
called feminist scholarship into question have contributed much to theoretical
developments in stratification studies. Feminist scholarship would have
expected them to raise issues of gender as an axis of social stratification or
even put forth critiques of the feminist theorization on caste, class or gender.
Such critiques would go a long way in the enriching interaction between
sociological feminism and feminist sociology.
Thus, the ‘softer’ nature of the discipline of sociology may not mean a
guarantee of more permeability of boundaries or reflexivity. As a residual
discipline whose core concepts neither generate a discursive unity nor
demarcate it sharply from the neighbouring disciplines, any threat to the
certainty of the core can put much at stake. In the present context of an
increased sensitivity to the history of the discipline, the tensions between the
core and margins assume importance. A heightened sensitivity to disciplinary
histories need not necessarily mean increased sensitivity to the margins of the
discipline. The grounds of relevance will have to be contested, and hence the
need for histories of the discipline, its organizations and practices from the
margins.

S B 1950 : H
B 3

The contrast in the explicitly stated aims of professional associations and

publications at two different instances in disciplinary history suggest that
professional organizations and publications are important boundary markers
of the discipline. A journal called The Indian Journal of Sociology was
started at Baroda (now Vadodara) in the 1920s (discovered in the 1950s by
Prof. M. N. Srinivas). This journal stated as its aim the development of a
wide-ranging sociology, and went on to explain that it did not have any ‘a-
priori limitations as to what sociology shall not include. The scope of our
discussions must grow with the development of the concept of a
comprehensive human civilization’ (quoted in Shah 1972). The Sociological
Bulletin, which started in 1952 during the phase of institutionalization, stated
in its introductory remarks, ‘The organizations of sociology seldom, if ever,
try to influence public opinion, except on matters touching the welfare of
science or freedom of speech. This organization does serve to give status to
sociologists ... ’ (Ogburn 1952:12). In this context, it becomes significant to
ascertain the extent to which the debates and movements on gender issues
have influenced the profession and its practices. The varying conceptions of
‘women/gender/feminism’ in the official journals of the professional bodies
give some insights into the dialectics of historical and social processes as
well as organizational practices.
A review of the changing conceptions in a professional journal like the
Sociological Bulletin, the official journal of the Indian Sociological Society,
no doubt gives a partial picture of the contemporary disciplinary practices.
Yet, it provides a good sense of changes and developments in the discipline
by highlighting the crucial ideas and concerns that have at particular moments
preoccupied its practitioners. Omissions, issues that were not debated or
debated elsewhere also give important clues.
None of the articles that appear in the Sociological Bulletin during 1952–
70 are thematically concerned with women. However, there is during this
period a predominance of articles on marriage and family, caste,
demography, social problems and societies, both industrial/urban and rural.
Most obviously one begins to trace the presence of women in the area of
marriage and family. In the first decade after the inception of the journal in
1952, there was an interesting presence of women in writings on themes such
as the return of bourgeois family in socialist Russia (1953), polyandry in
Malabar (1958) and roles of women in the family in early Christianity
(1964). Most of the writings on the family are concerned with the transition
from ‘institutional’ to ‘companionship’ marriage, the changes in sex roles
and the impact of female education on familial interpersonal relations (1955,
1958 and I960).4 It is important to note that in all the opinion surveys on
attitudinal changes towards the family, the samples appear to be male:
Categories such as ‘graduate teachers’ and ‘students’ are classified by class
and caste but treated as gender neutral (1955, 1961). Checklists in these
surveys reiterate gender stereotypes such as ‘women do not adjust, there is
bickering amongst them’ (1955: 170). There are two articles on matrimonial
advertisements (1965, 1966) which highlight ‘personal appearance’ and
‘efficiency in domestic chores’ as ranking high on a list of expectations from
brides. It is interesting to note that in 3 per cent of the 500 advertisements
placed by women, they explicitly state that no dowry transactions would be
entertained. While one expects the presence of women in articles on
marriage and family, what comes as a surprise is the presence of women in
articles on urbanization and urban social problems.5 In assessing the social
effects of urbanization on industrial workers, the women migrants have been
treated as a specific category (1957). In studies on urban ecology (1960),
relations between the social character of the ecological area and the age—
sex structure have been traced. In studying urban social problems (1959),
especially beggary and prostitution, the stereotypes about ‘female vices’ and
‘immoral practices’ are reiterated (1960). However, in articles on
community development programmes (1958), there is a near complete
absence of women. Studies on knowledge of political personages in villages
are based on all male samples (1961). In the mid-1960s, similar invisibility
of women can be noted in articles on caste/class patterns, social mobility and
in the increasing number of articles on the Panchayati Raj and trade unions.
The ‘voices of women’ can be heard in opinion surveys on fertility and
family planning (1961, 1963). A sociological analysis of the family-planning
programmes (1966) is explicitly done from a woman’s perspective and
draws conclusions that feminists were to highlight later in the early 1980s. It
is argued that women are reduced to unpaid workers, handmaids and
bedfellows. Women’s opinions on sexual satisfaction, their inability to refuse
their husbands, the male-dominated nature of sexual life were noted as
serious factors to reckon with if the family-planning programme was to
succeed. There is also a note of protest against women being held solely
responsible for family planning (1966).6
In the first two decades of the journal, only two book reviews on issues
concerning women—one of a book on feminine roles and the other on
struggles of Indonesians—were published (1968, 1970). The reviewer
sharply critiques the sentimentalism with which feminine orientation has
been treated in the book. In the first decade, not more than five women life
members have been listed, but by 1970 at least twenty more had joined in.
Most women contributors (a total of about ten in the period 1952–70) wrote
mainly on fertility, marriage, divorce and change in familial relationships.
Patwardhan (1968) and Parvathamma (1968), however, contribute in the
‘male’ domain of studies by writing on landholding patterns and power
relations and caste in crises.7
The presidential addresses at the All India Sociological Conference
(AISC), save the address by K. M. Kapadia at the Rajasthan Sociological
Conference, were silent on women. He addressed the issue of social change
through an inquiry into the impact of Widow Remarriage Act, 1956. None of
the addresses, however, were overtly sexist in language and content. The
panels at the AISC (1967, 1968 and 1969) reiterate the same story.
The presidential addresses in the 1970s are primarily concerned with
issues of modernization, development and planning (Xth AISC, December
1970; Xlth AISC, December 1971). The intellectual traditions in Indian
sociology (XHIth AISC, December 1976), and the sociologist’s quest for
better society (XlVth AlSC, December 1978) emerge as major areas of
concern in these addresses. The addresses and the panels at the conferences
outline the role of the sociologist as an observer, analyst or interventionist.
There are debates on Marxian methods as value-loaded methods (AISC
1970), on sociology of social movements (AISC 1976) and on the
sociologist’s participation in the social movements as making him more
integrated (AISC 1978). Most addresses are ‘outward looking’ and take
some note of political happenings and the social movements of the period.
The publication of the Report of the Committee on Status of Women in India
(1975) and the resurgence of the second wave in women’s movement in India
is missing even as passing references. The Report is listed in the books
received but is not reviewed in the pages of the journal. A panel on
‘Changing Status of Women in India: Policies and Problems’ is organized,
probably for the first time in the history of the AISC. The panel chaired by Dr
Tara Patel focused on the invisibility of rural and working-class women in
sociological research and the decreasing political participation of women in
the post-independence period. There were some discussions on how in
contrast to her western counterpart, the ‘non-militant’ Indian woman was
performing a dual role. Popular cinema was held responsible for giving a
setback to the liberation of women in India (Report of XlVth AISC, Jabalpur,
1978). In an article on sociology of sociologists in India (1978), it was
concluded that sociology was an overwhelmingly male profession.
Interestingly, a long list of professional research areas were mentioned
which, however, made no reference to the sociology of women, feminism or
even ‘status of women‘.8 Despite being an overwhelmingly male profession,
there has been some representation of women as office-bearers of the Indian
Sociological Society and as editorial advisors of the Bulletin since 1975.
A thematic review of the articles published in the Sociological Bulletin
in the 1970s shows sustained interest in issues of social class and
educational-occupational aspirations (1971, 1972). Agrarian relations
(1972, 1975) and electoral processes (1971, 1972, 1973) emerge as new
areas of research. Research in many of these areas becomes overtly sexist. In
one study on social class and occupational prestige in India (1972), the
sample is reduced from 2091 to 1908 as female heads of households and
those who gave inadequate information were excluded. In a study on caste,
class and sex variations in social distance among college students, girls were
found more ‘liberal in their attitudes’. ‘Idiosyncrasy’ was stated as the
explanatory factor (1975)! In research on the electoral process the only
reference to women comes in the form of ‘dislike of Indira Gandhi’ in the
region under study because of her being a woman and a widow (1971).
Social movements and theoretical frameworks to study them became a major
area of concern in this decade (1977) and the peasant, Dalit movements were
included along with the earlier interests in reform and religious movements.
Only one passing reference to the women’s movements is found in this
volume on social movements and that too as an example of how party-based
activities may be misconceived as national movements. Articles on marriage
and family mark a sharp decrease (only three) during this period. Women
become relatively more invisible in the pages of the Bulletin as compared to
the 1950s and 1960s, especially as the analyses of social movements and
political processes outnumber those of the family. In the post-1975 period,
there are some references to sex roles being a result of socialization (1979)
and to processes of women’s decision making in the family (1977). The most
conspicuous social change in Indian society, it is stated, is in the area of
status of women (1976), no takers, though, for studying this conspicuous
change. An impact of second-wave feminism and early women’s studies in
India is seen in two articles of the period. While in one the female
participation in farm work (1976) is underlined, in the other women’s
membership in women’s clubs is established as family status production
work (1980). The decade, however, is significant in terms of the increased
sensitivity to the history of the discipline, its teaching and research
programmes (1973, 1974, 1977). There are more discussions on ideology
and the social sciences, on involvement and detachment of social scientists,
and even some critiques of divorcing of human experience from knowledge
and on radical sociologies (1973, 1975, 1978).9 These serve as grounds for
opening the debate on integrating knowledge, experience and politics.
The 1980s saw a sustained interest in interpretative, reflexive
sociological knowledge. There were pleas for contextual- ization,
discussions on phenomenological sociology (1983) and reflexive reviews of
paradigms and discourses (1982). This sociological opening up to the social
construction of knowledge was accompanied by a flood of studies from a
Marxist perspective, especially on the agrarian structures in India (1981,
1989, 1986).10 While neither of the above-mentioned trends show any direct
influence of feminism or women’s studies, by contesting the positivist
abstract ‘objectivity’ they made grounds for feminist analysis of the social
construction of knowledge.
The 1980s are marked by a combination of studies that seek to give
visibility to women and those that pose paradigmatic challenges. It is
interesting to note that while the former, which give visibility to women in
population structures, migration and child-rearing practices, are dispersed
across volumes the latter are concentrated in a single issue. A regular pattern
is, therefore, of articles that do not raise questions about dominant
methodologies and epistemologies and often even prefer the ‘tools of the
master’ for the task of giving visibility to women. The conceptual and
epistemological challenges appear as an exception in a single volume. If you
miss the issue, you miss the voices of the feminist challenge to the discipline!
The impact of feminist research and the proliferation of women’s studies
are seen in several articles of the period.11 One directly addresses the
limitations of the survey method, highlights the importance of everyday lived
contexts in understanding the conflicts in women’s working and occupational
lives (1984). A more direct challenge to the dominant paradigms is posed in
a critique of the biologistic assumptions of the structural-functionalist
approach to explaining the inequalities between the sexes. A case is made for
setting aside male-centred categories in Marxist analysis for a more ‘gender-
sensitive’ frame of socialist feminism (1987). ‘Gender’ as a theoretical
category comes to be employed, probably for the first time, in the study of
change in family structures (1988) and in drawing up of a profile of women
as actual agricultural producers. The relationship between the segregation
and seclusion of women and the invisibility of their work comes to be
underlined. Life histories and statistical profiles are combined to underline
the processes of permeation of gender ideology in the societal perception of
women’s education, and the easy assumed link between education and
modernization is sharply challenged in case of women (1990). The failure of
conventional approaches in understanding gender differences in education
and occupational attainment is underlined. A case for feminist-materialist
approach to interrogating the education system as a mediator of caste, class
and gender inequalities is put forth. The dangers of ‘cultural relevance’ in
education in a gender-based society are delineated by teasing out the gender
relativism in educational policies and practices (1990).
The books reviewed in the issues of the Bulletin of this period include at
least five works by feminist scholars. The workshops conducted in pre- and
post -World Congress of Sociology fever had specific panels on ‘women’
issues. Wife-battering, women’s struggles and gender as a basis of social
stratification were discussed therein (1986). In his inaugural speech at the XI
World Congress of Sociology, Prof. M. N. Srinivas underlined the
significance of women’s studies in bringing forth the androcentric bias in the
social sciences. Significantly, he views women’s studies as one more trend
in Indian sociology among other trends that seek to comprehend Indian
society from the point of view of the oppressed. A panel on ‘Gender and
Society’ was organized at the XXth AISC and the working paper (Patel
1993) underlined the ways in which gender perspectives reorganize and
reconstitute the sociological discourse. This was a significant development
in that, perhaps, for the first time, the feminist challenge to received
theoretical and epistemological notions was put so directly. However, the
abstracts of the listed papers (forty-three) in the panel, reflect the carry over
of an obsession with roles, role conflict, and a series of confusions also
emerge from the varying use of concepts of sex and gender. By this time
courses on women and society had made an appearance in the postgraduate
sociology syllabi. The conceptual confusions in the forty odd abstracts give
us some idea about how the increasing visibility of ‘women’ may not have
meant any significant reworking of the sociological discourse.
In the last decade (1990–2000) there has been a greater presence of
feminist scholarship in the journal12. Matriliny (1993), nude worship (1992),
political patriliny (1994) and the social history of the Age of Consent Bill
(1996) are some of the issues that have been discussed. A part of the
discursive space is occupied by Dalit movements, Dalit resistance (1996)
social mobility and ethnicity (1992). Gender as an analytical category is
usually missing in these, exceptions being two of the three articles on the
social impact of the New Economic Policy (1995). Discussions on feminist
pedagogies and the sociology of emancipation, conceptual issues in
theorizing patriarchy, feminist social theories, women’s narratives of pain
are all packed into a single issue (1995). At the XXIIth AISC, Prof.
Yogendra Singh, in his presidential address, highlighted the importance of
gender sociology as a form of doing ‘activist sociology’. Yet there seems to
have been little organizational initiative in developing the sub-field in a
manner that would establish ‘gender’ as a category of analysis, just as
crucial as caste and class. The status of women in India has had a perennial
presence in sociology syllabi; Marxist approaches and social movements had
emerged as a major area of sociological inquiry. Caste, family and kinship
had long been the concern of the Indian sociologists and anthropologists. Yet,
the questions of ‘class or caste’, ‘class or gender’ and, more recently, ‘caste
or gender’ have all been debated outside the pages of the Bulletin. The
debates on the ‘status of women in India’, the women’s movement in India,
violence against women, work inside and outside the home, the structures of
patriarchy, gender and the environment are also significant omissions.
Following this review of the articles published in the Sociological
Bulletin (1952–2000), the presidential addresses of the AISC and reports of
the conference, some broad mapping of patterns can be risked. However,
more questions than conclusions emerge. Sexism has been present in the
formulation of the research questions, in the methods used, data collected and
in interpretations made. Wider patterns of exclusion and marginalization have
a direct relation with what has been made invisible. Since 1975, domain
assumptions within the disciplines were being challenged and possibilities
and potentials of interpretative, politically engaged, radical sociologies
came to be discussed. This created a ground for situated feminist
interventions. This is reflected in the absence of any direct refutations or
backlashes to feminist scholarship in the pages of the journal. The impact of
these interventions has been the most in substantive sociology (family,
education), wherein there has been empirical work through sociological
methods on questions raised by the women’s movement. To that extent, the
conceptual framework and dominant paradigms have proceeded relatively
unchanged. ‘Women’ as subject matter was never so completely absent in the
sociological discourse in the Bulletin, since in the important sub-fields of
family and demography, for instance, they could not be ignored. However,
sociologists of politics, religion, formal organizations and social movements
have virtually ignored women. The fact that the subject matter of sociology
has been concerned with the private sphere (more so in the 1950s and 1960s)
has meant that women could not be invisible as they were in history or
political science. However, as the sociologists turned more to the public
sphere as an area of inquiry, women become invisible. A combination in
varying proportions of these studies of the public and private spheres has led
to a presence of women that can only be described as now they are here, now
gone. For those working in quantitative research traditions, gender
(understood as division between men and women) has been easily included
as one more variable. Feminist scholarship and theorization on gender comes
to be included as one more kind of scholarship. The impact of feminism on
the discipline or even other engaged sociologies like Marxist sociology (as it
appears in the pages of the Bulletin) has been negligible. The ‘origins’ of the
sociological study of gender in studies on family and marriage (largely
within a functionalist frame) have left an imprint in terms of basic
conceptualizations and assumptions. The conceptualizations invariably fell
into a frame of ‘sex roles’ and there is a lasting assumption that ‘gender’
primarily operates in the private sphere. This has had a very depoliticizing
effect for all those striving towards a feminist sociology. (As someone put it,
‘imagine talking of “class roles” or “caste roles” and you’ll know how
depoliticizing “roles” have been!’)
 In feminist scholarship, as we noted earlier, to speak of ‘paradigm
replacements’ has been customary. Functionalist co-optation of gender as one
more variable and a largely positivist epistemological stance of sociology
have been outlined as the main reasons for the missing ‘feminist revolution’
in sociology (Eichler 1988; Laslett and Thorne 1997; Stacey and Thorne
1985). While not entirely in disagreement with these critiques, we would
argue that perceptions about feminist transformations need more attention.
Expecting cumulative transformations, one stage building upon the other is
bound to be problematic. Feminist scholarship in India is too dispersed
(across disciplines) and marginalized for one stage to directly build upon the
other. At the organizational level in the academia, gender studies exists as a
semi-separate space of ideas and research and not as a convincing
interdisciplinary field. Feminist sociologists, therefore, have to travel
between gender studies, the zone of exclusion, which allows greater
expression of feminist ideas and practices, and the zones of inclusion within
sociology. Moreover, as articles in this volume also suggest, scholars writing
in the same period may be located in the so-called different stages of feminist
scholarship. Intellectual genres that ‘include’ gender as the co-optable
middle ground are more common than the reflexive reconstruction of
theoretical frameworks, conceptual systems and epistemological positions.
Moving beyond the stages and paradigm shifts and the several genres of
feminist sociological knowledge, the internal divisions within the feminist
reworking of sociology can also be recognized. These to some extent parallel
the different orientations within the discipline, e.g., feminist interactionist vs
feminist structural approaches or certainty vs reflexivity.
Feminist sociologists more often than not are located on the academic
borderlands. Academic borderlands are the territories that lie between the
academy and activism, sociology and gender studies, metropolitanism and
regionalism, disciplinary boundaries and identities and interdisciplinary
capacities. Nevertheless ‘borderlands’ are themselves a contested zone as
they are co-inhabited by people of different castes, classes, languages,
ethnicity, sexual orientation and politics. The feminist borderlands have
themselves come under sharp scrutiny as the identical interests of all women
and unified notions of female subordination have come to be challenged. This
is important because in the academy, these socially contested borderlands are
epistemological borderlands, as they constitute the interface between
different claims to knowledge. The claims to knowledge of all ‘others’ on the
margins—Dalits, Bahujans, working class and minority communities—are
intertwined and efforts to transform sociology require more dialogue on and
across the borderlands.
For the feminist sociologists on the borderlands, marginality may be
debilitating but there is also creative excitement and passionate engagement.
In the late 1980s, there was much intellectual excitement as feminist critiques
of the disciplines challenged the absences and distortions of women’s
experiences in sociological knowledge. The history of the discipline was
read more as sociology of absences and constituting thereby ‘sociology of
lack of knowledge’. This was a period marked by the labelling and
denouncing of the mainstream as ‘malestream’ and, at the institutional level,
by a mushrooming of courses on ‘women and society’ in departments of
sociology. It seemed as if sociology had opened its boundaries to the
processes and developments beyond the disciplines: to processes initiated by
the women’s movement. Some on the borderlands even anticipated a feminist
revolution in the discipline. Yet as is apparent today, not only is a feminist
revolution missing in sociology (Stacey and Thorne 1985) but even a
feminist presidential address at the AISC! We need to think through more
collective and organizational efforts for strategies to tackle the assimilation
and containment of feminist critiques in the discipline. Since 2000, the Indian
Sociological Conference is organized around research committees. A
committee on sociology of gender has been formed. Discussions on
narratives and analysis of everyday resistance of poor women (Haider
1995b), issues concerning feminist critiques of the nation-state (Anjum 2000)
and dilemmas of feminist academics (Sabbarwal 2000) suggest the
increasing presence of debates in gender studies in the mainstream.
Collective strategies have to be worked out through the Research Committee
of the Indian Sociological Society on sociology of gender. Spaces in the
Bulletin, such as the Research in Progress and Viewpoints, must be used
further to share experiences of the making of feminist sociological
knowledge. All this means a more active participation in the politics of the
organization of the discipline and, of course, more engaged debates on issues
of ‘crisis’ in the discipline.
 C C S F
R

There have been articulations of a ‘crisis’ in the discipline in the 1970s and
in the 1990s. Interestingly, both these calls of crises had directed attention to
several issues involved in teaching and research. One of the earliest voices
in the debate is of Desai and Gogate (1970) who discuss the difficulties
involved in teaching in the regional languages. The lack of good textbooks in
the regional languages is seen as a major handicap for students and young
teachers. They underlined the lack of efforts at the level of professional
associations and challenged the academic prestige attached to even puerile
research papers as against textbook writing. The significance of teaching in
the regional languages at the undergraduate level and an argument for
bilingualism at the postgraduate level is put forth.
Beteille (1973) is concerned with the rapid transfer of talent from the
university departments to research institutes. He analyses the ‘push and pull’
factors underlying such transfers. He outlines sociology as an unusually
difficult subject to teach because of its unclear boundaries and loose
concepts. Issues such as the structure of the profession, the creation of
employment and the market for textbooks are seen as influencing the teaching
of sociology rather than purely pedagogic ones. Analysing syllabi, he argues
that there is a rush to give everything, especially the latest. The theoretical
side of the course is always imported; the empirical is left for sociology in
India. A heavy reliance on American textbooks not only reflects a reality
unfamiliar to students but also tends to present reality in overtly abstracted
forms. Training in sociological reasoning is, therefore, lost.
In his response to Beteille’s essay, Madan (1974) touches upon the
increased provincialism of university education emerging with the
compulsions of teaching in regional languages. He stresses the ‘residual’
character of the students who are less concerned with what they will learn.
He suggests that our syllabi must include courses on the history of India and
on the logic of philosophy of social sciences in order to train students into
being more than mindless data gatherers. Class lectures are seen as
prolonging intellectual infantilism.
Lakshmanna (1974) addresses the tensions that arise from confusing the
sociological concepts with common sense. Standardization is sought through
uniform core courses and specialization, it is argued, could develop in
accordance with the local situation. Rao and Rao (1977) highlight mediocrity
and inbreeding and intellectual dependency as major problems and seek an
effective resolution to the crisis through an application of intellectual and
organizational resources. It is suggested that the Indian Sociological Society
organize discussions and provide forums on public functions of sociology.
Sociologists are viewed as reformers, consultants, department
administrators, public enlighteners, etc. Once some consensus on functional
priorities is reached, it is suggested that course content could be framed
accordingly. The setting up of a national institute of sociology as a data bank,
to channel funds, and as an education standards authority is suggested.
Sharma (1977) addresses the wide gap between college and university levels
of teaching and sees it as a problem in the teaching of sociology. In
developing sociology courses in India, the theoretical comparative,
substantive and research methodology are seen as constituting the core.
The debate on the crisis was initiated again in the 1990s with Das’
(1993) comments on the increasing number of students registered in doctoral
programmes and the increasing ignorance of elementary facts and concepts.
A doctoral degree, it is argued, has become a ticket to teaching positions.
Das seems to reiterate the earlier suggestion of centralization of excellence.
The agenda for few centres of excellence for research was contested, the
historical constitution of brilliance underlined (Deshpande 1994; Giri 1993;
Murthy 1993), and such an agenda was seen as practically, politically and
epistemologically problematic (Deb 1998; Patel 1998). The inseparability of
the challenges faced by the discipline on three fronts—intellectual,
professional and pedagogical—came to be underlined (Jayaram 1998).
Beteille (1997) underlines the problem of lack of innovation as linked to the
sociologist’s irreverence for tradition and search for alternative sociologies.
Dasgupta (1998) argues that, on the contrary, the problem lies with the Indian
sociologist’s weddedness to the tradition and not her divorce from it. There
are several continuities in the issues in the debates on crisis in sociology that
emerged in the 1970s and the 1990s. Calls of crisis have been concerned
with issues of provincialization, subject matter and standardization,
balkanization, micro-politics of curriculum transformation and professional
failure.
Significant in the debate in the 1990s is the tension between the varying
conceptions of the crisis itself. The crisis is conceived as one of protocols of
learning (Das 1993) and irreverence for tradition, and the sociologist’s
ambition to be an ‘agent of social change’ (Beteille 1997). This is challenged
by a more heightened sensitivity to the history of the growth and teaching of
sociology in India. The crisis then is conceived as one of paradigms or one
of the usability and lack of reflexivity (Dasgupta 1998; Deb 1998;
Deshpande 1994; Rege 1994b). As Patel (1998) argues, the crisis is
undoubtedly one of paradigms and lack of reflexivity, for if it had been one of
protocols, it should not have affected those centres of excellence that observe
the protocols of academization of the subject. Several voices in this debate,
all not overtly feminist, suggest the need for reflexivity. This is more than
encouraging and, for feminist activists in the academe, suggests that we grasp
the moment of reflexivity.
Reflexivity is a polyvalent term and competing versions of it have been
put forth by contemporary sociologists. Different versions of constitutive
reflexivity (Woolgar 1988), infra-reflexivity (Latour 1988), participant
objectification (Bourdieu and Wacquant 1992), referential reflexivity (May
1999), hermeneutic reflexivity (Lash 1994) and feminist analytical reflexivity
(Stanley 1990) have been well articulated. Feminist analytical reflexivity is
different from descriptive reflexivity (I am a woman and also a researcher)
which is associated with advocacy sociology. Analytical reflexivity draws
upon Gouldner (1973) and involves responding as sociologists to social
theory as made by men and women and responding intellectually to theory as
rooted in experience (Stanley 2000). Further, it conceives of a moral
epistemology that is ‘foundationally concerned with the material conditions
that sociology claims to produce, making its knowledge claims fully
accountable within sociology and making its knowledge products analytically
useful in understanding and helping to change the world’ (ibid.: 72).
Feminist analytical reflexivity shifts the sole focus of the debate on the
crisis in the discipline from questions of ‘what we teach’ to the questions of
‘whom we teach and how’. This leads us to ask questions about the
conception of the crisis itself: How is the crisis in the discipline
defined/assumed and by whom? As Bourdieu (1990) has suggested, the crisis
that is referred to is the crisis of an orthodoxy and that there may be a high
correlation between the types of cultural capital that is at the disposal of the
sociologist and their conceptions of legitimate sociology and of a crisis. In a
survey of seven universities in Maharashtra (Rege 2001) several college
teachers linked the falling standards of the discipline to the recruitment
policies of the State and to the decline in financial grants and schemes. In
bemoaning the falling standards and decline of ‘merit’, the blame is placed
on the character of sociology as a residual discipline. Enrolment records did
bear out the increasing number of women, Dalit and Bahujan students and
practitioners in the discipline. Moreover, for many of them, the crisis was
one of representation, about the relation between the ‘sociologist in here’ and
the ‘people out there’. The former are no longer the only ones to represent the
latter in what Stanley (2000) calls a Hewlett-Packard photo real printer
style. They ‘out there’ intend, if they possibly can, to do their own
representation. Feminist analytical reflexivity suggests that the crisis is one
of sociology of the marginalized not transforming into sociology for the
marginalized and that, too, despite the increased participation of the
marginalized. It is here that feminist pedagogies can make significant
contributions. The attempt is to move through curriculum transformation
workshops towards contextualization, historical comparison, critique and
coalition.

C ,P S
G

In the debate on ‘crisis in sociology’ in the 1990s, some scholars (Rege

1994b; Uberoi 1994) had argued that the integration of gender into sociology
would vitalize the ‘tired discipline’ by pushing it towards reflexivity. In the
early 1990s ‘sociology of women/gender’ had been introduced as an
optional course in most university departments. Sociology has had this label
of a ‘soft’ discipline and, to that extent, there was not much resistance to
these courses just as there had been less resistance to women practitioners in
the field. It must be underlined that more women practitioners had not
naturally generated a professional concern with the sexism of the discipline.
Therefore, it was not so much a concern with sexism in the discipline but the
UGC policies that led to several courses on women and society in the
departments of sociology. Apparently, it seemed as if with courses on women
and society, sociology had opened to the processes and developments beyond
the disciplines. Feminist interventions, it was assumed, would move from
making women visible to documentation of inequalities to conceptualizing
gender as social structure. The absence of such a stage-by-stage
transformation was underlined. Textual analysis of the syllabi made apparent
the ‘optional’ and additive character of the courses on women and society
(Rege 1994a). Yet, in the absence of an active debate on strategies for
transformation the critiques of the mainstream as malestream soon became
rhetorical.
The concern with gender issues at the department of sociology at
Shreemati Nathibai Damodar Thackersey (SNDT) University, Mumbai had
begun much earlier. As Neera Desai (2001) notes:

SNDT ... has features that have been helping and often constraining in
experimentation. Being a women’s university and started as a part of
the reform activity ... themes such as position of women were studied
in the context of Indian society, which was termed as sociology and
taught from the twenties of the last century.

A case study at SNDT had also suggested that such a legacy had made the
introduction and integration of gender perspectives possible (Rege 1997).
Not only was a course on sociology of gender introduced but more
importantly the core courses and other optional courses were also
engendered. It would, however, be a misconception, to see this experiment in
gender sensitization solely in terms of the university being a women’s
university. To the contrary, it underlines gender sensitivity as an
institutionally and contextually defined ability. Curriculum transformation is
not limited to an inclusion of ‘women’ by women in the syllabus. It requires
that the complex linkages between the political agenda of/for higher
education, the changing relationship of particular disciplines with career
options, changing profile of students and practitioners be comprehended.
Most significantly, the classroom with structural disparities within and
between different classrooms needs to be conceived as a site of interrogating
power. Curriculum transformation and engaged pedagogies are then of
crucial importance in transforming sociology of the marginalized into
sociology for the marginalized.

D S W /G :
E F

The responses to feminist critiques of the discipline, namely, inclusion,

separatism and reconceptualization are reflected in the ways in which gender
is accommodated in the curriculum. In the absence of gender in the
mainstream or core courses in sociology, all of gender was ‘included’ in one
optional course. Most often, though these courses are a part of the sociology
curriculum, they amount to a separatism of sorts since all of feminist
sociological knowledge is ghettoized into an optional course. The crucial
epistemological challenge posed by feminist knowledge which entails
reconceptualization is, thus, completely missed in this package. Moreover, as
is true of any emergent area of inquiry, there were different genres of
addressing gender in the curriculum. Rarely is the feminist epistemological
challenge to the discipline integrated in the courses such that the very
organization of sociological knowledge is transformed. Yet with courses on
women and society/gender and society almost a decade old, there have been
interesting developments in the field. These are often missed in a textual
analysis of the syllabi that end predictably on a note of co-optation of gender
perspectives by the mainstream. A stock of the situation, of what has been
achieved and lost after a decade of gender in the curriculum and an outlining
of strategies for change, needs to be undertaken. The introduction of courses
on women and society has no doubt pulled at the boundaries of the
discipline. Often, the courses are bulky in an attempt to include all aspects of
women in society, ranging from health and sexuality to theory and knowledge
making. Because of this, students have been introduced to a range of readings
outside the narrowly defined sociological boundary. Moreover, these courses
have had an impact on the culture of the teaching departments in varying
degrees. Students doing these courses had initiated projects of newspaper
documentation on issues that were studied in the classroom. In several ways,
by taking this documentation and their experiences to the classroom they had
sought to push experience and the lived into the abstract world of sociology.
Gender is a lived reality, an experience related to every step of life and,
therefore, courses on sociology of gender do most often become an
experience in active learning (Rege 2001).
A survey of the teaching and conditions of production and dissemination
of sociological knowledge in five regional universities in Maharashtra
undertaken during 1999–2000 suggests the existence of ‘many worlds of the
sociology in India’. The syllabi at the undergraduate and postgraduate levels
reveal that common to the curriculum are courses derived from three distinct
legacies. Courses that could be broadly categorized as general
sociology/sociological theories, research methodology and contemporary
Indian society represent the three legacies: the legacy of the founding fathers,
methodological legacy of quantitative techniques and the civic legacy of
substantive topics. If represented in a Venn diagram, these courses would
appear as distinct circles. In courses on Indian society, the works of Phule,
Ambedkar and Periyar rarely find a place, though they may find place in
optional course on ‘weaker sections’ and courses on contemporary Indian
society. Non-Brahmanical renderings of feminism do not appear in the
courses on gender studies while feminist theories find no place in core
courses on social thought and research. The core sociological tradition thus
remains firmly embedded in the patriarchal/Brahamanical notions while the
optional courses make sure that all the marginalized are represented.
However, a preliminary attempt to map the matrix of domination (caste, class
and gender), as it appears in the courses and prescribed readings, confirms
the lack of interconnections and the absence of lived experience in the
syllabi. Thus, the mediations between experience, history and sociological
categories are near absent. This presents a problem for feminist pedagogies,
which seek to subvert the academy as the sole custodian of higher learning.
 Feminist pedagogy seems like a contradiction in terms because feminism
refers to an alternate worldview while pedagogy in its conventional sense
suggests education for entry into the patriarchal system (Martel and Peterat
1988). Both the teachers and the students are likely to be enmeshed in such
contradictions that may generate changes both in the educational system and
in the larger structures of domination and exploitation. Feminist pedagogy
explicitly confronts the popularly understood divisions between the public
and private, and between reason and emotion and legitimizes personal
experience as an appropriate arena of intellectual activity. It is recognized
that teachers and students alike bring ‘texts’ of their own to the classroom,
which shape the transactions within it. Pedagogies such as the feminist ones,
which are to voice and explore the unexpressed and marginalized
perspectives, have to be collaborative, cooperative and interactive. This
requires that concepts be treated not as ‘given’ but that common vocabularies
be built by making explicit connections between theory, research and
experience.
Feminist pedagogies centre on four common themes: (a) an enduring
connectedness to the living and the concrete, (b) emphasis on participation
and interaction, (c) collaboration and cooperation, and (d) teaching with a
vision. Connectedness to the living and concrete is not narrowly interpreted
as applied knowledge but calls for a historical perspective on knowledge
which, then, invites students to personalize the domain of study through
participation and sharing of life and experiences. Small discussion groups,
contact outside of classrooms, sharing of reading materials and the use of
drama and theatre techniques are found to initiate collaboration and
cooperation. Teaching with a vision involves ‘passionate pedagogy’ (Dubois
1983) which emerges from being involved in the issues that we study and is
different from either indoctrination or preaching. Such pedagogies, therefore,
strive towards ‘authenticity’ as a notion of empowerment and not a mere
reversal of social power (Martel and Peterat 1988). Located in the context of
interlocking oppressions, several questions confront feminists pedagogues.
How do we teach comparatively and relationally about gender, caste, and
class arrangements while addressing questions crucial to the historical
moment? Reflexive and critical approaches that map the differential
privileges given to different groups in knowledge production become crucial
to understanding the structures of domination. How do we operationalize
gender, caste and class as interactive and reinforcing processes that exist
only in relation to each other and not as separate reducible entities? How can
such an exercise be something more than advocacy sociology? How can (in
the words of Gouldner [1973]) the gap between ‘reflexivity out there’ and
‘reflexivity in here’ be bridged? The issue for feminist sociologists is to
move beyond the rhetoric of analysis of caste, class and gender. At the level
of pedagogies, the challenge is one of promoting reflexivity in our
classrooms in the sense that Gouldner outlined it. With an increasing number
of the marginalized entering the discipline, its partisanship can be unmasked
by a sociological imagination that grasps history and biography and the
relations between the two within society. In particular, it links the personal
troubles of the milieu with the public issues of social structure (Mills 1970).
A ‘feminist sociological imagination’ underlines the significance of everyday
social practices, and underlines that society as we know it is a historical
product and, more importantly, gives an ability to at least imagine a world
radically other than it is (Jackson 2000).
One of the strategies in such a project has been the use of
autobiographies. Autobiographies address the ways in which people account
for and express the experience of living within particular sets of
circumstances, particularly those constrained by structures of domination.
They challenge the received Motions of dichotomies of public and private,
knowledge and experience and thus disrupt hegemonic models of teaching
and learning. The issue is not one of exposing the multitude of experiences
but to move towards a standpoint by mapping life stories onto broader social
processes. Critical autobiographies, that is autobiographies which make use
of individual experience, theory and a process of reflection and attention to
politically situated perspectives provide a base to move away from false
universalizations inherent in mainstream courses. Such critical
autobiographies underline the processes or mechanisms through which
different groups are embedded and reproduced in structures and identities.
Caste, class and gender do not then emerge as static and experience may be
presented in a way that contributes to theoretical understanding. The
pedagogical challenge is one of ensuring that all participants stay open to
new perspectives without collapsing either into narratives of guilt or lack.
 The pedagogical is about the production, of meaning, and the primacy of
the ethical and political is a fundamental part of this process. If class, caste,
gender, religious and regional disparities position people differently in the
production and acquisition of learning, it also offers opportunities to reflect
on the conditions that shape themselves and their relationship with others.
Such feminist pedagogical exercises suggest that the issue of crisis in the
teaching of sociology cannot be reduced to one of regional languages and
proficiency in the English language. The task for feminist sociologists is to
develop textbooks of sociology—those that engender core courses and those
on sociology of gender. One of the strategies would be to work these texts
around the critical autobiographies of Dalit, working-class men and women.
Such projects no doubt will face epistemological loopholes and issues like
those of falling into irrelevance or simplistic identification. ‘Travelling
anxieties’ of the teacher and extra-localization will have to be dealt with too.
All this and more will have to be done if feminist sociologists want to do
more than a reiteration of the history of absence of women in the discipline.
Feminist sociology need not begin and end with disenchanting sociology—a
rejection of all pre-feminist sociological ideas. Just as sociology need not
reject feminist knowledge as partisan or as just a craving for newness.
Feminist sociologies and sociological feminism need to be linked so that the
trap of feminist successor knowledge vs sociological revenge may be
avoided both ‘for sociology’ and ‘for feminism’. For sociology it means
more reflexivity and for feminism a reflexive way out of the cultural turn.

O ‘E S ’ ‘E
F S K ’

Since the 1980s, the practice of sociological and feminist theory has been
deeply influenced by the debates about modernity vs postmodernity.
Sociology as a product of the Enlightenment in its classical tradition renders
modernity through an exclusion of women. For instance, the separation of the
family from wider kinship groups, the emergence of the state and citizenship
though gendered processes, appear in the classical tradition as based on male
experience (Marshall 1994). But this does not mean that all feminist
sociologists reject modernity; in fact, for many (Boulough 1990; Porter 1993;
Smith 1990; Sydie 1994), the founding fathers are exemplars of engaged
social theory and the project is to engender sociology.
Engendering sociology means interrogating the processes by which
sociological discourse was gendered but putting forth feminist reflexive
understanding of sociology as emancipatory. Hence, for those of us
committed to reflexive modernity, the task of engendering is one of
underlining the ways in which sociological discourse is patriarchal, middle
class, Hindu and Brahamanical. The uphill task is of reconceptualizing basic
categories of analysis, once the experiences of the marginalized have been
brought to centre.
This book chronicles feminist sociological research in India on issues of
work, family, kinship, caste, state, education and other embedded concepts as
it appeared in the Sociological Bulletin over the last fifty years. Obviously,
this cannot be a complete history, for no one journal can be the sole indicator.
Nonetheless, a mapping of feminist sociological knowledge as it appeared in
the official journal of the Indian Sociological Society allows an examination
of the contributions that feminists have made and are making towards
engendering mainstream sociology in India. These contributions to feminist
sociological knowledge have been thematically organized into two parts:
conceptual issues in feminism, anthropology, sociology and gender and
social institutions. The contributions belong to different intellectual genres;
while some confront the andro- centrism in the cognitive structures of the
discipline, others document the gender gaps and inequality. Yet, other
contributions delineate the ways in which gender structures and is structured
by the institutions of family, kinship, caste, labour, sexuality and the state.
Together, the articles in this book should act as a catalyst for further
discussions on engendering the discipline and for developing a sociological
feminism. For students of sociology of gender, it provides an extensive
overview of the work of feminist sociologists and sociologists of gender in
India. Nevertheless, the book is not for feminist sociologists alone but hopes
to reach out to mainstream practitioners, for the effort is towards engendering
sociology ‘for sociology‘.
Notes

1 ‘For sociology’ is derived from the title of Gouldner’s book in which

he argues that ‘sociology begins by disenchanting the world and
proceeds by disenchanting itself (Gouldner 1973: 27). Gouldner
advocated a reflexive sociology which must seek theoretical
communities beyond the universities. Following Gouldner, to be ‘for
sociology’ is to believe that a science of society is possible and to be
concerned with the conditions of its production and ‘use’. The question
for feminists is about the nature of the feminist challenge to sociology:
Does such a challenge have to begin and end with ‘disenchanting the
methodologies, theories and substantive concerns of the discipline’ or is
it ‘for sociology’, its critique and renewal?
2 For a detailed account of the explosion of gender as a category for
analysis, see John 1996.
3 This section draws upon Rege 2000. The notion of borderlands derives
from Gloria Anzaldua’s (1987) concept of la frontera and the notion of
gav kusa baheril (outside of the margins of the village, the settlement of
the Dalits) as it appears in Dalit autobiographies. La frontera and gav
kusa baheril are literal borders that create people whose ontological
condition is one of liminality.
4 See Sociological Bulletin, vol. 2, March 1953; vol. 7, March 1958;
vol. 13, September 1964; vol. 4, September 1955; and vol. 9, March
1960.
5 See vol. 4, September 1955; vol. 9, March 1960; vol. 14, March 1965;
and vol. 15, March 1966.
6 See vol. 6, March 1957; vol. 9, March 1960; vol. 8, March 1959; vol.
9, September 1960; vol. 7, September 1958; vol. 10, September 1961;
vol. 12, September 1963; and vol. 15, September 1966.
7 See vol. 12, March 1968.
8 See vol. 27, September 1978.
9 For this discussion on the 1970s, see vol. 20, March 1971; vol. 21,
March 1972; vol. 21, September 1972; vol. 24, March 1975; vol. 20,
 September 1971; vol. 21, September 1973; vol. 24, September 1975;
vol. 20, September 1971; vol. 26, March 1977; vol. .28, March and
September 1979; vol. 26, September 1977; vol. 25, September 1976;
and vol. 29, September 1980. For the discussions on the history of the
discipline and on ideology and sociology, see vol. 22, March 1973; vol.
22, September 1973; vol. 23, March 1974; vol. 26, September 1977;
vol. 24, September 1975; and vol. 27, September 1978.
10 For the reflexive reviews of paradigms and discussions on Marxist
perspectives, see vol. 32, September 1983; vol. 31, March 1982; vol.
30, September 1981; vol. 38, September 1989; and vol. 35, September
1986.
11 For the reflection of feminist research in sociology in the 1980s, see
vol. 33, March-September 1984; vol. 36, March 1987; vol. 37, March–
September 1988; vol. 39; March–September 1990; and vol. 35,
September 1986.
12 For the greater feminist scholarship in the Bulletin in the 1990s, sec
vol. 42, March–September 1993; vol. 41, March–September 1992: vol.
43, March 1994: vol. 45 September 1996; vol. 41, March–September
1992; vol. 44, March 1995; and vol. 44, September 1995.

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P I

C I F ,A
S
Feminist theory has been one of the most expanding areas of social
theorization in the last two decades. This growing body of work is often
organized using key texts in feminist approach, thus constructing yet another
canon, albeit of famous feminists. A popular method of categorizing feminist
theory has been the hyphenated approach: liberal, radical, Marxist, socialist,
postmodern and black feminisms. It is now apparent that any rigid
categorization of this kind obscures more than it reveals. Each of the
perspectives in feminist theorization is a historical emergence and emerges
in dialogue and discord with other perspectives. Thus, it represents an
epistemological and political position for feminist praxis. In the last decade,
feminist theorization has gone through a period of radical self-criticism. The
political impact of the women of colour and the Third World and the
questions around subjectivity, diversity and difference have ‘de-stabilised’
the consensus in second-wave feminist theorization. It is no longer possible
to categorize feminist theorization into neat compartments. In the 1970s,
feminists differed on what the main cause of women’s oppression might be—
capital or male control? Yet, across differences, there was a consensus on the
search for fundamentals of social causation. In the 1980s, with an increasing
focus on sexual difference and celebration of womanhood and the increasing
impact of post-structuralism and post-modernism on feminist theorization,
there has been a shift away from structures.
The debate on the feminist concept of patriarchy has been central and the
usefulness of the concept of ‘patriarchy’ has been widely debated. The
debate on patriarchy is not only about how to explain the subordination of
women but also about ‘what’ is being explained. The main issue has been: Is
it desirable or necessary to have a universal theory that explains the
subordination of women everywhere and across history? On the other hand,
is it sufficient to explain their subordination under specific historical and
socio-economic conditions? In the 1960s and 1970s, patriarchy was the key
concept in re-conceptualizing the subordination of women and in providing a
political goal. However, serious conceptual problems became evident as it
came to be used trans-historically and trans-culturally. While some scholars
believed that the conceptual flaws were irredeemable, others argued that the
flaws were not intrinsic. They proposed a conceptualization of patriarchy at
different levels of abstraction, articulating with bther structures of
domination. All these debates have a sense of unfinished business about
them.
This section addresses some of the issues in the relationship between
concepts in feminism and social theory. Kachuck undertakes a critical review
of feminist liberalism, feminist socialism, feminist essentialism and feminist
post-modernism. Uberoi addresses the problems involved in the use
of‘patriarchy’ as a blanket theoretical concept. Taken together, these essays
address both sides of the relationship between sociological and
anthropological analysis and feminist theorization. While the first essay
outlines the different feminist renderings of the social, the second underlines
the importance of the distinctive sociological and anthropological ways of
looking at social relations for feminist theorization.
1

F S T :T
V >*

Beatrice Kachuck

I must begin with a comment on feminism and political agendas. I am from

the United States of America, a nation born with the virus of colonialism
and seen by critics as reinventing its birth as it matured. Some suspect that
feminism is a symptom of that virus. However, when you compare that
suspicion to others, feminism appears to be an opportunistic disease. In the
United States, for example, the Orthodox Left calls it a bourgeois diversion
from the true class struggle and the Far Right says it is a socialist disease.
Although the word ‘feminism’ evokes Western stereotypes for many
Indians (Kishwar 1990), Indian women are credited with having resisted
patriarchal oppression for more than 2,000 years (Tharu and Lalita 1993).
The coalescence of isolated resistance into a movement in India in the
nineteenth century emerged at about the same time as in the United States
(Donovan 1985) and Europe (Anderson and Zinsser 1988). Explanations
of this synchrony are beyond the parameters of this article. I will note only
that travel by women was multi-directional then and communication has
increased substantially since. Common concerns across the continents as
well as differences are evident in the work of many feminist scholars (e.g.,
Enloe 1990; Gandhi and Shah 1991; Leonardo 1991; Lorde 1984; Mies
1986; Minh-ha 1989; Mohanty et al. 1991; Rowbotham 1992; Sen and
Grown 1987; Sundararajan 1993).
 The work of these feminist scholars testifies to the diversity of feminist
theories. In a variety of ways, they break into silences in predecessor
theories, especially those which do not specify women’s and men’s
relative positions in society and they reveal distortions in what has been
said (Jaggar 1983: 21). They agree on one point however: that gender, the
socially constructed definitions of what it means to be a woman and a man,
is a fundamental category of any analysis of social life (for classical
Marxist feminists in the United States as in India, gender is subsumed
under class analysis). They raise new questions and provide new
epistemological insights, some crossing disciplinary boundaries, others
remaining within them. Among the latter, they contest sociology’s male
perspective on experience (Smith 1979). Paradigmatic concepts of work
and family illustrate this point. Traditionally, sociologists have defined
work as labour performed in a public domain, distinct from activities
within the family (a private) sphere. Feminists demonstrate the fallacy of
the paradigm, pointing out that women’s work crosses the two realms with
no neat divisions into work and leisure time. They enable us to look at a
mother and an ayah playing with a child and ask: Who is working? We can
see the permeability of family and state borders from evidence collected to
show that the national policies favouring the wealthy exacerbate conflicts
between poor rural women and men (Agarwal 1988). The Marxist division
of labour between production of use values for home consumption and
values for markets disappears for rural women who produce both (Nickols
and Srinivasan 1994).
In other words, the ontological public/private dualism is contested. The
shield against public scrutiny of households, enshrined for liberals as a
man’s private estate by Locke ([1690] 1963: 308, 390–93), gets
dismantled. A window is opened on Marx and Engels’ ([1846] 1970: 51)
assumption that gender relations arise from natural, heterosexual division
of labour in the sexual act. Such an assumption establishes the male’s
ownership of the female in a private realm in a correlated concept that all
division of labour entails property ownership (ibid.: 43).
As feminists dismantle the shield and open the window, they explore
the nexus of women’s domestic and labour force subjugation (Jogdand
1995; Young 1981) and violence against women in both sites (MacKinnon
1989; Rege 1995). They analyse differences in women’s relationship to
men within and across groups defined by race (Joseph 1981) and caste
(Gupta 1990).
This article presents four major feminist theories: liberalism,
essentialism, Marxism/socialism, and post-modernism. I discuss them in
terms of their intellectual roots, critiques, and political implications,
offering a basis for identifying underlying ideas in past work on various
topics and a location for future studies. The critiques invite a new
theorizing.
The practice of categorizing theories as a method of inquiry into
feminist projects is more common in the West than in India. In the United
States, this is attributable to the larger number of academics expected to
engage in theorizing while also doing research and teaching women’s
studies courses. The numerous courses, more than 16,000 at college and
graduate levels, stimulate publications, which in turn encourage theoretical
writings.
In India, crystallizing issues and activism has been more urgent. Thus, a
book-length discussion of women describes issues with no reference to
theoretical perspectives (Desai and Krishnaraj 1990). However, the need
for theorizing to comprehend and guide activist work comes at the
conclusion of a major review of issues published a year later (Gandhi and
Shah 1991). Here the authors provide some theoretical lenses, pointing
out, for instance, liberal and Marxist views of violence against women. At
the same time, it should be noted, U.S. feminist academics see a gap
between their work and the real needs of women (Messer-Davidow 1991).
Critical encounters of Indian and American thought promise to enrich both.
This article can be read as a critical review of prominent U.S. feminist
theories. Its attempt at perceiving that context by indicating common
threads and divergences in Indian and U.S. feminist thought adds another
dimension. While the article’s theoretical concerns also emerge in Indian
work, the categories are derived from U.S. feminist literature. However,
readers are cautioned that the article does not include all the theoretical
developments in the United States. That would not be possible in one
article. Moreover, the field is dynamic; new analyses emerge from
theoretical and empirical encounters. No single article can map important
pathways. This one offers signposts to routes, not a definitive forum, and
invites new directions.

F L

I begin with feminist liberalism, the most prominent feminist strand in the
United States and prevalent in India. It invokes theoretical liberalism, the
United States’ dominant ideology which is so entrenched in most
American’s thinking that no other seems viable. Americans are schooledin
the Enlightenment, liberalism’s wellspring, the cluster of doctrines that
emerged triumphant in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries to sustain
indigenous and global colonization. The popularity of the theory in India is
evident in its accelerated moves to a capitalist market economy, an
offshoot of liberal thought. Its relevance is evident in arguments linking
India’s distant past and concepts in the Gita with capitalism (Srivastava
1980).
Schools in the United States teach students to revere the era for its
generative concepts, the foundation of their Age of Reason, the pinnacle of
man’s [sic] evolution. Feminist liberals argue thai women evolved equally
with men and participate in the Cartesian ontological dualism in at least its
normative form. That is, like many contemporary liberals they view human
beings as especially valuable for their mental capacity for rationality
(Jaggar 1983: 40–42), without committing to Descartes’ ([1637] 1960)
mind/body polarity.
The linkage of the Cartesian ontology with dominant theologies merits
comment for its illustration of continuity in historical change. Descartes
explicitly and elaborately grounded his elevation of the human mind in the
Roman Catholic Church’s divine/secular opposition. He attributed human
cognitive capacity to a divine gift of a mind limited to knowing the secular
world, attempting to avoid a threat to the Church’s authority and the
condemnation Galileo had suffered. Locke ([1690] 1956), supported by
aristocrats demanding liberty from Church-ordained monarchs, revised the
dualism along Protestant lines. His revision retains the divine/secular
order, but asserts a rational man’s natural right to prove all truths,
including the ‘Eternal Being[s]’ (ibid.: 298–99).
Feminist liberals appropriate this assertion for women. Their
arguments merge with liberalism’s assumption of a Newtonian cosmos
where one god sets natural processes in motion and all objects, including
minds, are governed by laws discoverable by human reason (Donovan
1985: 2–3). They argue that women’s minds are formed in nature like
men’s—free to find truth.
The power of the natural rights argument can be seen in Elizabeth Cady
Stanton’s rejection of a sacred text in the nineteenth century struggle for
women’s rights in the United States. When opponents drew on Locke’s
claim that the Christian- Judaic Bible authorizes sovereignty for Adam’s
descendants but not for Eve’s, Stanton derided the book. She said it
projects a tribal morality ‘emanating from the most obscene minds of a
barbarous age’ and wrote a women’s bible (ibid.: 36–37).
The U.S. context of such heresy, in Stanton’s era and now, is significant.
It violates the Christian command not to ‘suffer a woman to teach, nor to
usurp authority over a man, but to be in silence’ (Holy Bible 1978: 1234).
It does not, however, renounce the divine/secular dualism and it invokes
the liberal concept of pre-social individual rights, to which society must
bend. The concept’s abstract quality and natural origin makes it ambiguous,
permitting selective application, but it is commonly asserted as a cultural
norm.
In India, the rights argument encounters more varied norms. Consistent
with their national constitution, Indian feminists claim women’s rights as
individuals to, for example, education (Chanana 1988), pay equity (Gandhi
and Shah 1991), and land control (Agarwal 1994). But the legitimacy of
personal authority goes against the conception of individuals within family
and kinship networks, where they have to consider others’ expectations
and meet responsibilities towards them (Karlekar 1988). Within those
networks, rights have been understood in association with status positions,
generally privileging men over women, some men over other men and
some women over other women. Outside the networks similar
understandings regulate relationships between, for instance, landowner and
landless labourer and higher and lower caste members. The relationships
can seem part of the natural social order, of traditions that are beyond
questioning (Agarwal 1994: 58–59). Given this array of understandings,
women’s natural rights can be more difficult to claim here. Meanwhile, the
link of the Western concept of abstract rights with colonial subjugation
makes claims to rights suspect (Tharu 1995). Tharu’s requirement that
claimants scrutinize their own subject position seems appropriate in both
India and the United States, since each has its own versions of hierarchies.
Her requirement highlights the slippery ground beneath the natural rights
claim, that is, the ontological dualism. It generates perceptions of reality in
terms of hierarchies: white/black, male/female, high/low, pure/polluted,
fair/dark, self/other. The first element is absolute, located by its
subordinate opposite. It is a system of thinking that defines you, for
example, as free by someone not free, as good by someone considered bad.
Some U.S. experiences can help to illustrate the problem. As a
presumed free agent, you can choose occupants of each element. Stanton
and other women’s rights leader did. They rejected Locke’s ([1690] 1963:
211) choice of women as persons to be denied the right of consent to be
governed. They also rejected his exclusion of slaves and their sons (adding
daughters) from Adam’s legacy, who were, he thought, naturally subject to
‘the Arbitrary Power of their Masters’ (ibid.: 365–66).
However, when slavery was abolished, the new material reality
brought into play its ontological logic. How should the newly freed
persons be perceived? In a politics that constructed ‘Americanness’ by
defining African Americans as the Other (Morrison 1993: 5), many white
feminists assumed the privileges of the Self. Not all did. Many have, so
that the history of African and European-American feminists’ relations is
replete with episodes of hostility, equivocation, tolerance, and partnership
(Davis 1983; Giddings 1984; Hooks 1984).
The same logic across race/ethnic lines also emerges in the U.S.
feminist liberals’ endorsement of the Lockean private/ public split. They
project the family as a unit with a gender-neutral head or heads rather than
‘a man’s private estate’ (Locke [1690] 1963: 308, 390–93). However, the
unit remains a private preserve, sometimes seen as a bulwark against an
overweening state.
 How, then, given the intellectual ground, can one develop a politics of
equality? How, given the premium on mind, can one address the physical
realities of reproduction, presumably a family matter, sexual orientation,
and domestic violence against women?
The liberal feminists’ solution is to improve women’s access to the
‘public’ realm. They demand state protection of women’s right as
individuals to determine their lives, thereby becoming the equals of men.
The U.S. liberals assume, as their Indian counterparts do, that .women
choose between careers and full-time family life for personal reasons
(Singh 1990). The assumption disregards myriad pressures and
overgeneralizes the choice of middle-class women with income from a
spouse or another source. However, the demand for economic equality
with men resonates across class, as in the Tamil Nadu women’s call for
equal wages for ‘coolie’ work (Gandhi and Shah 1991: 183).
The basic political programme in the United States is outlined by the
National Organization for Women (NOW), the country’s largest feminist
organization (Friedan 1976: 124–30). It demands equality for women and
men in all phases of society, emphasizing opportunities for jobs,
particularly the better-paying positions; and education; child-care centres;
and sharing of income production and housework in marriage. The
demands give all women the same voice and goal. Yet, NOW
acknowledges differences. Attempting to bridge them, NOW notes the
large proportion of negro [sic] women in the lowest paid jobs and the need
for equal rights for all deprived groups. More recently, NOW also
champions lesbians’ rights and focuses on staving off attacks on abortion
rights. Violence, including rape, is protested in terms of lawful protection.
A major sticking point is the actual private-public link. Conceptually,
the state mediates the individuals’ private interests. But the state,
comprising elected individuals and their appointees, depends on
corporations and other large financial contributors for its own survival.
Thus, it has an interest in preserving and expanding capital within its
borders and wherever capital travels in the world. The state, then, resists
demands for women’s equality if its financial mainstays consider
themselves better served by hierarchical gender relations: women as
primary housekeepers, men as primary breadwinners.
 On the other hand, since women are voters, they are able to achieve
compromises, a fact well illustrated by the U.S. Family Leave Law of
1993. The law requires businesses with more than 50 employees to offer
leave without pay for parental and other immediate family needs. What
kind of compromise is this? It preserves existing gender-class–race power
relations in a heterosexual paradigm. Note the law’s gender-neutral
language. It avoids the physical realities of childbirth. Men may, in
principle, take the leave. But since women earn less than men, which
spouse takes the leave is predictable. Wives and husbands seem to make a
private decision, but the political economy constructs their choice. This
way heterosexuality is also rewarded, since lesbian and gay couples are
not permitted to marry; they are not lawful families. Again for low-waged
women, disproportionately drawn from race/ethnic minorities, the law’s
unpaid feature makes it virtually useless.
A second, related problem is garnering women’s active support for
liberal feminist causes. In the United States, this comes mostly from the
middle class with its relatively small proportion of race/ethnic minority
women. But most women belonging to the working class or the underclass
are again drawn disproportionately from the minority women (Amott and
Matthaei 1991).
Interestingly, while liberals deplore the ‘feminization of poverty’, their
theory tacitly accepts it as an outcome of natural egoism. Sociality in this
framework becomes a matter of negotiating contracts. Realistically, some
come to the negotiation with less power than others do. Historically,
winners have created a political economy, capitalism, which requires
losers in the acquisition of social goods. In the United States, capitalists
have created losers and winners by constructing competition between
women and men, African and European-American women, new and earlier
immigrants within the country (Kessler-Harris 1984), and in worldwide
expansions (Mies 1986).
At best, feminist liberals promise equal numbers of women and men in
gendered-raced-classed levels—not a great prospect for women who sew
garments in sweatshops in the United States or break stones in India.
Indeed, without restructuring the economy and education to establish
respect for their humanity and an equal distribution of social goods, they
may lose places in ‘feminized’ occupations.
Nonetheless, the call for individual rights reverberates. It puts women’s
rights on the public agenda, bolstering their negotiations in important
aspects of life. Rape and other violence, religious prejudice and household
inequities at least get contested. The most visible beneficiaries,
unsurprisingly, have been middle-class women. For example, many are
now admitted to colleges and universities where some develop feminist
theories.
NOW’s work does not, of course, constitute all feminist efforts in the
United States. Diverse women there organize on behalf of women and also
to benefit both women and men. In the latter, feminist issues are often
downplayed. Women campaign, sometimes in coalitions, against the cape
and battering of women, sexism in employment and education, racism and
imperialism, war, poverty and homelessness and environment destruction;
they work within political parties and unions. Each campaign seeks reform
within the country’s system, as singleiissue campaigns do elsewhere.
Despite the diversity, NOW has become identified as ‘the U.S. feminist
movement’. In contrast the Indian ‘women’s movement’ is conceptualized
as comprising diverse campaigns (Kumar 1993).
In the United States, the cumulative effect of women’s public visibility
and the economic advance of a relative few has unleashed a backlash.
University professor ‘discover’ female defects and the media inflates
women’s, especially feminists’, deficiencies (Faludi 1991). The religious
and political right de nounces feminists for destroying ‘family values’
(Eisenstein 1982), making them seem like women’s enemies.

F E

Another school of feminist thought rejects the liberals’ claim that women
and men possess the same epistemological resource, the transcendent
mind. Instead, it locates an aspect of females which makes them essentially
different from males. Dubbed ‘essentialists’ in feminist literature,
advocates counterpose a Universal Woman to the Enlightenment’s
Universal Man. In various ways they project her worldview to show that
the Enlightenment’s asymmetrical ordering of reality is a male construct
validating masculinity and social paradigms of dominance and
subordination. In contrast, the female perceives reality in terms of unities.
Her rational mind is embodied, has feelings, and is engaged with, not in
opposition to, other persons and things. These feminists celebrate aspects
of the human being, which have been deprecated and ascribed to women.
They are intellectual kin to phenomenology in that they propose an
original female self. Like Husserl (1983), they assume that the self
interacts with internal and external contingencies, but do not reduce it to
atoms for a revivalist science as he does. Like Heidegger ([1927] 1962),
many analyse the authentic self s (females’) existential struggle, a self
without the historical birthplace and Volk that are clues to his affinity with
the Nazis.
The theme of essential womanhood emerges in various forms. I
describe prominent variations, four that originate in the United States, one
is France, and one in India. Gilligan (1982) in the US valorizes women’s
morality, contesting the historical verity of their defective ethical sense.
She targets psychology’s pre-eminent stage theorists, Freud, Piaget, and
particularly her Harvard professor, Kohlberg, for claiming that women do
not attain men’s level of moral reasoning.
The similarity of her inquiry process and theirs is notable. Like them,
she assumes an invariant sequence of development, biologically and
socially programmed, and relies on interview evidence. But, Kohlberg had
identified women’s deficiencies after establishing norms based on
interviews with males—a common practice in psychology. Gilligan
reversed that procedure. She developed norms by studying women, then
investigated females’ and males’ moral reasoning. Her conclusions: her
predecessors confused men’s notions of morality with human values.
Women’s moral development is not deficient but different from men’s.
Women possess an ethic of care, which peaks when they consider their
own needs as well as others’. In contrast, boys and men reason from rules
that permit no exceptions for individual needs. Although Gilligan’s Sita-
like figure survives to acknowledge her needs alongside Rama’s, the
characterization of dedication to another offers a strikingly similar female
model. It provides an alternative to psychology’s male, not a challenge to
its construction (Fraser and Nicholson 1990).
Ruddick (1989) attributes women’s caring to their maternal experience,
which generates maternal thinking. It does not necessarily entail physical
childbirth. She argues that anyone who does what mothers do, cares for
young children and prepares them for social acceptability, has an
epistemological resource for developing maternal thinking. Thus, everyone
is a potential maternal thinker. Unlike Gilligan, she takes her argument to a
political level to include men rather than offering an alternative model of
morality. In maternal thinking she sees a route to world peace. To reach
that point, she urges men to share childcare with women, thereby becoming
maternal thinkers.
Also unlike Gilligan, she acknowledges lapses in women’s caring,
avoiding a false universal. But she attributes the gaps to political
pressures, a gesture recalling Sita forgiving the raakshasis who were her
prison guards because they had simply obeyed their king. Both instances
propose that women are socially determined relative to others, leaving no
ground for adjudicating conflicting interests.
Chodorow’s (1989) account of mothering suggests an origin of the
caring function that Gilligan and Ruddick believe determines women’s
lives, though her picture is less benign than theirs. A psychoanalyst, she
believes with Freud that the human psyche is formed in infancy in a family
drama. Her scenario retains his Oedipus scene but highlights an earlier one
in which mothers determine unconscious desires. Mothering becomes the
cause of not only the female’s lifelong search for close relationships, but
also men’s avoidance of intimacy.
In an elaboration of object relations theory, scarcely known outside
psychoanalytic circles until Chodorow popularized it, she has mother and
child alone on stage with no scenery to suggest a context. They are subject
and object for each other, motivated by sex difference or sameness The
mother pushes the son away, impelling him to reject intimate caring as her
feminine role. Presuming some likely consequences, Chodorow thinks the
rejection prepares men for masculine power conflicts and rules of
capitalist competition, traits reinforced in the Oedipal scene. Her mother
and daughter develop a ‘prolonged symbiosis’, implanting the daughter’s
desire for continuity with others. Ultimately, the daughter must seek
intimacy with a man, the Oedipus effect, but he shuns emotional closeness.
She desires a baby to find it, but then reproduces the mothering of daughter
and sons. In other words, the mother-child scene constructs the political
economy. Chodorow’s theory presupposes a father earning income and a
mother isolated at home with a child in a nuclear family.
Whereas, Freud creates a female trapped into neurosis by her anatomy,
and morally defective because she misses his Oedipal lesson, Chodorow’s
female is the instrument of her own and all humanity’s oppression. As a
preventive, Chodorow recommends shared parenting. This, she believes,
would free women to experience the external world, becoming less
dependent on relationships, and would teach men to appreciate intimacy;
everyone in society would value caring. Beyond her lens are lesbians,
single mothers, married mothers earning income, mothers who must rely on
sons for status and future financial support, mothers who prepare their
daughters for self-reliance, women who do not want children, and mothers
for whom any child is a burden, another mouth to feed.
While the feminists discussed above assume women’s attachment to
men, Mary Daly (1978) thinks our liberation requires separation from
them. As evidence of the male’s invariable oppression of women, she
points to Western gynaecology, European witch burning, Hindu sati, and
Chinese foot binding. Her vision of emancipation has fired the imagination
of many women. It involves an escape from male-defined femininity that
turns them into domesticated, cosmetized, and caged birds in order to
realize their inherent creative energy. For a key to open the cages, she
provides a lexicon redefining words that convey patriarchal values. For
example, a ‘spinster’ becomes a passionate spirit spinning imaginatively
through life, not a pitiable unmarried woman; a witch is a wise woman
with healing powers, not an evil, ugly one.
Irigary (1980 and 1985), in France, offers a more complex analysis that
weaves critiques of Western philosophy, its political economy, linguistics,
and psychoanalysis. Sometimes considered a post-modernist because she
addresses multiple oppressions, her identification with essentialists comes
from her location of women’ sensitivity to interrelatedness in their
biological sexuality. Neither Irigary nor other French theorists who focus
on sexuality, it should be noted, represent the entire French feminist
movement, a mistaken impression in the United States and in India. The
topic is one strand in the political and intellectual movement (Moi 1987).
Although Irigary, like Chodorow, is a psychoanalyst, both their accounts of
gender and its connection to the political economy are very different.
Irigary locates the origin of men’s consciousness in their possession of a
singular erotic resource, and interprets capitalism as an expression of their
use of the genitals as an instrument for penetration and oppression.
Women’s multiple sites of erotic pleasure, she assumes, give rise to a
psyche that prefers caring relationships. As a way to explore this, Irigary
uses a metaphorical speculum, the medical instrument for examining a
female’s internal organs. Where Freud sees a lack, a missing penis, Irigary
sees pairs touching, a resource for a sensibility of connectedness. Where
Lacan sees an absent phallic sign for an Imaginary locking men into the
father’s Symbolic Order, the world that excludes women, Irigary sees a
potentially different Imaginary.
To develop and emancipate themselves from male visions, Irigary urges
women to discover their sexual potential in autoerotic and lesbian
relationships. They would work with men and initially experience
heterosexuality. To protect themselves in patriarchal society, they could
practice mimesis, flaunting and exaggerating, mimicking the femininity that
men define. Irigary concedes that this is risky since they may become what
they play. But the greater risk she sees is to define the ‘feminine’ and slide
into patriarchal terms. In other words, she wants women to withdraw from
the patriarchal process while living in it.
In India, Shiva (1988) develops an ecofeminist account of women’s
caring, associating their tendency to preserve life with their use of natural
products. Her analysis of the economy centres on ecological concerns, the
destruction of resources women need to feed and care for their families.
She shows how corporations clearing land for factories to produce
products for export destroy forest products, wrecking women’s subsistence
economy. But her women are not willing victims. She offers a model of
women’s activism in response to threats against their life-sustaining work.
In the Chipko campaign, mostly women hugged trees to prevent men from
chopping them down for a factory, then monitored the use of the forest. The
extent to which such campaigns can affect national and global policies on
the environment and poverty, Shiva’s larger goal, is an open question.
More commonly, Indian feminists deplore assumptions of women’s
inherent caring function as an ideology that impedes their full human
development. Thus, essays on education critique practices that socialize
girls for dedication to family service (Chanana 1988). This puts them in
opposition to calls for women’s devotion to families as their national
identity (Jain 1993) and to Indian psychoanalysts’ functionalism. The Sita
and Draupadi ideals of female self-denial, assumed to create boundaries
for women in both traditional and modern sectors in India (Kakar 1988),
are shown to be harmful and changeable norms. The Freudian view that
female’s ‘penis envy’ generates self-hatred, motivating hostility to other
females as in mother-in-law/daughter-in-law conflicts (Nandy 1988), is
undermined by displays of the contexts that demean both.
In the United States, criticism of essentialists’ thought by other
feminists revolves around three points:

1. It universalizes women, assuming erroneously that all experience

gender alike.
2. It confuses natural phenomena with women’s strategies for coping with
patriarchal demands.
3. It invites continued perceptions of women as social housekeepers in
worlds that men build.

The essentialists, however, generate profound questions. Should we

understand women in terms of patriarchal constructions or value their
models of human ideals? How is women’s sexuality to be comprehended
outside of patriarchal visions? How do women resist control?

F S
Feminist socialists view the essential and radical feminist definitions of
patriarchy as generative of human oppression as being anti-theoretical.
However, many unanswered questions have stimulated them to revise their
Marxism so as to account for gender, something that Marx ignored. They
want sexuality and gender relations included in analyses of society. Thus,
they reject the doctrine expressed in Lenin’s (1934: 101) rebuke to Clara
Zetkin for permitting discussions of sexual and family matters instead of
focusing on the class struggle. This rejection differentiates socialist and
Marxist feminists, a distinction made explicit in the United States. It should
be understood, however, that both camps accept the basic tenets enunciated
in classical Marxian texts (e.g., Engels 1972; Marx 1973a and 1973b;
Marx and Engels [1846] 1970). Both socialist and Marxist feminists agree
that humans are defined by their production of the means of their existence.
Both see humans, not as liberals do, differentiated from animals by their
rational capacity, but as biological beings in a continual process of praxis
to solve problems of existence. Work is considered the essence of
humanness, changing in form as people perceive new needs, devise ways
to satisfy them, and develop appropriate social relations.
Sociality, then, is seen as the human condition. Therefore, the liberal
problem of explaining why autonomous beings come together is averted.
Instead, the problem posed is how to regain a natural sociality that has
been spoiled by social systems, currently exemplified in capitalism.
Underlying Marxist tenets is a vision of a dynamic material foundation
of perfectible human thought. Since each solution to meeting needs is
negated by a new one, a dialectical analysis is required to understand
history. Its contents would consist of contradictory forces that precipitate
change in the economic base of each period in society.
Unlike liberalism, which assumes we have already attained our
evolutionary peak by conceptualizing transcendent reason, Marxism
projects two more stages. It sees in capitalist class structure the setting for
a final synthesis of the contradiction in capitalism: technology to satisfy
human needs has reached a high point, but most benefits accrue to the few
who own the means of production through their exploitation of the workers
who actually produce goods. It is assumed that if the workers seized the
means of production; they would reap the benefits and continue to develop
technology. In the new system of ownership (i.e., socialism), benefits
would be shared equitably because thinking would change. Instead of the
competitive epistemology generated by capitalism, the socialist economy
would stimulate cooperative thought and social relations. This would bring
history to the last stage of progress, a communist society where work and
leisure are creative activities.
A problem that needs to be solved in this scenario is how to persuade
the workers to engage in the conflict required to capture the means of
production. The Marxist solution envisages vanguard revolutionaries
instilling class consciousness. These vanguard revolutionaries have to help
workers overcome their false consciousness by showing how capitalist
hegemony has misled them into thinking that they voluntarily exchange their
labour for meagre wages.
Given the monocausal account of social arrangements, conflicts such as
those in gender, race, and caste relations are regarded as by-products of
class. They reside, in Marxist terms, in society’s superstructure, not its
economic base. Presupposing a unitary class of workers,it is anticipated
that by overthrowing capitalism all other conflicts would be dissolved. In
other words, classical Marxism envisions a second-stage liberation of
women; it comes after capitalism is eliminated.
Marxist and socialist feminists part ways here. Their disagreement
revolves around definitions of women’s domestic labour, and everything
they do at home. Both see this activity as providing capitalists with profits
extracted from concealed labour, invisible but necessary to the economy.
This analysis strikes a chord in many women, as it argues that their
undervalued daily tasks of cleaning, cooking, and nurturing are crucial to
reproducing the labour force, energizing adults arid producing a new
generation of workers. Despite experiencing discomfort with the
implication that giving birth and rearing children is equivalent to
producing objects, chairs or spoons, the labour involved takes on a new
significance.
For Marxist feminists, domestic labour produces use value since its
products are consumed within the family; in the economy outside, products
with exchange value are produced. Their answer to what they call ‘the
woman question’ is to bring women into the public labour force, make
them available to learn class consciousness and join the struggle to hasten
the arrival of socialism. At that point their domestic labour would be
socialized, and therefore would be real work. Each step is seen as
dissolving the separation of public and private realms (Zaret-sky 1973).
Meanwhile, in Zaretsky’s proposal, defining wives’ labour as somehow
productive would make it seem valuable. His point is to persuade women
that their enemy is capitalism, not men (Zaretsky 1974). Underscoring the
point, he argues that women are attached to either bourgeois or proletarian
men, and thus are on either one or the other side of the class struggle with
no class of their own.
In what has emerged as a Marxist feminists’ domestic labour debate,
Western advocates of wages for housework offer a different solution. As
opposed to Zaretsky, they propose that the state pay housewives, hence
constituting them as workers ready to join others in the class struggle
(Costa and James 1972).
Neither side of the debate addresses overlaps of women’s domestic and
market work. The production of food and other items for sale as well as
for family use (Nickols and Srinivasan 1994) falls outside their dichotomy.
The proposal of wages for housework leaves women in their domestic
position, adjuncts in the class struggle. Like the other side of the debate, it
positions women in relation to the economy and ignores female–male
relationships.
That omission is addressed in a benchmark discussion among fourteen
U.S. socialist feminists, aptly subtitled ‘The Unhappy Marriage of
Marxism and Feminism’ (Sargent 1981). The discussion shifts the ‘woman
question’ to feminist questions on the sources of women’s oppression and
directions for change. Hartmann (1981: 1–42) opens the discussion with an
analogy of a defunct British system that had created a single legal entity in
marriage, the husband. She calls for a healthier marriage of feminism and
Marxism or a divorce. The Marxists’ concern about whether women work
for men or for capitalists she dismisses as misdirected: it is not attitudes
that need changing, as Zaretsky would have it, but realities. Accepting
Marxist insights into the laws of history and the economy, she complains
that it fails to understand sexism. For that, she insists, a feminist analysis is
necessary.
 Applying Marxist insights, she locates a material base of patriarchy,
shifting it out of the superstructure in which was simply regarded as a
psychological consequence of the economy, and points to dialectical
moments in history. With these tools, she presents patriarchy as a structure
parallel to capitalism, its partner. Its material base is in men’s control of
women’s labour power, sexuality and biological reproduction. The
historical dialectic is in patriarchy’s working in different ways at different
times with different economic systems, for example, feudalism and
socialism. In capitalism, she points to men’s moves to benefit materially
from women’s labour:

1. male workers’ demands that females be excluded from the labour

market and stay home attending to men’s needs;
2. male workers’ collusion with male capitalists for a family wage
instead of joining in women’s demands for equal pay with men; and
3. the male Left’s refusal to take women’s issues seriously.

Her reasoning brings her to a definition of patriarchy: a system of social

relations with a material base, and which though hierarchical, establishes
solidarity among men to dominate women. In effect, Hartmann attacks the
Marxist claim to working-class women’s and men’s solidarity. Her
solution for feminists is to develop new analytical categories for
understanding the intersection of class struggles and patriarchy.
For Young (1981: 43–70), Hartmann has created a dual-system theory
that retains the flawed liberal concept of a public/private split. She sees it
as placing patriarchy in the family and capitalism outside, avoiding the
interconnected division of labour. Given men’s control over women in
both spheres, which Hartmann concedes, Young considers it more useful to
conceptualize a single system that encompasses gender, class and race. The
dual-system theory seems to her to require two political campaigns, with
women attending twice as many meetings.
Joseph’s (1981: 91–108) response to Hartmann is to attack her racism.
She makes two major charges. One is the neglect of the centrality of racism
and the specific oppression of black women in the labour force. The other
is the failure to understand the difference in white and black women’s
relationship to men. Neither as enslaved people nor in the racist polity
since then, she points out, has black men’s control over black women been
comparable to white men’s over white women. Instead, black women and
men are united in combating the racism of both white women and white
men and in caring for each other. That unity is disputed by black feminists
who acknowledge black men’s oppression of black women, though they
agree with the main thrustj of Joseph’s analysis (Hooks 1984).
Riddiough (1981: 71–90) takes on Hartmann’s assumption of
heterosexuality, directing attention to lesbian and gay liberation struggles.
Including these centrally in theory, she argues, would strengthen it,
illuminating the utility of heterosexuality in the economy.
These four arguments illustrate the direction in the essays. They also
illuminate gaps. For instance, there is no conceptualization of global
intertwining of patriarchy and capitalism. The theorizing does not admit to
such problems as recent upward moves of some black women in the United
States, while others (along with black men) lost jobs to lower-paid
workers in other parts of the world (Brewer 1993).
The arguments can usefully be compared to those developed by Indian
left feminists. The Western distinction between Marxists and Socialists is
not explicit. However, some trends can be discerned. Bypassing the
question of new analytical categories to connect the domestic-public
division of labour, Indian feminists construct new categories within each
realm. The material and ideological bases of both patriarchy and
capitalism is taken as a fact. While some are concerned with the scope of
theorizing (e.g., Sangari 1993), others concentrate on analysing specific
economic practices and gender relations (e.g., Agarwal 1994).
Kalpagam’s (1994) conception of a multi-structural Indian economy
dispenses with the U.S. debate on single-versus-dual system theories. Her
analysis of the complexity of the structure’s hierarchy illuminates vertical
interactions. This reveals the depression of lower forms of production by
the higher ones in British colonial and post-independence capitalism, with
state agencies mediating economic development. In that process, it is the
effect on women’s labour force participation which interests her rather
than female-male relationships, suggesting adherence to classical
Marxism. This is clearest in her case studies. For example, her analysis of
the informal labour sector focuses on women’s positioning for class
struggle; their condition as women is not discussed.
Sangari (1993) postpones confronting Marxist analytical categories.
She enters the domestic labour debate to examine the context of domestic
work, reasoning that such an analysis is a necessary precondition for
considering whether that work can be assimilated into classical Marxist
categories. In a richly textured study, she shows how gender elements in
class and caste structures affect marriages, family relations, and women’s
work and also how education is factored into domestic settings.
It appears that selecting features from Indian and U.S. leftist theorists
could strengthen studies on patriarchal gender relations and social change.
Sangari models the kind of analyses U.S. socialist feminists have not
undertaken. Her approach could also enrich analyses of tribal groups
whose land has historically been held in common but not controlled
equally by women and men (Chauhan 1990). Kalpagam’s concept of multi-
structural contexts could usefully inform U.S. analyses of its own stratified
divisions and its informal sector, which has been ignored. Joseph’s point
on inter- and extra-group solidarity suggests looking at caste/class
relations, for instance, between Dalit women and men, high-caste women
and men, and their common interest in opposing Western colonialism. A
combination of these features could improve the currently unsatisfactory
definitions of household labour to account for long- and short-term
migrations (Barooah 1994).
But several critical issues remain unaddressed. There are descriptions
but no theoretical explanations of the privilege of heterosexuality, race,
ethnicity, caste and religion in relation to the economy; Kalpagam’s
concept of multiple structures only suggests possibilities. There is no
adequate account of the gendering of multinational corporations abroad
and in their home countries, for instance, in the United States and India.
Missing also, despite widespread concern about population control, are
theories explaining policies on family size, its restriction, as in India and
China and its expansion as in Singapore. Analyses of patriarchy have not
yet shown why women are ‘resubordinated’ after joining men in liberation
struggles, for example, in India and Algeria. Fundamentally, there is not yet
a clear vision of a democratic society to which to aspire and no political
programme to go from here to there.
Some of the difficulty lies in Marxist precepts. Assuming that an
external factor changes the cognition of Marxism on social conditions, it
leaves open questions on whether economic rationality is identical with all
rationality and progress (Harding 1986: 214–15). Harding, a U.S. theorist,
suggests that the Marxist story of progress contains distortions, just as
origin tales about positivist science do. The concept of external factors is
also, she points out, threatened by relativism: the claim that changes in
economic arrangements improve sociality cannot by itself support one idea
about change as better than another.
The concept of practice altering thought is also vulnerable to empirical
evidence of a reverse sequence. Actually, Marx’s expectation of a
vanguard, which helps to change workers consciousness to stimulate them
to action, argues the reverse. That self-initiated thought can lead to action
is demonstrated in women’s active opposition to patriarchy after
consciousness-raising sessions (MacKinnon 1989: 83–106). MacKinnon, a
radical feminist in the United States, calls consciousness raising the
feminist method. This method discards what she considers Marxist
scientism, which positions an expert outside a social situation to analyse it.
In her post-Marxist analysis, she argues that in the feminist method women
draw on their material being and thought, which is inextricably
intertwined, to examine their own social context, where the two elements
are similarly interconnected.
Consciousness raising, MacKinnon believes, helps each woman
recognize that men expropriate all women’s sexuality and that it constructs
gender in families, at work, and on the street. The conclusion is summed up
in the feminist slogan: ‘The personal is political’. This is for MacKinnon a
cue for action to liberate women. Along with her larger analysis it serves
her critique of rape, sexual harassment and pornography as well as her
own activism on these issues and informs her proposal for a feminist
theory of the state (1989: 237–49). While she links each issue to economic
power relations between women and men, her cultural concern is
describing capitalist practices and sexual exploitation rather than the
capitalist system. But her assumption that all women draw on the same
epistemology is disputed as a European-American presumption. Thus,
King (1988) particularizes African American feminist consciousness in the
multiplicative, not simply additive, experience of race, gender and class
oppression.
This tension surfaces again in feminist standpoint theory, formulated
initially by Harding (1986). Its research agenda, resonating group-
consciousness raising, calls for researchers and respondents jointly
analysing the contents of the lives to be studied and its context (Smith
1979). Smith, a Canadian, seeks to assemble the results of studies of
diverse groups to find commonalities among them. Her design is altered in
a proposal that the black feminist standpoint represents collective sources
within the African American community (Collins 1990). In effect, one
approach risks totalizing all women, the other attempts to universalize a
group with its own diversities.
The Marxian assumption of evolutionary progress is also contested on
grounds more specific than Harding’s (1986): MacKinnon (1989: 13–36)
disputes Engels’ account of the onset of women’s subordination. It is not
plausible for her that women willingly yielded their economic power and
sexual freedom, preferring monogamy in privatized families, at a time
when men accumulated property and made it private. To think as Engels
does seems to her a characteristic male bias. Her charge reiterates her
central theme that sexuality is the crucial dimension of social relations.
Ecofeminists Shiva, an Indian, and Mies, a European activist in India
for many years, criticize the economy/culture dualism in Marxism (Mies
and Shiva 1993: 11–23). They argue that privileging the economy belies
the significance of culture in most non-European societies and resonates
the thinking of multinational corporations. In foregrounding culture,
however, Mies and Shiva avoid relativism. They insist on the necessity of
value judgements, citing dowry, female genital mutilation, and India’s caste
system as examples of objectionable customs. In their view, accepting
injurious local customs as simply different accords with multinational
corporate interests working through the state as linchpins in a patriarchal
system. Contradictorily, though, while they recognize the structural forces,
their solution is individualistic. They expect women and men to re-educate
themselves to develop sexual relations as part of loving and caring for the
environment, ignoring the effects of constructions of gender relations.

F P -M

Feminist theorizing is post-modern in its rejection of the Enlightenment’s

fundamental proposition: the assumption of a self abstracted from its
contingencies (body, emotion, and social location) knowing universal laws
of nature. Each feminist theory—those discussed in this article and others
—at least calls the proposition into question.
They all, however, position women as subjects, a contested location in
post-modernism. Its theoretical variations converge on a view that such
positioning, necessarily subjective, presupposes the self’s objectivity. In
their spatially oriented terms, assuming a subject position constructs a
centre of power and margins occupied by someone. To avoid this, they
advocate indeterminacy, a stance of uncertainty admitting to multiple
viewpoints. They point to such disastrous consequences of centralizing
power as Colonialism, the Holocaust and the Vietnam War. The problem of
post-modernism centring itself to monitor oversights of other theories is
not analysed.
A summary of post-modernism’s main features by a feminist proponent,
Flax (1990),enables a comparison with other faminist views. Most
generally stated, it adjures the Enlightenment’s ground for explaining
human experience and promising human progress. Rejecting the belief in a
rational self functioning according to universal laws, post-modernism
denies that science—and its philosophy—can provide an objective,
reliable foundation for knowledge. It scorns science’s claim to neutral
methods that produce universally beneficial results. Language is
considered less a transparent medium through which the real is represented
than a strategy for controlling behaviour. It disputes contentions that hold
that conflicts between truth, knowledge, and power can be overcome on
the grounds of reason. No truth is seen as neutral, capable of serving
power without distortion and leading to freedom.
 From these perspectives, meta-narratives are not to be trusted. Truth
claims of Marxism, humanism, religion and feminism are seen as bids for
power. Among Indian feminists, post-modernism may be perceived
equivocally. Its rejection of a dominant centre is consistent with their own
rejection of the idea of negotiating a space for Indians within feminism,
which presumes that feminism is ‘Western’ (Kumar 1993:195). Kumar
claims for Indian feminists ‘a kind of universalism, of which Western
feminism is one stream and Indian feminism another’, a claim discredited
by post-modernism.
Among U.S. feminists, post-modernism is highly controversial. Some
embrace the emphasis on discourse as a process of creating subjects and
the meaning of experience (Scott 1988). Others see a threat not only to
feminists but also to other previously silenced groups now redefining
themselves as subjects (Hartsock 1990).
The threat seems less serious when interpreted as a call to interrogate a
subject’s identity (Butler 1992). An interrogation can lead to the evaluation
of testimony in the spirit of Tharu’s (1995) recommendation to scrutinize a
subject’s claim to rights. The point would be to abandon the
homogenization of women and address differences in race, class, sexual
orientation and ethnic identities (Hooks 1984), a list to which Indian
feminists would probably add caste and religion. Still a question remains:
How can women justify their demands without situating themselves as
women?
An argument for the mind’s contingencies offers an answer. Bordo
(1990) points out that the body is materially situated in a particular place.
It cannot be everyone and everywhere, endlessly flexible with no stopping
point—or it is nowhere. Postmodernism’s refusal to accept such a
limitation strikes her as inevitably ending up with the politics of
individualism.
Post-modern critiques of science, on the other hand, are shared by
feminists. Harding (1986) denounces the androcentric bias in science’s
context of discovery of problems, to study hierarchical production systems,
definitions of concepts, collection and interpretation of data and
justificatory strategies. Nonetheless, she accepts feminist empiricism for
its strategic value (1986: 24–26). Disputing its practitioners’ claim that
sexist results are simply instances of ‘bad science’, she sees it as
subverting science’s claim to objectivity: its methods can reach opposite
conclusions and the significance of researchers’ social identity becomes
visible. While admitting that this leaves in place a powerful source of
social bias, feminist empiricism, she notes, provides data in political
arenas where only traditional science is acceptable.
Harding prefers a feminist standpoint to produce knowledge (1986:
26–28, 150, 158). It is grounded in women’s subjugated position, mediated
by analyses of masculine domination and a search for a successor to
Enlightenment science. Researchers treat women as subjects, not objects of
inquiry as in empiricist methodology. This, she argues, provides the
possibility of more complete and less perverse understandings. An
example is the women’s health movement. She points to its use of data
from women’s perspective which makes its findings more reliable than
those emanating from men; their dominant social positions explain harmful
conclusions.
Disrupting her assumption of a standpoint, Harding proposes a third
epistemological route, feminist post-modernism. It accepts women’s
‘hyphenated’ identities: black, Asian, native American, working class,
lesbian (1986: 27–29, 163–64). Rather than dismiss her standpoint theory,
however, she embraces ambivalence, a stance she considers preferable to
theorizing an incoherent world to make it seem coherent.
Although difference is acknowledged, there is no theory of difference,
reflecting the difficulty of locating women in extant paradigms. The female
subject disappears into he in the rationalist framework and dissolves into a
plurality in postmodernism (Stefano 1990). Post-modernists attempt to
simplify the problem by arguing for local perspectives, where homogeneity
is assumed. This renders useless any cross-cultural work on gender and
leaves invisible patriarchy and other macro-level structures of power
(Benhabib 1990). Rather than abandoning such projects or writing off
feminism because some feminists falsely universalize female behaviour, a
better solution lies in giving closer attention to axes of social constructs
intertwined with gender (Fraser and Nicholson 1990).
Questions on power, however, would remain. In Foucault’s (1979)
theory, lauded by feminist and other post-moderns, vivid analyses of
regimes of power, alert us to symptoms of coercion elsewhere. Each
regime, however, remains discrete and with no perceptivity of its
gendering. Foucault hides males’ invention of prisons and asylums and
their valorization of masculinity. In a telling example of his gender bias,
his history of sexual repression recalls with nostalgia an earlier era of
males’ free exploitation of females. A man’s sexual abuse of little girls
was once natural, he thinks, simply part of rural life (Foucault 1980).
Power seems inescapable to Foucault. In his argument that unmasking
power can only destabilize, not transform it, Hart-sock (1990) perceives a
colonizer’s perspective: he resists power, but never risks a comfortable
relationship with his peers to suggest ways to combat them. The reverse
seems true. As Hart- sock points out, Foucault thinks power is
discoverable through ascending analyses, suggesting it comes from below.
For her this tantamounts to blaming victims without analysing the coercive
means used to make them comply with power. What women need, Hartsock
(1990) argues, is a theory of power that will help them and subjugated men
change relations of domination. Instead of the total coerciveness portrayed
by Foucault, she calls for attention to women’s strengths and abilities.
In contrast, Weedon (1987) locates useful clues for feminists in her
discussion of post-structuralism, the branch of post-modernism
emphasizing textual analysis. She finds a method of comprehending signs
that communicate gender relations in Foucault’s concept of discourse as a
‘field’ in which to examine the relation of institutions, subjectivity and
power. Dress and demeanour become signs in a ‘discursive field’. From
this perspective, Western women’s stiletto heels, restricting their gait and
deforming their leg muscles, would be compared to Western men’s low
heels and open stride as signs of institutionalized power. The sari of Indian
women, constraining their movements, would similarly be compared to
Indian men’s Western corporate style suits, which permit free movement.
Analysing linguistic discourses, signifiers and the signified, can help
make sense of contradictions, as Weedon suggests. But her definition of
post-structuralism, a standard one, reveals its limitation. It says experience
has no meaning without language, denying the material reality of
unarticulated experience, for example, sexism.
 Because feminism has unanswered questions on the meaning of gender,
Flax (1990) considers it only an entry point into comprehending social
reality. Focusing on the universalizing done in feminist essentialism and
overlooking other theories, she wants feminism situated within post-
modernism to avoid that problem. For understanding gender, she looks to
psychoanalysis despite its reductionism.
Post-structuralism can be understood as the French intellectuals’
assumption of responsibility for the West’s crisis of legitimation (Jardine
1985). According to Jardine, they seek to fill the space of intellectuals’
‘non-knowledge’ that permitted the devastation of so many people. That
space, she says, is coded by Derrida, the leader of the deconstructionists
as feminine, a horizon towards which thought moves but cannot be
reached. She claims that the presence of text-sexuality in Derrida’s work is
lost in their translations into English, but that his insistence on deferring
certainty reflects a deeply political and sexual stake. Applying her own
deconstructive method, she reads his work as not preferring the absence of
knowledge, but wanting to think about why Western philosophy could not
find the gap in its knowledge. In her reading, Derrida and his followers
play on the female body as the space they could not find.
Jardine’s interpretation of the Derridean project is supported in a
defining monograph (Derrida 1985). As a writer, he claims to encompass
male and female, the inheritance of his dead father and his mother,
producer of his life. His fantasy of a female who becomes a bad real
woman, a vagina-as-ear-mouth, leads him to warn women to remain
mothers to retain their purity, losing themselves in anonymity and surviving
only if they remain submerged. Obviously his male aspect dominates the
female, the subject with no visible position.
Although there is strong opposition among feminists to Derrida’s
presumption (Jardine 1985), he also has a feminist following. Spivak
(1988) stands out for her agreement with his doctrines. Yet, she suspends
them for ‘practical exigencies’. She joins him frequently in warning that
the positioning of a central subject inevitably marginalizes others. A self-
identified feminist, deconstructionist and Marxist, she applies each school
of thought selectively. Thus, she takes a stand against her own
marginalization by a group of men, explaining the necessity of shuttling
between the centre and the margins to make a point (ibid.: 103–17). That
is, she advises reading the post-moderns with a pinch of salt.

To summarize the review presented above, feminist liberalism identifies

women as a class entitled to rights as women, but leaves economic and
social structures intact, with no way to redress inequitable distributions of
social goods among women—and men. The essentialists’ useful attention
to hitherto unappreciated qualities of women is gravely flawed by failing
to notice artefacts of their status in a patriarchal society. They also err in
ignoring the diversity of gender experience. Their analyses present women
as biologically, socially, and/or psychologically determined. While the
essentialists recognize gender power relations, women’s agency to change
their status emerges in impractical programmes.
The post-moderns provide important cautions against privileging some
women at the expense of others. When they insist on prohibiting all truth
claims as equal threats of dominance, women’s demands for relief from
oppression can only be seen as no more justified than that of their
oppressors. The endless deferral of conclusions, as a critic suggests, can
be seen as constructing a ‘feminine’ space where intellectuals aggressively
play out tentative ideas.
Feminist socialism seems the most promising of the theories reviewed.
It overcomes the limitations of the others. The requirement for material
historicity grounds accounts of women in diverse realities, countering the
essentialists’ universalizing attempts. The concept of socially constructed
thought discards the liberal assumption of natural substrata of mind,
entitling an elite group to control those who deviate. The vision of the end
of capitalism offers hope of eliminating not only gender but all oppressions
by eradicating hierarchical social structures. More thorough revisions of
the Marxist monocausal account of society and its related definitions,
however, seem in order. The economy is an important pillar of social
arrangements but does not stand alone. What is needed are feminist
syntheses of economy with its dimensions of consciousness, sexuality,
procreation and child rearing and cultural phenomena that are at least
partially independent of the economy, such as race, religion and ethnicity.
The relationship of individuals to the community needs to be thought out.
Finally, to fulfil the promise, a political programme is necessary.
The critical review of feminist theories in this article argues that each
has merits and limitations, some with more of one than the other. As
indicated in the introduction, the review presents a limited array of
theories and only summarizes each one. There is a need to explore these
and others more fully, select one or a combination of useful elements, or
improve on the choices here. Given the critiques noted, theorizing anew
seems in order.

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* Originally published in the Sociological Bulletin, vol. 44, no. 2,

September 1995, pp. 169–93.Earlier versions of this article were
presented at Jawaharlal Nehru University,;New Delhi; Jadavpur
University, Kolkata; and Kurukshetra University, Kurukshetra. The
argument developed during my tenure as visiting professor at JNU in
1994–95. Helpful comments on previous draft by M. N. Panini are
acknowledged with thanks.
2

P W P :C
A *

Patricia Uberoi

F A :T ‘A
R ’1

In a recently held seminar on women studies in India, the participants were

invited to reflect, inter alia, on the impact of women’s studies on their
respective disciplines, and on basic conceptual issues in feminist theory.
Seeking to address these two themes together immediately raised the question
of self-identification in terms of discipline, for much of the work which is
classed elsewhere as social or cultural anthropology is in India usually
identified as sociology; or, rather, many scholars in India tend to draw
eclectically on both disciplinary traditions. In defence of this disciplinary
eclecticism, it has been widely argued that the usual diacritical distinctions
between anthropology and sociology (study of others vs study of one’s own
society; the study of advanced/modern/industrialized societies; the method of
participant observation, fieldwork vs survey research, etc.) are not tenable in
this environment, in theory or in practice (see, e.g., Beteille 1974: chap. 1;
Srinivas 1962: chap. 10; 1972: chap. 5) (see, e.g., Beteille 1974: chap. 1;
Srinivas 1962: chap. 10; 1972: chap. 5). However, in the present case this
disciplinary conflation has proved problematic for the reason that the notion
of patriarchy has received such contradictory treatment in the two
disciplines. Here, I locate myself in social/cultural anthropology.
The institution of academic women’s studies has been an outcome of the
women’s movement in India, as elsewhere. Explicitly based in feminist
theory, one of its governing ideas is, or is widely believed to be, the notion
of ‘patriarchy’, which is posited in explanation of women’s subordination
and oppression. Given this, it is rather surprising how very little attention is
actually given to defining and empirically identifying the essential features of
patriarchy, and how very inadequately this is often done.2 Indeed, though the
term is freely bandied about in feminist social science, its usages are so
contradictory through different disciplines, authors and schools of feminist
thought that its utility as an analytical construct must surely come into serious
question.3
Leaving aside its specifically biblical and ecclesiastical referents,
dictionary definitions of patriarchy commonly cite the principle of the
dominion of senior males over juniors, male as well as female, in the family,
tribe or nation, allied with the reckoning of descent in the male line. In this
meaning, the term came into its own in the second half of the nineteenth
century at the confluence of classical legal studies and the emerging
discipline of anthropology and, within that latter discipline, from the domain
of ‘social organization’, that is, family and kinship, where it was paired with
an antonym, ‘matriarchy’. Except within the tradition of feminism influenced
by psychoanalysis, the principle of seniority seems to have become muted in
feminist discourse, and the emphasis placed instead on the control of
men/males over women/females in the family and society, often specified as
control over their productive and reproductive activities.4
In nineteenth-century anthropology, the notion of patriarchy belonged,
along with its inverse, ‘mother-right’ or ‘matriarchy’, within competing
schemes of universal stages in the evolution of the human family and
civilization, moderated in some cases by notions of cultural diffusion. With
the paradigm shifts in twentieth-century anthropology, patriarchy and
matriarchy became implicated within new models of social organization,
generally losing their salience and, in the case of mother- right/matriarchy in
particular, their credibility, too. By the mid-1960s, a respected, if admittedly
rather conservative, dictionary of social sciences offered the following
comments on ‘matriarchy’ and ‘patriarchy’ respectively:

The term matriarchy was used in the nineteenth century to designate

the hypothetical form of society in which women were the leaders and
rulers. Anthropologists now agree that there is no evidence to
substantiate the claim that any society has ever come under such
control (Gould and Kolb 1964: 416).5

On patriarchy, the entry was only slightly less dismissive:

The terms patriarchy, patriarchate and patriarchal have now nearly

disappeared from the vocabulary of the social scientist. They formerly
referred most commonly to the governing of a family group by an
elderly male, although there were other slightly different usages
(ibid.).

With the feminist revolution of the 1960s and 1970s, one might have expected
anthropologists and sociologists to be more sympathetic to the concept of
patriarchy, if not also to that of matriarchy. Interestingly, however, the attempt
to develop a feminist anthropology has not resulted in a rehabilitation or
foregrounding of patriarchy, notwithstanding the fact of its appropriation
from anthropology in the first instance and its overall importance in the
feminist conceptual armoury. Quite to the contrary, there is an almost
embarrassing silence on this question as feminist anthropologists of family
and kinship seek quite different bases for the engagement of anthropology and
feminism and for the feminist reconstruction of kinship studies (e.g., Collier
and Yanagisako 1987a; Moore 1988; Yanagisako and Collier 1987).6 One
wonders why?
Is there a problem with anthropology as a discipline, that it has been
particularly unreceptive to the feminist challenge? Has the concept of
patriarchy become unrecognizable now through its (mis)appropriation from
anthropology and deployment to more ambitious ends? Is the search for
definitional clarity and for consistency across disciplines itself a
phallocentric enterprise, monologically foreclosing a plurality of conceptual
alternatives? Or is patriarchy in feminist discourse a born-again notion, only
tenuously connected with its former self, and to be defined simply, if
circularly, as that which gives purpose to the feminist enterprises and to
women’s studies, its object?7
Taking up only the first of these questions, several writers have argued
that there is indeed something amiss in contemporary anthropology, even
though, ironically, the discipline has contributed disproportionately to the
construction of feminist theory through its demonstration of the cultural
relativity of gender roles and through its privileging of the domain of family
and kinship (e.g., Collier and Yanagisako 1987a: 3; de Beauvoir 1972: Part
I, chap. 3, Part II, chaps. 1–2; di Leonardo 1991b: 3–6; Mead 1963; Millett
1969; Reiter 1975: 11; Stacey and Thorne 1985; and Strathern 1987). In the
general assessment from within the discipline—apparently, the situation
looks a little rosier from the outside (Stacey and Thorne 1985: 304– 05;
Strathern 1985: 7, quoting Langland and Gove 1983)—the feminist
achievement is seen as more additive than truly transformational (Strathern
1987: 280–82). Even the fashionable new modes of postmodern
anthropology, which superficially appear congruent with the feminist
programme, have not, in fact, sought to engage seriously with feminism
(ibid.: 278, 287–92; also di Leonardo 1991b: 17–27; Mascia-Less et al.
1987).
A number of reasons have been suggested for this less-than-satisfactory
relationship. According to Marilyn Strathern, for instance, contemporary
‘postmodern’ anthropology is now so decentred and multifaceted that the
addition of a new theme, orientation, or topic of teaching and research can be
easily contained: in the plethora of varieties, one more or one less makes no
difference and offers no serious challenge to dominant ideas (Strathern 1987:
280; also 1985: 1–2). Moore, on the other hand, has suggested that feminist
theory tends to amplify a tension that has always existed in anthropology
between the search for universals and attention to cultural particularities
(1988: chap. 1). That is, the concept of patriarchy posits the universality of
women’s subordination in a way that tends to mask the specificities of
different social formations, cultures, and stages in the individual life cycle
(ibid.: 189–90; 197–98), but if modified to accommodate the complexities of
real-life situations, patriarchy seems to lose its conceptual raison d’être and
underlying moral force, leaving only the essentially remedial task of ensuring
that women’s voices are more authentically and sympathetically represented
in the anthropological record.
Recently, some feminist anthropologists have proposed that the
integration of a gender dimension into kinship studies will provide the
impetus necessary for kinship to regain its former pride of place in
anthropology, and at the same time provide a firmer base for feminist theory
(Collier and Yanagisako 1987a: 7, 1987b). Obviously, however, whether
feminist theory would be equally benefited by the proposed integration
would surely depend on the style of kinship studies, of several competing
varieties, through which this integration is attempted. Unfortunately, as
Scheffler has recently pointed out (1991: 361), sexist and ethnocentric ideas
have always had a firm foothold in family and kinship studies, ‘naturalized’
and scientized to appear as matters of incontrovertible fact.8 In their over-
eagerness to contest these ‘sexist’ and ‘naturalist’ ideas, according to
Scheffler, writers such as Collier and Yanagisako have chosen to embrace
the extreme cultural relativism of Schneider’s symbolic’ approach to the
understanding of kinship which seeks to interpret relate 1 less through the
categories of the culture concerned, rather lhan through the exogenous
categories of conventional kinship studies. This, in Scheffler’s view (1991:
362), is ‘an insecure basis on which to found a feminist resistance to the
naturalization of male dominance’ because (i) it does not confront the sexist
and naturalist presumptions of traditional theory, though it more successfully
attacks its ethnocentrism; and. more importantly, (ii) social constructionism
ends up denying the genuine ‘corporeal realities’ of sex, procreation and
parenthood (Collier and Yanagisako 1987b; Scheffler 1991: 361, 367, 377n.
9; Yanagisako 1979: 184–87).9 However, Scheffler’s plea for ‘a more
moderate, both naturalistic and social constructionist, but also non-sexist
alternative’ to traditional kinship theory as well as to Schneider’s symbolic
approach is also, like Collier and Yanagisako’s project itself, still very much
at the programmatic stage (Scheffler 1991: 371).
While conceding the force of some of these arguments, I take a somewhat
different line here. I argue simply that many feminist anthropologists feel
uncomfortable with the notions of matriarchy and patriarchy because these
have been intrinsically associated with certain paradigms of social
organization that are no longer professionally acceptable, if not completely
discredited. Family and kinship studies have since moved in new directions
and become preoccupied with rather different issues, while at the same time,
as already remarked, the domain of kinship is believed to have lost its former
salience as the source and focus of anthropological theorizing (Barnes 1980;
Collier and Yanagisako 1987a: 1–3, 1987b).
Starting in the 1860s, as is well known, anthropology had been
preoccupied with debates on the sequencing and diffusion of forms of the
human family. On the basis of the discovery of classificatory kinship
terminologies (Morgan 1871; Uberoi 1993a: 12–15) and the ethnographic
record of exotic kinship practices on the one hand, and evidence of ‘mother-
goddess’ cults in many contemporary and historical societies on the other
(Bachofen 1967), a number of scholars had sought to posit a universal stage
of mother-right, preceding the stage of father-right in the evolution of
humankind towards the supposedly ‘civilized’ form of conjugal family found
in the advanced societies of the West. Long condemned as ‘speculative
history’ in respectable anthropological circles, these evolutionist and
diffusionist ideas have recently featured once again in certain feminist
explanations of the notion of ‘patriarchy’ which seek to focus on the
question: How and when did patriarchy come into existence, and what have
been its historical forms? The assumption behind this question is that there
must have been a universal prehistory of patriarchy, a stage w hen women
were not under male domination (de Beauvoir 1972; Engels 1972; Leacock
1972; Lerner 1986; Silverblatt 1991: 145–53)10 and that understanding the
circumstances of the historical takeover will contribute to the
demythologization of patriarchy and to its ultimate undoing.11
These early anthropological debates on the sequencing of matriarchy and
patriarchy in the history of human evolution and their role in the construction
of theories of cultural diffusion have been discussed at length elsewhere
(e.g., Langham 1981; Trautmann 1987, chap. 7; and from a feminist point of
view, Bamberger 1974; Fee 1972). Here, however, I wish to consider
especially their interpretation within the so-called structural-functional
school of British social anthropology.
Coming into existence in the interwar years in self-conscious opposition
to evolutionist and diffusionist practices, structural-functionalism was the
ruling orthodoxy in British anthropology through the 1950s and 1960s (Kuper
1973, 1982). Specifically, within this tradition, I wish to focus on the
dominant mode of kinship studies that have subsequently earned the title of
‘descent theory’ and which have provided a distinctive interpretation of the
institutions of matriarchy and patriarchy. Imbricated within this frame, the
notions of patriarchy and matriarchy shared the conceptual frailties, and
ultimately the historical destiny, of the wider paradigm in which they were
encompassed. And while there have been many commonalities through rival
schools of kinship studies, including also on issues pertaining to the
interpretation of matriarchy and patriarchy, these notions per se have not
maintained or regained the conceptual centrality they earlier had within the
structural-functional tradition, not to speak of their former salience in
evolutionist and diffusionist theories of the origin and development of the
human family.
Many of the points of criticism I make in the following pages have been
rehearsed before (indeed, it might be said, with some justification that the
fate of the descent theory was settled a whole generation ago), and to repeat
them may seem like flogging a dead, and already very well-flogged, horse.12
But though the horse may be in bad shape as far as professional anthropology
is concerned which is why, as I argue, anthropologists espouse the notion of
patriarchy only at some risk to their professional reputations—it appears that
it is still very much alive and kicking as a central concept of feminist
discourse.13 .
Moreover, the notion of patriarchy has special appeal, or appears
especially self-evident, to us in India, as it may to many in other non-Western
societies—all formerly the ‘other’ of the metropolitan anthropological
‘gaze’—in the light of the kinship practices widely prevalent in this region.
As I have pointed out elsewhere (Uberoi 1993a: 12–15). South Asian
ethnography was of some significance in the formulation of nineeteenth-
century theories of the matriarchal prehistory of mankind (Lewis Henry
Morgan), and of the nature of the patriarchal extended family (Henry Sumner
Maine). Reworked within the structural-functionalist frame, this knowledge
was then returned to us, duly scienticized and authorized and reassuringly
congruent with our commonsense understanding of the nature of ‘traditional’
or ‘feudal’ Indian society. In fact, it comes as something of a surprise to
realise that a number of Western feminists, especially those of Marxist
inclination, have specialized ‘patriarchy’ in reference to the sexual division
of labour and to the relations of the sexes in capitalist and late-capitalist
regimes (e.g., Beechey 1979: 71ff; Eisenstein 1979; Mies 1986; Walby
1990).
It is particularly because the anthropological concept of patriarchy
appears so seductively self-evident to us in India, that I have thought it worth
looking again at the strengths and, more pertinently the frailties, of classical
descent theory Curious as it may seem to those who construe the history of
kinship studies from a different vantage, as a succession of opposed
paradigms, some of the operational and conceptual problems of descent
theory are shared in a style of kinship studies, known as alliance theory,
which has challenged, and in some readings has historically superseded,
descent theory as anthropological orthodoxy, especially in reference to
family and kinship in the South Asian region.14

D T

For several decades, the standard anthropological definitions of patriarchy

and matriarchy were derived from a 1924 essay on ‘The Mother’s Brother in
South Africa’ by A. R. Radcliffe-Brown, founder of the structural-functional
school of British social anthropology. I quote the relevant passage here in
full:

There is, unfortunately, a great deal of looseness in the use of the

terms matriarchal and patriarchal, and for that reason, many
anthropologists refuse to use them. If we are to use them at all, we
must first give exact definitions. A society may be called patriarchal
when descent is patrilineal (i.e., the children belong to the group of
the father), marriage is patrilocal (i.e., the wife removes to the local
group of the husband), inheritance (of property) and succession (to
rank) are in the male line, and the family is patri-potestal (i.e., the
authority over the members of the family is in the hands of the father or
his relatives). On the other hand, a society can be called matriarchal
 when descent, inheritance and succession are in the female line,
marriage is matrilocal (the husband removing to the home of his wife),
and when authority over children is wielded by the mother’s relatives
(Radcliffe-Brown 1952a: 22).15

At the first glance, this formulation promises to fulfil Radcliffe-Brown’s

ambition to make anthropology into a more exact science. But appearances
are deceptive. In fact, it is logically and operationally problematic in ways
that disclose the inadequacies of the general theory of social organization
within which it was encompassed.

Logic of Patriarchy/Matriarchy Opposition

The first problem has to do with the logic of the relationship between
patriarchy and matriarchy that Radcliffe-Brown posits here, and specifically
with the definitional asymmetry of the two terms. We would not be the first to
remark that Radcliffe-Brown’s wording skillfully (if not deliberately)
obscures the fact that in the respective definitions of patriarchy and
matriarchy, familial authority in either system is expected to repose with
males, the father or pater familias in the one, the maternal uncle or other male
relative on the mother’s side in the other. The reason according to Radcliffe-
Brown is that there are no known empirical societies where women
legitimately-wield authority over men in the family and society (see Gould
and Kolb 1964: 416) though there may be societies, at least some feminist
anthropologists would like to think so, where the relationship between the
sexes is relatively egalitarian, or non-hierarchically complementary (e.g.,
Draper 1975; Gough 1975; Leacock 1978; Sachs 1975). In other words, as
the logical inverse of patriarchy, matriarchy is a ‘myth’, a mere projection of
the human imagination and its natural penchant for conceptual symmetry.
Now this question of sexual asymmetry in the exercise of power—the
universal or near-universal domination of men over women—is precisely the
issue that feminists seek to address, and towards the explanation of which
they have proposed the notion of patriarchy, but Radcliffe-Brown has ruled it
out of bounds for critical interrogation. It is to be accepted as simply a
universal, empirical ‘fact’ of human existence. No doubt this gesture could
be cited as yet another item in the incriminating catalogue of evidence of
sexist bias in the conduct of anthropology (cf. Ardener 1986), which I have
no doubt that it is. But my objection in the present context is logical and
methodological, rather than ethical.
In the first place, Radcliffe-Brown seemed to be undecided as to whether
the types of ‘patriarchy’ and ‘matriarchy’ were descriptive labels—as seems
implied by their asymmetry in respect of the authority dimension—or what
sociologists call ‘ideal types’, that is, as models to which empirical societies
would conform to a greater or lesser degree. Even if there were not/had
never been/could never be—for reasons connected with the biological
endowment of the sexes—complete conformity to the matriarchal type, the
type has still to be posited in its pure form lest the definitional logic of the
opposition of patriarchy/matriarchy be invalidated. In other words, the
empirical existence or non-existence of the pure matriarchal type is not really
relevant to the positing of a matriarchal ‘type’ of society where, among other
things, women dominate men as the logical inverse of societies where men
dominate women.
Second, Radcliffe-Brown seemed undecided as to whether the logical
relation of patriarchy and matriarchy was of the taxonomic, that is, either/or,
type (to use, for convenience, terms from linguistic semantics [e.g. Leech
1981: chap. 6]), or a polar opposition, which allows a point of neutrality
between the opposed poles. The latter seems to be implied when Radcliffe-
Brown writes, in the same 1924 essay from which we have already quoted:
‘If [the above] definition of these opposing terms is accepted, it is at once
obvious that a great number of primitive societies may incline more to one
side, and others more to the other ... ’ (1952a: 22; see also 1952b: 14).
The suggestion is that all societies can be located along a continuum of
types from patriarchy through to its (near/quasi) inverse, matriarchy; or, one
might say, that there can be degrees of patriarchy. Logically, such a scale
presumes a point of neutrality between the polar extremes—in this case, of
balance between father-right and mother-right. In terms of the rules of
descent, this could conceivably be a space for inserting the type of double
unilineal descent, or, as Edmund Leach suggests in a rather different context,
bilateral or cognatic kinship systems.16 This was clearly not Radcliffe-
Brown’s intention, however, for he was exclusively preoccupied with the
ramifications of the principle of unilineal descent, the mid-point on his scale
representing the neutralisation of the descent rule by other factors—for
instance by the rule of residence. By contrast, and focusing on the potestality
factor, a number of feminist writers have sought to explore the dynamics of
societies where the relations of the sexes are relatively egalitarian (Draper
1975; Leacock 1978). This focus would not be conceivable within Radcliffe-
Brown’s scheme, first because of his privileging of the descent factor, a
problem to which we will return shortly, and second, more pertinently in the
present context, because of the logical asymmetry of his scheme in respect of
potestality: universally, executive authority is exercised by males over
females.

Multi-Variate Contrasts

Leaving this methodological issue aside, and taking Radcliffe-Brown’s

definition at its face value, however, his scheme is not quite as simple as it at
first appears. Of course there are empirical societies that run true to type—a
full score on all five criteria of patriarchy of matriarchy (that is, to reiterate,
matriarchy in Radcliffe-Brown’s definition of the term). But how is one to
evaluate societies with a less-than-perfect on either count? Can one merely
count the pluses and minuses to decide on the overall ‘inclination’ in one
direction or another?
As a matter of fact, this is a procedure which is sometimes followed, I am
thinking, to take a random example, of a chart in Louis Dumont’s well-known
essay, ‘Hierarchy and Marriage Alliance in South Indian Kinship’ (1983a
[1957]). Operationalizing an hypothesis originally suggested by Levi-Strauss
in the Elementary Structures of Kinship (1969 [1949]), Dumont classified a
number of Tamil communities as having ‘harmonic’ (i.e., consistent) or
‘disharmonic’ (mixed, inconsistent) maternal or paternal features in respect
of succession, inheritance, descent and residence (the potestality dimension
was only an afterthought for Dumont [1983a: 66n. 12]). Arriving at what he
termed an ‘index’ for these (that is, all + all–, or both + and–), Dumont then
additionally sought to correlate these patterns, harmonic or disharmonic, with
the new factor that he was testing for, namely, the type of cross-cousin
marriage practised (ibid.: 1983a: 63–67, esp. fig. 9; also Levi-Strauss 1969:
218).
However, to arrange the mixed societies along a continuum is more
problematic, as Dumont himself was aware in the present example, for it
assumes that all features are evenly weighted. This is a proposition with
which few would concur (cf. Lewis 1965: 99, 108). Moreover, a closer look
may show that there are relations of determination within the set of
patriarchal or matriarchal attributes, so that, for instance, given A, or given
the combination of A + B, C, D and E usually follow. Establishing such
correlations is a little game that some anthropologists like to play, dipping
into the treasury of ethnographic data made available by G. P. Murdock
through the Human Relations Area Files. The possibilities of meaningful (and
meaningless?) correlations between different features of social organization,
or between features of social organization and aspects of production and
material culture are almost endless.17

Privileging the Principle of Unilineal ‘Descent’

For the most part, however, and without relying on statistical demonstrations,
the commonsense presumption, embedded in the history of anthropology and
the politics of its practice (at least until quite recently) was that the mode of
descent would have, or properly should have, a determining relation over all
other factors. That is, the mode of descent, or the mode of descent allied with
the rule of residence, would be sufficient to indicate the ‘inclination’ of any
society towards the patriarchal or matriarchal types, though not the extent of
their conformity. Certainly, it was not coincidental that Radcliffe-Brown
listed ‘descent’, followed by rules of residence, at the head of his set of
contrasting features of matriarchal and patriarchal societies, though the
remaining three factors may have been, and on the evidence presumably
were, randomly enumerated. (Some people might read a lot into the fact that
the potestality dimension came last!)
If the privileging of descent was merely implied in Radcliffe-Brown’s
1924 essay, it was quite explicit a decade later in 1935, when, in a much-
cited discussion of ‘Patrilineal and Matrilineal Succession’, he quietly
substituted the problematic terms, patriarchy/matriarchy with
patriliny/matriliny, directly invoking the descent principle (and incidentally
masking the power connotations of arche [Gr. ‘rule’]). In this substitution one
sees the further focusing of the distinctive view of kinship organization which
was the hallmark of the so-called descent theorists, and which reached its
apogee in the remarkable collection of papers on African Systems of Kinship
and Marriage (1950), edited by Radcliffe-Brown and Daryll Forde.
The terminological substitution did not, however, dispose of the
conceptual and operational problems of the earlier definition. In a sense
these problems were exacerbated by the very heavy semantic load the notion
of descent was thereby required to carry, as a result—at least in part—of the
experience of British social anthropologists working in Africa.
To begin with, as Radcliffe-Brown immediately conceded, a person’s
inheritance is always bilateral, even if one or the other side predominates in
respect of group placement. He wrote:

Everywhere in human society... the status of an individual is very

largely determined by birth as the child of a particular father and
particular mother. Behind the question of succession [in the broadest
sense of the term], there, lies the question of what elements of status,
i.e., what rights and duties, are transmitted to the child by the father on
the one hand and by the mother on the other. ... The most universal rule
is that an individual derives some elements of his status from or
through his father, or else from or through his mother. ... Where the
rights and duties derived from the father preponderate in social
importance over those derived through the mother, we have what it is
usual to call a patrilineal system. Inversely a matrilineal system is one
is which the rights and duties derived through the mother preponderate
over those derived through the father (Radcliffe-Brown 1952c: 38,
39)
In other words, even in kinship systems which are classed as unilineal, a
complementary, if often unequal, distribution of rights and duties is to be
expected in all but very exceptional cases—for instance, of slaves,
prostitutes, and the like.
Having conceded so much, however, Radcliffe-Brown proceeded to
overlook this bilaterality. Descent theory, as it came to be developed,
focused not merely on the cumulative effect of filiation (the relation of child
to parent), but primarily and paradigmatically on unilineal descent systems,
whether patrilineal or matrilineal, as though patriliny and matriliny were the
only rational and natural choices in respect of social organization— at least
for primitive societies. As Radcliffe-Brown put it:

In any society in which kinship is of fundamental importance in the

total social structure, as it is in the majority of non-European
societies, it is essential for social stability and continuity that the
rights of different individuals over a given individual should be
defined in such a way as to avoid as far as possible conflicts of rights
(1952c: 40, emphasis added).

That is, for a (primitive) society to function effectively, a person needed to

be unambiguously placed in the social group of either the mother or of the
father—but not both—denying as it were one aspect of filiation.

Complementary Filiation

There are a number of implications of this privileging of descent—meaning

the principle of unilineal descent—that deserve mention here. The first,
arising from the effective negation of kinship through the parent other than the
one through whom descent is traced for the purposes of group placement,
was the need to provide a ‘solution’ to the ‘problem’ thus created of
interpreting the role of the ‘other’ side of the family in the life of the
individual. This was in fact the precise question to which Radcliffe-Brown’s
1924 essay had been addressed, namely, an explanation of the familiar and
privileged relation between maternal uncle and sister’s son noted in the
ethnographies of many patriarchal/patrilineal societies in Africa (and
elsewhere too). In the earlier, evolutionist, model of anthropology, this oft-
recorded cultural trait had been read as evidence of, or a vestige from, an
earlier phase of mother-right. But Radcliffe-Brown’s rejection of the
evolutionist explanation demanded a new approach to the role of the
mother’s brother and maternal kin in patriarchal/patrilineal societies (1952a:
15–17). Contrasting the matriarchal and patriarchal cases— in matrilineal
societies the mother’s brother is usually a stern disciplinarian and the father
a source of affection—on the one hand, and the respective relations with the
mother’s brother and the father’s sister on the other, Radcliffe-Brown
hypothesized that the attitude to the mother’s brother was an extension of that
to the mother, representing, in a patrilineal society, non-potestality and
potestality respectively (ibid.: 25).
This theory was modified and developed further by Meyer Fortes.18
Fortes theory of ‘complementary filiation’ sought to define the opposed but
ultimately complementary characteristics of the two types of kinship
relations, the one pertaining in what he called the ‘political-jural’ or public
domain, and determined by group membership, the other pertaining in the
residual ‘domestic’ domain. By contrast with the potestal politico-jural
domain, the domestic domain was more egalitarian and gave expression to
the ‘natural’ human sentiments of love and affection. Forte’s theory was
eagerly seized upon by some feminist anthropologists, who extracted from it
a general theory of the opposition of the public versus the private domains,
the world of men vs the world of women, connecting this with the different
roles of the sexes in biological reproduction.19 This early formulation of the
bases of the power equation between the sexes continues to be influential,
though it is not without its difficulties, mainly because it takes for granted and
valorises the essentialist stereotypes of masculinity and femininity that many
feminists seek to contest (Collier and Yanagisako 1987a: 3–4; Moore 1988:
chap. 6; Stacey and Thorne 1985: 306–07, 310; Yanagisako 1979: 187–89).
(As Scheffler pleaded, in a somewhat different context, ‘Must we flee sexism
only to be landed with feminist essentialism’ [1991: 371]). In fact, much of
the thrust of contemporary feminist anthropology since then has been in the
direction of rethinking or refining this position, for instance by conjoining it
with a theory of the sexual division of labour in production, mediated by
attention to the specificities of social formations (Beechey 1979: 80–82).

Unilinealvs Non-Unilineal Descent

An equally obvious problem in Radcliffe-Brown’s elision of

patriarchy/patriliny and matriarchy/matriliny is that it completely excludes
from serious consideration all those societies which do not operate on the
principle of unilineal descent of, maybe, what is called ‘double unilineal
descent’ (the existence and character of the latter type being at one stage a
subject of debate within this tradition).We will not attempt to go into the
reasons for this blindspot except to remark in passing that commentators
either excuse it as circumstantial—an outcome of the fact that this tradition
was developed by anthropologists working in Africa, where unilineal
systems are prominent (but, we should add, are by no means exclusive); or
condemn it as politically motivated in the colonial context by a desire to
understand the mode of functioning of kinship-based ‘stateless’ political
systems.20 Certainly it was based on a radical distinction between primitive
and contemporary Western societies. It is also consistent with this tradition’s
valorization of homeostasis, ‘stability’, and functional consistency, an issue
we will refer to again.
In the quotation given above, Radcliffe-Brown (1952c: 40) gives the
impression that a unilinearity of rights and duties is a distinctive feature of
non-European/primitive societies, where kinship plays an overwhelming role
in organizing social life. The authoritative statement of this position was
Fortes’ 1953 paper on ‘The Structure of Unilineal Descent Groups’.
According to Fortes, unilineally recruited groups tend to function as
‘corporations’, that is, as bounded and enduring groups sharing a territory
and some property in common, united through an ideology of descent from a
common ancestor (a ‘descent dogma’) and common ritual observances,
including usually ancestor worship, and obedient to a recognized chain of
authority mapped on to the kinship structure. By contrast, modern or Western
society can (as it were) afford a bilateral reckoning of kinship because on the
one* hand the social function of kinship has itself shrunk, while on the other
hand specialized institutions have developed to take over the numerous other
functions that the kinship system performs in primitive societies.
From the viewpoint of those located in South Asia, where bilateral
kinship is quite marginalized, the focus on unilineal systems might seem quite
compelling (see Singh 1993: 52– 54): in fact, it is not so. Allowing that the
numbers game is a hazardous one (after all, what is it that counts as a
‘society’ or ‘culture’ for purposes of enumeration? [Barnes 1971, chap. 1]),
it has been estimated that something like one-third of the world’s societies
‘do not employ either patrilineal or matrilineal descent as a major organizing
principle in the grouping of kinsmen’ (Buchler and Selby 1968: 85, citing the
evidence of G. P. Murdock), and these are, significantly, at all stages of
techno-economic development, from the very primitive to the most advanced.
If they can be classed neither as matriarchal/matrilineal nor as
patriarchal/patrilineal in Radcliffe-Brown’s scheme, then where exactly do
they stand with respect to relations of the sexes?
It seems that Radcliffe-Brown regarded non-unilineal societies as of little
account, or dismissed them as inherently inefficient and unworkable for the
reason that they could not mobilize a discrete group for particular social
functions, as for example, for taking revenge, or seeking compensation.
Radcliffe-Brown’s favourite example here was the Teutonic system, and he
made this appear so thoroughly confused in comparison to the formidable and
structurally elegant stateless segmentary systems he and others had described
in Africa that it is little wonder it has long since been consigned to history
(1952c: 45). Whether or not cognatic (bilateral) descent yields an
unworkable or transitional social system was a subject of debate a little later
on (Fox 1967, chap. 6; Freeman 1961), but we may note here that the
valorisation of the principle of unilineal descent for its potential to construct
discrete social groups was shared by the descent, and the rival alliance,
theorists (though the later, if should be said, attached no special significance
to the fact of matrilineal vs. patrilineal descent, which Levi-Strauss
described as merely ‘an illusion of traditional sociology’ (Barnes 1971:
142ff; Levi-Strauss 1969: 409; Schneider 1965: 46–47).
There is no need to go into the intricacies of this discussion here, except
to point to the sleight of hand by which the principle of unilineal descent is
presumed to yield a bounded group, not merely conceptually in the sense of
unambiguously defining the individual’s status, rights and duties but, quite
literally, in arrangements ‘on the ground’, that is, in a territorial location
(Kuper 1982; Schneider 1965: 47, 50). (This accounts for the importance in
this scheme of the residence rules, since only a patri-local or matri-local
residence rule, harmonious with the descent rule, would keep the descent
groups territorially intact.)
Empirically speaking, however, not all societies with a rule of unilineal
descent have active descent groups with all the features that Radcliffe-
Brown, and later Fortes, attributed to them (Scheffler 1966). For instance,
the principle of unilineal descent might dictate only the rules of exogamy
(think of the brahmanical gotra), and not imply territorial cohesion, a
segmentary political system coordinate with the kinship system, a strong
descent ‘ideology’, an ancestor cult, and so on. Though groups with all these
features are to be found in several regions of the world, including South Asia
(see e.g., Shah 1977; also Hershman 1981, chap. 5; Lecomte-Tilouine 1993).
However, the identification of the ‘descent’ principle with the constitution of
segmentary descent groups further restricts the application of the matriarchal
and patriarchal types and, again, leaves more societies categorically
residual. That is, in assuming unilineal descent of one or the other kind as not
merely a feature, but the determining feature, the location of societies along
the axis from patriarchy to matriarchy implies that the scale is applicable
only for a very limited set of human societies. Where does one place the
rest?

Meaning of ‘Descent’

The next point at issue is the question of whether the type of rule of descent is
an adequate criterion for comparing and discriminating societies ‘on the
ground’, in the present instance, from the viewpoint of relations of the sexes.
What, actually, does knowing the rule of descent tell us about a society? In
some reckonings, very little. Leach, for example, has dismissed the focus on
the descent principle as an anthropological fetish, declaring, with his
characteristic iconoclasm, ‘It may be that to create a class labelled [in this
case] matrilineal societies is as irrelevant for our understanding of social
structure as the creation of a class of blue butterflies is for the understanding
of the anatomical structure of lepidoptera’ (1961a: 4; one of anthropology’s
most oft-quoted ‘quotes’).
Even those who are sympathetic to descent theory concede that criteria of
descent alone, or of descent plus residence, or even of all five of Radcliffe-
Brown’s features, operationally amount to a very crude way of classifying
degrees of patriarchy. Initially it was suggested that the descent system model
worked well enough in Africa, but was for unexplained reasons
inappropriate in other culture areas—New Guinea, for instance (see Barnes
1962; Strathern 1988: 11, 45, 49–51). Similarly, Dumont had insisted that in
South Asia as a culture region the alliance model was more applicable,
though Leach again had more or less the same problems with the alliance
theory as he had with the descent theory when it came to its application to
real/empirical societies (1961a, chap. 3). And finally a number of writers
asserted that descent theory was just a ‘model’ (no doubt a very elegant one)
which represented and explained only imperfectly the observed facts on the
ground—in Africa, or anywhere else for that matter (Buchler and Selby
1968: 74–75; Worsley 1956). Some went so far as to impute that not just
descent, but the very ideal of a domain of’kinship’, was an arte fact of
anthropological practice, that it had no existence in itself, and that it was
merely the idiom through which bedrock political and economic relations
were expressed, and cultural ideals articulated.21 The ultimate paradox, as
already mentioned, was the development of an ‘anti-kinship’ school of
kinship studies, associated with the Chicago anthropologist, David
Schneider.22

Models and Real Life

These debates on the relevance or otherwise of descent theory were an

aspect of a wider reflection at the time (mid-1960s) on problems of social
science methodology, with particular reference to the status of ‘models’ in
anthropology. As Schneider insisted, there were indeed some dreadful
‘muddles in the models’ that anthropologists worked with, especially when
viewed across schools of anthropological practice (Schneider 1965). Given
a particular ‘model’ of social organization—be it descent theory, or alliance
theory for that matter—there is no way of knowing how adequately a society
conforms to the model, or of evaluating and ranking measures of conformity.
For instance, a rule of cross-cousin marriage is a characteristic feature of
Dravidian kinship systems (believed to have implications for women’s
position in the family), but empirical studies show conformity to the rule
varying widely between 4 per cent and 54 per cent. Some of this variation is
to be accounted for by demographic constraints, but some represents the
exercise of other options for various contingent reasons—the very stuff of
family politics (Trautmann 1981: 218). Similarly, Palriwala has shown that
the rule of patri-virilocal, post-marital residence in Rajasthan is subverted
by the custom of young wives returning frequently, and for long periods, to
their natal homes, for rituals, festivals and unpaid agricultural labour
(Palriwala 1991: 2771–72). Or, the joint family is a cultural ideal through
South Asia, but conformity to the ideal is only partial, and has not changed
appreciably through the last century or more of census statistics, despite a
widespread impression/anxiety that the ‘traditional’ joint family system is
‘breaking down’ (Shah 1968). One could go on and on multiplying examples.
Reviewing the debates on the implications of descent theory from a
position of sympathy in the mid-1960s, I. M. Lewis concluded that the
descent factor in itself is an inadequate index of the strength of the patrilineal
complex. Comparing a set of societies that are, formally speaking, equally
patrilineal, he demonstrated that there were substantial social structural and
cultural differences between them. These differences could be captured not
only by noting ‘the extent to which matrilineal principles of grouping are, or
are not, recognized’ (1965: 105), but by bringing into consideration some
of the recognized ‘functional’ attributes of patrilineal descent, and noting,
inversely, the presence or absence of other cross-cutting principles, such as
local contiguity, contract, age-sets, hierarchical political organization, which
‘may detract from the exclusiveness of patriliny just as effectively and
significantly as the parallel recognition of matrilineal descent’ (ibid.: 105).
 It was clear from this very instructive exercise that societies that were
‘strongly patrilineal’ with regard to some functions, may not be so with
respect to others. Moreover, since these functions may be unevenly weighted
and may (or may not) have determining relations over other elements (a
problem that we have already alluded to), there is no way of arriving at a
consolidated index of patrilineal emphasis, except in a very crude way
(ibid.: 108–109). It might also be noted here that some of the functional
criteria of patrilineal adherence that Lewis suggested are disputed, or are
matters of varied interpretations. For instance, Lewis suggested that the
emphasis on the patriline can be considered stronger in societies where
women do not surrender their agnatic affiliation after marriage, and where
the marital bond is, correspondingly, weaker. In most writings on South Asia,
on the other hand, the opposite complex is regarded as an index of patriarchy
—that is, when women upon marriage change their names, their gotras, their
‘blood’, and lose all but the most residual rights in their natal homes.23 It is
clearly very much a matter of opinion and interpretation.

Other Possible Variables

Though Radcliffe-Brown had suggested just five defining characteristics of

matriarchy/patriarchy, privileging descent among them, others may—and do
—suggest a different range of variables whose presence or absence they
believe affects the relative positions of the sexes. As an instance, one might
cite a paper by Karen Sachs (1975), who seeks corroboration of Engels’
theory connecting the devaluation of women with the rise of class society. In
this paper she compares a set of four African societies, ranging from the
egalitarian Mbuti and Lovedu to the more socially differentiated Ganda, with
the Pondu occupying an in-between position. None of her hypothesized
variables—that is, in the social domain, mutual-aid, self-representation,
socializing opportunity, extramarital sex, divorce, social disposal of wealth,
political office, extradomestic dispute settlement, extra-domestic mediation
with the supernatural, and in the domestic domain, wife’s inheritance of
marital estate, wife’s authority over domestic affairs, wife as private
reproducer (adultery compensation), menstrual and pregnancy restrictions—
coincided with those suggested by Radcliffe-Brown. She concluded that the
position of women ‘declined from Mbuti and Lovedu to Ganda ... in direct
correlation to the domestication of women’s work and the development of
production for exchange and private property’ ... and ‘that Engels was right
after all-that private property and production for exchange lead to women’s
domestication and subordination’ (ibid.: 228).
A second illustration is rather nearer home, taken from the work of
Kolenda (1987), who addressed herself to the macro-sociological analysis
of factors believed to affect the incidence of joint family living in South
Asia, considered the regional distribution of these features throughout the
region, and examined the changing regional profile over several decades.
Excepting matrilineal enclaves in the southwest and northeast, and areas of
bilateral descent and ambi or neolocal residence through the tribal belts and
in the South (and in Sri Lanka), most communities in India are ‘patriarchal’
by Radcliffe-Brown’s criteria.24But beneath this apparent uniformity,
Kolenda finds significant regional variations in measures of what she calls
‘wifely bargaining power’, inversely correlated with high proportions of
joint families. This regional pattern manifests itself notably in: (i) higher
rates of divorce, desertion, and remarriage, (ii) bridewealth rather than
dowry; and (iii) uxorilaterality rather than virilaterality(iv) not to forget
attention to asymmetries in the sex ratio (ibid.: 103, 263–66).

Functional Consistency

It would now be evident that Radcliffe-Brown’s scheme was not actually

value-neutral—that ‘ideal type’ implied an ideal (in the usual, i.e.,
normative, sense of the word) of structural consistency. Just as he valued
unilineal systems over nonunilineal ones for their unambiguous criteria of
affiliation—to recall his reference to the necessity for social ‘stability’ and
‘continuity’—so also he valorized those societies whose features were either
consistently patriarchal or consistently matriarchal, suggesting that the others
were not only typologically imperfect but functionally defective. ‘Unilineal
institutions’, he asserted, ‘are almost, if not entirely, a necessity in any
ordered social system’ (1952c: 48). This view was itself consistent (one
almost hesitates to use the word) with the overall ambience of structural-
functional social theory, which conceives of societies as existing in self-
regulating equilibrium through the harmonious functioning of their separate
but interlocking subsystems (Barnes 1971: 189, 219, 265; Buchler and Selby
1968: 75). The theory of segmentary political systems, which was developed
to explain the mode of functioning of ‘stateless polities’ (which forms the
theme of the book by Middleton and Tait 1958), was regarded, as the piece
de resistance of this school and an affirmation of the value of descent theory,
though in fact the merging of identical and politically equal segments does
not always and everywhere map perfectly on to a developed lineage system,
and is not universally associated with ‘stateless’ systems (Goody 1957: 101–
102).
One should note here, however, by way of qualification, that the ideal of
‘consistency’ of other features with the rule of descent was not confined to
the structural-functional tradition, but was shared by modes of kinship studies
that are, on other grounds, regarded as quite opposed. In a critical study of
three major ‘styles’ in the study of kinship in the post-war period—those of
G. P. Murdock, Claude Levi-Strauss and Meyer Fortes—Barnes (1971) has
demonstrated how each in his own way has assumed the consistency, or the
desirability of consistency, of other features of social organisation with the
rule of descent. Murdock, for instance, believed that societies tended
‘adaptively’ towards functional consistency, even if very few at any one
point in time were fully integrated (ibid.: chap. 1: 17– 18). Despite his
sensitivity to the t,ime dimensions in lineage structuration and segmentation.
Fortes, following Radcliffe-Brown, assumed a homeostatic and functionally
integrated condition of society (ibid.: 17–18). And Levi-Strauss, as we have
already noted in another connection, had included a contrast of ‘harmonic’
and ‘disharmonic’ regimes as determining factors in the structuring of
systems of marriage alliance (1969: 218, 273, 441, 493), asserting that the
privileged form of elementary kinship structure, the system of generalized
exchange articulated in the practice of matrilateral cross-cousin marriage,
was necessarily associated with a harmonic regime, that is, one in which
rules of descent and residence were either both maternal, or both paternal.
 The subversion of the ideal type of unilineal society by the ‘disharmony’
of its component features (in particular, one should note, by inconsistent post-
marital residence rules) was believed to be especially likely in the case of
matrilineal kinship systems, which were seen to be inherently or structurally
unstable for one reason or another. It was as though they must always be
straining towards the logical consistency, if not also the natural necessity and
historical inevitability, of patriliny or patriarchy. Radcliffe-Brown himself
cited an example here of an, Australian tribe with matrilineal totemic clans
but a patrilineal residence rule, describing their social organization as
‘thoroughly bilateral’ for most purposes, ‘kinship through the father (being)
of more importance than kinship through the mother’ (Radcliffe-Brown
1952ba: 22–23).
In an important contribution to this line of thinking a generation later,
Audrey Richards coined the term ‘matrilineal puzzle’ for this structural
phenomenon, insisting that:

The balance of interest between the two sides of the family is bound
to be an uneasy one in the case of matrilineal communities, and for
this reason variation between neighbouring states [within a particular
region of matrilineal kinshipl is to be expected,as well as different
types of marriage and family within each tribe itself (1950: 211,
emphasis added).

At base, according to Richards, was a tension (i) between the rule of

matrilineal descent and the rule of post-marital residence, with husbands and
brothers in competition for control over women and their children, and (ii)
between the rule of matrilineal descent and the location of domestic and
extradomestic authority in the hands of males (ibid.: 208, 246– 49)—as
Radcliffe-Brown had implicitly conceded in his original definition of
matriarchy. While Richard’s work has been an important inspiration for later
writings on matrilineal societies including the matrilineal communities of
South Asia (Nakane 1967; Nongbri 1988; Schneider and Gough 1961), there
does not appear to have been comparable anxiety regarding disharmonic
features in patrilineal systems.
 W N ?

After this rather long excursus into the intricacies of anthropological descent
theory, it would be as well to try and recall why we set out on this journey in
the first place.
The explicit reason was by way of explanation of the avoidance of the
concept of patriarchy in present-day anthropology, including by those who
sincerely regard themselves as feminists and who self-consciously seek to
remedy the invisibility or misrepresentation of women in their discipline. It
was argued that this was because the concept pertained centrally in certain
anthropological paradigms that are now regarded as faulted in a number of
respects. We have detailed these problems in reference to the very influential
body of writing on descent theory, noting that many of these faults were
shared with other, and supposedly competitive, modes of kinship studies.
To sum up, as first formulated by Radcliffe-Brown, the concept of
patriarchy was both logically unsound as an ideal- type proposition, and also
operationally problematic on several counts. Critics have pointed to the
difficulty of ranking and evaluating systems with mixed features—how, in
practical terms, does one rank one society as more or less patriarchal than
another?—and of discriminating societies that are formally classed together
in respect of patriarchal features but which are nonetheless felt to be
qualitatively different in terms of relations of the sexes. In particular, they
point to problems arising from the privileging of the descent factor among the
several constituent features of a patriarchal regime. Hence our attention here
to descent theory.
Focus on unilineal descent not only excludes from consideration all those
societies which are differently constituted—thus leaving no substance from
an anthropological viewpoint in the complaint of Western feminists (whose
kinship system is bilateral) that they are labouring under patriarchy—but it
masks or renders problematic and requiring special explanation relations of
filiation, and (a point which my presentation did not adequately bring out but
which is central to the contrast of the descent and alliance models) treats as
relatively inconsequential relations established by marriage. Even loyalists
concede that the notion is an ‘abstraction’ or ‘model’ of a certain kind and
that, in practice, it is often an inadequate or deceptive representation of
realities on the ground. It is certainly a rather blunt instrument for comparing
and distinguishing societies in respect of gender relations—if it can
reasonably be regarded as a measure of these at all, and not merely, as the
more iconoclastic of critics would say, a figment of professional
anthropological theory and practice.
The implicit reason for this exercise was the suspicion that the
assumptions of anthropological descent theory are not confined to the
discipline of anthropology, but are a sort of shared social-scientific
commonsense. It seems all too easy to jump to conclusions about the impact
of the system of descent and its ideology on relations of the sexes, without
realising how methodologically suspect and operationally questionable these
may be in a comparative perspective, and how this focus may conceal just as
much as it reveals. I also have a feeling, which I cannot really substantiate,
that the descent theory model appears unduly plausible to us in India for the
reason that it confirms our self-image as refracted through the prism of
colonial knowledge. Since we tend to operate with us/them,
traditional/modern, developing/developed dichotomies, we tend to see the
family and kinship system of the West (nuclear family, bilateral descent and
inheritance, neo-local residence, self-arranged marriage, etc.) as indices of
modernity, rather than of cultural difference,25 and we completely fail to
attend to the varieties of patrilineal, matrilineal and bilateral kinship
organization when seen in a wider comparative perspective.
As already remarked, India is largely a patriarchal society by the criteria
of the conventional definition of patriarchy, although it should be noted that
post-independence legislation has introduced an uneven degree of bilaterality
(at the level of the legal system) in the domain of inheritance and family law.
But the question is: is it worth focusing on the invariant structure of
patriarchy, or should one attend instead to identifying the many other factors
that appear to moderate relations of the sexes in different classes, castes,
regions and communities, and through different phases of the male and female
life cycles, in the past and in the present? (Kolenda’s work, already referred
to, is relevant here.) In settling for the latter emphasis, I align myself with
those feminists who argue that the notion of patriarchy can overcome its
limitations only by disaggregation (e.g., Beechey 1979; Lerner 1986: 238–
39), though I am rather less sanguine than they are that patriarchy can survive
this dismemberment!
The descent theory viewpoint explains a lot of what we want to know
indeed what we already know, about Indian society. But it leaves a lot
unanswered, also. It explains the primacy of the blood bond that unites father
and son, and its politico-jural content, but it does not anticipate the moral
force of the motherson bond, which for the most part remains the hunting
ground of the psychologists. But, as every connoisseur of popular cinema
knows, the mother’s dying command is morally sacrosanct, the mother (or
sister) wronged an inviolable injunction to revenge (see e.g., Ganjoo 1991).
The descent principle explains the basis of group placement, but we also
know that it is moderated by that of caste hierarchy, which is ultimately
bilateral, if somewhat asymmetrically so, to the extent that the child may
succeed to the social status of the father only if the mother has a ritual status
not too different from that of the father (the degree of difference tolerated
varying from one caste to another [Shah 1982; Yalman 1963]). In other
words, though the father’s ‘seed’ on the whole determines the child’s
identity, the ‘field’ has to be appropriate too (Das 1976: 3–4; Dube 1986;
Hershman 1981: 133–33).26 In an ideal-typical patrilineal system, on the
other hand, the mother’s status would be irrelevant.
Similarly, the notion of sagotra, a patrilineal descent construct, is
balanced by the notion of sapinda (‘shared body’) which, as Dumont argues,
is bilateral along a sliding scale from near-symmetry in respect to marriage
prohibitions, through greater asymmetry in mourning rituals and ancestor
worship, to a strongly patrilineal bias in respect of inheritance (Dumont
1983b). In regard to inheritance, some feminists have belatedly and
reluctantly conceded the social fact that dowry is indigenously conceived as
a woman’s share of the family estate (albeit unequal compared to the sons’,
and for the most part not under her control), foregoing which she might well
lose all claims on the family estate.
Of course, these are all complex and tendentious questions that cannot be
disposed of in a few sentences. They are complex not only because of the
great variety of Indian kinship practices (see Uberoi 1993a, Part I), but also
because of the possibility that different types of descent constructs, unilineal
and bilateral, may exist simultaneously within the same community, called
upon in different social contexts or for different purposes, and presenting
dilemmas of interpretation not only for the anthropologist-observer, but for
the native-actor as well! This opens up an area of’choice’ and manipulation,
in respect of descent, similar to that explored of late in reference to marriage
preferences.27
As noted, descent theory has been critiqued for its dismissive treatment of
marriage as merely a relation between localized descent groups which
ensures the continuity of the group and also lays the foundation for the
segmentation of lineage (the individuation of married brothers, or of the sons
of different wives in a polygynous society). Feminists have been critical of
the rival alliance theory, too, for valorizing in the idea of the ‘exchange of
women’, men’s rights to dispose of their daughter/sisters in marriage, as
though they were commodities (e.g. Irigary 1985, chap. 5; Mitchell 1975:
370; Rubin 1975).28 No doubt they have a point there. But the focus on the
structural implications of marriage is a very important one (cf. Howell
1987). To my mind, the issue that affects gender relations most crucially is
the ritual inferiority and vulnerability of the bride-givers in relation to the
bride-takers in the context of South Asian (Hindu) marriage. It is this which
makes the process of marital adjustment such a painful and one-sided affair
(see Singh and Uberoi 1994), and which points to the importance of
empirically investigating, for different groups in the region, the extent of a
married woman’s right of return and maintenance in her natal home, in theory
and in practice, and under fast-changing socio-economic conditions. This
particular factor does not feature in the conventional enumeration of
patriarchal characteristics, and in any case, as remarked earlier,
anthropologists have been divided on the question of whether a married
woman’s rights in her natal family are an index of strong patrilineal emphasis
or, quite to the contrary, of a covert matrilateral emphasis within a manifestly
patriarchal regime.
Simply by its focus on the institutions of marriage, alliance theory seems
rather more appropriate than descent theory, but neither seems to provide an
adequate explanation of the phenomena at hand. Perhaps one needs to reach
outside the domain of family and kinship to the understanding of ‘culture’ on
the one hand and both the traditional and emerging political economy on the
other. The anthropological concept of patriarchy may be a starting point, and
no doubt a reasonable starting point, but, it is only that, for it leaves too much
else unexplained.

Notes

* Originally published in the Sociological Bulletin, vol. 44, September

1995, no. 2, pp. 195–221. This article was initially presented at a
seminar on women’s studies in India held in September 1992 at the
Indian Institute of Advanced Studies, Shimla. I am grateful for the
helpful comments made by the participants both at the IAAS seminar,
and at the Sociological Research Colloquium of the Delhi School of
Economics. I am also thankful to Uma Chakravarti, RajniPalriwala, A.
M. Shah, T. N. Madan, J. P. S. Uberoi and Veena Das for several
stimulating suggestions.
1 The very ‘English’ phrase, ‘awkward relationship’, comes from the
title of a well-known essay by Marilyn Strathern on the relationship of
feminism and anthropology (1987).
2 Notable exceptions here are Gerda Lerner’s The Creation of
Patriarchy (1986), which contains a useful appendix of definitions of
this and related terms and concepts; and Sylvia Walby’s Theorizing
Patriarchy (1990), which seeks to delineate the features of ‘patriarchy’
as understood in four different traditions of feminist theorizing; for
example, radical feminism, Marxist feminism, liberal feminism, and
dual systems theory (a synthesis of radical and Marxist approaches). In
general, however, definitions of patriarchy are not easy to come by,
even where one would most expect to find them. For instance, referring
to the Indian academic context, Susheela Kaushik’s ‘Patriarchy as a
Concept in Social Sciences in India’ (1987), to which I turned
hopefully, offers no definition whatsoever, while assuring anxious
Indian readers that feminism in India will not go the Western way and
turn into a battle of the sexes.
3 For a sympathetic and constructive review of different usages of the
concept of patriarchy, see Beechey 1979; also Palriwala 1990: esp. 44–
 45.
4 The Webster’s New International Dictionary (1953) distinguishes
patriarchy from andocracy, ‘or the physical and social supremacy of
men in primitive society, patriarchy being held to involve, besides such
supremacy, father- right ... or descent and inheritance in the male line’.
Lerner (1986: 238– 39) usefully distinguishes the ‘narrow, traditional
meaning’ of patriarchy, referring ‘to the system, historically derived
from Greek and Roman law, in which the male head of the household
had absolute legal and economic power over his dependent female and
male family members’, and the ‘wider definition’ that feminists seek to
give it. Though her writing has clearly been much influenced by
anthropology, she ignores the intermediate step of the reconstitution of
the notion of patriarchy within the emerging science of anthropology in
the nineteenth century, and its incorporation in this way into modern
social scientific discourse.
5 Entries on both matriarchy and patriarchy were signed by the
American anthropologist, Arnold R. Pilling.
6 As an example, the index to a recent anthology on ‘feminist
anthropology in the postmodern era’ (di Leonardo 1991a) has only a
single entry under ‘patriarchy’, referring to Engels’ theory of the origin
of patriarchy in the link between state formation and the subordination
of women (see Silverblatt 1991: esp. 144–66). Use of the actual term
‘patriarchy’ appears to have been studiously avoided in this collection,
and the contemporary problematics of feminist anthropology instead
identified as (i) gender in colonial history and anthropology; (i i) gender
as cultural politics; (ii i) representing gendered labour; and (iv)
rethinking gender and reproduction.
7 For instance, Veronica Beechey, reviewing the concept of patriarchy,
writes that ‘the theory of patriarchy attempts to penetrate beneath the
particular experiences and manifestations of women’s oppression and to
formulate some coherent theory of the basis of subordination, which
underlies them’ (1979: 66).
8 Such ‘facts of nature’ as the male/female differences in body weight,
the vulnerability of pregnant women and human infants, and the
 dependence therefore of women on male protection, etc., are advanced
to account ‘naturally’ for the near universality of the nuclear family and
the subordination of women and children to adult males (see e.g., Fox
1967. chap. 1). More specifically within professional anthropology,
‘maternity’ is regarded as transparent, and ‘paternity’, asymmetrically,
as a social construction which may, or may not, coincide with real
biological paternity (Barnes 1973; for an update on this debate in the
context of the new reproductive technologies, see also Strathern 1992).
In what many feminists see as a sinister recent development, some of
these ideas have had a new lease of life in the emerging academic sub-
field of sociobiology.
9 Incidentally, Schneider’s approach has been quite influential in South
Asian anthropology, as well as among some feminists. See, e.g., Inden
and Nicholas (1977) and Ostor, Fruzzetti and Barnett (1982).
10 For an interesting interpretation of the supposed prehistoric matriarchal
legacy in Chinese culture, through to the Cultural Revolution, see
Kristeva 1977: esp. 45–65.
11 See, for instance, the papers by Gough, Draper and Sachs in Reiter
1975.
12 For example, Buchler and Selby 1968: chap. 4; Davenport 1963;
Lewis 1965; Needham 1971: esp. 8–13; 30–32; Schneider 1965; or
more recently, Kuper 1982. In reference to India, see Hershman 1981:
chap. 3.
13 Interestingly, Kuper (1982: 71) justified his latter-day critique of
‘lineage theory’ on the ground that ‘elements of the lineage model of
political organization still embellish phantom proto-states in the work
of African historians or “the lineage mode of production” in the work of
French Marxist anthropologists, or they appear simply as part of the
trappings, taken for granted, in dozens of ethnographic monographs.’
14 See Dumont (1968) for an exposition of alliance theory.
15 The same passage was quoted under the entry ‘patriarchy’ in Gould
and Kolb’s Dictionary of the Social Sciences.Gould and Kolb’s
Dictionary of the Social Sciences.
16 See Leach’s criticism of Gluckman’s hypothesis on marriage stability
related to lineage organization as implying a ‘continuous scale’ from
Market Father Right > Moderate Father Right > Bilateral (Cognatic) >
Moderate Matriliny > Extreme Matriliny; cited in Buchler and Selby
(1968: 82).
17 See Barnes (1971: chap. 1) for an evaluation of Murdock’s ‘style’ of
kinship analysis. A good example of the imaginative use of this
material, throwing new light from a comparative perspective on the
relationship between inheritance patterns, features of kinship and
marriages, ecological variables and the mode of production is Jack
Goody’s Production and Reproduction (1976). Recent work by
economist Bina Agarwal, relating sex-wise inheritance patterns and
modes of residence in South Asia, promises to be particularly
productive of new insights in this area (in press).
18 See Fortes: 1969: esp. chaps. 8 and 13; see also Barnes 1971: chap. 3
and Kuper 1982: 85f.
19 See, e.g., the papers by Rosaldo, Ortner and Chodorow in Rosaldo and
Lamphere (1974). This volume was one of the earliest, and still very
influential, products of the new, feminist anthropology.
20 See, e.g., Asad 1973: 103–18; Kuper 1973: 109, 170, 173. Kuper
insists, however, that the relationship between the colonial
administrations and the community of anthropologists was ambiguous
and mutually suspicious, rather than supportive, though anthropologists
often tried to advertize their discipline as being of immediate relevance
for colonial governance (1973: chap. 40).
21 Leach (1961b: 9,11,65–66). For Fortes’ defence of the kinship domain,
contra Leach, see Fortes (1969: 220ff).
22 See Scheffler (1991:361) for a critique of Schneider’s considerable
influence among some feminist anthropologists of family and kinship.
23 Cf. Radcliffe-Brown 1952c: 42. For Radcliffe-Brown, the Roman case
represented the extreme of patriliny where the husband had rights both
in rem and in personam over his wife (and children).
24 For details on the pattern of descent, residence and inheritance in India,
see Singh 1993: 48–49; 52–55. The information in this compilation
 should be deployed with the same caution that Barnes had advised in
reference to Murdock’s world ethnographic atlas.
25 For a useful review see Madan (1976).
26 Hershman (1981: 130–33) insists that the descent constructs of the
Punjabis are bilaterally constituted, though the society undoubtedly has
unilineal descent groups.
27 As an example in reference to Muslim marriage preferences in this
region, see Donnan (1988; esp. chap. 4) see also Trautmann (1981:
261ff.) both reproduced in Uberoi 1993b.
28 Strathern (1988: 311–14, 381 n3, n5) maintains that such readings do
not do justice to Levi-Strauss’ overall account of marriage exchange,
though Levi-Strauss clearly leaves himself open to such
misinterpretations. Feminist debate on the issues of the commoditization
of women, male control over female fertility and female ‘agency’ and
‘subjectivity’, insofar as it is located in critique of Levi-Strauss’ theory
of kinship, is seen by Strathern as instancing ‘the way anthropological
kinship theory has been used outside the subject’ (Strathern 1988:
381n3), presumably, not quite correctly. She goes on to argue that the
idea that women are self-evidently ‘valuable’, because they have
babies, represents a culturally specific interpretation of the act of
motherhood which may hold good in Highlands New Guinea.

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P II

G S I
Institutions are social in that they contribute to collective life and receive
widespread support from society. The emergence of social institutions has
been accounted for sociologically through broadly three perspectives: the
functionalist, the conflict and the rational choice theory. Feminist critiques
have underlined how the sociological explanations of the emergence,
maintenance and transformation of social institutions have ‘naturalized’ the
secondary status of women in these institutions. Feminist sociological
analysis has sought to address the ways in which the social institutions are
fundamental conduits for gender oppression in society. They argue that all
social institutions are gendered in that gender is embedded into their
structures and processes. In this sense the family, caste and kinship, labour,
education and state are all gendered institutions. The essays in this section
expose the gender gaps, gender inequalities in the social institutions and
underline the ways in which gender is built into structures and how this helps
to structure and perpetuate gender inequalities. In the last decade, feminist
scholarship has had to deal with the complex issue of social institutions as
not only gendered but also as structuring and structured by caste and class.
The challenge is one of moving beyond an additive analysis of these axes of
oppression in society. The articles in the following four sections address the
issues of gender in some of the major social institutions, namely, family and
kinship, work, education and state.
Section A: Family, Marriage and Kinship

Sociological analysis in the 1970s stressed the relationship between work

for wages and improvement in the status of women. Such a correlation was
based on the assumption that family represents the traditional and the labour
market holds the promise to modernity. This was premised on an assumed
opposition between public and the private, family and work and tradition
and modernity. Most of the Studies focused on the problems that women
faced when they worked (typically the role conflict) while the processes that
structure women’s employment were ignored. Feminist critiques have
underlined the ways in which patriarchal family structures and capitalism are
related and have outlined the complex relations between the state and the
relations of production and reproduction. Sociology had for long discussed
the relationship between family and society; feminist scholarship opened up
discussions on power within the family. Feminist sociologists in India have
argued that the experiential problems, the practical politics of contemporary
Indian family and kinship have been ignored. Scholars have addressed the
conceptual and methodological issues concerning the household and drawn
attention to the increasing number of female-headed households. The ways in
which different principles of kinship, marriage and family organize the
labour and sexuality of women have been outlined. The articles by Dube and
Nongbri in this section on family, marriage and kinship address the impact of
different rules of marital recruitment, residence, group membership,
inheritance and organization of female sexuality on gender relations. Hoodfar
examines how male migration in Egyptian society seems on the surface to
have lead to feminization of the family. She argues that male migration has
reaffirmed traditional gender ideology. In an analysis of single- and dual-
earner families, Ramu underlines economic resources as an objective force
in renegotiating the balance of power between spouses.
3

S - D -E C :E
S M P *

G. N. Ramu1

In sociological analyses of marital relations, ‘resource theory’ is an

approach that is widely used (Blood and Wolfe 1960; Heer 1963; McDonald
1980; Safilios-Rothschild 1970). According to this theory, power is
generally associated with resources brought into a marriage by each spouse.
Consequently, the greater the resources either spouse has in comparison to
the other, the greater will be his or her marital power. These resources are
usually economic in nature, namely, education, occupational status, and
income. Given the gender-based stratification in most societies, these
resources are unequally distributed between women and men, the latter
having a greater share. Of relevance here is that the resources women control
(e.g., domestic competence, socialization skills and other attributes) which
are essential for an efficient management of marital and family life are not
perceived as valuable as economic assets. When a society attaches
significance to resources, which are material and not human in nature, the
marital power of wives is undermined.
If economic resources are the basis of strength to negotiate for greater
marital power, then, employed women are in an ideal position to do so.
However, the evidence shows that such negotiations have not yielded
uniform and universal change in domestic relations. For example, the
research on domestic work in dual-earner families in Western societies (e.g.,
Pleck 1979, 1985; Sanik 1981; Vanek 1974, 1980; Walker and Woods 1976)
has clearly pointed out that employed wives have not completely succeeded
in their bargaining.
If bargaining power is, in the words of Hood (1983: 7), ‘the ability to get
another person to cooperate in or to allow the achievement of one’s goals’,
employment has not enabled women to exercise this power in matters of
housework. By contrast, studies have shown that bargaining power does play
a critical role among employed women in domestic decisions (e.g., Bahr
1974; Blood and Wolfe 1960; Huber and Spitze 1983; Lupri 1969); working
women exercise greater authority in decision-making than housewives do.
Nevertheless, in most societies, and certainly in India, the relations
between the husband and the wife are not quid pro quo (Lederer and Jackson
1968) in that exchanges are neither straightforward nor systematic. This is
because domestic relations are not perceived by most couples as commodity
relations with clear notions of gains and losses. The notion of exchange or
bargaining oversimplifies a complex relationship formed by values several
centuries old, and by norms governing male female ties. Despite the
hierarchical nature of marital roles with the structural potential for conflict,
coercion and oppression, they are constructed on mutual understanding,
affection, sensuality and attachment that permits couples to realize the
fundamental objectives of marriage and family. Marital conflicts are unlike
conflicts in other areas of social life. This is because marital relations are
governed by a combination of love and hate, conflict and co-operation and
harmony and disharmony and so on. In this regard, economist Sen (1985:
196) notes:

Conflict of interests between men and women are very unlike other
conflicts, such as class conflicts. A worker and a capitalist do not
typically live together under the same roof-sharing concerns and
experiences and acting jointly. This aspect of “togetherness” gives the
sex conflict some very special characteristics. One of these
characteristics is that many aspects of conflicts between men and
women have to be examined against the background of pervasive
cooperative behaviour. Not only different parties have much to gain
from cooperation, their individual activities typically have the form of
being overtly cooperative.
Consequently, marital power as part of domestic Arrangement is not always
oppressive or conflict-generating. Furthermore, while couples may believe
and often conform to their marital roles as prescribed by customs and norms,
they may also alter their roles partly or fully to suit individual needs and
comfort. Thus it is critical for us to evaluate marital power in a context
broader than resources and bargaining.
The main objective of this article is to explore the extent to which the
wife’s co-provider’s role has enabled her to share power in decision-
making. In the following sections, we propose to establish two points. First,
that although traditionally, Indian women have always retained indirect
influence, the newly achieved economic status by urban middle class women
has contributed to their legitimate overt assertion of authority in domestic
decisions. Second, contribution by women to family economy has helped
their marriages to become slightly more egalitarian. A perspective for an
understanding to marital power in India precedes the presentation of details
on sample, methods, and findings.

AP

The debate about the notion of marital power and how to measure it has
preoccupied family sociologists for nearly three decades (Bahr 1974;
McDonald 1980; Safilios-Rothschild 1970). There is little consensus on the
notion of marital power and on the methods of measuring it. Use of terms
such as authority, decision-making, or influence by researchers to signify
marital power has made it all the more difficult to arrive at a consensus on
the operational definition of the concept of marital power. In this regard,
Safilios-Rothschild (1970) suggests that family power be understood in
terms of its three components: authority (legitimate right as sanctioned by
social and cultural orders); decision making by couples; and influence of
one spouse over the other. Accordingly, researchers in the United States and
elsewhere have relied on indicators of decision-making, as well as the
ability of one spouse to influence the other against his or her will, in order to
reach the desired outcome (Olson and Ryder 1970). Then, power, in an
absolute sense, is the ability to get someone to do what they would otherwise
not have done (Dahl 1957). In the context of marriage, such ability is
contingent upon the resources of each spouse. From this point of view of
power, studies by Blood and Wolfe (1960), Lupri (1969), Safilios-
Rothschild (1970), Bahr (1974), McDonald (1980) and Ferber (1982) have
found that employed women have more power than do non-employed women,
especially with regard to making of decisions.
A systematic analysis of marital power in Indian families is yet to be
undertaken. A handful of studies (Khanna and Verghese 1978; Devi 1978;
Ramu 1988; Sinha and Prabha 1988) which focus on decision-making by
spouses found contradictory patterns. For example, Khanna and Verghese
(1978) found that the wife’s power in decision-making was almost the same
in single- and in dual-earner households. By contrast, Devi (1978) found that
the husband’s power in decision-making in dual-earner families was
significantly lower than that of his counterpart in single-earner households.
Ramu’s (1988) study suggested that wives are increasingly but informally
appropriating authority from such husbands to make decisions. Sinha and
Prabha (1988: 205), in their study of working women in Bihar found that the
vast majority of couples were egalitarian in making decisions on critical
issues.
The overall neglect of the study of marital power in India has been mainly
due to the unbalanced attention given to the joint family system. With the
result, most studies focus on ‘family’— not ‘marital’ power. It is taken for
granted that power is vested in the eldest male member of the family: the
patriarch in the joint family, and the husband in the nuclear family. Given the
dependent status of women in both family systems, it is generally assumed
that women have little power that really counts in family or other matters.
This is a fallacious assumption for several reasons.
First, many studies of the joint family fail to distinguish between the
normative and the empirical dimensions of power. Normatively, in a joint
family which is patrilineal and patriarchal, a woman retains little authority. It
is part of the domestic ethos for a woman to be dependent on her husband,
and on her parents-in-law. Whatever power she commands is that which is
delegated to her by a husband or other male members. Nevertheless, it is not
at all certain that power, though located in men, is only exercised by them.
Many women by virtue of age and experience not only acquire a good
measure of domestic power but also judiciously exercise it.
Second, studies of family life often neglect to make the distinction
between power and influence. Power—in its dimension of authority—is
rooted in tradition, codified by custom and sanctioned by norms. Being an
elderly male confers a certain degree of power and it is ascriptive in this
sense. By contrast, influence is achieved. It is an ability on the part of a
spouse to impose her or his point of view in subtle ways and maneuver
relations in order to accomplish a desired outcome. Influence is often based
on the personal attributes (e.g., docile or domineering, aggressive or
submissive, etc.) of a spouse. Besides, a successful application of influence
hinges on the nature of interpersonal dynamics between spouses. When
strategically employed, it has just about the same potency as power to shape
the final outcome of decisions. Thus, while men retain power in a normative
sense, in reality women exercise significant influence, quite often covertly,
on important domestic matters. For example, Wolf (1972) and Ginat (1982)
have shown that in non-Western societies, where extended family and lineage
systems are dominant, women adopt strategies to exercise power informally,
and influence the outcome of critical domestic decisions.
In India too, women in joint families often exercise a significant amount
of influence on their husbands’ decisions, especially on matters such as the
choice of marital partners for their children and the buying and selling of
land or capital goods although the norms preclude them from taking part
directly in decision-making. Such exercise of power always occurs in
private settings, while the husband’s kin are absent; to be seen as influencing
one’s husband amounts to undermining his formal power, which a wife is not
expected to do. In this regard, Das (1976: 133) comments:

It is true that only men could exercise power through institutionalized

political positions, and in this sense, women had no power. However,
if we try to conceptualise power as an asymmetrical relation, in which
one person treats another as an object, then the image of women as
totally powerless needs serious consideration. Young women might
have been treated as objects, but as they grew older, the influence that
they had on the affairs of men was of no mean importance. That they
 used purely private positions to influence public affairs need not
obscure the fact of their participation in these affairs.

Kakar (1981: 118) is more pointed when he observes that, ‘Although the
wife of the family patriarch may indeed pay a formal, and often perfunctory
deference to him, especially in front of strangers, she may exercise
considerable domestic power,x not merely among the other women of the
household, but with her husband, and she often makes many of the vital
decisions affecting the family’s interests.’ Therefore, it is necessary to
distinguish between the location of power and the manner in which it is
exercised by spouses.
Third, the conception of Indian family as patriarchal introduces a bias to
our understanding of power and influence of women in domestic matters.
True, in a patriarchal family, especially in a joint family, male-female
relations are hierarchical and women lack a material base to assert
themselves. And thus the obvious conclusion that a structured gender
inequality prevails. However, as the literature on joint family clearly
reminds us, the proverbial mother-in-law and daughter-in-law feuds leading
to splitting of joint families is indicative of the influence that daughters-in-
law have over their husbands and on the family. By refusing to acquiesce to
the demands of the parents-in-law or other kin, daughters-in-law become the
instruments of fundamental change in the structure of the family in rural India.
This fact has eluded the attention of many analysts.
Fourth, in urban families, which are usually nuclear in structure, with an
emphasis on the conjugal unit, women have more opportunities to exercise
influence. This is because the urban family structure effectively neutralizes
the significance of the husband’s filial and fraternal ties. Power in such a
family ideally rests with the husband instead of the eldest male, as is the case
in joint families. It is relatively easy for a wife to negotiate, bargain, or
simple assume authority from her husband. Moreover, the employed wives
can do this more effectively than those who are homemakers.
Finally, there are other conditions, which influence the process of Shift in
power in terms of decision-making in many urban families. Urban wives in
general have the freedom of movement in that, unlike most middle-class
wives in rural areas, they can go out without being chaperoned’ to shop for
daily necessities such as vegetables and meat and so on. This freedom, in
conjunction with their role in the kitchen, enables them to decide not only
what to buy, but how much’ and when. This does not imply that men in urban
families have given up some of these responsibilities. They have not, at least
in some cases, as we will note later. Nonetheless, urban wives have greater
capacity and potential to share in domestic decisionmaking. Moreover, in
urban families there are diverse decisions to be made. Few husbands would
have either the time or the inclination to make routine decisions. They may
choose to delegate the authority to their wives, at least in those areas, which
they consider inessential for their own sense of dominance.
In sum, our approach to an understanding of marital power in
contemporary Indian families should take into account the past neglect to
recognize the inconsistencies between normative stipulations and actual
behaviour.

‘S ,S M

The study was conducted in Bangalore, the state capital of Karnataka, which
has a population of over 2,900,000. The data was collected in two phases. In
1979, samples of workers in Bangalore’s three major public sector industries
—Bharat Electronics Ltd, Hindustan Machine Tools (Watch Division), and
Indian Telephone Industries were selected. These industries were chosen
because of their high concentration of women workers. F rom employee
records, 550 married employees were chosen for interviews. Of these, 60
persons were either ineligible for the study or refused to be interviewed. The
sampling procedures called for an equal number of respondents living in
dual-earner and single-earner families, and interviews with both spouses.
The final sample consisted of 245 single-earner and 245 dual-earner
couples. The interviews were conducted by a team of ten trained
interviewers (five female and five male) in the homes of the couples. Wives
and husbands were questioned separately by female and male interviewers
with the aid of an interview schedule for about 90 minutes.
 In the second phase, following a preliminary analysis of interview
schedule data and considering the large size of the sample it was decided that
the author would personally interview two panels of thirty couples randomly
drawn from the list of dual-earner and single-earner couples. These
interviews were focused on selected themes and the qualitative data
presented in this chapter is from the second phase of our research. We have
used this data not only to elaborate and substantiate the statistical evidence,
but also to represent human dimensions which percentages or correlation
coefficients seldom depict [for more on methodology of the study, see Ramu
(1989)].

This study includes four samples, each composed of 245 respondents: dual-
earner wives (DEW’s), dual-earner husbands (DEHs), single-earner wives
(SEWs) and single-earner husbands (SEHs). Except the SEWs, all the groups
are composed of industrial workers engaged in tasks ranging from cooking in
a company canteen to design engineering. Most respondents (72 per cent)
were urban in that they were either born in Bangalore or had moved from
other urban centres in India, while a smaller proportion (28 per cent) had
migrated from rural areas in South India. Therefore, in terms of their
educational, occupational and economic attributes the respondents are
atypical of the general populations of both Karnataka State and the country. A
brief consideration of the characteristics of the respondents (summarized in
Table 3.1) follows:
In general, the data in Table 3.1 suggests that on socioeconomic status
variables (education, occupation and income) dual-earner and single-earner
couples do not have significant differences. Although the level of education
of SEWs is, about the same as of DEWs, these women have chosen full-time
mother-wife roles. There are differences between DEHs and DEWs in their
occupation and income characteristics, For example, although the DEWs
have equal, if not better, educational qualifications, they are over-
represented in assembly-line occupations. This is because of the gender-
based occupational segregation in the industries from which the samples are
drawn: women are selected and trained for assembling watches, telephones
and electronic goods, whereas men are trained for office work. Nonetheless,
the difference in income between the DEWs and DEHs is marginal.

Table 3.1 A Summary of Characteristics of Respondents

 P D -

In this study, we have taken the role of respondents in decisionmaking on

various family matters as a significant indicator of their marital power; we
have, on this matter, a full awareness of the conceptual and methodological
problems concerning the measurement of decision-making (e.g., McDonald
1980; Scanzoni 1979). In the Indian situation, because of the cultural context
that governs husband-wife relations, the problem of measurement is
exacerbated. First, the respondents clearly make normative and empirical
distinctions in decision-making, so that although a husband has the right to
make a particular decision, for a variety of reasons he may delegate it to his
wife, who, in turn, makes it in her husband’s name. Consequently, a response
to a question such as ‘who makes a decision on—?’ would invariably be
‘husband’, because the perception based on domestic norms determines the
response, and not who actually does it.
Second, the nature of marital relations among the respondents is based
primarily on pre-established assumptions rather than on the development of
conscious and deliberate strategies for making decisions. Few couples
reported ever having discussed who should decide what, and why she/he has
the right to do so. Rather, it is more a matter of an evolution of practices
based on individual talent, skill, experience, competence and expectations.
The process is similar to what Hood (1983: 174–77) describes in terms of
the family process, involving a long chain of hundreds of negotiations and
exchanges, many of which become institutionalized over time. It should be
noted that few marital decisions are made along the lines of corporate
decisions. Couples seldom sit around a table discussing the modalities of
exercising authority on a given matter. The decisions evolve over time and
after subtle tradeoffs and bargaining rather than being handed down after a
meeting around the kitchen table.
Finally, couples tend to report that some decisions are more salient than
others, and as a result routine decisions are made by either spouse without
regard to the notion of power and authority, while more important decisions,
e.g., children’s schooling, are made by both spouses. On the basis of these
considerations, we asked the following question:
 Every couple routinely makes decisions on what to buy, how much to
spend on clothes, food, which house to rent or buy, and so on. While it
is true that some decisions are expected to be made by husbands and
others by wives, generally they consult each other and one or both may
make the final decisions and take credit for doing so. Please tell us
who actually make the final decision of the following fourteen items:

The respondents were given three choices: decision made by husband,

both, wife. A numerical score of three was assigned to response ‘husband
makes’, a score of two to response ‘both make’, and a score of one to ‘wife
makes’. A mean score of three for each item is interpreted as ‘husband
dominance’, 2 as ‘egalitarian’, and 1 as ‘wife dominance’ in decision-
making. In Tables 3.2 and 3.3, the means and standard deviations for spouses
in dual-earner and single-earner households are presented with t-values and
significance levels.

Table 3.2 Means, Standard Deviations and Differences between Means

for DEWs and DEHs on Specific Decision-making Items
 The means on various decision-making items by spouses in single-earner
and dual-earner households (Tables 3.2 and 3.3) suggest at least two
patterns. First, the means for the DEHs are not significantly far apart except
on one or two items. Also, on most items there appears to be concordance
between dual-earner spouses although husbands tend to perceive decision-
making in their marriage as more egalitarian than their wives. In general,
however, the dual-earner spouses report a pattern of decision-making, which
is close to egalitarianism. Second, a comparison of the means for the SEWs
and SEHs suggests that the differences on many items are more acute than
they are among the DEHs and DEWs. This would lead to the inference that
the process of decision-making among single-earner spouses leans towards
husband-dominance. The SEWs report that they have less authority than the
DEWs on most items of decision-making. Nevertheless, a comparison of the
means of various items on decision-making for SEHs and DEHs suggests that
husbands perceive themselves to be more egalitarian than what their wives
are prepared to acknowledge. These points are briefly elaborated ahead.

Table 3.3 Means, Standard Deviations and Differences between Means

for SEWs and SEHs on Specific Decision-making Items

D - D - S
A comparison of means for DEWs and DEHs (Table 3.2) shows that there is
a higher degree of egalitarianism reported on all items than one would have
anticipated. There is disagreement, however, on budgetary allocations for
such daily necessities as groceries and vegetables, as well as on aid to a
dependent kin living elsewhere, and on the vacation budget.
This is because among the middle-income families, expenditure on daily
necessities as well as aid to kin become contentious given the proportion of
income that is to be set aside for these purposes. Since the grocery or
vacation budget often lends itself to economizing, couples tended to disagree
often on these matters. However, there was consensus among spouses that
paying bills was part of the husband’s authority. Overall, the DEHs reported
a slightly higher level of egalitarianism in decision- making than did their
wives. An analysis controlling education and income variables of husband
suggested that more than income, education had a positive relationship to
their egalitarian approach. That is higher the education of the DEHs the
greater the tendency to be egalitarian. These findings generally compare with
the findings of the studies in the United States over the years (e.g., Bahr
1974; Blood and Wolfe 1960; Huber and Spitze 1983).
However, in our focused interviews, many DEWs tended to downplay the
association between their co-provider’s status and greater role in decision-
making. Instead, they stressed the evolution of cooperation and adjustment on
decisions over the years. Most of the dual-earner spouses noted that on most
decisions they did not differ because they had come to accept that some
decisions will be made by either husband or wife, based on mutual
consultations, while others will made on the spur of the moment. Sukanya
Lakshman (age 26), a typist-clerk, narrated how the process of decision-
making worked in her marriage:

In these matters, we are not old fashioned. My husband does not

believe he should make all the decisions all the time. When we
married, he used to argue even about the small things.
Such as?
Such as how much money to spend on vegetables, or should we eat
out, and so on. Over the years, these things are pretty well settled. He
knows as well as I do that on Sunday, our marketing day, he can spend
 up to Rs 80 or so on vegetables (this was in 1984). Not just that, he
also knows which things we don’t like. No big decisions there. On big
things, we talk about it a lot. On some small things he is more
independent than I am. Once in while, he goes and buys a shirt for
himself and then comes and announces it. But if I have to buy a sari, I
make it a point to tell him first. Not that he objects. But I do it just in
case he gets angry about my spending money.

The point that Sukanya consults her husband prior to buying a sari, whereas
he does not do so when he buys a shirt for himself, underlines the delicate
balance of power in domestic relations. Despite her income and her
perception that there is equality in decision-making, she is concerned about
the potential anger that her new sari may arouse in her husband. The wife’s
perception that the final authority rests with the husband leads to an
occasional exercise of this authority by men.
However, Sukanya’s husband, Lakshman (age 33), a metallurgist, has a
different view of the balance of domestic power. In his words:

I used to decide practically everything in the first year of my marriage.

We were newly married and were trying to set up a family, and she let
me do it. But now, if I were to buy something without mentioning it to
her before, believe me, she’d get mad. Not just that, she’d sulk for a
week.
Let’s say, you see a nice shirt in a shop in M. G. Road or a
transistor radio. Can you buy it without discussing it with your
wife’?
Probably yes, but I should make sure I have something for her as
well. Otherwise, she’d go spend twice the amount out of sheer spite.
This thing about making decisions, as you put it, is not like making
decisions in an office, sitting around a table and discussing matters. In
our home, these things are casual unless there is a lot of money
involved.
Such as?
A mixer perhaps, or stainless steel utensils, you know things like
that.
And, what else?
 I have to think about it now? Yeah... about my younger brother... she
is totally opposed to him staying here while he’s going to college.
Is he with you now?
No. She won on that.
Does she frequently win, as you put if!
I am not sure. Who counts these? On balance, she wins sometimes,
sometimes I do. We move along...

A number of interesting issues emerge from Lakshman’s interview. While he

acknowledges that his wife would be displeased with him for buying an
expensive shirt, he believes that he can assuage her displeasure through
compensation i.e., ‘buy her some thing’. This means, from the husband’s
point of view, a violation of decision-making norms can be remedied by
compensatory measures. Moreover, Lakshman’s tendency to recompense is
not necessarily rooted in fairness, but in his fear of his wife’s retaliatory
spending. And yet, he believes that in the final analysis, there are no winners
or losers in domestic decision-making.
The lines of authority among the dual-earner spouses were often
indistinct. At least two factors may have led to this outcome. First, the wife’s
contribution to the family economy does result in a certain degree of
flexibility between them in the exercise of power and authority. Second,
couples tend to bargain on matters of domestic authority in the early years of
their marriage. Thus, most of the dual-earner spouses in this study had been
married for a while, and negotiations concerning the allocation of domestic
power had occurred in the initial phase of their marital career, with a
settlement emerging over time. Routine decisions such as who goes to the
market, and how much to buy, might have been contentious during the first
years of marriage, but as time passes these things no longer become matters
that seriously engage couples. The decisions that are a test of power between
spouses are, for example, the choice of children’s school, summer vacation,
renting a house, buying furniture and kitchen gadgets.
This, is not to suggest that a husband or a wife could not, without prior
consultation, retain power to spend large sums of money. They can, although
they do so infrequently. This is because such acts would be perceived as a
violation of mutual rights. If such violations occur too often, it would lead to
marital disharmony. Nonetheless, evidence suggests that DEWs have more
say in a number of decisions than SEWs; this can be clearly attributed to their
co-provider’s role.

D - S - S

The means of various decision-making items (Table 3.3) for single-earner

spouses suggest conflicting perceptions among the SEWs and the SEHs, and
the degree of difference in means is higher than in the case of dual-earner
spouses. For example, the means of most items for wives lean in the
direction of husband-dominance in decision-making. Also, the means for the
SEHs are consistently higher than those of the DEHs (Table 3.2), and this
suggests that husbands with employed wives are slightly more egalitarian
than those without. Likewise, the means of items for SEWs, with some
exceptions, are slightly higher than those for DEWs (Table 3.2). This implies
that wives in single-earner households have less authority in making
decisions on routine as well as on special matters than do employed wives.
Some of the SEWs in our focused interviews agreed that their husbands
indeed have a greater say in domestic matters, especially those that involve
money; this has been an area of marital friction among single-earner spouses.
And yet, some wives also said that they manage to get their husbands to do
things, most of the time, according to their wishes. Selvi Armugham (age 32)
is one such wife. She believes that, with patience and shrewdness, a wife can
get her husband to do whatever she wants. According to her:

Men are stubborn. They are like children. Whenever you say
something which is against what they think is right, they argue and
argue to prove they are right. I wanted him to buy a Godrej almirah. I
used to keep some jewellery in a steel trunk and it was not safe. But
he would not listen. His first reaction was ‘no’. I kept on insisting. I
even once threatened to pawn the jewels and buy it. I told him I’d
rather do that than lose them to a robber. At least it would be safe with
a Marwari (local pawnbroker). He came around. It took him a while
though. I had to be a bit patient. Now he says that I was right in
 persuading him. He thinks I was right because his sister’s house was
broken into and she lost all her gold bangles and chains, etc. Now,
what I have learnt is that if I want something two months from now, I
start working on it right now.
Can you not go and buy what you want?
No. I don’t have money. I only have money to buy weekly vegetables
and things like that. That’s all. He buys provisions (groceries) on
credit. We often go and buy big things together.

Decision-making in a marriage involves an ongoing series of exchanges that

are based on negotiations (often with pressure on the spouse who retains
formal power) interpersonal skills, overall marital adjustment, and one’s
location in the life cycle. Such negotiations tend to be more trying and
tedious for SEWs than for DEWs and, moreover, they may not result in gains
for SEWs.
Not all wives, however, succeed in adopting a persuasive strategy
because husbands often do not accede and remain authoritative in their
marital conduct. AkhileswariRajaraman was a wife who had not succeeded
in altering her husband’s authoritarian conduct. She was fifty years of age and
had been married for nearly three decades with six children of whom two (a
daughter and son) were married. She narrated:

About decisions, I should tell you that in the last thirty years I have not
done anything that is important without asking my husband. Even now
he tells me what he wants for lunch or the evening meal. I do it as he
says. Every now and then, when he wants to buy something, he tells
me that he is going to spend money on this or that. I listen carefully
and give him the impression that he has my consent.
What if you do not approve of his decision!
As if that counts. Suppose I say no and he does what he has already
decided, I get angry. I worry. I get depressed.
You get depressed because of?
No. I don’t get depressed because I never get into such a situation. I
never worry about what he does. I just go along. It is good for him and
me as well.
 Would he do the same thing if you go buy or decide on something
you like?
No. Because, I never do such things without asking him first. Any
clever woman knows how not to make her husband mad at her.
Showing authority that I don’t have will only cause me pain and
sorrow...

Akhileswari’s husband, Rajaraman, a senior executive, maintained an

extremely conservative view of woman. He considered that they should not
have the power to make crucial decisions because of their inherent
limitations. He said:

I don’t like you using the term authority. It looks like a husband is like
a police inspector who uses force. No, husbands don’t have authority.
Then, can your wife go buy a mixer without consulting you or
without your approval?
There is a problem with that question. I would say yes. But does she
know enough about a mixer? A wife making decisions on a serious
thing like a mixer is not practical because she does not know about
such things.
Could she do it if she had enough information?
What she thinks of as enough information or even experience is not
enough. Women generally do not understand these things. To make up
one’s mind on something depends on one’s ability, intelligence, and
things like that. On most things that women want to decide for
themselves and for others, they lack the ability and experience. It is
part of being a woman. You may think that I am a little conservative
but in fact I am not. In my thirty years of marriage, I found my wife
cannot make up her mind even to order things in a restaurant. She
gives me the menu card to order things for her. How can such a
woman make decisions on other important things in life?

Rajaraman subscribes to the myth that men are more intelligent than women
are and thus they can make critical decisions and, of course, such a myth is
based in traditional assumptions about inherent male-female differences. He
feels that his wife should defer to him because she being a woman cannot
make decisions and she too concurs with his viewpoint. Thus the husband’s
power to make decisions is viewed as quite legitimate by both spouses.
However, some of the SEHs we interviewed were not as traditional as
Rajaraman. They tended to perceive themselves as egalitarian and
accommodative towards the wife’s decisions on various matters. Veera
Raghavan (age 48), a senior accountant, represented this group. Even though
he was unsuccessful in persuading his wife to work, his attitude towards her
domestic role has remained egalitarian. He reported:

In my family, my wife and I don’t think of one as superior or inferior

to the other———It was her choice to stay home and bring up the
children. Because of this, she knows more about managing our family
than I do. She is the one who does all the marketing (shopping). She
knows how much money we have and she manages accordingly. If I
am spending too much on cigarettes or on other things, she tells me
that I have spent my limit and there is no more left for my expenses.
Like most men do, I could grab the money and ask her to shut up. In the
end, I’m the one who should be worried because if she did not make
that decision, I would have to borrow money and what would happen
if I keep on borrowing? Just because she controls things, I don’t say
she has more power and I have less power. I find it to my advantage to
give her all the freedom to keep this family going. I don’t see it as a
matter of authority or power as you (interviewer) do. It is the way a
wife and husband have to work in their own interests.

While Veera Raghavan’s wife confirmed her husband’s claim it is likely that
he has chosen to delegate some authority to his wife because of his own
limitations. As Karlekar (1982: 118) notes in relation to lower class women
in Delhi, ..women were given the responsibility of handling money purely
because men did not want to take the responsibility of making two ends
meet.’
However, not all SEWs concurred with the claim of egalitarianism by
their husbands. Some alluded to the hypocrisy of husbands who portray
themselves as democratic in their domestic role, but are in practice
authoritarian. Kala Tirtha Ram, a single-earner wife, noted that husbands can
exercise their power in tyrannical ways. Her assessment:

You spoke to my husband, did you not? He thinks that men and women
are equal but I don’t see it in this house.
Why not?
Because he does things that I don’t like. I have no say in what he
does. Every time I say that he should not do this or that, things that are
wrong, he snubs me right then and there.
For example?
... I don’t like him bringing his friends to play cards on Sundays.
They sit for hours and sometimes they drink beer and smoke, I end up
in the kitchen making them bajjis (local snacks). Because of smoking
and drinking the house smells for days. ... What worried me is that the
children watch all this. Is that what he wants children to learn? Sit all
day, play cards and drink beer? If I had the power, I would kick all of
them out. Women just don’t have the power to do such things. But men
do. Every woman I know has these kinds of husbands, who do
whatever they want. Once or twice, I took the children out when he
was playing cards. We went to see movies. What a fight we had on
those days. So I gave up...
Do you have freedom to spend money on things you like?
What money? I don’t earn any money. He earns, he keeps it and
spends it the way he likes but tells the whole world that he does things
as I want him to.
Do you ever contradict him when he says such things?
You mean I could tell him off when others are around that he is lying
and get snubbed in their presence? No. . ..I don’t want to be insulted
by him. . ..I have learnt to live with his double standards.

By virtue of his economic supremacy, Thirtha Ram exerted domination over

most aspects of his marital life. Also, given the early stage of her marriage
Kala had not been able to assert herself and with the result she felt
oppressed.
In sum, on matters of domestic decisions three patterns emerge from our
findings. First, the nature of decision-making among the dual-earner spouses
leans towards egalitarianism, and this may be interpreted as a function of the
wife’s employment. Barring one or two items of domestic decisions, DEWs
explicitly share power in making vital decisions. Second, the husbands in
single-earner families exercise greater power than their wives, according to
the perception of the latter. The SEHs do not concur with their wives’
perception. Finally, a comparison of means of items controlling for gender
suggests that husbands exercise greater power than wives on nearly all items
of decision-making, while among women the SEWs exercise the least power.

The findings suggest that the wife’s economic status is an important factor in
domestic decision-making. When women lack monetary resources to bargain
for power they either use covert influence to determine the outcome of a
decision or subordinate themselves to their husbands’ domination. Some
SEHs have succeeded in substituting their interpersonal skills for economic
resources in matters of domestic decisions. The ability to do so is contingent
upon the idiosyncrasies of individual spouses and the dynamics of their
marital and family lives. Nonetheless, when we compare the mean scores on
various items for single-earner and dual-earner spouses, it becomes obvious
that SEWs do not fare well in sharing of power as it pertains to decision-
making. This only suggests that the influence exercised by wives on their
husbands is neither universal nor predictable.
By contrast, among the dual-earner couples, the wife’s economic status
does clearly give her greater and, to some extent, legitimate authority in
domestic decisions. Unlike in singleearner families, women in dual-earner
families need not resort to concealing their authority or adopt surreptitious
strategies to extract power from their husbands, as has been the case in
traditional joint families in rural settings. Furthermore, most employed wives
in this study contribute to the family just as much as their husbands do and
this fact has alone persuaded many DEHs to share domestic power with their
wives. In the final analysis, economic resource remains an objective strength
for renegotiating the balance of power among spouses.
Note

* Originally published as ‘Wife’s Economic Status and Marital Power: A

Case of Single- and Dual-Earner Couples’ in the Sociological Bulletin,
vol. 37, nos. 1 and 2, March–September 1988, pp. 49–69.
1 I am indebted to Malavika Karlekar for her critical reading of an
earlier version of this paper.

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4

W G F M ?M ,W A
C AL I *

Leela Dube

In this article I attempt to assess the situation of women in a matrilineal

Muslim society on one of the coral islands off the south-western coast of
India. I focus attention on women and space, women’s centrality in the
perpetuation of groups, the organization of production and the division of
work, patterns of physical movement, rights to property, and authority and
decision-making. This is followed by a discussion of some controversial
issues related to the general characteristics of matrilineal systems. Finally, I
reflect on continuity and change in this island society. The main issue that
needs to be explained is men’s reaction to proposed changes to their
matrilineal system.1
One widely debated issue in relation to Islam has been the nature and
degree of non-uniformity in its expression and interpretation. While adhering
to the essentials of the tenets of their religion, believers have tended to retain
their social and cultural moorings. In matters of proposal law or family law,
where major adjustments have been evolved with local customs and
practices and indigenous legal systems, Islam has evinced remarkable
flexibility.
 In the operation of personal law or family law the most significant
domain is that of kinship. Kinship provides the principles that govern the
distribution and control of resources, the formation of groups and the
placement of individuals in them, and the nature of group membership.
Kinship is not a mere set of moral principles but something that is rooted
in material conditions. The ideology of kinship cannot be separated from
property and production relations, which it governs.
While Islam took patriliny to be the natural form of social organization
and created a code of conduct and a system of law based on this assumption,
the faith also spread among many societies that were rooted in kinship
matrices of other kinds. Islam spread not only to several types of patrilineal
social organizations, but also to Indonesia and Malaysia, where kinship was
mostly bilateral, and to a number of communities in South and Southeast Asia
and Africa that lived by matrilineal principles of descent, inheritance and
succession and were rooted in matrilineal ideology. Lakshadweep, a group
of islands in the Arabian Sea off the coast of Kerala, is a fascinating
instance.

II

The island of Kalpeni, which lies a little over 220 km off Kozhikode
(Calicut), is one of the four inhabited islands of the Laccadive group. The
Amindivi group has five inhabited islands, and the distant island of Minicoy
belongs to the Maldives’ group. Laccadive, Amindivi and Minicoy together
form the union territory of Lakshadweep. While the people of Minicoy are
ethnically and culturally closer to the Maldivians, the inhabitants of the other
islands are descendants of Hindu settlers from the Kerala coast. They speak
somewhat archaic and corrupted Malayalam in which the influence of Arabic
is distinct. According to historical and linguistic evidence, the major
migrations probably took place in the ninth and tenth centuries. After about
four centuries, owing to contact with Arab traders, through mass conversion
the islanders became Sunni Muslims following the Shafi’i school of law.
Hinduism was displaced by Islam, but the special form of matriliny which
the original migrants had taken to the islands and which had become
entrenched there because of favourable conditions survived; and in its
essential features it persists until today (Dube 1969,1978; Ittaman 1976;
Kutty 1972; Saigal 1990).
In this system female links alone were recognized for the sharing and
transmission of the property of the exogamous matrilineal descent group
known as the taravad. A taravad was a group of individuals, both males and
females, who could trace their descent in the female line from a single female
ancestor. The depth of such a matrilineage might vary from three to six
generations. A taravad might be a property group functioning as a production
and consumption unit, or it might have split into a number of property groups,
each of which was made up of one or more consumption units. Splits in
taravads or in lower-level matrilineal units tended to run on tavazhi or
branch lines. Taravad property was theoretically indivisible; any divisions
were only for the better utilization of the property. The transmission of
individual property, of which there was never very much, was, however,
governed by Islamic law.
The management of property was in the hands of the males; MoMoBro,
MoBro, brother, son, SiSo, and so on. Each taravad and each property group
had a karnavar? Men also held position and offices of responsibility and
authority in their taravads and in island administration. Succession to these
followed the matrilineal principle. The traditional pattern of residence after
marriage was duolocal and has been described as visiting marriage. The
spouses would continue to live in their respective taravads, with the husband
spending nights at his wife’s residence. Children were, of course, members
of their mothers’ taravads. The usual conjugal family of husband, wife and
children, as an independent unit or embedded in a larger kin unit, was thus
not institutionalized.
There is no doubt that centuries ago a matrilineal kinship system with
duolocal residence was brought to these islands by migrants from the coastal
regions of Kerala. The circumstances in which the migrants came to settle,
and whether all of them originally followed the same pattern of kinship and
marriage, are not known. But it is clear that the islands provided a congenial
setting for the flowering of this system. Subsistence activities and trade with
the mainland made teamwork and coordination necessary and meant that
some men were periodically absent. The people lived on a narrow strip of
land within easy reach of one another. These factors seem to have facilitated
the adoption of matriliny and duolocal residence by the various groups of
settlers who were thrown together, as well as the continued existence of
these patterns. The migrants’ political and economic organization and their
system of graded groups also seem to have been adapted from what
prevailed in the region from which they came. The migrants depended on rice
as a staple, which gave rise to regular trade with the mainland in which
coconuts and their products were exchanged for rice and other necessities.
Trade may have been free earlier, but we have evidence from the fifteenth
and sixteenth centuries that the islands functioned as the colonies of the rulers
on the mainland. What is relevant is that from the Arakkal rulers the
Laccadive group of islands came under the control of the British in 1875,
finally passing into their hands in 1905. From 1877 each island of the group
had an Amin appointed by the government from among the karnavars who
represented its important taravads. The karnavars assisted the Amin in the
administration of justice. The islands were attached to the district of
Malabar. During their visits to the islands the inspecting officers of the
government heard and decided cases with the help of the elders. There was
no codified law. The administrators were guided by the customary law of the
islands along with some features of Islamic law.
The monopoly on coir introduced in 1764–65 during Arakkal rule was the
main source of government revenue. Tree tax was levied on pandaram,
government land, during the British occupation. Coir depots were established
on the islands around 1922, supplying rice in exchange for coir at rates of
exchange set by the government from time to time.

III

Over the centuries the islanders sustained themselves through trade with the
mainland, carried on with the help of country sailing craft. Coconuts have
been the basis of their economy. Their principal activities have been the
making and trading of copra and coir and of coconut products like jaggery
and vinegar. Besides coconuts and fish, some fruit, vegetables and coarse
grain were also produced.
One significant feature of these islands has been the presence of either
three or four caste-like groups, interdependent, hierarchically graded,
exclusive and exhaustive. Tradition traces their ancestry to the Nayar,
Nambudiri, Mukuvan and Tiya castes of Kerala. Kalpeni’s population was
divided into three groups; the Koya, traditionally landlords and boat owners;
the Malmi, traditionally navigators; and the Melacheri, coconut pluckers and
toddy tappers. The Koya formed over half of the population and the
Melacheri over a third. The major economic relationship, one of the master-
servant type, has been between the Koya and the Melacheri. Particular
taravads or matrilineal property groups or households of the Melacheriwere
linked in a service relationship with particular Koya matrilineal units. This
feature of the island society is significant in that it tells us that an
inegalitarian, feudal kind of structure persisted there.3
The formation of the Union Territory of Lakshadweep in 1956 brought
important changes in the administration and the judicial system and also
increased the exposure of the islanders to the outside world. Educational
facilities on the islands increased, as did opportunities to go to the mainland
for higher education and technical and professional training. Medical
facilities were provided. Cottage industries were encouraged and new
fishing technology was introduced. Cooperative societies were set up.
Steamer services and the telegraph gave the island better facilities for
communication with the mainland. Several development schemes were
introduced. The small, uninhabited island of Bangaramwas turned into a
tourist resort. A newly laid airstrip made some of the islands accessible by
air.

IV

A child belonged to its mother’s group, whose resources it shared. It derived

its group identity through its mother and its rights to resources, shelter,
nurturing and training through its mother’s taravad. As the originators of
taravads or tavazhis, women received special respect. The oldest woman in
a matrilineal group had a position of honour and authority and an important
role in decision-making. It was membership of a taravad, reckoned through
female links starting with the mother, that gave an individual a right to a share
in its property, which consisted principally of land, trees, boats, buildings,
fishing channels, soaking pits and movable goods. A share in
taravadproperty was inalienable and not disposable. Taravad property was
a kind of communal property; theoretically indivisible, available for the use
of the members according to their rightful shares. On Kalpeni the division
was stirpital, that is, a mother’s share was divided equally among all her
children for their use.
Neither men nor women could dispose of their shares in taravad property
individually. The joint property of a matrilineal group could not be sold or
given away without the consent of all its members. Men and women had the
same kind of right to taravad property, but the principle of inheritance in the
female line ensured that while a woman’s share devolved on her children, a
man’s share reverted to his close matrilineal kin on his death. During his
lifetime a man could join his share of his taravad’s trees to his wife’s share
of her own children, who were members of their mother’s taravad. It was in
this sense that women had superior rights in the matrilineal property. Another
kind of property, swontham swottu, one’s own, was individually owned and
disposable; its disposal being governed by Islamic law. As there were few
avenues for independent earning, thpre was little property of this kind; only
slightly over 9 per cent of all the coconut trees on the island (Kutty 1972).
Besides matrilineal descent and inheritance, the mode of residence put
women in a specially favourable situation. Just like a man, a woman too did
not have to leave her natal home on marriage. A man spent the night at his
wife’s home and returned to his own in the morning. According to a
household census conducted in 1961–62 by A. R. Kutty, as many as 76.5 per
cent of husbands in extant marriages fell in the category of visiting husband.
The predominant mode of residence, thus, was duolocal. A woman was
never estranged from her natal home and continued to live and work with her
matrilineal kin.4
Although the management of property and the organization of work were
the responsibility of the karnavar, a male, his authority could not normally be
overbearing. The nature of property, which was communally owned but
shares of which could be allotted to individual members for their use and
over which no one had absolute rights, the organization of work, in which
women engaged in collective self-directed activities, as well as the
matrilineal social organization, all these combined to prevent the exercise of
absolute authority. Activities connected with trade did contribute
substantially to the importance of men; particularly those in authority and
those who undertook trading voyages and communicated with the outside
world, but this again did not lead to absolute authority. Such a person is far
removed from a patriarch in a patrilineal, patrilocal joint family or one in a
group or locality of agnatically related Muslim households in northern India,
Bangladesh or Pakistan. Importantly, the karnavar did not control the sexual
and reproductive lives of his kinswomen.
Women had a strong hand in arranging the first marriages of boys and
girls of the taravad, which took place fairly early (subsequent marriages
were mostly entered into by the individuals concerned exercising their own
choice). A mother could exert considerable influence on her daughters and
their husbands; her role as the manager of the house and kitchen gave her
ample scope for this. In marital disputes, a question commonly asked of a
man was whether he got a satisfactory quantity of good foods, particularly
fish, at the evening meal at his wife’s house. The women of a matrilineal
group had a significant role in decisions about rites and ceremonies
connected with childbirth, marriage, death, the circumcision of boys and the
ear-boring of girls, and in the actual performance of all of these. Her age and
kinship status in relation to the karnavar contributed to the influence that a
particular woman could exert. Decisions about the annual payments of rice
and coconuts to the houses of the wives of taravad men and about the giving
of gifts to these men’s wives and children came in the domain of women.
Laurel Schwede (1986) has shown convincingly that the notion that
authority is exclusively a male function does not hold true for the
Minangkabau of Sumatara. The evidence of the Lakshadweep islands shows
that there are societies where it does not make much sense to look for a
single locus of authority in a structural unit. Instead, we need to think in terms
of multiple sources of authority and their balancing. Authority is diffused
rather than concentrated, as will become clear through discussions of women
and space, conjugal relations and dealings in property.

In Kalpeni domestic space was not merely associated with women, it

belonged to them. Houses were constructed, expanded and rebuilt with
women in mind, for women were seen as the primary occupants of these
houses. A woman received her husband in her house and brought up her
children there. She also carried on many productive activities close to her
house. Men were generally seen as having no permanent attachment to a
house. When unmarried or out of marriage, they slept either in the verandahs
or in the shrambi, a structure for storing coconuts which could also be made
into a comfortable room with windows. There was a general feeling that a
man was best cared for so long as his mother was alive. He might also be
looked after well by his sisters, but he could not expect very much from his
sisters’ daughters unless he was in charge of the property of the larger
matrilineal group. In uxorilocal residence, naturally, a man had to leave his
wife’s home on divorce.
By contrast, a woman was always secure in her matrilineal house. Even if
she annoyed her mother or her mother’s brother by marrying against their
wishes or by not following their advice in her relationship with her husband,
she could not be asked to leave. She had to be provided with another house
before any move could be made towards separation. Accounts of the division
of taravads brings this out clearly. A division of property was typically
effected in reference to tavazhi, branches originating from female members,
and wherever there was fission in domestic groups a new arrangement for the
residence of its female members had to be spelt out.
The way in which physical space is treated is very significant in
assessing women’s situations. In Kalpeni, women’s relationship with living
space was clearly a function of rules of inheritance that gave them
inalienable rights in property, and it was associated with a pattern of
residence in which they remained in their natal homes. The women of
Kalpeni seemed to enjoy a sense of security, self-respect and autonomy In
this they stood in sharp contrast to women of the patrilineal Muslim
communities of northern India, who could be asked to leave their husbands’
home at any time on the slightest pretext. Residence and rights over space
had important, implications for a woman’s relations with her matrilineal kin
as well as for conjugal relations.
The nature of property and the organization of work are of relevance here.
Property consisted mainly of coconut trees, land for cultivation, houses and
house sites, fishing channels and husk-soaking pits, besides movable
including ornaments. In the broad division of labour between the sexes the
major activities of men were copra making, cultivation, fishing, the
construction of houses and boats, and periodic sailing for trade to pluck
coconuts and tap toddy, removing the husk from coconuts and helping in
soaking it in pits. Besides household work and the rearing of children, which
were primarily their responsibility, women engaged in coir making and in the
processing of vinegar and jaggery. There were various stages in the making
of coir, and the organization of this work was mainly in the hands of women.
The division of work was thus gender-specific and led to a high degree of
interdependence between the women and the men of the matrilineal unit,
which was the unit of production.
This division and interdependence did not lead, however, to any firm
control over a woman by her male matrilineal kin; nor, of course, by her
husband. Rights to property accrued through women and houses belonged to
them, so there was no question of their being looked upon as helpless
destitutes as they are in many patrilineal societies. A woman could when
necessary obtain help—from her matrilineal kin or, in the event of divorce,
from another husband—to do the men’s work on her property. Women were
not ignorant of economic transactions and had the freedom to move about and
actively participate in them.
In respect of segregation and seclusion, which are associated with
Islamic populations and are thought to have religious sanction, the islanders
provide a sharp contrast to mainland Muslims, especially to those of non-
peninsular India. The practice of purdah, seclusion, was absent. The usual
attire of a woman was a cloth wrapped around the waist and going a few
inches below the knees, and a blouse with a high neck and sleeves that came
to the wrists but which were often folded up above the elbows. A piece of
cloth carried as an outer covering for the shoulders was often used to cover
the head as well. It was customary for a bridegroom to present such a head-
cloth to his bride at their wedding and on special occasions later. In a vague
sort of way it was thought to represent the Islamic notion of the seclusion or
protection of females,5 but it did not constrain women in any way. A few
women had also begun to wear saris.
On some other island the wives of thangals (religious leaders) were seen
to use a proper veil, burqa. Very recently a shroud of the kind that has
become popular in Malaysia seems to have made some impact on the women
of these islands, as was apparent from a television report on a visit by Rajiv
Gandhi when he was Prime Minister of India. The head-cloth has come to be
more regularly used, even by little girls (Saigal 1990).
Women were not confined to domestic space either. They moved freely
about the island, working, buying and selling, visiting, attending religious
discourses and participating in various functions and meetings including the
settlement of disputes and court proceedings. They gathered in large numbers
on the shore when boats departed or arrived. Neither at home nor outside
was strict segregation visible. Women did not seem to hide themselves even
from outsiders.
Few productive activities were carried out behind walls. For coir
making, a collective activity, a space just outside the house was used. The
‘fireplace’ for making jaggery also had to be outside the house. These spaces
were ordinarily not enclosed in a manner that would render invisible the
women within them. The places where men made copra were not out of
bounds to women. When facilities for modern education were introduced,
girls were not prevented from going to school.6 The notion that the primary
objective of education was the securing of jobs applied not only to boys but
also to girls, and some young women had begun to go to the mainland to be
educated.
In general, however, the space beyond the island was not available to
women. Deep-water fishing was men’s work. More importantly, only the men
went to the mainland to trade: women stayed behind and prayed for their
safety. Many men did not ever sail to the mainland either: but this was simply
because they did not have the resources. Women were taken to the mainland
principally for medical treatment or en route to Mecca. While away from the
island and in the midst of strangers, they were seen as needing guidance and
protection.

VI

Women’s relative autonomy and their position of advantage were most

clearly visible in marriage and divorce, an area where women in patrilineal
Muslim communities in the subcontinent are particularly vulnerable.
Although marriage in Kalpeni was based on the Sharia and fulfilled the basic
requirements laid down in the scriptures and in law, in reality its nature was
radically different from what Islam visualized and emphasized in marriage.
Marriage involved very limited rights and obligations. The traditional
pattern of residence at marriage did not result in any reshuffling of domestic
units. A woman remained secure in her own home and was not viewed as
‘transferable’, ‘a guest in the parental home’, or ‘a bird of passage’, all
common expressions for girls in the cultural idiom of both Muslims and
Hindus in the subcontinent, where even intra-kin marriages do not do away
with these notions. The role of wali (guardian) was a religious formality and
the payment of mahr was only formal compliance with religious
prescription. The amount of mahr was negligible and it did not in any way
establish a man’s authority over his wife.7 The Kazi’s register of marriages
showed that in many instances mahr had been given only in part or not at all.
Although lip service was paid to the Islamic conception of a husband’s
obligation to maintain his wife and children, in fact marriage did not reflect
the notion with any clarity. So long as a marriage lasted, the husband made
the customary annual payment of two or three bags of rice and between
twenty and fifty coconuts to his wife’s household. The cultural perception of
this practice is somewhat unclear. We had earlier described it as gift giving
(Dube 1969; Kutty 1972), but the Malayalam-based term used for it on the
island was chilav, meaning expense. Was it a kind of fee for sexual accesss
to a woman or was it a nominal fulfillment of the obligation prescribed by
Islam? Perhaps it was a mixture of both. In practical terms it could of course
be interpreted as a contribution towards the expenses that the wife’s
household incurred in providing the visiting husband his dinner and often his
breakfast as well as.
There was nothing resembling the appropriation of woman’s labour or
rights over her offspring by her husband or his kin group. Husbands and
wives remained separate entities. Neither acquired a right to the other’s
productive labour. Conjugal relations had an entirely different tenor. A
woman was not expected to defer to her husband and there was no trace of
the notion that it is a wife’s moral duty to render personal services to her
husband.
Even when a woman flouted her husband’s exclusive right of sexual
access to her he had neither the right nor the means to punish her. Physical
violence, which is usually viewed as the ‘natural’ reaction of a man whose
pride has been wounded by his wife’s unfaithfulness and which also has
sanction in the Qu’ran, was unthinkable on the island.8 Although it may not
have been conceptualized in quite these terms, a married woman did not lose
her rights over her person. A wronged husband could take recourse only to
divorce, which often was what the woman wanted even though she might then
have to forgo her dues.
A wife did not have exclusive right to sexual access to her husband as he
could, in theory, have as many as four wives at a time. Men did sometimes
use this privilege, but women tended to react sharply to their husband’s other
marriages or extramarital affairs and such situations could easily precipitate
divorce. Bigamy was mostly short-lived and enduring polygyny was rare.
According to an ethnographic census of Kalpeni (Kutty 1972), only six of the
670 currently married men had more than one wife. Given the pattern of
residence, co-wives did not have to share a home or a cooking pot, but they
did not seem to have taken kindly to sharing a sexual partner and a bringer of
occasional gifts.
Nikah established the paternity of children, but in terms of lineage and
social identity, access to resources, shelter and daily living, a child belonged
to its mother and her matrilineal group. A father had little authority over his
children and traditionally no legal responsibility for their maintenance.
Depending on his capacity and the strength of his attachment to them, a man
did spend on his children’s education and on clothes and other necessities.
With increasing contact with the mainland and with the larger Islamic world,
the feeling was slowly growing that perhaps religion enjoined a man to bear
responsibility towards his children; but this was still alien to the matrilineal
ethos of the island. There was no question of a man having to pay for the
maintenance of his children by a divorced wife, or of his having any claim to
them.
The most important role of a father, recognized by the community, was
socio-religious. He had a definite part to play in the life-cycle ceremonies of
his children and was expected to contribute substantially towards them.
These included birth, the circumcision of sons, the ear-boring of daughters,
and marriage. A man’s matrilineal group was actively involved in such
ceremonies for his children. In turn, children were expected to contribute to
and participate in the ceremonies associated with their father’s deaths. A
father was expected to bring gifts for his children. There was no taboo on a
father’s demonstrating his affection for his child, neither when he visited its
mother at night nor through the day. It was commonly to see men going about
their business carrying their young children.
The significantly different nature of marriage and of the relationship
between spouses on the island will become clearer if we look at the
phenomenon of dissolution of marriage. Theoretically Islam gives a man
unbounded facility to divorce his wife at will, without having to give
reasons, while it denies a woman the right to pronounce a divorce even in
those rare instances where she is permitted to initiate proceedings. On the
island the facility of talaq, divorce obtained without assigning reasons, was
in effect available to both men and women. A man could resort to
irrevocable talaq by pronouncing the formula ‘I divorce you’ three times in
succession. A woman, who after all lived in her own house, could not
pronounce a divorce, but she could make it known to her husband that she no
longer wanted his visits. This left him with no option but to give her the
divorce she wanted. He might delay the pronouncement or try to negotiable in
order to be absolved of paying his dues. In some instances it was tantamount
to the purchase by the wife of her freedom (Khula).9
 Divorce was fairly frequent. More than half of the men and women on the
island had married more than once and many had married several times.
Marriage was brittle, divorce was easy. Men had a higher rate of remarriage:
unlike women, they could remarry while a previous marriage was extant and
did not have to wait out a three-month iddat period (period of waiting).
There were many instances when a divorced couple wished to remarry each
other, which was possible only after the woman had married another man and
been divorced by him.
I have argued elsewhere (Dube 1969) that since marriage did not entail
the living together of spouse or their cooperation or interdependence in
economic and social spheres or even a shared responsibility towards their
children, its dissolution did not have much of a disruptive effect. Nor did it
threaten the bond between mother and children as it does in most of the
patrilineal Muslim world. The socio-religious obligations of a father
towards his children remained unaffected by his divorce from their mother
and her matrilineal group. A man might stop bringing his children gifts or
contributing towards their education, particularly after he remarried. The
point that I wish to emphasize is that divorce did not threaten any
relationship: ‘A relationship of affection between father and child can be
visualized as life-long irrespective of the dissolution of marriage between
the parents’ (Kutty 1972: 99).
I wish also to emphasize that on Kalpeni the continuation or dissolution of
a marital bond was not a unilateral phenomenon. A woman, as we have seen,
could use her initiative and take decisions in respect of talaq. In addition, in
these matters women did not suffer the kinds of constraints and risks likely to
be faced by the patrilineal Muslim women of the subcontinent: deprivation
and homelessness, loss of children, stigmatisation, and sometimes-limited
chances of remarriage.

VII

Transaction of property constituted an important activity on the island. A

careful look at this is crucial in understanding the distinction between men’s
and women’s situations and interests in this matrilineal society. Property was
of two kinds: Friday or matrilineal, communal property; and Monday or
swonthamproperty, which was one’s own. While both sexes had inalienable
rights in matrilineal property, men’s rights had no future insofar as their
children were concerned: on their death their shares would revert to their
groups. Monday property, on the other hand, could be disposed of as its
owner wished. Such property was acquired through gift deeds or inheritance
from one’s parents or non-matrilineal kin. An important method of acquiring
Monday property, however, was through the conversion of Friday property.
This could be done only with the consent of all the adult members of the
matrilineal group whose property it was (Dube 1991).
While divisions and transactions of Friday property were regulated by
custom and tradition, parampara, the disposal of Monday property was
supposed to be regulated according to the sharia. Intestate disposal was
naturally one possibility. It was also possible for an individual to gift such
property at any time or to prepare a will specifying the beneficiaries. Gifting
of property and making wills were both seen as having the sanction of
Islamic law and, in the context of the island’s social system, were perceived
as a provision made by religion to enable a man to give some property to his
children and his wife. Since there were very few avenues of independent
earning, attempts were constantly being made to convert parts of communal,
matrilineal property into swontham property. This involved putting pressure
on matrilineal kin, cajoling and maneuvering.
Men were the main actors in cases relating to property and property
transactions, but they had to carry their female matrikin along with them as
nothing could be done without their consent and signatures. Also, so far as
matrilineal property was concerned, disputes occurred mostly over the rights
of women and helpless children. Some held that taravad property was a kind
of uoakf property created for the benefit of the women and children of the
matrilineage.
Women formed the links for the devolution of property to the next
generation. Hence, they had to safeguard their children’s rights along with
their own. Theirs was the line that had continuity, and in all decisions
relating to Friday property their consent was essential. No appeal or deed
was complete without the signatures of the adult female members,
particularly those who were, at that time, the originators of the branches.
Why were men the principal actors in transactions of property? This
question has to be answered in the context of the roles of women and of men.
Men managed property, organized many productive activities and, more
importantly, were the principal actors in trade and in other major economic
transactions. The Island Council that was in charge of administration and
adjudication consisted of men and all religious functionaries were men. Men
were thus in a better position to get involved in all kinds of matters
pertaining to property.
There was certainly greater motivation for men to be so involved. The
matrilineal system made a woman’s children her rightful heirs, while a man
had in essence no heirs. In the marumakkatayam system a man’s sisters’
children were looked upon as his heirs and in their absence the matrilineal
property would go to the reversionary heirs. Men were thus in a situation
very different from that of women. At the same time, by giving fathers a
distinct recognition Islam had brought a certain flexibility to the matrilineal
principle. The category of swontham property gave religious sanction and
legitimacy to a man’s desire to do something for his children.
However, those who fought against the conversion of Friday property
were also mainly men. The same actors thus could have opposite roles in
different situations, depending on their interests. A father trying to bring some
matrilineal property into his individual ownership and a karnavar or other
taravadmember defending the sanctity of the matrilineal heritage and
protecting the rights of the innocent and helpless members of the group
appear to be contradictory: but both roles might be played by the same man
in different contexts, and both were a part of the island’s culture.
Another interesting feature of these transactions was that at different
points of time a man might act by different norms and values in relation to the
same unit of property. After he had succeeded in acquiring some swontham
property by the conversion of part of his taravad’s joint matrilineal property,
a man might proceed to give it to his wife’s branch as joint tavazhi-taravad
property rather than to his children and wife as property owned by them
individually. This suggests a very firm faith in the matrilineal principle even
while taking advantage of another to deviate from it. There were several
instances of such conversion and subsequent gifting.
Finally, it appears that what was viewed as being sanctioned by Islam was in
a way rooted in the developmental cycle of property groups and matrilineal
groups in the matrilineal system and the male members’ destiny in it. A man’s
desire to gift property to his children was considered both logical and
appropriate. As mentioned before, since a man could not count on his
nephews and nieces to look after him once they took charge of the taravad
property, he would have to count more on his children and his wife. If he
wished, thus, to be cared for by his children in his old age, the logic of the
situation justified his inclination to gift some assets to their household. The
intermeshing of materiality with the ideology of kinship, or their essential
inseparability, was clearly demonstrated in these processes; and religion had
imparted a certain legitimacy to the father-child bond. It is significant that
this concession to men did not make women in any way dependent on them.

VIII

Thus, in terms of residence, the assurance of shelter, rights to space, property

and sources of living, rights over children and the exercise of choice in
marriage and its dissolution, the situation of women in Kalpeni presented a
contrast to that of Muslim women in the subcontinent. It seems that the kind of
concentration of control over property and over women’s sexuality and
reproductive power that a husband or other affinal male can achieve in a
patrilineal, patri-virilocal system, often deriving justification from religion,
is simply not available to a matrilineally related kinsman.
The proposition that an absence of coordination between lines of
authority and descent is characteristic of matriliny (Schneider 1961) and the
idea of the ‘matrilineal puzzle’ (Richards 1950) need reconsideration.10 Is
authority always a male function? What are the connotations of authority? In
matrilineal societies authority is very often diffused. In Kalpeni too we do
not find evidence of the concentration of authority in a single individual or
only in males, although males are the managers of property. Women,
particularly those with respected kinship statuses such as MoMoMo, ESi and
MoSi, had considerable importance and influence. Typically, a matrilineal
male finds if difficult to establish complete control over his sister’s children.
He cannot have them under his thumb as a father has his sons in a patrilineal
system. The relationship is not direct but is mediated by a woman.
In a matrilineal system women’s sexuality is not under the oppressive
control of either her matrikin or her husband and his group. Among
matrilineal castes like the Nayar there were definite mechanisms to ensure
that women chose their mates only from among accepted levels of caste
because of the concern with boundary maintenance, an essential feature of
caste. For this purpose their sexuality had to be strictly controlled. Their
freedom was circumscribed and they came under the authority of the male
matrikin (Dube 1989; Gough 1959). As a general proposition, however, it
seems to be true that women in matrilineal societies are free of any intensive
and oppressive control. The most intimate of relationships between the
sexes, that between wife and husband is typically not characterized by the
authority and control of the man and the corresponding deference of the
woman. Asymmetry and oppression are absent from it.
A patrilineal system too is beset with conflict and contradiction inasmuch
as the biologically unrepudiable parent has nothing to do with the group
placement of her children. At whose cost do patrilineal systems function and
survive? Surely at the cost of women. Women’s peripheral membership of
their natal groups, their transfer to their husbands’ groups—where they
remain outsiders and suspect for long—and their purely instrumental value as
bearers of children for their affinal groups, all have certain definite
implications. The absence of rights over property, over the means of living
and over their children makes women vulnerable to oppression of different
kinds. The opposition between outsider and insider, the tensions involved in
the process of girls’ socialization, which emphasizes control over their
sexuality, the asymmetry between brother and sister and between husband
and wife, the internalization of roles and of an ideology that circumscribes
and devalues women, accompanied by many compensatory devices, the
cultural association of women with witchcraft and the evil eye—these are
pointers to the conflicts and contradictions in a strongly patrilineal system.
 As for property, in patrilineal systems there are a number of sayings
which point towards rivalry, competition and conflict over it among close
kin: between patrilateral parallel cousins, father’s brother and brother’s son,
even among brothers and between father and son. The disputes over property
among patrikin recorded and analysed by anthropologists and historians in
various patrilineal communities all over the world leave no doubt that they
are a ubiquitous feature of social life (see Comaroff and Roberts 1981; Dube
1993; Medick and Sabian 1984). Patrilineal systems certainly do not function
as smoothly as they are made out to when they are contrasted with matrilineal
systems.
There is, however, one difference which demands close examination.
Rivalries and disputes over property and other resources among patrikin do
not ordinarily disrupt the essence of the patrilineal principle. The descending
generations, which are the main focus of interest, do after all belong to the
same lineage. Moreover, a woman, who has few rights in her husband’s
home, does not subvert the patrilineal principal in showing an interest in the
future of her male children, who belong to her husband’s lineage.
On the other hand, when expressed in a matrilineal system a man’s
interest in his children can subvert the principle of descent and inheritance;
for his children belong to their mother’s group and have membership and
property rights there, not in his own group. But does this always happen? As
Elizabeth Colson (1980) has said, matrilineality need not be associated with
a disregard for paternal claims; and the situation on Kalpeni corroborated
this. Matrilineal systems are not all identical, so it is necessary to take a
second look to locate a father’s position in them as well as the systemic
safeguards that may be present.

IX

I shall now touch upon change and continuity in the matrilineal social system
of Kalpeni after the Lakshadweep islands were made into a territory
administered by the federal government in 1959. This marked a significant
departure from the past. There came to the island a post office, a dispensary,
a dak bungalow, schools, and a steamer service. Facilities for higher
education and technical training became available on other islands and on the
mainland, for which scholarships were offered. A coir centre was created
together with a fisheries department. Electricity and the mass media arrived,
many new employment opportunities came into being, and land reforms were
introduced. The territory sent a member to the national parliament, and the
administrative and political set-up changed: in particular, the powers of the
Amin and his council were curtailed. The cooperative society created in
1962 brought under it the sale of coconuts and copra and made available rice
and a variety of consumer goods.
There came about a greater exposure to the outside world. Muslim and
non-Muslim officials were posted to the island and they adopted an attitude
of derision towards the islanders’ ways. Education, the mass media,
involvement in national politics, and increased travel to the mainland and
residence there constituted other means of exposure. In the early 1960s some
people were beginning to question their social structure and to raise their
voice against features that were perceived as un-lslamic. Some insisted that
the Sharia be followed in regard to paternal property and resented the turning
of a man’s swontham property into the collective taravad-tavazhi property
of his children’s group. They also expressed opposition to the people’s
‘casual’ attitude towards marriage and divorce and favoured the
administration’s efforts to introduce legal measures to reduce the frequency
of divorce. There were not many such people, but it seemed that changes in
the economic sphere and exposure to pan-Islamic movements might
strengthen such thinking (see Dube 1969; Kutty 1972).
It appeared that growing avenues for independent earning through wages
and jobs, changes in the methods of fishing, and the establishment of the
cooperative society would make individuals and individual households less
dependent on larger property groups and matrilineal groups. It also seemed
possible that these would give an impetus to an increase in the freedom of
endeavour of small units in traditional economic pursuits. Moreover, the new
employment opportunities were likely to reduce the people’s dependence on
their traditional economy. Employment outside the island would create
conditions for the geographic dispersion of at least some people, for whom
duolocal residence would not then be possible. All this would encourage the
formation of conjugal units of husband, wife and children. The growing
consciousness of the incompatibility of the island’s social system and Islamic
ideals and injunctions was likely to result in the development of apathy or
opposition towards the age-old matrilineal system. It was anticipated that the
already existing father-child bond, institutionalized and asserted by Islam,
would help in the process.
Later developments showed that the changes we had visualized in
Kalpeni’s matrilineal system did not come about. The resolution passed in
1962 at a meeting presided over by the Administrator and attended by the
Amin, the council of elders, and some other people, that a man who divorced
his wife should be made to pay an annual fine that would go towards the
maintenance of his wife and children, had not had any effect by 1969.
According to Saigal (1990), who was Administrator in Lakshadweep
between 1982 and 1985, demands arose for change and reform on the lines of
Kerala and Karnataka, but not from those who would be directly affected. In
1971, the local administrator appointed a committee of judicial officers to
examine the feasibility of amending the system of inheritance. The committee
studied the evolution of the system and interviewed seventy-nine men. It
turned out that the majority did not favour change. In Androth and Kalpeni
even the younger generation was opposed to any change. ‘An overwhelming
majority of the people was anxious to retain the existing mode of enjoyment
and inheritance of the taravad property’. The committee thought that it would
be unreasonable not to pay any heed to the people’s views. When the
proposed regulations to abolish the existing system were placed before the
citizens councils for their views in 1982–83, most could not arrive at a
decision, as a result of which the regulations were shelved.
Society in Lakshadweep provided an instance of the resilience of
matrilineality and its capacity to adapt to a religion with a pronounced
patrilineal emphasis. Elsewhere I have demonstrated the interaction between
matriliny and Islam and the processes of accommodation and adjustment
between the two (Dube 1969). I have argued that Islam imparted greater
flexibility to the matrilineal system of Kalpeni and thereby helped to sustain
it. All social systems are characterized by some conflict, although the kind
and degree of conflict differs among them. Both kinds of unilineal kinship
systems have conflict inherent in them. The argument that a few external
influences or internal crises can throw a matrilineal system off balance is
questionable. In many matrilineal societies stability is associated with
women, and Colson (1980) found that the Plateau Tonga have shown a
remarkable capacity for adaptation in the face of economic and political
changes. Another assumption that we have questioned is that authority is
always vested in males, irrespective of descent system, so that each unit of
production or residence must have a male to wield authority. In trying to
understand the unwillingness of the people of Kalpeni to opt for a
transformation of their kinship system, we have first to disabuse ourselves of
these commonly held assumptions about matriliny, authority, and so on.
As Saigal has observed, no women were asked for their views on the
taravad system and on proposed changes to it. It was the men, including
young men, who expressed themselves in favour of the matrilineal system as
it functioned on the islands. We must re-examine the notion that in such a
system women are the gainers in every way and men, the losers; and its
corollary, that men would wish to abandon matriliny at the slightest
opportunity. In Kalpeni, men and women had essentially equivalent rights in
matrilineal taravad property, the difference being that while a woman’s
rights were inherited by her children, a man’s share reverted to his kin group
on his death. Islam had tempered the system so that a man could give his
indiyidually owned property to his wife and children. With growing
opportunities for independent employment and wage earning, men seemed to
be in a better position. They had unquestioned rights in their matrilineal
groups as well as a recognized right to keep their self-earned incomes—a
right that had come to them when there was very little scope for such
incomes.
In these circumstances, why should a man wish to give up the security he
enjoyed as a member of a taravad? This security was both material and
psychological, in that he felt himself to have an identity and a part of a larger
grouping. There were also positions of importance to inherit. Men employed
on the mainland asserted that they derived their identities from their
taravads: they appeared to escape a feeling of rootlessness even here by
reference to their taravad identities.
A look at the nature of resources and property on the island is essential in
order to understand the material basis of taravad identity and the people’s
unwillingness to abandon their system in favour of conjugal homes and
Islamic law. The main form of strategic resource was the coconut tree, which
in terms of longevity and divisibility had a character entirely different from
that of land. A given number of trees could be divided and redivided and
exploited separately or together with the trees of either of matrilineal kin or
of one’s spouse and children. In many cases individuals were given their
shares. Such divisions did not pose a threat to the notion of collective
matrilineal, taravad property. Because of the pliability of this basic
resource, which could be moved notionally and aligned and realigned,
divisions within a taravad did not pose a problem, nor did a man’s going
away to live with his wife.
We also need to examine factors related to the possibility that more and
more conjugal units may be formed with decreasing dependence on the
cooperative activity of larger matrilineal units. There are many societies,
which look at the beginning of married life as a kind of experimental phase.
The notion that a husband will necessarily want to bear the entire burden of
responsibility for his wife and children is related in many societies to
notions of adulthood, the macho male and the dependent wife. In Kalpeni
there is no such cultural construction, which may explain the marked
reluctance of men to break away from the security of their matrilineal homes.
Nor should we assume that when both wife and husband have independent
incomes they will want to hasten to merge their resources and that, moreover,
the husband will be the authority figure in the new arrangement. As Pat
Caplan (1984) has shown for the East Coast of Africa, it is possible for the
two to maintain separate income streams. Finally, geographical dispersion is
unlikely to have any great effect. For one thing, men have not been going far
from home for long periods. For another, even when conjugal units are
formed away from the island, women do not wish to abandon their own and
their children’s rights in matrilineal property. A limited number of instances
is unlikely to lead to a structural disruption.
The tendency towards uxorilocality was greater among the older age
groups. Accounts of property disputes and transactions from around the turn
of the century also point to old men going to live with their wives and
children. Uxorilocality after a certain age also seems to have had some
cultural sanction. It is possible that in the changed circumstances there may
be a rise in puthia swottu, new and disposable property, and that this might
encourage uxorilocality or neolocality. But even this is unlikely to make
people stop converting individually owned property to collective matrilineal
property: the danger of fragmentation of resource inherent in the Islamic
mode of disposal is too clear,to be missed and will almost certainly continue
to be contrasted to the security of collective matrilineal property.

This brings me to the distinction in Islam between ibadat and muamlat,

respectively worship and worldly affairs.11 The Kalpeni islanders were
rooted in ibadat and considered themselves true Muslims. In respect of birth,
circumcision, marriage and death they followed the letter of the law. Where
undisposable collective property was concerned, they likened it to
wakfproperty. The distinction was often referred to in disputes, and it could
be argued that it helped matriliny to temper some of the relatively rigid
prescriptions of Islam.
A crucial point is that in Islam there is no such thing as collectively
owned ancestral property: all property is individually owned. Even the
property of a married couple is theoretically separate and separable on
divorce, as in Southeast Asia. The shares allotted by the Quran are to
individuals standing in different kinship statuses. Children do not acquire any
rights in property at birth. A man is free to do what he wishes with the
property in his possession, even though many others may have contributed to
it and may depend on it. All this is in sharp contrast to the Kalpeni islander’s
notion of property as being in the collective interest of a kin group. A
karnavar has authority, but he is really not more than a manager.
It is difficult to say whether the islanders think in such clear terms of the
contrasts between Islam and their matrilineal system. They are attached to
their tradition and also see themselves as true Muslims. But the contrasts
between security and insecurity, collective interest and individual autocracy,
inalienable rights at birth and total dependence on a father, all these are too
glaring not to be noticed.
Notes

* Originally published in the Sociological Bulletin, vol. 42, nos. 1 and 2,

March–September 1993, pp. 15–36.
1 This article is based on ethnographic data on Kalpeni collected by A.
R. Kutty and me. A. R. Kutty did his fieldwork in 1961–63, and I
worked on the island in 1969. In their basic features the social structure
and culture have not undergone much change, and this account
essentially speaks of the situation of women in the 1960s; but my
analysis has taken into account later developments as well. The first
version of this article was written for a conference on ‘Changing
Kinship and Gender in Sub-Saharan Africa and South Asia’ which was
held at Nairobi in February 1993. VENA, University of Leiden; the
Department of Sociology, Nairobi University; and the Commission on
Women of the International Union of Anthropological and Ethnological
Sciences organized the conference. I thank MukulDube for his assistance
in editing and word processing.
2 A karnavar managed property, organized production, assigned work to
the male members of the group, and dealt with the Melacheir labourers.
He represented the group in its dealing with the administration.
Theoretically, however, even he did not have the right to act on his own
in giving leases and in parting with any property of the taravad,
including movable property. The karnavar of a taravad, which was
divided into property groups karnavar on the island, was not, however,
as powerful as a Nayar karnavar. This point will be taken up when we
discuss the nature of property and of productive resources on the island.
3 This aspect is discussed in detail in Dube 1978.
4 Of 670 extant marriages, 124 (18.5 per cent) were uxorilocal; twenty-
three (3.4 per cent) were neolocal; and only eight were virilocal.
Uxorilocality was generally adopted only after a certain degree on
marital stability had been attained.
5 The use of the veil as symbolic shelter has been well brought out by
Hanna Papanek (1982) particularly with reference to Muslims in the
 Indian subcontinent, who are patrilineal. It is significant that women in
Southeast Asia Muslim communities that are rooted in matrilineal or
bilateral kinship enjoy considerable freedom of movement and
participate in many economic and productive activities.
6 According to the provisional figures of the 1991 Census, the rate of
literacy among females in Lakshadweep is 71 per cent. I did not observe
any difficulty in the way of girls going to school. Early marriage and
motherhood may, however, come in the way of girls who wish
to’continue their education beyond a certain age. Higher education and
technical training are available only on other islands and on the
mainland, and many more young men than young women benefit from the
opportunities.
7 The Quran (S.IV: 34) says that the woman is under the authority of man
because God has made man superior to woman and because man pays
for her or spends his wealth to maintain her. She is expected to obey him
and submit to his will, and he has the right to inflict even physical
punishment if she disobeys him. Man is the supporter of the household
and must maintain and protect his wife. A look at ethnographic evidence
from Bangladesh will be interesting. Among the common people a
husband’s authority over his wife is unquestioned and there is
considerable violence against wives. As for a woman’s rights over her
children, her husband may say. ‘When you came to this house you were
without a child. You got this child while eating my rice. So the child
belongs to me’. All this is alien to the cultural ethos of Kalpeni.
8 It should be said here that physical violence of any kind was quite
uncommon on the island. Disputes between groups did sometimes
involve violence, but most accounts do not fail to mention the peaceable
nature of the islanders. Saigal (1990) has described a recent instance of
feud and murder between close matrilineal kin as most unusual.
Lakshadweep has a rather high density of population: 1258/sq. km. in
1,981, rising to 1,615 in 1991.
9 According to Islamic law a woman also has the legal right to sever a
martial bond through the pronouncement of dissolution of marriage by
the Kazi under certain circumstances. This is known as fasaq. On
Kalpenifasaq Was resorted to only rarely, mostly when talaq was not
 obtainable owing to factors like the husband’s lunacy or his absence
from the island for an indefinite period. The other two forms of divorce
permitted by Islam—Khula, in which a wife purchases her freedom, and
lian, when a husband pronounces an oath accusing his wife of adultery,
resulting in an annulment of marriage—were not prevalent on Kalpeni.
10 These two scholars have also written of the instability of matrilineal
systems owing to in-built conflicts in them. Most analyses of matrilineal
societies show the influence of their arguments. For recent feminist
critiques see, among others, Poewe (1979), Schwede (1986), Tanner
(1974) and Weiner (1979; 1980). For the resilience and adaptability to
kinship systems and of a matrilineal system in particular, see Colson
(1980). Recent researches by feminists show how, in many matrilineal
societies, stability is associated with women, as it is they who live on
and use the land, attend to rituals, and nurture the next generation. John
Byron Thomas (1980) contests the assumption that authority within the
matrilineal descent group is predominantly vested in males and that
there is the constant problem of striking a balance between a man’s
authority over his wife and children in the domestic group and
matrilineal kin’s authority in the descent group. He demonstrates the
solution to the ‘matrilineal puzzle’ on the island of Nemonuito (near
Truk), where women have the primary authority over land ‘for it is they
who stay and safeguard our children’; and because women are also the
authoritative sources of knowledge of the ‘secret lore’, meaning
essentially the boundaries and histories of all plots of land acquired or
relinquished by the clan.
I should mention here TiplutNongbri’s (1990) analysis of the matrilineal
system of the Khasi of Meghalaya in north-eastern India, and women’s
subordinate role in it. Nongbri appears to have been overly influenced
by Richard’s arguments. Moreover, there are some serious flaws in
Nongbri’s otherwise sensitive description and analysis. She assumes
that women’s lack of participation in political affairs necessarily means
confinement to the domestic sphere. Khasi women have in fact been
known for their freedom of movement and have traditionally been
involved in marketing and other economic activity.
Another matter that should be looked into is the unequal distribution of
 resources among the Khasi. The youngest daughter was at once the most
privileged and bore the greatest responsibility towards needy matrikin,
particularly the maternal uncle, Nongbri has not distinguished between
the household of the youngest sister, the heiress, and those of other
sisters.
The most significant point that Nongbri makes, which needs further
exploration, concerns the lack of balance between a woman’s male
matrikin and her husband in her terms of responsibility and authority.
This, she says, makes women insecure. They are over-burdened with
the responsibility of running their household and bringing up their
children.
11 Nikki Keddie (1987) deals with this subject in relation to the
matrilineal Muslim Minangkabau. Islam is considered to consist
classically of two parts; ibadat or worship includes the ‘five pillars of
Islam’; while muamlat or transactions covers the great majority of
questions regarding the world that are dealt with in law and
jurisprudence.

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———. 1978 ‘Cast Analogues among the Laccadive (Lakshadweep)
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———. 1961. ‘Nayar: Central Kerala’; ‘Nayar, North Kerala’; ‘Mapilla:
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1984’, Sociological Bulletin, vol. 37, nos. 1 and 2.
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5

G A T K F S :T
M S S -A
P A , 1984*

Tiplut Nongbri

The motivation for the present article springs from two different sources. The
first is the passing of the Meghalaya Succession to Self-Acquired Property
(Khasi and Jaintia Special Provision) Act 1984 (hereafter referred to as the
Succession Act) by an all-male Meghalaya Legislative Assembly.1 This
aroused my curiosity to study the effects of the Act on social relationships
among the Khasi. The second source is my experience in teaching a course on
Kinship and Family Life in India for M.A. students; it made me aware of the
dearth of in-depth studies on Khasimartiliny. Although I have not attempted to
fill this lacuna I try to highlight some of the lesser known facts of the Khasi
social organization in this paper. In doing so I also take account of the
economic and political dimensions of Khasi society besides studying their
values and ideas. I do this because I consider that social roles cannot be
defined simply in terms of one single principle. To grasp the basic principles
of social organization it is important to look for the comprehensive meanings
with which society clothes its members. This attempt led me to discover that
social definitions of gender and gender distinctions are more important than
kinship principles per se in understanding Khasi social organization.

I
The Meghalaya Succession Act received the President’s assent in 1986.
Neither those who are directly affected by it nor observers of social life and
intellectuals have reacted to this piece of legislation. It is necessary therefore
to understand why the Act has been thus tacitly accepted in Meghalaya. But
more importantly, it is necessary to understand why it was at all introduced
in the first place.
The Succession Act applies specifically to the Khasi and Jaintia tribes of
Meghalaya and confers on any ‘Khasi and Jaintia of sound mind, not being a
minor, the right to dispose off his self-acquired property by will’
(Government of Meghalaya 1986: 220, emphasis added). On the face of it,
this legislation is an extension of a legal right that is already enjoyed by
Indian citizens in other states. The practice of making out a will does not
exist in Khasi custom. There is, however, the practice of pynkam by which a
person indicates or makes known during his or her lifetime his or her wish to
pass a particular possession or item of property to someone of his or her
choice. This practice is applicable only when such transfers occur within the
customary line of succession (Gurdon 1975: 3).
The Khasi custom prescribes the devolution of ancestral property in the
female line. Sons have no right to it except in rare cases of there being no
female issue in the family. There are rules over the disposition of self-
acquired property as well. In the case of women’s self-acquired property the
rule is simple. A woman during her lifetime may give her self-acquired
property to either her son or her daughter, but if she dies without giving any
indication about its disposal it goes to her youngest daughter. And if a woman
dies unmarried, her selfacquired property goes to her mother or sister. In the
disposition of men’s self-acquired property the rule is more complex.
Although the owner of the property may not use it or bequeath it in any
manner he wishes during his lifetime, if he dies without disposing it, there
are specific rules depending on the nature of property and the period during
which it was acquired. Property earned before marriage when he lives in his
mother’s house is called the ‘earning of the clan’ (kakamaiingkur) and
would go to his mother and sister. Property which he earns when he is living
at his wife’s house is called ‘earning of the children’ (ka kamai ing khun)
and would go to his wife and children. If a man brings his self-acquired
property from his mother’s house and sets up business while living in the
uxorial household, the earnings acquired thereby will continue to be treated
as his own property. In the event of his death such self-acquired property
belongs to his mother and sister. But in practice it is difficult for a man to
maintain the distinctive identity of his self-acquired property. Often he is
forced by circumstances to merge his self-acquired property with his wife’s
property. When such merges occur the property is transmitted to his wife and
children, and his mother and sister will lose their claims. There is a feeling,
especially among the educated Khasi that their rules of kinship and
inheritance are biased in favour of women and are too restrictive. The rule
that women alone can inherit ancestral property is perceived as being
discriminatory towards men. The rules over the disposition of self-acquired
property are regarded as restricting the freedom to will it to any person of
one’s choice. The Succession Act is therefore seen as an attempt at removing
such restrictions and at correcting the perceived female bias in the Khasi
tradition.
To assess whether the popular perception of female bias in Khasi
tradition is indeed valid, it is necessary to view the Khasi matrilineal system
in the context of the prevalent gender relations and definitions of gender
roles. In assessing gender roles, the debate on the relative importance of
relations of production over relations of reproduction in accounting for
gender hierarchy, cannot be ignored (Leacock 1986: 108). Without
prejudicing the issue, however, it can be seen that in all cultures production
relations are closely linked to ideas and rules regarding reproduction.
Although I do not specifically address myself to the study of relations of
production I shall attempt to articulate the ideas and norms that define kinship
and gender relations with the actual relationships that obtain in Khasi society.
I shall try to demonstrate that Khasi ideas and norms regarding kinship and
gender roles, which are apparently weighed in favour of women, are not so
in fact.

II
Among the Hindus, the metaphor of ‘seed and the earth’ testifies to the
subordination of women. It projects man as the provider of the seed and the
woman as a passive recipient who only nurtures the seed within her for its
owner. Man is the owner of both the field and the seed, hence he is the master
of the child and of the woman who bears his child. The womb is merely a
receptacle for the perpetuation of man’s line of descent (Dube 1986: 22–53).
Hence, till recently, in the Hindu tradition a woman could not inherit property
or own productive resources. As a daughter she could only receive
maintenance and affinal presentations. She could inherit her father’s property
only if he had no sons—even then she could lay claim to it only through her
son, that too when her husband becomes a ghar jamai (unxorilocal son-in-
law). Changes have now been introduced in the Hindu succession law
whereby daughters are given equal rights to their father’s property. Some
contend, however, that these changes do not go far enough and that
patriarchal ideology continues to govern de facto property relations among
the Hindus (Hershman 1981; Sharma 1980).
In contrast to the general Hindu pattern, the Khasi follows the principles
of matrilineal descent. As mentioned earlier, ancestral property is passed
from the mother to the daughter, especially the youngest one. Men have no
inheritance right and the institution of uxorilocal residence does not give
them any right to property or membership in the wife’s lineage.
The Khasi justify their matrilineal descent system on the ground that the
mother, who nurtures the child during its incubation, should have rights over
the child. This idea is rooted in the Khasi view of human reproduction. The
Khasi say that the father provides stature and form (U KpaUba ai ia ka long
rynieng) while the mother contributes flesh and blood (Ka kmie ka ba ai ia
ka doh ka snam) to the child. The mother carries and nourishes the child in
her womb and it is from the mother’s blood that the unborn child derives his
or her life giving force—this is indeed in sharp contrast to the patriarchal
Hindu ideology in which semen provides the life giving force. The Khasi
rarely comment directly on the role of semen in human reproduction.
However, in expressing the weakness of the filial tie, they often indirectly
refer to its negative role. When a man fails to fulfill his paternal
responsibility towards his children they say: ‘What can you do? After all it is
only pus’. (Sa ia ka ksuit phin leh kumno). Semen is treated as pus, which
could be drained out of one’s body in contrast to mother’s blood, which is a
life giving force and could never be separated from one’s body. Blood is
transmitted from mother to child, and it is on this blood bond that the descent
principle is based and the clans are formed. The man in the act of procreation
retains his blood within himself and discharges only semen, which mingles
with the mother’s blood to form the foetus. The Khasi believe that the foetus
derives only its initial structure and form from the father. The Khasi,
therefore, stress the role of the mother in reproduction. According to them,
the mother bears the brunt of parenthood, whereas the father’s role may be
confined to a single act of coitus. The ten lunar cycles, during which the
mother nurtures her child in her womb, give her the custody of the child. The
child belongs to her descent group rather than that of the father. The Khasi
never fail to invoke this biological fact to emphasize the special bond
between mother and the child in their society.
Because Khasi physiology stresses the centrality of the woman in the
process of reproduction, she is also seen as the centre of the family circle.
She is also expected to be fully responsible for the nurturance and care of her
children. She is also the repository of family honour. Daughters in particular
should be chaste, obedient, polite and virtuous because family honour and
continuity of the family line depends on them. They are also the custodians of
family rituals. On them rest the responsibility of ensuring that the family
rituals are carried out in their due course.
In Khasi ideology while women are central to the family, they need to be
protected and guarded by men. Just’ as the women’s role in reproduction and
nurturance favours the mother, a man’s physiological strength, according to
the Khasi, give him authority over women. The saying ‘men has twelve
strength’ (u rangbah khadar bor) highlights man’s superior power and
confers on him the role of the protector and the provider (U nongbsa u
nongbtiah)vis-a-vis the woman who is the nurturer and the holder (ka
nongbat ka non glum). These role models of men and women are vividly
brought out in their folk dances. The Khasi dance forms give salience to the
silent grace and discipline of women. During their festivals, women dance in
the centre of the circle with eyes downcast in an act of modesty and restraint.
Men dance forming a protective ring around them holding either a sword or
weed brush in hand. The sword symbolises protection and defence while
administration, guidance and advice are symbolized by the weed brush.
Hence the Khasi say ‘war and polities for men, property and children for
women’ (Dube 1986: 33).
The Khasi definitions of gender roles provide the ideological support for
the domestication of women and their exclusion from the political domain.
Although there are no formal laws, which prevent Khasi women from holding
public office, they are not allowed to attend traditional village and ‘state’
durbars (customary administrative and judicial councils). A woman who
dares to voice her opinion on public affairs is regarded as a ‘hen that
crows’—a freak of nature. Men zealously guard their political prerogatives
by defining politics as an arena for mature and physically fit persons.
Physical and mental immaturity render even men ineligible to participate in
durbars. Immaturity is an attribute associated with children. Men subtly hint
that women can be equated with children when they use the simile Ka
Kynthei Ka Khynnah to describe women. This view of women and politics
is even carried over to the realm of modern political institutions. The
Meghalaya legislature till recently had no woman member.
As nurturers of the family line, Khasi women have a significant role in the
domestic sphere. The youngest daughter in the family inherits the bulk of the
family property along with the ancestral home and other hierlooms.2As the
inheritor of the family property, the youngest daughter also becomes its
custodian and trustee. On her devolves the responsibility of caring and
protecting all members of her matrikin. She has to look after her aged parents
and other members of her matrikin if they suffer any misfortune. If she fails to
fulfill these obligations she may even be deprived of her inheritance rights.
While the youngest daughter has numerous familial and kinship
obligations because she inherits family property, she does not possess
authority commensurate with her duties and responsibilities. Being the
youngest,she is invariably treated by her brothers and sisters as someone
lacking in experience. Further, she has little say in the control and
management of the property that she inherits, it is the mother’s brother who
enjoys these privileges.
The youngest daughter’s position in the religious domain is similar to her
position in the economic domain. Women are regarded as the trustees of
family rites and traditions as well. The Khasi say ‘the woman holds the
religion’ (ka kynthei ka bat ia ka niam).It is women who have to ensure that
family rites are organized in their due course. But they have to seek the
assistance of their male matrikin to actually perform the rituals. Priesthood is
a male vocation among the Khasi. The woman makes the necessary
preparations for the rituals and initiates them, but under her mother’s
brother’s guidance. Hence, even in the domestic sphere, which is
acknowledged to be the sphere in which women are central, the men control
the levers of power and decision-making. The rights and privileges of
women in Khasi matriliny turn out to be mere burdensome duties and
responsibilities.

III

The position of women in Khasi society is somewhat anticipated by studies

of matrilineal kinship systems. Several scholars (Alberlel961; Goody 1962;
Hill 1963; Murdock 1949) have highlighted the inherent contradictions in
matrilineal systems. Audrey Richards (1950) refers to these contradictions as
the ‘the matrilineal puzzle’. The term may not be entirely appropriate but it is
indeed puzzling how materilineal systems have survived despite their
inherent contradictions. One such contradiction arises from the disjunction
between the line of descent and inheritance on the one hand and the structure
of authority and control on the other. The former, which links the mother to
the daughter, comes in conflict with the latter, which links the mother’s
brother to sister’s son. The discussion in the pervious section highlights the
effects of such conflict in Khasi society. Women are held responsible for the
maintenance of Khasi traditions but are denied the power and authority do
discharge their responsibilities, thereby making them critically dependent on
their mother’s brothers.
Another source of contradiction in matrilineal systems is the disjunction
caused by marriage. Sisters in matrilineal societies perpetuate the descent
group. But in order to fulfill this role, they have to be impregnated by men
from other descent groups. The latter have sexual access to women but are
denied rights over their children. The mother’s brother exercises authority
over them rather than the father (Fox 1967; Schneider 1961). This conflict
between the husband and his wife’s brothers becomes acute especially in
societies in which marriage becomes an enduring institution.
In the Khasi society also, marriage generates conflicts between the
husband and his wife’s brothers. The Khasi make a sharp distinction between
kin and affines. Kin loyalties are emphasized at the expense of affinal ties.
Khasi children are brought up to revere their clan and lineage traditions. By
laying stress on kin solidarity the Khasi even underplay the marital tie. To
lose one’s head over a woman is considered to be a sign of weakness for a
Khasi male. The Khasi say ‘its only a woman’ (sa ia ka kynthei) to express
their chauvinistic contempt of women’s charm and sensuality.
The playing down of affinal ties finds expression in Khasi rituals as well.
Although they say that their religion is based on the clan (La seng is ka niam
khasi ha ka kur) the significant unit for ritual purposes is the lineage
{kakpoh). The member of the lineage participates in rituals to propitiate their
ancestors and deposit the bones of their dead in the common cromlech
(mawbah). Affinal relations may come and pay their respects in cash and
kind (u ynkham) on ritual occasions, but the ritual itself excludes them. That
is why a husband or father cannot participate in rituals in which his wife and
children take part, even if he has resided with his wife and children for
several years. He belongs to his sister’s clan ritually. Hence after his death
his body might have been cremated by his wife and children but his bones
have to be returned to his sister to be deposited in her clan cromlech.
The husband who lives in his wife’s house, not only lacks a ritual status
there but is also denied full authority over his children. As his children
belong to his wife’s lineage, the wife’s brother exercises a greater influence
on them. As a husband (u. shongkha) a man is regarded as another family’s
son (u. khun ki briew) who would have to prove his worth in his wife’s
house. When he becomes a father his position improves somewhat but he
continues to remain an outsider.
Though a husband or a father remains an outsider to his wife’s clan and
lineage, he is expected to provide for his family and protect his wife and
children. In fact in the Khasi tradition the role model of a man is of one who
successfully fulfills both his kin and his affinal obligations. But, affinal
obligations seem to last only for the duration of marriage. The marital tie is
relatively weak and there are no sanctions against divorce. A man’s
responsibilities end when he terminates his marriage.
Khasi matriliny generates intense role conflict for men. They are torn
between their responsibilities to their natal house on the one hand and to their
wife and children on the other. The extent to which they can meet their
obligations both as brothers and husbands depend on a number of factors
such as the proximity between the natal house and the uxorial house, the
relative position of the sister’s husband in his natal house and his wife’s
male kin in his wife’s brothers in the way they bring up their children. They
feel deprived of sufficient authority to command their children’s loyalty and
lack the freedom to freely pass on after death, even their self-acquired
property to their children.
The strain generated by such role conflict affects Khasi women, in a way
more intensely., A woman can never be fully assured that her husband does
‘not find, his sister’s house a more congenial place than her own house. She
cannot also be fully assured that her husband has a stronger sense of loyalty
towards her and her children than to his sister and sister’s children.
Similarly, a sister will be apprehensive about her brother’s commitment to
her welfare because the wife with whom he lives can always entice him
away from his responsibilities to his natal house. This is perhaps one reason
for the negative attributes attached to women’s sexuality in Khasi society As
a sexual being, she is considered to be not only a charmer but also a schemer
(ka nongpah kanongphon). She entices men away from their kith and kin by
using her sexuality and charm. Hence when a man fails to meet his obligation
to his matrilineal household, the wife is regarded as the cause of his
dereliction of duties. As a result, just as the relationship between a man and
his wife’s brother may become strained, the relationship between a woman
and her husband’s sister may become antagonistic. The antagonism between
the sisters-in-law rarely comes out into the open though. Outwardly they
maintain a formal relationship marked by mutual courtesy and propriety.
The women are more adversely affected than men by the role-conflict
generated in the Khasi matrilineal system not only because men wield power
and women are deprived of it, but also because the system is more lenient to
men, when there is a transgression of rules. Thus, as has been mentioned
above, if a man fails to meet his avuncular obligations, his wife is held
responsible for it. If a man indulges in extramarital affairs or polygynous
unions, his behaviour is not only tolerated but is occasionally encouraged.
Statements such as ‘so what, he is a man of means’ (yn lei sa ia u ba heh
kamai) support his behaviour. In fact, some families may even take pride
when the brother has many children from different wives and may call him ‘a
man with many flags’ (u rang khadar lama) (Cantlie 1974: 75; Lyngdoh
1962: 148). This sharply contrasts with the adverse reaction towards female
sexuality.
The leniency towards men is reflected in several other spheres of social
life as well. If a man decides to return to his sister’s house, the sister is
expected to offer him shelter and maintain him. His wife is expected to take
on single-handed, the onus of feeding and looking after his children. If a
woman neglects her obligations to her matrilineal household she may even be
deprived of her property, but if her brother fails to meet his obligations, she
is expected to take over his duties. Hence many Khasi women are constantly
working and trying to raise resources because in addition to their own duties
they have to step in when men fail to fulfill their obligations. The system thus
puts extra pressure on women to uphold their values and institutions when
men neglect their roles.
Thus, it is clear from the above analysis that the Khasi matrilineal system
does not actually favour women although certain aspects of their ideology
and their inheritance rules may give a contrary impression. Women possess
only token authority in Khasi society; it is men who are the de facto power-
holders. Of course, the system is indeed weighted in favour of male matrikin
rather than male patrikin.

IV

The social pressure to introduce and adopt the Succession Act can be
grasped if the advent of Christianity and the forces of modernization in Khasi
economy and society are taken into account. Conversion to Christianity has
weakened the matrilineal system. Many of the traditional rites centred in the
matrilineal household have now lost their importance. In Christian
households the authority of the mother’s brother is giving way to the father’s
authority.
Besides Christianity, forces of modernization also favour partiality. Men
have been the first to benefit from modern education. Salaried employment
and the spirit of individualism and rationality have affected even those who
have not converted themselves to Christianity. Hence even the non-Christian
Khasi men consider their matrilineal system as being bogged down by
unnecessary restrictions (Nongbri 1980). The Succession Act symbolizes this
new urge on the part of Khasi men to free themselves from traditional
restrictions. It gives them scope to by-pass some of the outmoded restrictions
that Khasimatriliny imposes on them. But it also weakens the women’s
position because the wife has no claim over her husband’s self-acquired
property and is rendered economically insecure if her husband chooses to
neglect her or divorce her.
The process of change, however, brings its own contradictions.
Traditions are too deeply ingrained in the people to allow swift change from
matriliny to patriliny. The erosion of the mother’s brother’s power over the
sister’s household has created considerable tension between the two male
authorities in the family. This problem is felt particularly in those households
where the sister is an heiress to ancestral property. The husband here is often
seen as an usurper of the legitimate rights of the mother’s brother. This
development has led to an interesting turn in the society, that is, the
emergence of the mother as a dominant personality who has now acquired
some of the mother’s brother’s power and acts as a mediator between the
latter and her husband. This development favours women, but it has to be
viewed against the general trend towards patriliny in Khasi society.
Whatever advantage women might have thus derived, however, may turn out
to be temporary because modern political institutions have enhanced men’s
power to modify traditional institutions to suit their needs.
An important issue arising from this paper is the nature and source of
gender inequality. It is a well known fact that in patrilineal societies
institutions are such that they allow male control over women’s fertility. In
matrilineal societies as well, women are subordinated to male control as
shown by the case of Khasi society. The source of male domination in Khasi
society is not so much due to the value system and the system of inheritance;
it is more because the definitions of gender roles and norms concerning
gender relations are applied with greater severity in the case of women than
in the case of men. Modernization trends are gradually introducing patrilineal
principles in Khasi society. Curiously, these tendencies have also given rise
to situations in which some women have gained authority in the domestic
sphere, but its potential of deepening gender inequality should also be taken
into account. Hence, it can be said that forces of modernization do not
necessarily promote gender equality.

Notes

* Originally published as ‘Gender and the Khasi Family Structure: Some

Implications of the Meghalaya Succession to Self-Acquired Property
Act, 1984’ in the Sociological Bulletin, vol. 7, nos. land 2, March-
September 1988, pp. 71–82.
1 In the present term there is only one woman member in the Meghalaya
Legislative Assembly.
2 An exception to the rule is the custom among the War, a people in
southern part of Khasi Hills. Here property is inherited both by sons and
daughters.

References

Alberle, David. 1961. ‘Matrilineal Descent in Cross-Cultural

Perspectives’ in Schneider and Gough (eds.). Matrilineal Kinship.
Berkeley: University of California Press.
Cantlie, Keith. 1971 (1934). Notes on Khasi Law (reprinted and edited by A.
S. Kongphal). Shillong: RiKhasi Press.
Dube, Leela. 1986. ‘Seed and Earth’ in Dube Leela et al.(ed.). Visibility and
Power: Essays on Women in Society and Development.New Delhi:
 Oxford University Press, pp. 22–53.
Fox, Robin. 1967. Kinship and Marriage. Harmondsworth: Penguin.
Gurdon, PR.T. 1975 (1907). The Khasis.Delhi: Cosmos Publication.
Goody, Jack. 1962. Death, Property and the Ancestors. London: Tavistock.
Government of Meghalaya. 1986. Gazette of Meghalaya
(Extraordinary).Shillong.
Hershman, Paul. 1981. Punjabi Kinship and Marriage (edited by Hilary
Standing). Delhi: Hindustan Publishing Corporation.
Hill, Polly. 1961. Migrant Cocoa-Farmers of Southern Ghana. Cambridge:
Cambridge University Press.
Leacock, Eleanor. 1986. ‘Women, Power and Authority’, in Dube et al.(ed.).
Visibility and Power: Essays on Women in Society and Development.
New Delhi: Oxford University Press, pp. 108–35.
Lyngdoh, Homiwell. 1962. Ka NiamKhasi. Shillong: George M Lyngdoh.
Murdock, George P. 1949. Social Structure. New York: Macmillan.
Nongbri, Tiplut. 1981. ‘Religion and Social Change among the Khasi’,
(Unpublished Ph.D. dissertation). Delhi: University of Delhi.
Richards, A.I. 1950. ‘Some Types of Family Structure amongst the Central
Bantu’, in A.R. Radcliffe Brown (ed.). African Systems of Kinship and
Marriage. London: Oxford University Press.
Schneider, David. 1961. Matrilineal Kinship. Berkeley: University of
California Press.
Sharma, Ursula. 1980. Women, Work and Property in Northwest India.
London: Tavistock.
6

T I E M M
U F : ‘F E
F ’ AR T
G R *

Homa Hoodfar

The large-scale migration of labour from Egypt to the Arab-oil-producing

countries has been characterized by the predominance of unskilled and semi-
skilled male workers unaccompanied by their families.1 The latter feature is
partly due to the migration policies of the host countries and partly to the
clandestine nature of migration of less skilled and less educated workers; but
a major reason is the cost of moving the family. To take the family would
defeat the purpose of migration which is often adopted as a short-term
strategy to generate more cash and improve a household’s standard of living
(Fergany 1987: 18).
As a result, many families have been transformed temporarily into de
facto female-headed households. Although this unconventional phenomenon
and its implications for women, children and family in Egyptian society has
received much attention, at least within Egypt, it has been the focus of very
little scholarly research (Amin and Awny 1985: 155–99; Brink 1991). Data
from rural Egypt and other countries in the region suggests that migration can
often lead to a nuclearization of the family (Khafagi 1984; Khattab and El-
Daeif 1982) and greater decision-making powers for the wife, usually at the
mother-in-law’s expense. Other questions such as whether wives acquire
greater power vis-à-vis their husbands or within the wider community, and
more importantly, whether the changes would be permanent in nature, have
remained much more controversial. This last question is particularly
pertinent because Egyptian migration to the oil-producing countries has so far
been overwhelmingly of the short-term variety.
The evidence from my anthropological field research in urban Cairo
indicates that while the impact of male migration on children in low-income
communities is more positive than the literature would anticipate, its impact
on women is more diverse. My findings indicate that contrary to common
sense expectations, the traditional and less educated wives manage to
improve their position within the household and vis-à-vis their husbands,
both during and after migration. In contrast, the more educated wives,
particularly those who had been white-collar workers, lose much ground to
their husbands. Moreover, not only did I find no evidence of migration
leading to reversals in conventional gender roles in Egypt, but instead my
observations indicate that the essence of traditional gender roles is
strengthened. Though in one sense male migration may have ‘feminised the
Egyptian family’ (Ibrahim 1982: 92) and extended the realm of contributions
some women make to their households, by creating a gap between male and
female cash earnings it also takes away the financial independence that some
women had managed to gain in the process of modernization.

T R

The data presented here is based on anthropological fieldwork (1983–86)

conducted on forty-two households living in three adjacent low-income
neighbourhoods of greater Cairo-Giza.2 Forty-seven per cent of the sample
constituted the households of current migrants,3 28.5 per cent were returned
migrants, and 23 per cent were a control group of non-migrant households.
The three groups were also equally divided between those households in
which wives were gainfully employed and those in which the wives had no
income of their own (see Table 6.1).
Table 6.1 Occupations of Husbands and Wives

More than half the wives, as compared with a quarter of the husbands,
were illiterate; 45 per cent of the husbands and 38 per cent of wives had had
primary schooling; while 23 per cent of husbands and 9.5 per cent of wives
had a high school diploma.
The couples within the study had been married for a duration ranging
from three to twenty-six years, with a majority clustering between ten to
fifteen years. The households included 133 children still living at home. The
number of children per household ranged from zero to eight with a mode of
three children and a mean of 3.17. The majority of the children were under
fourteen years of age.
Nuclear households are the norm in low-income neighbourhoods (Shorter
1989), particularly in the newly urbanized neighbourhoods whose residents
are mostly first and second generation rural-urban migrants. Although some
of the informants lived in the same building as or very close to their kin, only
one household in my sample had lived as an extended family prior to
migration.4

D M
The reason for migration, the process of decision-making, and the extent to
which it was a unilateral decision of the husband rather than a joint decision
of the couple, all set the scene for the post-migration situation in which the
household members find themselves. Therefore, an assessment of these
processes can provide important insights into the impact of migration.
Both male and female informants unanimously agreed that an economic
reward was the only motivation for migration, which was viewed as the only
option open to low-income social groups to raise their standard of living and
improve opportunities for their children.5 However, many informants pointed
out that besides the wage structure and political conditions, personal
circumstances were the most influential factors in the decision to migrate.
The stage of the family cycle was an important indicator of who migrates
and who stays behind. Generally, two groups of men were considered
eligible for migration. The first group consisted of those of marriageable age
who needed to finance their marriages, which even in low-income
neighbourhoods can cost a considerable sum (see Singerman 1989). The
second group consisted of those married men with at least two or three
children.6 Only under exceptional circumstances was it legitimate for a
husband to migrate before he had a complete family.
Men felt that once a marriage was consummated it was not right to leave a
young bride before the marriage ties had strengthened. ‘After all, migration is
to improve our life not to separate us more ... ’ said one young man while
explaining why he had turned down his friends’ assistance to migrate. Public
opinion in the neighbourhoods was that young women had the right to demand
that their husbands postpone plans for migration.7 Once a woman had two or
three children her marriage and her relationship with her husband was
considered secure and geographical distance was not seen as a threat. At this
stage, ‘... it is the children that we have to think about...’, a point repeatedly
stressed by many of the informants.8
There was a striking consistency among my informants in viewing
migration as a period of hardship. A husband’s willingness to migrate to the
Gulf was considered the best proof of his devotion to his family, and many
wives were quick to recount as evidence the difficulties that their husbands
or other migrants had to undergo.9 Many wives pointed out that men from
Saudi Arabia and Kuwait came to Cairo for fun, and asked me why any
Egyptian man would go there to work if it were not for his family. ‘There is
nothing there except hard work, loneliness and harsh treatment by the
authorities ... many women repeatedly reminded me. It is only after long
years of migration, when the financial situation of the family improves and
there are prospects of employment in Egypt, can a wife be heard to complain.
However, these conditions are not fulfilled in the case of the less skilled
workers whose wages are relatively low even in the host countries.
While the final decision on migration was made by the husband, the
practical and emotional support of the wife and friends had a considerable
influence on him. The wives of many migrants were eager for their husbands
to work abroad and played an active role in making the arrangements prior to
departure. Many of the wives, in spite of their illiteracy, had taken upon
themselves the task of processing the papers necessary for a passport, a
formidable task given the working of the Egyptian bureaucracy. Many others
encouraged their relatives to give their husbands loans to cover the initial
cost of migration (see Table 6.2). Yet others had sold their gold and
household items in order to raise the necessary cash.10 Fergany’s study
indicated that in the urban setting spouses have by far the most important
influence over the decision to migrate (1987: 19). However, despite this
evidence, when asked directly, all the migrants in my sample, and often their
wives, unequivocally declared that the decision to migrate was that of the
husbands.

Table 6.2 Sources of Financing Migration

 R S

Studies of migration in Turkey and rural Egypt have indicated that migration
hastens the process of nuclearization of a household, which then usually
allows the wife more autonomy (Abadan-Unat 1986; Khafagi 1984; Khattab
and El-Daeif 1982; Kiray 1976; Taylor 1984). In the Cairo setting where
nuclear families are the norm, however, migration sometimes temporarily
returns some of the young married women to the extended family setting:
culturally it is not acceptable for young women to live on their own, nor do
they want to.11 Thus, young wives with no children often have to move in
with their relatives, a move all wives agreed was unpleasant because it took
away from them the autonomy that marriage had afforded. In fact, this seemed
to be an underlying reason for men to postpone their migration to a later
phase in family life, for once a woman has two or three children she is
perceived as a matron and can continue to live independently in her own
residence. Among low-income urban households living mostly in
overcrowded accommodations, few people can afford to set up another
family. On rare occasions, however, a young wife’s brother, mother or other
close kin might move in with her during her husband’s absence.12
When a wife did have to move, her first choice was to join her own
parents if that option were open to her. Most husbands, as well as the people
in the neighbourhoods generally, considered this choice both legitimate and
appropriate.13 The exception was where a woman had married above her
social status. The result was that the wife was more under the control of her
husband and his kin during the early years of marriage. Within my sample,
three young women had moved in with their parents; one woman, despite her
protests, had to move in with her mother-in-law. The other 28 continued to
live in their own independent households.

D L M ’ H

Except when wives joined other households, the departure of husbands

transformed their households into de facto femaleheaded households. In
additions to their usual tasks, the wives had to shoulder much of their
husband’s responsibilities. Skillful management of financial affairs with
limited cash resources is essential for the survival of households. Many of
the wives had to learn to budget for daily expenses, educational costs and
unexpected expenses. They had to improve their managerial and shopping
skills, extend their old networks and weave new ones in order to gain access
to information and support that would assist them in protecting their
household’s interests. Thus, the early months after the husband’s departure
for all wives, particularly those not engaged in cash-earning activities, were
coloured with anxiety until they got used to the new situation.
The household’s finances were the most immediate worry, especially for
the less educated who did not enjoy the security of a permanent job. Though
many women had encouraged their husbands to migrate and some had given
up much to finance the migration, the uncertainty about finding a suitable job
in the host country worried them.14 Non-earning wives sought earning
opportunities by engaging in petty trading in the local market. Usually,
however, on the eve of migration the wives were given some amount of cash
to manage their households, and left with the hope that their husbands would
send more in the future.
Cash-earning wives were simply expected to manage their households on
their own incomes, often without any specific commitment on the part of
husbands to send money home. As a financial arrangement, this represented a
major shift for many of the households, since within the Islamic code and
Egyptian custom it is the husband who is responsible for meeting the day-to-
day expenses of the family, regardless of his wife’s income. The most
common and preferred budgeting practice is for wives to spend their incomes
on household goods or on those extras on which husbands were reluctant to
incur expenditure (Hoodfar 1988; Nadim 1977). Only under exceptional
circumstances would women willingly spend their incomes on the basic
needs of the family. To their dismay many wives in this group came to realize
that the reversal of this budgeting pattern was permanent.15
While their managerial responsibilities increased, most wives agreed that
their daily domestic chores had decreased owing on their husbands’ absence.
The exceptions were those few wives who had had to move in with their
parents or their parents-in-law: they complained that their workload had
increased because they, as young women, had to serve everybody in the
household and attend to the guests. They eagerly looked forward to the day
they could move back to their own homes. Thus, the urban situation was
clearly different from the rural areas where often wives and children had to
perform additional farming tasks after the husbands’ migration (Khafagi
1984; Muaty 1984; Taylor 1984).

I -H R

The high average number of dependent children among the migrants’

households in Egypt (Fergany 1987: 10) and Turkey (Kiray 1976; Yasa 1979)
has led some scholars to argue that the economic needs of such large
households contribute to the tendency of the heads of these households to
participate in international migration. In Egypt, men often migrate alone to
keep the expenses to a minimum.16 Other factors encourage this pattern of
migration: the policies of the host countries, particularly in the Gulf area; job
insecurity among the less educated migrants. Moreover, the social
restrictions and the state of education in many of the Arab host countries
further discourage those middle class Egyptian migrants from taking their
families.
 Despite the fact the migration almost always involves leaving the children
behind, there has been little scholarly work focused on the impact of
migration on children. The impressionistic evaluation of this phenomenon on
parent-child relations in Egypt has been mostly negative (Ibrahim 1982;
Muaty 1984). This evaluation seems to be based, in part, on findings from
Turkey where children are often left behind as both parents migrate
(Kagitcibasi 1984; Kiray 1976). However, the Egyptian case is very
different in that few young children are left without at least one parent,
usually the mother.
The view that children need both parents as role models (Ibrahim 1982)
has also influenced opinion about Egyptian migration. The implicit
assumptions are that, first, the fathers would have been present at home for a
reasonable amount of time had they not migrated, and, second, that the
absence of the father is equivalent to the absence of all males. My
observations suggest that at least in the case of low-income households, a
great majority of fathers with young children spend almost all their time
away from home and the neighbourhood, at the workplace, trying to meet the
financial needs of their families.17 On the other hand, in Egypt in general and
among the low-income communities in particular, there is much interaction
with the neighbours and with kin, which provides the children with other
male role models.
The urban situation differs from rural settings where the fathers are
always in the vicinity and take part in disciplining and bringing up their
children (Khafagi 1984; Muaty 1984). Many of my informants pointed out
that their husbands’ absence had little effect on their children’s upbringing
since the role of the father, beyond an economic one, was minimal. However,
some women claimed that their husbands’ presence lent them moral support
in raising their children and that any wife should be able to demand such
support. According to most migrants’ wives, it was this loss of moral support
which was the greatest sacrifice they had made in trying to secure a better
life for themselves and their children.
I did not find any evidence that children in migrant households were given
more work and responsibilities than children in other households, as has
been reported for rural Egypt (Ibid.). In these neighbourhoods, daughters
above the age of fourteen customarily participated actively in the daily
household chores. Although these responsibilities sometimes interfered with
their studies if they were students, daughters generally enjoyed them because
if often gave them some say within the household. They took such work as an
indication of their adulthood, especially since daughters in general had few
means of occupying themselves, lacking as they did the freedom of movement
that their brothers enjoyed. Where these young women in migrants’
households differed from other girls was in being given more decision-
making powers over the daily routine, in being closer to their mothers, and
perhaps in being rewarded more often with little presents.
In the neighbourhoods, sibling rivalry over limited financial resources
was a constant source of conflict between parents and their older children.
There were never-ending discussions, arguments and tears over money for
books, money for tutorials, money for clothes, and so on. Often remittances
alleviated some of these tensions.18 The conditions of life in these
neighbourhoods dictated a type of interaction between father and children,
which was very different from the ideal middle class model. Fathers did not
(could not) spend much time with their children because they had to spend
their energies in earning cash for their families. When children witnessed
their parents exerting extra effort and putting up with much hardship so that
they could have better opportunities, they felt loved and wanted.
None of the children from the migrant families expressed hostility
towards their fathers’ absence. Children often explained with much
enthusiasm that their fathers had migrated in order to provide them a better
life.19 I often heard children praise their fathers publicly for enduring
hardship in order to give them a better future. Magda, who was then a first
year university student, in discussing the financial hardship faced by a
neighbouring family, said:

I remember we were as poor as they are, even worse, because there

were seven of us living in one room. But my father went to Libya and
there he worked 12 hours a day every day of the week for four years
and slept in a room with many other Egyptians and didn’t eat much.
Finally he bought the land and saved enough to build two rooms. Then
we moved here and gradually built a second floor and bought a TV. He
still has to work at two jobs but he is happy because he never went to
 school and still has managed to send me to university. My elder
brother and sister have finished high school. Many of our
neighboursdon’t have money to send their children to school.

The high dropout rate among boys from secondary school during the 1980s
was sometimes blamed on migration and the absence of fathers. My
observations, however, suggest that there was a change in the way parents
assessed the importance of their sons’ education. In the past, education was
the single most important means of gaining access to a well-paid, secure job.
The introduction of the ‘open door policy’ (market economy) and the
possibility of migration to the Gulf radically changed the Egyptian wage
structure. While wages in the private and informal sectors rose rapidly, the
wages in public and government jobs barely kept pace with rising prices.
While the ideological value of education remained generally high in the
low-income neighbourhoods of Cairo (Kamphoefner 1987), people preferred
that their sons learn a trade or, if possible, enroll in a technical school after
their initial six to nine years of schooling. Thus, in many households, the
eldest son had graduated from high school or even university, while the
younger ones only had a few years of education after which they had taken up
an apprenticeship in some trade. Many other households were actively
looking for workshops which would accept their sons, as young as 8 or 9
years old, as apprentices during the summer in the hope that they would learn
a trade (harfah) as soon as possible. People with few material resources are
very alert to economic realities and swift in their response to the changing
conditions of the labour market.20
Male children were themselves eager to count the reasons why education
was not the answer to their future financial needs (as father and husband).
Hassen, who at 18 was a good plumber and earned between 200 and 250
Egyptian pounds per month, was eager to complete his military service and
open a shop jointly with his elder brother who was a university graduate
working as a high school teacher and earning less than 100 Egyptian pounds
per month. Hassen said:

At first my mother wanted me to be educated like my brother, but

when she saw that it took him about eight years to save enough money
 to get married, she thought it was best that I learn a trade. She asked
around and then sent me to work with a friend of her brother— Now
my educated brother is going to leave his job and work with me
because a man has to earn money for his family....What is degree
worth if your pocket is empty?

Ironically, the withdrawal of sons from school meant there were more funds
available for daughters to finish high school (twelve years of schooling) and
to try and find jobs in government offices.21 Government jobs, despite their
low pay, were still considered the most suitable for women, primarily
because of legal concessions made to married women in order to enable
them to combine their roles as wife and mother with their professions. Many
parents, particularly mothers, were keen that their daughters had some
financial security in case their marriages went wrong.

I -H R

The help and support that neighbours provide one another, both on a daily
basis and at times of crisis, is significant in the low-income quarters of Cairo
(Hoodfar 1990a; Singerman 1990). Many of the informants pointed out that
as kin are increasingly forced to spread across the city, neighbours acquire
even more importance. It is primarily women who develop the neighbourly
network because, in contrast to the old neighbourhoods of Cairo, few men
work or spend much time in the newly urbanized quarters. Generally, much of
the interaction between women takes place in the absence of their husbands.
Migrants’ wives had freer schedules for socializing and their homes
provided a more suitable centre for women to assemble to perform
collective activities such as sewing, baking, cooking vegetables, or simply
watching television. Most wives and their neighbours viewed their acquired
freedom as compensation for their loneliness.
Similarly, the interaction of wives with their own kin intensified when
they lived in close proximity. They often developed closer ties and
exchanged services much more readily with their mothers or sisters and
sometimes their brothers. This stood in sharp contrast to a diminution of
relations with the husband’s kin. Often there was almost a deliberate
tendency for migrants’ wives to publicize their differences with their
husband’s kin, to air complaints of lack of support. However, my
observations repeatedly made it clear that it was the wives themselves who
actively tried to curtail these interactions and offers of help. This stemmed
from their assessment that any help, moral or otherwise, which the husband’s
kin provided would legitimize their expectations of a handsome present once
the husbands returned. Omm Mona, whose husband had been a migrant for
four years, always complained that with four children nobody helped her and
that her own family lived far away. On an occasion when her sister-in-law
offered to stay with the children while she took the youngest to the hospital,
she refused and told her that the children were naughty and she did not wish
to bother her. During her visit the sister-in-law was treated very formally.
Later, when I asked why she did not accept her kind offer, she said:

You do not understand. They want to do some small thing and then
write to my husband to tell him how much they help me so as to
encourage him to bring them expensive presents. My husband and I
suffer the hardship of migration and they want to benefit from it. If you
don’t believe me ask Omm Hassna [her neighbour) whose husband’s
relatives fought with her and took the best of what her husband had
brought. I know better. I have my own friends and can manage without
them.

Later the same week I came across Nadia, her sister-in-law, who lived in the
same neighbourhood. Without much hesitation she started to complain about
Omm Mona’s attitude. She said:

Can you believe that before my brother migrated she was very friendly
to me and acted as if we were sisters. Now did you see how she
treated me and rejected my offer to help? Then she goes around and
complains to everybody that we do not help her or call on her. She
sends messages of complaint to my brother, too. Do you know why?
Because she is worried that my brother may bring presents for us. She
 wants to keep everything for herself and her own family, but we don’t
care about presents.

Such incidents were not uncommon. Many of the migrants’ wives adopted
strategies that alienated the husband’s families.22 This is because customarily
the immediate members of a husband’s family of origin can raise a claim to
his earnings, particularly if they are poorer than he is. In return, they are
expected to provide help and assistance as needed. Failing to fulfil their
responsibilities would remove the legitimate grounds for a claim. Both the
returned migrants and those temporarily visiting their families tended to side
with their wives and blame their kin. One returned migrant, in justifying the
cold reception he gave to his brother and nephew, told me:

I do not want brothers who only want me when I am rich. Where was
he when I was away and my children were sick? How often did he
come to bring some cake and present for my children? They now come
to visit me because my nephew is getting married and they want me to
act as an uncle and give him a lot of money.

Similar situations have been reported for rural Egypt where disagreements
between the wife and the parents-in-law often lead to the establishment of a
nuclear family (Khattab and El-Daeif 1982). These developments are not
restricted to the migrant’ households, but migration clearly hastens the
process and provides the wives with an opportunity to play an active role in
restructuring social interactions of the family to their own advantage.

M I R

The role wives played in deciding how to allocate remittances varied

greatly. Contrary to common sense expectations, the less educated wives
played a more significant role in the management and investment of
remittances than the more educated wives. The latter had little knowledge of
the amount of the remittances and did not expect to have much say in their
disposal. In fact, since all educated women in the study were government
employees, their husbands usually did not regularly send money home for
housekeeping (Hoodfar 1990c). They deposited their incomes in their own
bank accounts or made investments whenever they returned to Cairo to visit
the family.
Though these husbands often bought household goods and generous
presents for their families, their wives often complained about their lack of
participation in the investment of remittances, which they viewed as matter
for family decisions. They often pointed out that before migration they used
to plan the family budget with their husbands and, in fact, several of the
wives in this group had been the financial managers of their households, with
their husbands trusting them with their salaries and the wives seeing to the
needs of their families as they saw fit. However, after migration they
effectively lost control over and access to their husbands’ incomes and
remittances. Even to get the husbands to resume payments for daily household
expenses which, in the Islamic and Egyptian context, is the unequivocal
responsibility of a husband, many wives had to adopt such strategies as going
on leave without pay (see Hoodfar 1990c).
The less educated wives, even if they were engaged in cash-earning
activities, often received remittances to spend on their day-to-day needs.
Depending on the level of remittances, the wives often tried to irtvest in
durable goods as assets for their households. Those with more resources
purchased a piece of land on an installment basis and hoped to build a room
or two and move the family there at some future time. Generally, the
improvement of housing conditions was the most important goal of the
migrant households, though many knew that with their meager remittances
their chances of achieving that goal were very slim. Among my informants,
seven out of 32 households had managed to buy very small plots of land on
the outskirts of Cairo and four of them had built or were in the process of
building one-or-two-room dwelling units.23 One household managed to rent a
better flat in the same neighbourhood. A few other wives whose husbands
were still away were hopeful that they would be able to buy land before they
returned.
Wives were often actively involved in gathering information on the
availability and prices of land, and in discussing the terms of land
transaction.24 In four of the seven households which had managed to buy
land, it was the wives who were the sole or principal agents in negotiating
and concluding the sale contracts. Three of these women were illiterate. In
all cases, however, the land was bought in the name of the husband, whether
or not the wife had contributed financially. One woman bought the land in her
husband’s name with her own savings and the housekeeping money her
husband had sent, even though her husband knew nothing about the
transaction. She explained:

I did not tell him because, who knows, he might not have agreed or
stopped sending me money. Men do not always have the best sense of
how to invest the money. But of course I could not buy the land in my
own name. My husband and the neighbours would think I stole his
money.

Among the less educated people of the neighbourhood, particularly people of

the Delta region, women were generally regarded as more shrewd and
realistic than men on issues related to investment and stretching a limited
income.25
Another woman, once she was assured that her husband had found a job,
sold her gold (what she was given at the time of her wedding and what the
had inherited from her mother) and those household goods which belonged to
her in order to pay the first installment on land she bought in her husband’s
name When asked why she did not buy it in her own name she said:

It was not right for a house or land to be in a wife’s name, especially

since the remaining installments would be paid out of the remittances
he would send.

Investing in a business, especially for those who did not have a secure or
permanent job, was the second most important aim even though very few
expected to succeed. Among the more educated migrants, one had saved
enough to buy a second-hand taxi, which he plied in the afternoons, and
another invested in a chicken farm along with a few other returned migrants.
The income from these investments was to supplement the income from their
regular office jobs. Neither of the wives, both of who were educated, had
any influence on these investment strategies. Among those in the informal
economy, two households had saved about 1,500 Egyptian pounds, which,
with the help of their wives, they used to establish small corner shops.
Another three older men had managed to buy small kiosks to sell sweets and
vegetables. The wives participated in the running of these businesses.
Since savings for a majority of the less skilled migrants were too small to
be invested in land or business, obtaining durable household goods such as
refrigerators was the most common way of investing.26 Far from being
extravagant consumption, in the context of the neighbourhoods these items
were economically very rational. First, it meant a higher standard of living
for the family. Second, they drew prestige and power by sharing, the use of
these items with the neighbours and other members of their social network.
Third, they could sell these items for cash when the need arose, especially
since electric goods did not lose their value during periods of high
inflation.27

I M W ’P
L M

Among the urban, low-income households, women’s engagement in the cash

market often facilitated their husbands’ migration since their incomes
eliminated the worries about they day-to-day needs of the family. On the
other hand, migration encouraged some wives to engage in cash-earning
activities until such time as their husbands could send money. The ultimate
desire of many women in low-status jobs, however, was to give up their
cash-earning activities, especially since these jobs provided no security,
sickness benefit, or old-age pension. The loss of cash for the family was
often compensated for by more efficient shopping and management of the
family resources (Hoodfar 1990b). Leaving the labour market also often
meant that women gained greater access to their husband’s incomes, while at
the same time they did not have to carry a double load of work.28 Moreover,
such a move was a public declaration of the household’s success and an
indication of its rise to a higher socio-economic position.
 However, in all cases where the-family had managed to establish a small
corner shop or kiosk, the wives played a very important role in running the
business, whether or not they had prior experience. In two cases, the
husbands continued their work abroad while the wives took over the
business. In other cases their services were indispensable to husbands who
often had other jobs besides the business, as is common in Cairo. Though not
directly paid, they became their husbands’ business partners, which afforded
them more decision-making powers, and easier access to the household’s
cash income.
Those employed in the formal sector continued to work despite their
complaints about low government wages. Since many of the husbands in this
group had stopped contributing housekeeping money on a regular basis, those
women who are eligible took one or two year’s leave without pay on the
pretext of attending to their children and husbands. Once they had established
a new pattern of budgeting under which the husbands paid, they resumed their
jobs. Although no woman in this group had given up her job, she felt that
migration had a negative impact on her role in the household. Prior to
migration these women, whose wages were in many cases comparable to
their husbands’, felt they had an equal status with them. Migration had,
however, increased the husband’s incomes and resources, reducing the
significance of the women’s contributions.29 Many wives in this group felt
that migration had given them and their children a higher standard of living at
the cost of their status. Many of the younger, educated wives were
discouraged; they questioned whether men and women could be equal,
whether education and employment had really changed their lot from that of
their mothers.

C G R P R
H

Distribution of power within the household is also influenced by factors

external to the household. For instance, it is affected by the gender roles and
the modes pf power distribution within the marriage considered legitimate by
the wider society. The power and status that husbands and wives enjoy in the
wider society influence their relationship within the household. Since the
balance of power within the household is partly constrained by factors
beyond the control of the wife and husband, this area is a complex field for
social investigation (McDonald 1980). None the less, it has been
demonstrated that in many societies there tends to be a positive correlation
between those more concrete aspects of power such as access to household
resources and the contributions, both material and non-material, made by
individuals to their household (Sanday 1981). The value of a contribution is
the outcome of at least three different but overlapping factors. The first and
most commonly recognized is the actual utility of a contribution. Second, is
the ideological value that a society attributes to a particular contribution. In
most modern societies, cash contribution, regardless of its actual utility, is
given much more importance than subsistence production or child care,
which in many societies still play a more significant role in the material
well-being of households (Goldschmidt-clermont 1982, 1987). The third
factor, which is related to the second, is the value that the contributor
attributes to his/her own contribution and the extent to which s/he demands
recognition of it. It is in the interplay of these factors, as well as the actual
level of contribution, that I have looked for evidence of change.
Most women in the neighbourhoodswere socialized to see themselves as
inherently domesticated and to underestimate their ability to perform tasks
beyond the boundaries defined as domestic. They were encouraged to see
motherhood, within marriage, as their most valuable and relevant social role
and their source of power, security and status.30Consequently, from early
childhood they learned to be ‘good’ and to acquire the reputation of being a
‘good’ marriage partner. They were educated to avoid violating norms of
gender roles as well as to be honourable, compromising and supportive of
the male head of the household.
Since a woman’s chastity had a crucial influence on the honour of her
own family and her husband’s, she was, as a general rule, prevented from
going beyond her neighbourhood unaccompanied. I often heard men publicly
praise young women who knew, or more often pretended to know, nothing of
the world outside the four walls of their homes, and who acted helpless in
performing any task beyond the traditional female domain. Other women
expressed fear or unease at the idea of having to leave their familiar
environment to enter an alien and unfamiliar world and its institutions.
As in most urban neighbourhoods, this general picture was somewhat
disturbed by regional diversities and the rapid pace of social change.
Clearly, women of the Delta, particularly women from old Cairo, were
expected to be much more assertive and aggressive in defending their
households’ interests—though within their traditional roles as wives and
mothers (el-Messiri 1978; Tucker 1985) than their counterparts from central
and upper Egypt. In recent times, schooling and employment have taken some
women to the wider world, opening up alternatives to the more conventional
female roles.
The conventional mentality, however, has been increasingly in conflict
with the reality of daily life in the neighbourhoods. More and more public
and formal domains have impinged on the private. Families need to interact
not only with kin and friends but also state institutions that are geographically
distant. Since the men of low-income groups were principally engaged in
meeting the family’s cash needs, women were forced to assume other
responsibilities. Thus, many urban married women had, even prior to their
husband’s migration, acquired some ability to deal with hospitals,
government co-ops, schools, and so on. But they often saw this as only
helping their husbands.
The absence of husbands for months and years at a time created a new
situation. Not only did wives have to take on many new duties, they also had
to accept responsibility of the decisions and direction of their households.
Those husbands who sent money home sent it directly to the wives and in
their names. Several women had to deal with banks and post offices for the
first time. One woman said that the first time she went to the post office she
did not know which way to look. Another woman, from a rural background,
managed to obtain a ration card, a task her husband had failed at despite
many attempts. She said:

Everything is so expensive at market price, and it was getting harder

to manage the household after my husband migrated. I had no choice
but to spend days going to the police station and many other offices
until I finally got the ration card.31
Many women had to find ways to overcome their inability to read and write,
and had to learn how to manipulate the system. Some of the informants
proudly claimed that they had learnt everything, and that all the women from
the neighbourhood went to them for advice.
Despite some confusion during the initial period of adjustments, most
informants, particularly the less educated women were amazed to discover
that they were more capable than they had imagined. Their self-perception
changed, and this change influenced their relationships with their husbands,
children and the broader community. The words of Umm Ahmad, a thirty-
two-year old illiterate who had to learn to deal with hospitals, the post
office, police and the ministry of education, sum up this new attitude: ‘I was
brought up to be a “woman”, but now-a-days everyone has to be a “man”. I
learnt the hard way, but I’m raising my daughters to be “men” so that they can
take care of themselves and not be dependent on others.’ All informants
recognized that the change had not been easy, but none regretted it. Male
migration, particularly among the less skilled and less privileged migrants,
has brought the significance of the wives’ contributions to the attention of the
husbands, the community and the wives’ themselves, thus shifting the power
equation somewhat in favour of wives.
Most men in Egypt have always lived within a family and have been
provided with domestic services, first by their mothers and then by their
wives. These services are often unappreciated. But when men went to work
in the oil-producing countries, for the first time they had to take care of
themselves. Returned migrants were full of stories about how things went
wrong when they first made tea or tried to cook or wash their clothes.32 The
experience of less skilled migrants was much more acute than that of the
middle classes and the more educated who were often provided with housing
and other facilities and whose higher incomes made it possible to buy such
services. To minimize the cost of living, the unskilled Egyptian worker
usually lived in a group of at least four in one small room with few or no
facilities.33 Such conditions forced him to recognize and appreciate his
wife’s services. This phenomenon, which I have termed ‘recovery of
forgotten assets’ on the part of husbands, coincided with women’s greater
self-confidence and boosted their position within the household as well as
contributed to a much more cohesive atmosphere at home.
 The small group of educated and employed women had a different
experience. Many of the factors that brought about a more positive self-
perception for the less educated and more conventional women had already
changed for these women prior to the migration of their husbands. Migration
had often meant only more responsibilities for them. The educated women
had hoped for and expected a different kind of marriage than that of their
mothers and their less educated counterparts. ‘Modernist ideology’, which
underlay formal education, had suggested to them a more equal partnership
and companionship in marriage. However, migration had undermined this
aspect of their marriage both because of the geographical distances and
because the ‘contribution’ balance which some of the wives had carefully
assessed before committing themselves to marriage was upset in favour of
the husbands. Though they recognized that migration was the only possible
way to compensate for the low pay of government jobs and improve their
standard of living, they nevertheless regretted the change.

C I M

The cultural impact of migration has been a preoccupation for many social
scientists (Furnham and Bochner 1986; Ibrahim 1982). The question is
whether and to what degree the cultural practices of the host countries
influence the values and social practices of the migrants while they are in the
host countries and when they return to their homeland. In the case of Middle
Eastern countries, these preoccupations have focused particularly on
women’s roles and codes of behaviour. For instance, it has been speculated
that migration to Western Europe, where males and females participate in the
labour market, educational system and public domain might encourage
similar attitudes amongst Middle Eastern migrant workers of both sexes
(Abadan-Unat 1986; Brouwer and Priester 1983). Similarly migration to the
Gulf countries, particularly Saudi Arabia, where in the name of Islam, a
severe sexual segregation and restrictive behaviour code could encourage
similar values in countries exporting Muslim labour. The data has been
inconclusive, however.34 Brouwer and Priester (1983) found that among
Turkish families living in Amsterdam, many of the women were employed,
but they experienced more control by their husbands than they had previously
in Turkey. They had also lost the support of networks they enjoyed
traditionally, Myntti (1984) has observed that the wives of successful
migrants from North Yemen adopted a more secluded life-style.
My data from Egypt, however, suggests that the impact of other cultures is
primarily a function of the immigrants’ position in their home country. Many
married migrants returned from Saudi Arabia considered the strict
segregation and code of conduct surrounding women to be very unnatural. As
one informant put it, ‘ ... perhaps it is good for them but we are Egyptians and
we have our own ways ... ’ Another migrant told me:

If the Saudis were poor they would have a very hard time. I cannot
imagine what I would do if my wife was as useless as the Saudi
Arabian women are. How could I leave her in charge of the family
and children and migrate to earn money. God forbid that Saudi women
lose her husband and brothers; she would have to lie down and die.
She cannot shop or work or take her children to the hospital. She
cannot even talk to a man .... I think we are lucky that our women are
almost as capable as men.

However, the younger men who had migrated to earn enough money to marry
had a more positive response to the new practices. One such young and
educated man who had returned from Saudi Arabia after four years said:
‘God has put men in charge of women and they should remain in charge of
them. Saudis have obeyed God’s rule and they have been blessed with so
much oil they do not have to work like us.’ He tried to force his two sisters
to wear the veil. After a period of tension, his mother intervened and said
that the girls would not have to veil until they found suitors, and the brother
finally agreed. Yet, he himself chose a wife who, by neighbourhood
standards, was considered very modern and was working in a fashionable
boutique. A week after the engagement he accompanied his fiancee to buy a
swimming costume, but when I talked to him he still believed women should
cover themselves and stay home.
I came to know of several other cases of young men returning to marry
and demanding that the brides take to the veil. A suitor with enough cash to
marry quickly rather than having to wait for years while accumulating the
necessary funds is hard to refuse for many marriageable young women. They
often agree to marry but find ways of accommodating the new demands. A
bride who initially had resisted veiling explained her change of heart by
saying, ‘...obviously he was responsible and family-oriented because he
already had suffered for a few years to provide a good life for his future
wife.’ However, it is not that clear that such demands on the part of returned
migrants are the result of their exposure to the more segregated society since
many other men who were not migrants made similar demands (Hoddfar
1991). What seems to lead grooms to make such demands is their much
greater material contribution to the marriage, to the establishment of the new
household, and to the upkeep of the family.

Studies of the impact of male migration on the position of women must take
into consideration other important variables such as age, social class,
education, rural vs. urban context, and the duration of migration. My data
indicate that, contrary to common sense expectations, the less educated and
more ‘traditional’ wives tended to gain more decision-making powers over
the family resources, notably their husbands’ incomes, as a result of their
husbands’ migration. It afforded them an opportunity to extend their realm of
contribution to the household. Their new managerial skills and their
experience outside the immediate domain of the family gave the more
‘traditional’ women a new self-confidence and a new adulthood, which
affected their position in the household positively. However, such changes
should not be taken as synonymous with a fundamental change in the ideology
within the wider society. Such transformation occurs when the changes have
worked their way into the common sense knowledge and world-view of the
society at large.
In contrast, the more educated women, all white collar employees with
incomes often comparable to those of their husbands prior to migration, not
only lost access to the husbands’ incomes but experienced a sharp decline in
participation in family decision-making. These women had hoped for and in
many cases had managed to establish a marital union that afforded them a
more equal relationship with their husbands. Their claim to equality,
however, had been based on their cash contribution and did not embrace any
other change in the domestic division of labour. Migration had changed the
balance of cash contribution in favour of their husbands, who after years of
geographical separation often did not feel the same affinity for their wives as
they did before migration. These changes were a source of regret on the part
of these wives despite their recognition of the material advantages of
migration.
Ironically, male migration, which had put women in the unconventional
position of heads of their own households, regardless of whether it resulted
in more or less power for the wives, has also strengthened the more
traditional marriage ideology in which the husband remains the unequivocal
breadwinner and the wife the financially dependent mother and home-maker.
Migration may have resulted in the ‘feminization of the Egyptian family’
(Ibrahim 1982: 92), but it has also reaffirmed the essence of traditional
gender ideology despite some superficial changes.

Notes

* Originally published in the Sociological Bulletin, vol. 42, nos. 1 and 2,

March-September 1993, pp. 113–35. An earlier version of this chapter
was presented at the Middle East Study Group, Birkbeck College,
London, in February 1987. I have benefited greatly from the comments
of Dr F. C. Shorter and Dr Roger Owen.
1 For an overview of the literature on Egyptian migration see Amin and
Awny (1985), and for more recent debates and perspectives sec El
Sayed Said (1990) and Sell (1988).
2 The study was part of a larger project on the survival strategies,
including migration, of a sample of seventy-eight households.
3 A migrant’s household was defined as one in which the husband had
been out of the country in search of employment for at least twelve
 months.
4 Many households may temporarily or occasionally permanently
incorporate kin, including mothers-in-law, who live under the auspices
of the husband and the wife. Therefore, in terms of power structure,
these households resemble nuclear rather than conventional patrilocal
extended households, where the younger couples live under the control
of the husband’s mother and father.
5 Fergany’s nation-wide study has confirmed the universality of this view
(1987: 18).
6 Fergany’s national study indicates that almost 60 per cent of urban
migrants were married with an average of 3.65 dependents (1987: 10).
7 The marriages of two couples who had not had children before
migration broke down while I was in the field. Of three couples who
had only one child, one couple lived through a period of uncertainty
before their differences were finally resolved after migration. In the
second case, the husband had been away for five years and the wife was
not sure if he was ever going to resume their marriage, although she was
almost certain he would pay for her and her daughter’s upkeep.
8 The stress on this point, however, belied the wives’ own unvoiced
personal interests as well as a concern for their children.
9 There were many disturbing stories about the hardship and problems
that migrants faced and their frequent abuse at the hands of the
authorities. There is no national institution, which protects the rights of
Egyptian migrants in the host countries.
10 For women of the low-income social strata, a few precious items,
usually a piece or two of gold jewellery, which they had acquired at the
time of marriage, are the only property they possess and to part with
them signifies a great sacrifice.
11 Both men and women are socialized to view living on one’s own as
very undesirable. For women, however, the situation is more complex
because living alone also often means a much more restricted life under
the watchful eyes of the community.
12 This is not always the most preferred option because the guests would
not be expected to contribute to the cost of their own upkeep, thereby
 making it difficult to save much.
13 Brink (1991: 205–6), who worked in a village near Cairo, also alludes
to a similar pattern there. These findings contradict the common
assumption that within the patrilineal family structure, in the absence of
a husband, his wife has to live under supervision of her husband’s close
kin.
14 A considerable number of less educated migrants from the low-income
neighbourhoods leave home even before securing a job in the host
country.
15 See Hoodfar (1990c) regarding the impact of male migration on the
budgeting patterns and strategies women adopted to protect their
interests.
16 In fact many older women as well as those younger women who are
trained and can draw better salaries than their husbands also migrate
alone, leaving their families behind. While in the field, I came to know
a nurse who left her husband and six-month old baby and migrated for a
year to Kuwait. Another woman left for Saudi Arabia as a hairdresser,
leaving her three children of six, eight and twelve years with her
husband. I also learnt of a few other married women, who were abroad
on their own as teachers, maids, etc., while I was in the field.
17 Many fathers left at 6 a.m. and did not return until 9 or 10 pjn. Given
their low wages and the job insecurity they face, many of them worked
even on Fridays which is their religious holiday.
18 The father’s absence had in some cases resulted in a more democratic
family structure where the mother was more open with her adolescent
children about the family finances and the children responded by being
more understanding and supportive of their mother.
19 My observations in Egypt diametrically oppose those of Kudat (1975:
90) who, in studying the Turkish case, wrote that alienation occurs
between parents and the children left behind, since children come to
view their parents not as providers of love and affection but as
providers of goods. While such an interpretation might hold good at
higher levels of living it is hard to relate it to the lives of low-income
families.
20 Some researchers have suggested that in the countryside, children,
particularly the sons, are kept home to shoulder some of the
responsibilities of their absent fathers (Khafagi 1984; Muaty 1984).
This may explain part of such a tendency, but the fact remains that
education beyond reading and writing is no longer a means for access to
better-paid jobs. Moreover, the high dropout rate among boys after the
primary school level is a national phenomenon.
21 National data shows a sharp increase in the rate of school completion
among women during the 1980s.
22 The exceptions were when the husband and wife were close relatives,
i.e., cousins.
23 These pieces of land were normally 40 square metres or less.
24 Information about exchange rates and the means of getting the best
prices had become part of the wives’ casual conversation.
25 On this point see Wikan (1985) and Khattab and El-Daeif (1982).
26 The migrants often brought with them small electric items, but
generally preferred to buy the cheaper Egyptian-made stoves,
refrigerators, etc. This often meant that women had a say or, more
likely, that they made the purchase.
27 The critical view of the consumption pattern of the migrants’
households is at least partly fuelled by the fact that many of these
electric household goods, until a decade ago, were considered middle
class markers. However, the remittances as well as higher labour
wages, that are at least partly caused by curbing the supply of labour
through external migration, have made these items more widely
available and therefore have blurred these class boundaries. In fact,
Fergany (1987: 25–30), in his nationally representative survey of
migrant households, found that expenditure patterns in the migrant
households are similar to those in non-migrant households of similar
income level.
28 As participants in the informal market they could all resume business if
their financial situation deteriorated.
29 The husbands of these wives were also among the more educated and
the more successful migrants.
30 For boys the roles of father and provider go hand in hand, so they are
encouraged to find ways of earning money in order to be good fathers.
31 Reissuing a ration card involves quite a complicated bureaucratic
procedure (Khouri-dagher 1986) and many families who had moved
from other regions to Cairo had given up hope of ever getting their
ration card transferred. In the event, they could not take advantage of
subsidized food.
32 Other researchers have reported similar cases (Khafagi 1984; Khattab
and El-Daeif 1982).
33 The experience of Gulf migrants differs from that of migrants to Europe
where launderettes and other facilities are more readily available.
Moreover, migrants to Europe have, at least theoretically, easier access
to leisure facilities, and their segregation from the host society is less
overt.
34 For a short review of the Egyptian studies sec Amin and Awny (1985:
59–187) and for a review of Turkish studies see Abadan-Unat (1986)
and Keyder and Aksu-koc (1988: 129–34).

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S B: W

Feminist scholarship in India has documented rich data about women’s work
both in the organized and unorganized sector. There has been special focus
on rural women’s work. Family subsistence work for women in rural areas
includes tending animals, raising and processing food crops, collecting fuel
wood, raising children, caring for the young and sick. These services are
performed in addition to wage work. The women must perform all these
tasks lest they bring disgrace to the family honour. Women’s work in India
becomes a meaningful category for analysis when viewed as being shaped by
the structures of the patriarchal family, labourmarket and caste. The ideology
of seclusion rigidly confines women to the home, and often eliminates their
opportunities for outside work and makes them accept lower wages. Women,
even if they earn less than men, contribute more to the household than men.
Yet the ideology of the male bread winner continues to affect the terms and
conditions of women’s labour supply. Feminist scholarship on women, work
and the household has underlined the importance of recognizing women as
social actors for better understanding of contexts and linkages. In the
subsection on work, Sethi analyses the work patterns of women in relation to
their participation in the decision-making and presents an assessment of their
labour time spent in agriculture. Kala’s essay moves the discussion beyond
the generalized accounts of sexual division of labour in agriculture by
underlining the complex of norms in the local socio-structural context of
rural Kerala. Caplan’s research on women’s associations in a middle class
neighbourhood highlights the membership of clubs for women as status
production work. These essays read together underline the ways in which the
labour of women is rendered as a flexible resource. They highlight the
persistence of women’s differential access to resources and decision-making
despite their participation in paid labour outside the home.
7

W D :AP A
A P *

Raj Mohini Sethi

Recent experience of development in the developing societies highlights the

trend towards economic marginalization of women. Development tends to
favour men by giving them access and control over critical economic
resources and over opportunities for upward mobility. New and prestigious
occupations tend to be cornered by men because women in these societies
lack access to educational opportunities. Women’s tasks tend to be relegated
to the lower ends of the occupational hierarchy. While their work burden
generally increases, their tasks tend to become so devalued that they will not
even be socially defined as work—this, despite the fact that their tasks
continue to be essential and important to the economy and society (Boserup
1970; Sandhu and Dhesi 1977; Singh 1980; Sunder 1981; Sethi (1982).
Hence to ensure development with equity, efforts should be made to reverse
this trend. It is with this intention that an effort is made here to understand
women’s predicaments by studying women ‘family labourers’ in Himachal
Pradesh of north India. I seek to analyse the work patterns of women in
relation to their participation in decision-making at different levels and
assess their labour-time spent in agriculture, animal husbandry and other
household activities. Data for the study were collected from four agricultural
districts in the outer- Himalayan region of the state, viz., Mandi, Hamirpur,
Solan and Sirmour. Out of a total of 3,101 women cultivators 651 were
selected through the procedure of stratified random sampling for intensive
interviews.

S S R D
H P

Agrarian structure in Himachal Pradesh consists of a large mass of self-

cultivating peasant proprietors with the virtual non-existence of wage labour.
Such a situation has arisen because of the implementation of various land
reform measures. The number of large estates was considerably reduced
after the enactment of the Himachal Pradesh Abolition of Big Landed Estates
and Land Reforms Act 1963. It also conferred proprietary rights on tenants
and thereby reduced the number of intermediaries on land. The real abolition
of intermediaries, however, took place after the introduction of the Himachal
Pradesh Tenancy and Land Reforms Act 1972. Under Section 104 of this Act
the right of resumption was restricted to three acres of dry land and one and a
half acres of irrigated land only. On the land thus rendered surplus, tenants
were automatically vested with proprietary rights. Consequently, a large
number of tenants acquired proprietary rights. Land under tenancy was
allowed to only a few protected categories such as soldiers, widows and
minors. The Act also provided various safeguards to tenants. It conferred
proprietary rights on ‘Kismi’ and occupancy tenants; the non-occupancy
tenants could only be ejected from land if they failed to pay rent regularly, if
they did not cultivate land according to the customary practices of the
locality, if they sublet the land over which they had tenancy rights or if they
used the land for any purpose other than the one for which it was assigned. In
case of a rent decree against the tenant, he had to be given six months to clear
the arrears, failing which the land would be relinquished to the government
and not to the owner.
Due to these land reform measures, the agrarian structure in Himachal has
changed considerably during the last twenty- five years. There are a large
number of small and marginal or medium owner-cultivators of land
interspersed by a few big landlords. Due to effective distribution of surplus
lands agricultural labourers form only 4 per cent of the total number of
cultivators.
Besides land reforms, the government has launched diverse
developmental programmes in the state since the middle of the 1960s.
Infrastructural facilities at subsidized rates have been provided for industrial
growth and development. The executing of various rural development
programmes such as the Community Development Programme, the Small
Farmers Development Agency, and the Integrated Rural Development
Programme have also created new employment opportunities. Most of the
agricultural labourers have been absorbed as skilled or unskilled labourers
in the various industries, and in other governmental and non-governmental
activities such as road building and maintenance.
Rural development in Himachal Pradesh, however, has been slow and has
depended mainly on governmental patronage. Cultivation is possible on
small terraces in the hills or in the narrow valleys. The average size of
agricultural holdings is less than two acres and much of it is unirrigated
grassland. Modernization of agriculture is not possible due to the small size
of holdings and scarcity of capital with the hill peasant (Sharma 1983). As
land yields are low, agriculture can barely meet subsistence needs. Nearly 76
per cent of men in the households studied are engaged in occupations, which
take them outside the village. The main burden of agriculture, therefore, falls
on women but, as Maria Mies (1987) notes, this does not enable women to
accumulate capital because they are unpaid family labourers.
Most of the 651 women in our sample are illiterate, married, living in
extended families. The average size of the family is 6.6 persons. Most
women are from the ‘swaran’ (or savarna) castes such as Rajputs, Brahmins
are the largest land-owning groups among the higher castes, while among the
lower castes, Chamars form the largest land-owning group. In Himachal
Pradesh, which is the abode of the Devis (female deities), traditional values
stress the ideals of pativrataor chastity, obedience, servility, patience and
devotion to the husband. Women’s roles are restricted to those of mother,
daughter and wife. There is segregation and seclusion of women. In some
parts of Mandi, Hamirpur and Solan, especially among the Rajputs, purdah
is also observed, though this practice is now being abandoned by the younger
generation of women. Child marriage and forced widowhood are also
widespread social practices. Preferential treatment of sons and
discrimination against girls in imparting education and occupational skills
have relegated women, irrespective of caste and class, to a subordinate
position.
The population of the state has almost doubled between 1951 and 1981.
The decennial growth rate has registered a fourfold increase during this
period. The density of population has increased from 43 to 77 per square
kilometre. Though there is an overall improvement in the sex ratio, there are
wide disparities in sex ratios across the different regions of the state. In the
high-density regions the sex ratio is also high. The literacy rate in Himachal
is reasonably high (42.48 per cent), and the proportion of literates is higher
in the high-density areas. Around one-fourth of the population comprises of
the Scheduled Castes.

M F

Table 7.1, which presents census data for 1971 and 1981 on the changing
female occupational pattern for the four districts under study, shows that
92.34 per cent of all women workers in 1981 were cultivators. Further,
despite the distinction made in the 1981 census between main workers and
marginal workers, the proportion of women workers classified as main
workers in agriculture has not changed. If the number of women classified as
marginal workers and as engaged in household duties are also taken into
account, it can be concluded that the participation of women in agricultural
work has increased over the 1971–81 period.
Table 7.2, which presents district-wise data, shows that Mandi has the
largest proportion of cultivators (76.88 pre cent) followed by Sirmour
(73.09 per cent), Hamirpur (69.06 per cent), and Solan (65.48 per cent). The
proportion of men cultivators among all men workers in all the districts is
lower than the proportion of women cultivators among all women workers.
Table 7.1 Changes in Female Occupational Pattern in Himachal
Pradesh (Rural)

Table 7.2 Proportion of Cultivators and Agricultural Labourers to Total

Workers in four Districts of Himachal Pradesh (1981 Census)
The data on work pattern of women and men workers as presented in Table
7.3 show that women on an average put in about 151 days of work as
compared to the average of 121 days put in by men on the family farms.
Table 7.3 also shows that with an increase in farm-size, the average
number of days of work increases for both men and women, for obvious
reasons. Additional hired labouris used more in larger farms but even here,
going by the experience of farms with more than 15 bighas of land, hired
labour is used to the extent of only 57 per cent of the family labour.
An analysis of Table 7.4 shows that 70 per cent of the women compared
to 52 per cent of the men worked for more than hundred days in a year. The
district-wise pattern compares favourably with the analysis of the total
sample, except in the case of district Sirmour where the total number of days
of work for men and women are equal. This further lends support to our
argument that women’s contribution to agricultural work is more than that of
men in Himachal Pradesh. These differences can be explained in terms of the
nature of agricultural economy in the region. Whereas women engage in
subsistence agriculture, men are absorbed in commercial agriculture or non-
agricultural pursuits. Again, there is task-segregation of agricultural
activities. Ploughing, threshing and sale of agricultural products are
exclusively men’s activities, while preparation of the field and weeding are
exclusively women’s activities. All other agricultural activities are shared by
both women and men though the overall contribution of women is more.
Although the total number of hours of work depend on the nature of
agricultural activity and the crops grown, our data show that for all activities
the average number of hours of agricultural work per day was seven for both
men and women. However, the number of hours of work per day varies
according to the nature of the agricultural task. Ploughing and preparation of
the field require longer hours as compared to weeding.

Table 7.3 Size of the Land-holding and Average Number of Days

Worked by Men and Women in a Year (Rabi and Kharif)

Table 7.4 District-wise Distribution of Respondents According to Sex

and the Number of Days of Agricultural Work Done in a Year (Rabi and
Kharif)
 In the case of cattle-care, data presented in Table 7.5 indicate that women
perform more than 80 per cent of the work. The proportion of women
engaged in various aspects of animal care for more than 200 days in the year
is much higher than the proportion of men. Thus 98.3 per cent of women are
engaged in milking cows for 200 days or more as compared to only 14.28
per cent of the men who are similarly engaged. In cleaning of the cattle shed
96.9 per cent of the women are engaged for 200 days or more as compared to
16.47 per cent of the men. In cattle grazing there is, however, a curious
pattern. While 35.90 per cent of women as compared to 27.97 per cent of
men are engaged in grazing for more than 200 days in the year, the
percentages tilt in favour of men if work for more than 100 days in the year is
considered (78.56 per cent for men and 55.3 per cent of women). Animal
feeding and bathing are again largely women’s activities, the corresponding
percentages being 93.34 and 66.79 for women as compared to 5.66 and 10
for men. The district-wise data conforms to the overall pattern except in the
case of Sirmour district.

Table 7.5 Distribution of Respondents by Sex and by the Number of

Days of the Work Done in Various Aspects of Cattle Care
 In Sirmourdistrict the number of men who engage themselves in various
cattle related activities is much higher than in the other three districts. For
example, our data show that 156 men in Sirmour fetch fodder as compared to
three in Mandi, nineteen in Hamirpur and forty-four in Solan. Again 150 men
help in cleaning the cattle shed in Sirmour as compared to eighteen in district
Solan and two in Hamirpur and none in Mandi. A similar situation exists
with regard to the grazing and feeding of animals. Only in two activities
(milking and bathing of animals) is the overall proportion of men in all the
sampled districts small, though this proportion is relatively large in district
Sirmour. Men’s participation in cattle care is not a regular feature but only an
occasional activity. This is confirmed by data presented in Table 7.6; on an
average, women spend 3.08 hours per day as compared 1.06 hours by men.

Table 7.6 Average Number of Hours Per Day Per Activity Spent by
Women and Men in Cattle Care
 From the data on housework presented in Table 7.7, it can be inferred that
although all household tasks are undertaken both by men and women, the
latter are overwhelmingly involved in domestic chores. Only in tasks such as
fetching water or fuel, removing cowdung to the fields, cleaning and grinding
grain and in teaching children, men also participate in a significant way.
These activities also involve going outside the home. Men are mainly
engaged in activities which generate cash, in transacting business and in
keeping household accounts. Men’s participation in household chores,
however, is only nominal. Women also spend longer hours per day on
household chores (3.24) as compared to men (2.35). Women perform 70 to
75 per cent of the agricultural work in addition to 90 to 95 per cent of the
work related to animal husbandry besides being wholly involved in
housework.

Table 7.7 Activities-wise Distribution of Average Number of Days in a

Year and Average Number of Hours Per Day in Domestic Work
 Women’s dominant participation in economic activities, however, does
not give them a dominant role in decision-making. Table 7.8 shows that in
taking decisions on education and admission of children in schools, in
selecting an occupation or a mate for children, expenditure on children’s
marriages, and the observance of ritual and social ceremonies, women
participate along with other men in the household; only 7 to 10 per cent of
women take such decisions independently of men. In allocation of work
within the family and in child-care, women are significant decision-making
patterns if not the decision-makers. In other domains of decision-making such
as the purchase of agricultural implements, seeds, fertilizers and insecticides
(77.47 per cent), investment of family income in agricultural activities (74.81
per cent), in maintenance of accounts of the family (69.16 per cent) and
participation in village development activities (62.66 per cent), men
dominate. In the sale of agricultural products and the construction of the
house or in incurring other domestic expenses, although men dominate (57.08
per cent and 53.91 per cent respectively), women have a say. Thus all the
major decisions in the family are taken by men either individually or jointly
with women, in all the economic and prestige groups. Thus men wield
considerable domestic power by exercising control over decisions affecting
the household economy. Women, who are the productive and reproductive
agents, exercise exclusive control over peripheral areas of domestic life.

Table 7.8 Decision-making by Gender

 If the data are analysed district-wise, it is interesting to note that
decisions on education and occupation and marriage of children and
observance of rites and rituals are taken autonomously by men in Mandi and
Hamirpur but jointly by men and women in Solan and Sirmour. As regards
the purchase and sale of agricultural products, decisions are taken
autonomously by men in the three districts of Mandi (90.5 per cent),
Hamirpur (47.3 per cent) and Solan (58.5 per cent), but jointly in district
Sirmour (57.5 per cent). Although in all four districts men are the custodians
of all the income and take decisions regarding expenses on agricultural
inputs, in the case of decisions on the construction or purchase of house and
participation in village developmental programmes both men and women
participate in district Sirmour (78.7 per cent and 71.1 per cent respectively).
District Sirmour exhibits a tendency towards joint decision-making by men
and women in comparison to the other three districts. It is also the district
where the line of demarcation between productive work and housework is
not as distinct as it is in the other three districts.

The foregoing analysis amply highlights the dominant role women play in
agricultural production and in housekeeping, supporting the observations
made by scholars both within the country and outside (First-Dilic 1974;
Epstein 1987; Mies 1987 and Nair 1987). First-Dilic (1986: 18) observes
that the increasing participation of women in family farms is accompanied by
an increasing withdrawal of men from these farms leading to the
‘feminisation’ of the agricultural labour force. She holds that the economic
relationship determines all other social relationships, but concludes, ‘in any
analysis of the individual situation it is the social being as a whole that has to
be taken into account.’ The social being, according to her, includes the
economic as well as the political being and the accompanying ideology,
culture and tradition. Political, ideological and cultural factors cause
increasing marginalization of women despite their high rate of work
participation on family farms. Women’s participation in decision-making in
production and distribution and their representation in village developmental
activities have not changed. Women are treated as mere beasts of burden that
do 75 per cent of the work on family farms and take upon themselves the
major, if not the sole, responsibility for cattle-care, housework and the
socialization of the young. Men perform only productive agricultural work
and nonagricultural work and when unemployed prefer to remain idle than
share housework. In Himachal Pradesh the ownership and control of land
remain with the men. The hold of patriarchal values is so strong among the
peasant communities that the provisions under the Hindu Succession Act
1956 providing women equal rights over parental property remain on paper
only.
The importance of social values in determining the status of women farm
workers can be elaborated by focusing on data from district Sirmour. The
relatively high level of shared decision-making and men’s relatively high
level of participation in animal husbandry and housework in district
Sirmourcan be traced to the role of culture, including the practice of fraternal
polyandry.
Paramar (1975) has attempted to account for polyandry in Himachal
Pradesh by referring to the demographic and economic factors that operate in
the region. One such significant demographic feature of the region, according
to Paramar, is the low sex ratio. In regions where polyandry is observed, the
number of women per 1,000 men is said to be lower than in other regions.
The economic explanation that Paramar provides for polyandry is in terms of
the women’s value in housework, in cattle care, in bringing fuel and grass
from the fields and in agricultural work. Another type of economic
explanation has been provided by Dube (1975: xi) when he observes that:

in the hills where agricultural land is scare and its cultivation is

exceedingly difficult, polyandrous domestic groups are more adapted
to successful farming in the rocky slopes and narrow valleys. By
pooling their labour and capital several brothers can attend to
cultivation much better, single individuals may find the task
unmanageable. The prevailing social practice definitely discourages
fragmentation of land.
Interestingly, in this study the sex ratio in district Sirmour turned out to be the
lowest. But the explanation of polyandry for preventing fragmentation of land
holdings is not wholly applicable to this district because the average size of
land holdings is lower than that of the other three districts, although in Sir-
mour one comes across some of the largest land-holdings in all the four
districts. There are large holdings in Hamirpur and Solan districts as well,
but they are holdings of unirrigated land or grassland. Small land-holdings
are widespread in district Mandi as well. Since polyandry remains only as a
vestige in the districts of Hamirpur, Solan and Mandi, it is not possible to
establish a systematic relationship between polyandry and the size of land
holding. The data presented in this paper show that the economic importance
of women in the other three districts is greater than that of Sirmour, where
men also share in women’s work both indoors and outdoors. Hence the
Sirmour situation can best be accounted for in terms of social factors. In
Sirmour the custom of ‘reet’ prevails, which allows women the freedom to
‘secure release from one set of husbands to marry another’. It is a method of
obtaining customary divorce if the household environment becomes
intolerable for a woman and no stigma is attached to ‘reet’ unions (Dube
1975). The men under such marital unions are uncertain about their
wife/wives remaining permanently with them. Hence a higher social value is
placed on women.
The subordination of women in Himachal Pradesh can also be traced to
the excessive concern for maintaining the ‘purity’ of the female body in
child-rearing practices and the socialization of women. This concern leads to
segregation and seclusion of women, purdah, child-marriage, sati and forced
widowhood (Acharya 1986). As a result, women are engaged in
‘workintensive private agriculture’, which is regarded as low prestige work
not significantly contributing to productivity.
Segregation and seclusion of women also closes educational and
employment opportunities for women and prevent them from acquiring
vocational skills. Since women are unable to transcend these socio-cultural
barriers, they are segregated within the existing structures of the divisions of
labour in society. This marginalization and segregation of women seems to
be inevitable till they learn to empower themselves and overcome social
obstacles to their development.
 The seclusion and isolation of women also has an unfavourable
implication for the participation of women in public life. Adolescent girls
and women who try to break the rules of seclusion are often subjected to
male violence both inside and outside the household (Acharya 1986).
Seclusion and segregation make women and their work invisible. It is for
these reasons that women’s work within the household is considered to have
only use-value in the social division of labour. Women’s seclusion keeps
them out of the decision-making processes related to various rural
development activities such as the utilization of loans and subsidies under the
various IRDP (Integrated Rural Development Programme) schemes. Women
are not supposed to go to the land mortgage banks and other co-operative
societies to get loans sanctioned for agricultural development or for various
schemes under the REP (Rural Employment Programme) in animal husbandry
and rural industrialization. Women are also not supposed to go and hobnob
with men in the agricultural marketing committees and similar other bodies.
As a result, although women perform most of the agricultural work and hence
can provide better advice on new investments and changes required in
agriculture and allied activities, invariably it is the men who as heads and
owners-of family farms are the real decision makers. The governmental and
non-governmental agencies also prefer men for these purposes because they
can furnish land and other property as collateral’s for loans.

* Originally published in the Sociological Bulletin, vol. 3, no. 2,

September 1989, pp. 217–33.

References

Acharya, Meena. 1986. ‘Changing Division of Labour and Participation’, in

James Warner Bjorkman (ed.). Changing Division of Labour in South
Asia. New Delhi: Manohar Publications.
Blumberg, R. L. 1981. “Kibbutz Women from the fields of revolution to the
laundries of discontent’, in L. B. Iglitzin and R. Ross (eds.).Women in the
 World. Santa Barbara, California: ABC-CLIO.
Boserup, Esther. 1970. Women’s Role in Economic Development. London:
Allen & Unwin.
Cerenea, Mikali. 1986. ‘The Macro-social changes and Three-fold Role of
Women in the Peasant Family’, Sociologija Sela, vol. 40, no. 2, pp. 221–
28.
Dube, S. C. 1975. ‘Introduction’, in Y. S. Paramar. Polyandry in the
Himalayas.New Delhi: Vikas.
Epstein, Soarlett, T. 1986. ‘Cracks in the Wall. Changing Gender Roles in
Rural South Asia’, in James Warner Bjorkmann (ed.). Changing Division
of Labour in South Asia.New Delhi: Manohar Publications.
First-Dilic, Ruza. 1974. ‘The Women Active Agricultural Producers’, Zena
Zagreb, vol. 32, no. 2, pp. 18–26.
———. 1986. ‘Changing Economics Roles of Farm: Women in the Socialist
Federal Republic of Yugoslavia’, in Leela Dube, Eleanor Leacock, and
Shirley Ardener (eds.). Visibility and Power. Delhi: Oxford University
Press.
Mies, Maria. 1987. Indian Women in Subsistence and Agricultural
Labour.New Delhi: Vistaar.
Nair, Kusum. 1986. ‘Impact of New Technologies in Agriculture in South
Asia’, in James Warner Bjorkman (ed.). The Changing Division of Labour
in South Asia. New Delhi: Manohar Publications.
Paramar, Y. S. 1975. Polyandry in the Himalayas. New Delhi: Vikas.
Report of National Commission on Agriculture. 1976. Agrarian Reforms.
Part XV, Government of India. New Delhi: Ministry of Agriculture and
Irrigation.
Sandhu, H. K. and Dhesi, J. K. 1977. ‘The Economic Contributions of
Women in Agricultural Development’, Journal of Research, vol. XIV, no.
1, pp. 96–102.
Sethi, R. M. 1982. Female Labour in Agriculture. Chandigarh: Department
of Sociology. Punjab University.
Sharma, Ursula. 1983. Women, Work and Property in Northwest India.
London: Tavistock Publications.
Singh, K. P. 1980. ‘Economic Development and Female Labour Force
Participation: The Case of Punjab’, Social Action, vol. 30 (April–June),
pp. 128–37.
Sunder, Pushpa. 1981. ‘Characteristics of Female Employment: Implications
of Research and Policy’, Economic and Political Weekly, vol. XXX, no.
19 (May), pp. 863–71.
8

F P F W C
K *

C. V. Kala

This article attempts to show that at the micro level women’s participation in
agricultural work is controlled by a complex of norms in the local social
structural context. Published accounts dealing with sexual division of labour
in agriculture are highly generalized and are based on aggregate census
figures. Occasionally, one finds a remark that some non-economic factors
also influence women’s participation at the village level.
A few recent studies (Boserup 1975: 99–111; Gulati 1975a; 1692–704;
ICSSR 1975; Joshi 1975) reveal keen awareness of the need to explore in
detail the social factors to learn the differential participation of women
workers. Notwithstanding the recognition, none of these studies could deal
with the issue squarely as they used aggregate census data for their analysis.
Useful as the findings of these studies are, the real need seems to be the
integration of census data with those drawn from ethnographic and case
studies at the micro level.
Those well acquainted with the agricultural sector of the rural economy
of India are, no doubt, impressed with the limitations of the possible changes
in sex roles in the labour market. Unni (1975: 229) has shown with reference
to the same taluka where I worked that there is a variety of social constraints
which determine why certain social groups provide farm labour and why
some refrain from hiring out their labour. Such aspects of the peasant
economy in India have received very inadequate attention at the hands of
sociologists. Joan P. Mencher, who worked in several parts of the same
district, has pointed out the sex-based constraints in participation of women
in farm labour.1

T S S

The land reform law in Kerala (operational since 1970) has by now
eliminated the big landlords. It has led to the country’s lowest; level of land
holding: 6 hectares. Now more than 2.5 million former tenant farmers till
their own land, often with hired labour in the case of high-caste owners. The
level of literacy in the state is 62 per cent as against the overall figure of 30
per cent for the country.
In the context of the dispersed settlements found in rural Kerala, it may
not be meaningful to isolate a single village for study. My data, therefore,
relate to a group of four neighbouring villages which come under the
reorganized local administrative unit of Trikkateri village panchayat in the
Ottapalamtaluk of Palghat district. There are 242 villages (formerly known
as desoms) in this taluk. Of these, the four villages studied had a population
ranging from 1,000 to 2,000 in 1971.2
The data for the study were collected through participant observation and
interviews of farm labourers in the period April–May 1975 and November–
December 1975. The data resources permitted a study of the situation which
occurred in about 1950 and also changes occurring in it today. Using the data
relating to early 1950s as a benchmark, our account deals with the trend of
changes in the last few years.

AP C P

Agricultural activities consisted of nearly 70 per cent paddy cultivation, the

rest being garden crops such as arecanut, coconut, bananas and the recently
fast spreading cash crop, tapioca etc. Summer cultivation of bananas by lift
irrigation occurs during March to September. Vegetables, particularly a
variety of melons, are cultivated on a small homestead scale in March and
April, mainly depending on lift irrigation from wells.
In agriculture, neither the workers nor the employers make a clear
distinction between rice cultivation and directly or indirectly linked
agricultural activities. Thus several para-agricultural activities are regarded
as open occupations (which may be pursued by a few castes), and farm
labour includes a complex of activities. For instance, cultivating vegetables
in lands unsuitable due to elevation for a second paddy crop, parboiling
paddy and processing it for storage, fencing, all preparatory work preceding
the cultivation of the staple crop of paddy, cattle care are all regarded as an
integrated complex of farm activity.
Rice fields are graded as (a) dry rice farming areas (modem) which are
on the lower reaches of hill slopes descending into lower lying basins and
are cultivated once in three years, (b) the contiguous slopes (pallyal) where
rice cultivation is possible once in a year during the monsoon, June to
September, (c) the double crop lower lying fields where topographic
conditions retain water for a second crop, October to February and very
rarely needs a little irrigation, (d) the lowest lying patches of land where
wells and pools do not fail in summer and can be managed to use for a third
crop of rice partly under efforts of irrigation. The dry farming (modan) areas
on hill slopes have been decreasing in acreage due to preference for cash
crops of quicker returns and extension of residence sites as the population
increased.

T S L T O

It is useful to have here an outline of the land ownership and tenure pattern
before the land reforms commenced. Broadly, the agrarian hierarchy which
continued with little changes until about 1950, was of a three to four tier
system of ownership and infeudation. The janmi, the owner at the top, was by
caste the highest. His right over land was a form of absolute ownership and
he usually held vast estates. Under the janmiwere kanam tenants mostly from
the middle range of castes. The majority of kanam tenant households got land
parceled out under the sub tenancy known as verumpattam, which in most
cases were not supported by a deed but only by a verbal agreement. This
form of sub-tenancy was less secure than the kanam form and could be
evicted at the will of the lessor. The holders of this kind of tenancy had four
categories—the owner, tenant, sub-tenant and the labourer. The sub-tenants
(iverumpattakkar) were, in large measure, self-employed and they also hired
labour. Kanam tenant households, particularly since the forties, even when
they were tenants of small holdings, began to depend increasingly on hired
labour of low castes. The major reason for this was the low esteem in which
manual labour was held by the members of the high castes.

S B F L
E S

Farm labour in rice fields and other linked activities, as well as labour for
certain domestic needs of farm households (owner, cultivator and marginal
farmers in the census meaning of these terms), was supplied by untouchable
castes. In this area the majority of farm labour was of the untouchable castes
of Cherumans, the next in order being the less polluting poor Tandan
(corresponding to Tiyas in other areas) households.
Unni (1975: 235) has described the social constraints, which governed
the issue of who would work for whom. Also, he has brought out how the
ecological setting narrowed the spatial mobility of labour, particularly for
females.
Topographically this is the central region of Kerala with undulating
countryside, narrow winding paddy fields, hill slopes covered with
vegetation and seasonal/garden crops, often terraced plots being used
intensively by the rotation of crops. The house in the dispersed pattern of
settlement, with its fenced garden crops and private bathing pool (a feature
common among the higher castes which began to be the local model to be
followed by all who could afford it) was maintained by bunding and fencing
into an integrated whole. Each such house-site is separated from the next in
several ways, mainly by fencing and nurturing rows of trees and bushes along
boundaries.
In the dispersed pattern of settlements a household aspires for a viable
homestead. Locally this means that there should be land for raising paddy,
land for garden and tree crops, and bulky yields of green leaves for manure.
Less fertile slopes with bamboos for thorny fencing and other uses and a
couple or more of / wells and water pools were equally desired in such a
settlement. Until the forties, such a unit was not a great problem for
partitioned segments of large households, but since then households manage
these needs often under much stress. In this kind of setting, one has no
alternative to walking except to some extent in recent years when roads have
begun to penetrate into the interior. However, in farm work all things have to
be moved by head loads, and farmland movements involved frequent walking
up and down the rugged terrain.
In such a topography farm labour was drawn from households located
within easy access of the employer’s house and his farms. Convention
regarding the journey to work has been as important a constraint as the
choices involved in who would work for whom. For instance, a female
worker is expected to function within walking distance. This means that she
should be able to return to the work spot, or carrying babies of the suckling
age to places of work was unconventional and would be done only as an
exception. Females showed a compulsive adherence to this principle and this
was also true of the non-Indians, the Moslems.

T F L M :L C

Locally the conception of farm labour is of a continuum in the sense that the
locus of work may be in the fields of wet cultivation, in the garden crop
areas, around the employers’ houses or in the adjoining hill-slopes. As noted,
a clear distinction is not made between farm and non-farm work except when
the work is not even indirectly linked with the farm. Broadly, work is
divided into categories by the employers as (a) rice field work (krishipani
or padathupani), (b) work in the house compound (todipani) which for an
average well-to-do household covers about one and a half to two acres of
garden crops, (c) outdoor work (purampani) which means work linked to the
everyday household chores such as hewing firewood, tending milk cattle,
processing cereals and pulses for storage and for seeds. Most of such
activities are being done in the yards surrounding the house of the employer.
When the days of peak work in rice fields come to an end, the worker gets
engaged in a mix of all these categories of work. The reason for this is
mainly the nature of relationship between the household of the employer and
the household of the attached labour. Between the two, there is a pronounced
reciprocal dependency.
Regularly employed workers’ households were regarded as labourers
attached to the master’s household. It was customary even in earlier decades
for tenants to keep one or more attached households of workers. In the 1950s
such attached labour households began to receive ‘paternal’ cum masterly
relations from its employer. It, therefore, remained as the first preferred
labour resource group for the master’s needs of labour.
The distinction into three broad categories of work noted above is
maintained among cultivators even when they are self-employed. As can be
seen later, this distinction has a bearing on the customary sex-wise
differentiation in work roles.

D W B S

Agricultural labour is categorized into varies specific tasks tabulated below

with such details relevant to the main theme of this study.3
It may be noted that in the table, the sex-neutral nature (SN) of the tasks
generally lead to the practice of half the quantum of the work being done by
males and half by females. It is permissive that either sex might do it, but
usually it is not done by one sex exclusively. In the 1950s the small
cultivators who could be self-employed belonged mainly to the high castes
and only their males undertook out-door manual work. Where female labour
was required, they liked hiring it from the then untouchable low caste
households. The proportion of female share in the work shown in column
‘self-employed’ was in actual practice current only in the case of poor high
caste self-cultivating households.
Before we proceed further it is rewarding to note the important
observations made in two of the most recent studies on this problem.
Women’s participation documented in census as regards farm employment is
instructive. In India 80.1 per cent of women workers (in 1971) were engaged
in agriculture and in rural areas they make up 87 per cent of the female work
force. Census of Kerala shows that in Kerala female participation in
cultivation is lowest and in agricultural labour it is the highest. Gulati notes,
‘Kerala’s female participation in cultivation was among the lowest in both
1961 and female participation in cultivation was among the lowest in both
1961 and in 1971’ (1975a: 1697). One of the reasons she presumes for this
feature to have occurred in Kerala is that cultivator households prefer
withdrawal of their women from farm work, a fact that I observed even in the
case of cultivators with very small holdings.
Based on information at the national level, there have been remarks
explaining the possibility of the extent of women’s role in farm labour
varying with the crop pattern. For instance, Andre Béteille (1975: 67)
points out the general feature that the proportion of females in the agricultural
work force ‘is higher in the paddy producing areas of east and south India
than in the wheat producing areas of the north.... In some of the rice
producing districts of south India women actually outnumber men among the
agricultural labourers’. One reason he notes for this is that wet paddy
cultivation’s is a ‘particularly difficult and unpleasant occupation and...
women are paid less than men’. However, LeelaGulati (1975b: 42) arrives at
the conclusion that it is not possible to explain inter-state differences in
female participation rates in terms of (a) disparities in per capita income; (b)
the cropping pattern; (c) disparate levels of literacy; (d) dissimilarities in
rates of male participation; (e) varying proportions of scheduled caste and
scheduled tribe population; (/) differing sex ratios. She of course adds that
this is by no means a list that exhausts all the economic and demographic
factors to which female participation could possibly be related. Among the
causes she thinks that (a) women can carry children to the farm nearby; (b)
women’s jobs do not need special training; (c) women are paid less for many
jobs. However, in the light of my data such explanations are to a certain
extent questionable for Kerala, or at least for the midland regions where I
have worked. Both structural and cultural aspects influence the extent of
female participation in work.

Table 8.1 Sex-wise Distribution of Work

 Principles underlying this pattern of selective participation are described
below. Some of my interpretations are provisional and need more pointed
study.
(a) Generally, work that involves good muscular strength is a male task.
Thus, ploughing and hoeing need, in local conception, muscular strength and
being non-sedentary make it a more exacting task. Work that involves control
of sturdy animals, breaking hard stones, hewing large blocks of wood are
tasks symbolised as amenable to be done by use of strength characteristic of
males. Also, therefore, some preparatory tasks related to such jobs such as
leading plough animals to the work spot and yoking them are men’s roles.
Reflecting over issues related to this explanation, I have heard elderly men
remarking that draft animals continuously cared or handled by women would
even lose their masculine strength.
(b) Generally the initial important task, which is the first phase of an
interrelated system of activities, is done by males. For instance, in rice
cultivation ploughing, in addition to the need of muscular strength to loosen
the soil, is also the first important task that sets the field ready for further
inputs of labour. Hoeing is the first step to prepare beds for vegetable
cultivation and it is the role of males. A tree to be filled is axed at the root of
the trunk as the first step. This is exclusively a male’s job but once the tree
falls females may cut down small branches, bundle up twigs and carry them.
In constructing a house, the first step, hoeing for building its plinth, involves
making a trench and women carry headloads of soil. In the hewing of huge
logs of wood the initial splitting by hand-axe is done by men but further
cutting into small pieces is permitted for women, thought not preferred. But
carrying headloads of firewood for storage in the master household’s custody
is mainly the task of the female worker.
(c) Tasks which need sedentary or semi-sedentary attention such as
transplanting paddy seedlings, cutting grass for fodder, weeding, carrying
firewood over short distance and fetching headloads of green leaf for manure
from hill slopes are predominantly female tasks. When these and some other
similar tasks are done by both sexes, it is important to note that the female
worker exhibits a difference in the manner of handling the task. For instance,
firewood may be carried over a long distance, harvested bundles of paddy
may be so carried, and green leaf manure may be carried similarly by both
sexes. In such cases, the quantity carried by the female is less and her
walking and bearing are locally conceived as slow, effeminate and less
efficient or, in sum, less in output that befits the lower wage paid, compared
to wages of males. Also, a woman worker is not supposed to run fast or walk
up briskly with headloads of things; and thus has emerged the symbol of
slovenliness in the image of performance of tasks by women. Some aspects
of the mode of behaviour of females in economic or other activities are not
caste-specific. In other works, women of all castes in central Kerala
(perhaps in other parts of the State as well) share this feature. They usually
do not walk briskly, have a bearing distinct from that of males without
throwing their chest forward and without swinging arms and holding their
head lifted high. Women, whether farm workers or not, do not shout loudly
across the extensive farmlands as men do to convey a message or call
somebody. Women of any of the castes, low or high, do not smoke or drink
liquor (as is done by low caste female workers in some other parts of India).
Except the very elderly, even poor women, irrespective of caste, do not go
unaccompanied by relatives, a neighbour, or a female village mate over a
long distance.
Such differentiating symbols may show adaptive variations in farm work
but not a complete absence of these features in the case of female labourers.
Relaxations to these regulations might happen under job exigencies or under
unexpected pressure of circumstances. However, it is of short duration and
even today does not signify the beginnings of a change towards masculine
mode of behaviour.
(d) Another constraint customarily observed by female workers is against
the killing of an animal, even small game such as a rabbit, mongoose and the
like. This is the case with females of any caste, but the low caste females eat
the meat of such animals and care to explore chances of getting to it through
their men folk. As noted, minor variations to this are a matter of
permissiveness and have still failed to develop as preferences. These are,
however, rather secondary to agricultural activities and are not usually done
on the basis of hired labour.
(e) Although farm labour is generally believed to be consisting of
unskilled work, it is not fully true because regular performance of one kind of
work by one sex (preferably from selected castes) lead to a dexterous
handling of it. For this reason some tasks are caste-specific in the sense that
labour of castes which do not regularly handle certain tasks are least
preferred for those tasks. For instance, the caste of Panans who devote
themselves mainly to the craft of making leaf umbrellas and render some
ritual performances is well known to be most clumsy in handling the plough.
In the 1950s it was reported as amusing to find Panans faltering in the course
of the occasional handling of piecemeal farm work assigned to term. From
this perspective the sex-wise division of labour has brought about
preferences in maintaining it in the interest of efficiency in the sense that
tasks done, by women in large measure remained their domain. Therefore,
the idea that more of women are employed in tasks because of their lower
wages is not an unquestionable explanation.
(f) Tasks which involved climbing a tree, scaling up or down a steep wall
or bund without any securely made ladder is the male’s task. Climbing on the
roof of a house or a farm structure to re-thatch it is exclusively done by the
male. While sinking a well or desalting an old well one or two have to be at
the bottom at work. Females are not employed in this kind of work or other
jobs involving this kind of operations as for instance building up a huge hay
stalk, cutting bamboo thorns. In all such instances, the explanation of the
workers is that such tasks involve risk since one is likely to slip and fall
down, or a bund or a well might cave in, endangering life. Females are
excluded from obviously risky jobs, or risk-prone tasks, and as well from
tasks that might continue through hours after sunset. Fishing in deep water in
bathing pools is not left to females for it often requires exertion to stay for
hours in water and at times exposed to chances of facing water snakes.
Further, such pond fishing, which is an annual feature, might continue late
into the night.
(g) A worker household regularly employed by a master (‘attached
labour’ as used in this study) likes to cover nearly all the labour needs of that
household. It resents others being called to replace or to supplement its
labour potential. Therefore, several agricultural tasks have a flexibility in
that a male or a female might do those depending on the household, and age
and sex composition of the worker’s household. Thus there are tasks where
the proportion of female participation ranges from 40 to 60 per cent.
Collecting green leaf manure, fetching and submerging it in ploughed marshy
field beds, harvesting and threshing are such jobs. However, even within this
customary flexibility in the sexual division of labour, some tasks, which are
unpleasant, are assigned to females and only a small proportion of males join
such activities. When males turn to such jobs it is mainly through the urge to
cover the master household’s labour needs. The workers do have their self-
definition of what is conceived as unpleasant. For instance, carrying
headloads of cowdung in bamboo baskets, which soil the body through drips
of dung overflowing and leaking, is an unpleasant task. Clearing the
cattleshed each morning and dumping the cattle dung in the storage pit,
carrying of desalted wet soil on head in containers which usually leakL are
tasks of this nature. However, transplanting paddy is counted as unpleasant
only by old women who resent standing long in more than ankle deep muddy
bed. Young women do not affirm that it is unpleasant; rather they view it as
an interesting interlude in the sequence of operations. It is usually done in
teams of several women in one row gossiping and working in a rather
relaxed rhythm. Another unpleasant task is the removing of the fibrous cover
of arecanut after it has been soaked and the cover is about to decompose.
This work involves handling the foul smelling soaked nuts and is done by
females.
(h) Some of the tasks are so subdivided that a part of it is done by males
and a part by females. Examples are threshing, winnowing in which the
males let the grains flow down from a height, and building up of tall hay
stalks. Such a division of tasks enables a married couple to work together or
members of the same worker household jointly conducting one whole task.
However, as noted earlier, there is flexibility in the extent of sex wise
participation in such tasks, the more so if the work place is within the garden
compound around the master’s household. The main principle here is that the
male workers with their female household members should be able to work
in the same work yard or if possible on the same task. Females are thus
excluded from the need of moving out of range of sight of their male kin who
have a certain pattern of control over the conduct of the females. Therefore,
spatial range of mobility of females is highly restricted except when several
females as a work party can be engaged on one task.
 (i) In doing certain tasks the scale matters as a decisive factor over
assignment of sex roles. When the task has only permissiveness for female, it
is done by her only if it lasts for a short duration. Further, when the scale is
large the work party might include members who are close kin. In such cases
the female should not do a task which might bring her into embarrassingly
close proximity with the male who is not her close kin. Thus when sinking a
well and headloads of soil have to be carried or when cattle dung has to be
moved into fields by basket-loads each load has to be lifted by the one who
fills the basket to more than shoulder height and placed on the head of the one
who carries. A female cannot lift and do this without keeping a respectable
physical distance from the woman who carries the load. In such situations
involving conformity to norms of sex-segregation, the male takes over the
task with the dexterity he has acquired in lifting things.
(j) The workers have their subjective conception of the categories of
location in which they work. These may be called ‘private space’, ‘semi-
public space’ and ‘public space’. Work within their own tiny house-site or
work in the more extensive garden crop areas surrounding their master’s
residence is regarded as confined to private space. The familiar spatial range
where women do farm work within a short walking distance from their
homes is conceived as the second order of space—semi public area of work.
Work outside these kinds of areas such as places where identity cannot be
recognized due to the distance from their homes is viewed as an ‘out station’
work—work in public space. For instance, the road side areas away from
one’s home with lineal shops/bazaar is such a public space serving transport
and shopping needs of several villages (desoms). In such public spaces,
females prefer working in groups of relatives or village mates when work
nearer home is not at all available. In the private space in tasks, which are
not exclusively of males, there has been a tendency for more female
participation that noted in the proportions mentioned in Table 8.1. In the
public space there is much less of agricultural work, particularly in rice
cultivation. The tendency in rice farming has been to employ workers who
could work within the area, which they would view as a semi-public space.
However, in the matrix of agricultural activities, in the field of non-rice
cultivation in public space, broadly the proportion of female participation
tended to get maintained in the same or correspondingly similar kinds of
tasks. This ensured supply of the labour needs of the master’s household to
get employed in public space and evade under-employment under their
master’s households. Also, the master household gained through the lower
wage of women workers in such situations.
(k) An important point to note is the qualitative difference in the sex
specific roles of males and females. In all tasks which are exclusively of
females or optionally done by them, the planning of the tasks and thinking
over issues involved in the successful completion of it are all done by males.
For example, females would start weeding or transplanting and expect
guidance from the males about the quantum of work to be done, the sequence
in which it is to be done, the bulk of seedlings to be plucked for transplanting
of cover a field-bed prepared for it. A female is seldom conceived as
capable of estimating the materials, time and sequence and similar
consideration related to the farm labour. Occasionally, if a woman worker
exhibited such abilities of team leadership it is not recognized and
encouraged.
(l) As far as I could probe, this pattern of sex-wise division of labour
was not governed by taboos or by explanations with ritual overtones. In fact
in the 1920s, higher castes except Brahmins cultivated land surrounding their
residence employing their own household manpower resources depending on
little or no external help from lower castes. It was then considered an
auspicious endeavour to raise rice crops on more or less the same pattern of
sex-wise division of labour. Informants recalling those days also fail to give
any specific ritual meaning to the constraints in this pattern of participation.

C 1975

The situation today is not markedly different from that of 1950. However,
there are some differences mainly as a result of several kinds of extraneous
forces. The tasks in farm work we have considered are not now so rigidly
caste-specific as in 1950. A few castes, other the Cherumans (an ex-
untouchable caste) who were the main labour resources, are also offering to
work on the farm and are now getting hired. However, sex-specific roles
with their limited flexibility continue as before.
Today, as a consequences of the shift in crop pattern and of the efforts in
modernizing agricultural work, both farm work and off-farm work have been
shrinking in scope for the females. Introduction of water pumps for irrigation
from ponds and wells, rice mills, etc., are devices which have displaced
females and have yet not driven them to break the early convention of sex-
specific roles. Perhaps this withdrawal is compensated by the fact that more
males are getting job opportunities or other wage work in factories, in road
building and such developmental programmes. As a result of these, females
are employed to the maximum possible extent subject to the norms of sex
participation within the private space and the semi public space described
earlier. Also, low wages prevail which to some extent is an inducement for
employers to hire them.4
Introduction of tapioca as a cash crop involves more work for men than
for women unless locally it is cut and processed on a large scale. Usually,
such processing is done by contractors who collect from small farmers and
carry truckloads to distant centres for processing. Banana cultivation using
diesel-powered pumps for irrigation has displaced the need for women to
serve in irrigating small-scale banana plantations.
An important change that has occurred in the formerly untouchable women
workers under relaxed conventions about pollution and social distance
between castes is that they now have access , to certain kinds of household
work in their master’s household. Thus a low caste woman worker can be
seen occasionally moving into the vicinity of the master’s house to give
assistance in household work-cleaning rice, squashing coconuts, slicing
vegetables, cleaning the floor of the house and such chores. Women of the
formerly less polluting castes are hired to assist in more interior indoor work
of the higher caste households. Under land reforms high caste households
have lost either the whole or a major part of their land to the tenants or have
become poor for other reasons. Women of such household today can be
counted as part of the female labour force, but in a highly restricted sense.
They serve only the related well- to-do households, usually their descent
group, and do not in such work situations, mind working abreast of the
formerly untouchable women.
 None of the labour replacing devices, the water pump, the rice mill (for
husking paddy) and the power tiller which have reached in small numbers in
this area is considered as a job opportunity for women. It is almost a taboo
for a woman to handle any of these and the trend thus indicates adverse
effects on female employment due to technological modernization.
There is now a trend, although just incipient, in favour of female workers’
localized opportunity. This is a result of land reforms under which former
landlords (janmis) lost their rice fields to the tenant from whom the
compensation is a nominal amount to be paid in 16 years. Such landlords
have commenced exploring all means of ensuring their former level of living.
One source for it is, of course, to accelerate the trend of migration of their
young male dependents, for urban jobs. Another is to use intensively the
house-site in which they had been maintaining extensive garden crops and
tree crops. Usually under partible inheritance of such sites, the size of it is
small; yet several of the former Janmis have compounds of two to four acres
and some adjacent less cared for arable hill slopes. They are converting such
areas into rice lands or cash crop farms irrigated from wells and ponds. Such
households speak with a sense of triumph ‘... we want our own cereals; not
from ration shops but grown by us under hired labour supervised by us... of
course this is no match to what we had but we have the same setting, the
same dependent servants and workers on a small scale, and we have our
resources also in urban employed members of our household.’ This feature in
shreds and patches began a decade ago and is gathering momentum today
under the use of mechanised irrigation, fertilizers and improved seeds. One
important factor is the availability of female labour in close vicinity and a
minimum of male labour needed to run the cycle of crops. Females find this a
more congenial semi-public space for their work nearer their homes and
employers still keep up their prestige without much erosion. If they
themselves worked on such farm lands their prestige is, no doubt, on the
decline. For the employer household, this is like managing cultivation within
its traditional personal space. Therefore, women of such employer
households frequently supervise such farm work, a feature that has been rare
in the work cycle of the low lying rice fields.
The relation of a cultivator household with the worker’s household can be
viewed from two aspects. One is the contractual feature, which gets
individualized bargaining power for the worker supported by the unionizing
influences spreading in these villages. This aspect has currently gained much
attention but the other aspect of social intimacy with the employer household
is not easily impressive to observers of social change in these areas.
Prolonged discussions with my informants have revealed that there have been
interesting and enduring social ties between the households of the master and
the attached worker. For instance, until the 1920s the wage paid in kind to the
woman worker or her husband was all counted as payment to that worker
household and several fringe benefits were allowed to such workers. A
Cheruman boy whose marriage was in the making might also be having his
fiancee employed, working abreast of him in the farms of his master. The
parents might delay the marriage ceremony and feasting for want of means to
celebrate the event. In such a case the master would be requested to measure
out the wages of the boy and the girl into one container to symbolize that
henceforward they were spouses. Social recognition of a perfectly legitimate
nature was thus given to the union. Rare instances of this kind occurred in the
1940s as well in the group of four villages where I made inquiries.
What obtains today is a certain continuity of a many stranded relationship
of the 1920s. The ecological setting was and is still conducive for the
master-worker households to maintain intimate relationships with a
reciprocal dependency. This feature of the modified but not yet disappeared
mode of informal relations deserves the researcher’s attention today to
expose the emerging shifts in the informal structure of work parties on the
small farms.

S S C T

Over 30 per cent cultivators after land reforms have acquired very small
holdings which do not keep them fully self-employed. They mainly belong to
former untouchable castes and Moslems. Also, the former high caste owners
of land (under the former Kanam tenancy) who have lost parts of their land to
the sub-tenants and are now small cultivators with an average of one to two
acres of rice land per household consider it a matter of high self-esteem to
refrain from manual labour in the fields, or, at the most, resort to their males
alone participating in their farm labour. Often, income from their urban
employed members serves to maintain their prestige through hiring farm
labour from poor low caste cultivators or landless labourers.
The former low caste sub-tenant cultivators who got ownership of tiny
holdings under land reforms try to enhance their prestige by withdrawing
from the open labour market. However, they like getting supplementary
employment selectively but their first preference is only to allow their
females to work for wages at times but try to confine that only for employers
of locally respectable standing belonging to one’s own or a higher caste.
Here again such female workers give their first preference to work as
domestic servants or in private space (in the sense this subjective notion of
space has been described).
Poor cultivators are today more market-oriented consumers regarding
dress, utensils and some comforts. To a less impressive extent, this feature is
shared by landless labour households as well. This makes the women,
particularly of under-employed households, seek work although they are
selective in the matter of whom they work for. This is a remarkable change
compared to the early part of the 1950s and earlier decades. Until the 1950s,
untouchable males and females who worked might cover their breasts when
they moved out for work in ‘public spaces’. This half-naked mode of
dressing was not uncommon among poor high caste females in the 1920s and
even early 1940s. Today, women of all low castes except the very old (over
sixty years of age) wear blouses, use aluminum vessels replacing earthen
pots, use better oil lamps and at least, a dry cell torch is seen in each
household. Their houses are getting a certain structural quality with at least
partly tiled roofing, windows and plastering. Males and occasionally
females drink tea from roadside shops and buy some garments for their
children who were never clothed until the 1950s. Bead necklaces of farm
worker women have almost disappeared and the more costly metal
ornaments command their craving today. This accounts for self-employed
women’s need to turn to wage labour, but, within the limitations indicated.
An aspect of matriliny of high caste tends to make hired farm labour of
low castes, particularly of females, linked to one or a few households in the
neighbourhood. This needs explanation to appreciate the situation. Over 60
per cent of the cultivator households of today in these villages belong to
matrilineal castes, which constituted the middle range group of castes in the
local caste hierarchy. Until the 1950s they were intermediary tenants (Kanam
landowners), getting land cultivated mostly by patrilineal low caste through
sub tenancy and/hired labour. In the last two decades matriliny has undergone
impressive changes but marital residence of households of matrilineal
backgrounds has assumed situations rendering the same tradition-bound
importance of wife/mother and children. Marital residence of such
households is neolocal, virilocal or uxorilocal. But, in most of such cases,
the wife does not leave her natal village or the neighbourhood of her descent
group. In the area of my study, about 60 per cent of matrilineal households
were having one of these residence types; the husband stays with the wife in
her ancestral house (uxorilocal), or in a house built for her amidst the
neighbourhood of her descent group (neolocal) or in his ancestral house
(virilocal), which is near the wife’s ancestral residence. The wife is thus
placed in her natal ecological setting amidst the neighbourhood she grew up.
The changing needs and strategy required to get farm work done today is thus
manageable by her and within the resources of her personality and
conventional wisdom. By contrast, it may be noted here that marriage in a
patrilineal caste dislocates a woman from her natal home and neighbourhood.
She finds herself ‘installed’ amidst her husband’s kin, where she feels like ‘a
second-rate citizen’ as my matrilineal informants often expressed. The small
matrilineal households of today who own 1–3 acres of rice land are viewed
by the patrilineal low caste labour-supplying households in the
neighbourhood as attractive employers. Female workers particularly find it
uneasy to ignore their demand for farm work, the main reason being
proximity to work and a feeling of social congeniality to work for this
category of women employers-cum-work supervisors. The males of such
wage workers’ household, however, evade the situation if they get chances
for higher wages outside the neighbourhood and often in non-farm work. This
also seems to contribute to the currently noticeable predominance of wage-
labour of females in the case of tasks, which have been noted in this study as
sex-neutral. In the employer-households of the context outlined here, young
males increasingly seek urban jobs especially when farm work can be
managed by senior female members through hired labour.
 I C

We have noted the more important of the constraints in the pattern of

availability of work for women in the matrix of farm activities in the local
‘labour market’. The trend that has set in during twenty-five years has not
brought about rationality but a tradition-bound variation in female roles in
local agricultural employment. Studies of this kind in different parts may
bring out a wider range of factors, which affect in different ways women’s
participation in the local agricultural workforce in Kerala today. This is
likely to lead us to a better understanding of the small peasant’s economy.
Insights into such dimensions can also help toward considering the feasibility
of inputs, which one hears, is recommended for improving the economic base
of the peasant’s household. This can also illuminate the problem of why
Kerala, with its largest number of small agricultural holdings (in the context
of inter-state comparisons), has its men leaving for urban jobs rather than
working on one’s own farms and maximizing farm output.
I am thankful to Dr Veena Das, Department of Sociology, Delhi
University, for encouraging me to develop an interest in depth studies and for
giving helpful suggestions in preparing this study. Joan P. Mencher who has
worked in Kerala also encouraged me to study the female participation in
farmwork. I thank her for the encouragement.

Notes

* Originally published in the Sociological Bulletin, vol. 25, no. 2,

September 1976, pp. 185–206.
1 In personal communication, July 1975.
2 Census of India 1971, Series 9, Kerala, Part II-A, p. 151.
3 To understand the tables enumerating the tasks a few points have to be
noted.
(a) Nearly for all tasks the worker is permitted to get assistance from a
member of the opposite sex or work jointly with a member of the
 opposite sex who is usually his kin.
(b) The percentages stated in the table are very approximate and based
on the consensus of informants. The accuracy of it is cross-checked on
different group meetings with difference groups of informants. The table
summarizes the situation in the early 1950s. It states the practices when
labour is hired and the variations when self-employed. Reasons for
variations get at least partly explained in a later context, where the
conception of work in private space/public space is mentioned. The
notion ‘sex-neutral’ means that as convenience permits, either male or
female may do the task.
(c) The table if prepared with a view to revealing qualitative aspects in
job selectivity in the light of descriptive accounts presented in this
article. The tasks listed are not an exhaustive break-up, but serve the
purpose of exposing the stabilized pattern of sex-wise division of
labour.
(d) The proportion of female participation is subjectively assessed by
informants in this manner: if in about ten to fifteen households, there are
100 workers doing any one of the tasks on any one day in an season how
many of males and females are at that work? My observations of small
work groups in different contexts and in different seasons have also
guided this approximate assessment in terms of the employer’s
household (todipani); the percentage stated of male/female meets with
less consensus from my group of informants. The spatial context as
noted later explains the reason for this uncertainty. The agricultural
holdings of the area in the fifties for most households were 4 or 5 acres
held as tenants and cultivated mainly under sub-tenancy. Since 1970,
most holdings are of 1–2 1/2 acres excluding small patches of garden
crops surrounding house-sites.
4 The legislation increasing the minimum wage and affecting almost two
million agricultural workers was adopted on 15 September 1975. It
raised the minimum wage for men from Rs 4.50, Rs 8 and for women
from Rs 3 to Rs 6.50 for an 8–hour working day. However, at the
village level in many parts of the state, wages approximating the former
rates continue due to numerous localized conditions in the job market.
References

Béteille, Andre. 1975. ‘The Position of Women in Indian Society’, in Devaki

Jain (ed.). Indian Women. Delhi: Ministry of Information and
Broadcasting, Delhi Government of India.
Boserup, Esther. 1975. ‘Women in the Labour Market’, in Devaki Jain (ed.).
Indian Women. Delhi: Ministry of Information and Broadcasting,
Government of India.
Gulati, Leela. 1975a. ‘Occupational Distribution of Working Women!,
Economic and Political Weekly, vol. X, no. 43, (25 October).
———. 1975b. ‘Female Participation - A Study of Interstate Differences’, in
Economic and Political Weekly, vol. X, nos. 1 and 2 (11 January).
ICSSR. 1975. Status of Women in India. New Delhi: Allied Publishers.
Joshi, P. C. 1975. Land Reforms in India, Trends and Perspectives. New
Delhi: Institute of Economic Growth.
Unni, K. R. 1975. ‘Sources of Agricultural Labour in Kerala: Some Social
Perspectives’, in B. N. Nair (ed.). Culture and Society. Delhi: Thompson
Press (India).
9

J N-J :AC S A
W ’ C *

Pat Caplan

A frequent finding in both British and American studies which take account
of voluntary organizational membership is that the higher the social status of
the respondent, the more likely that person is to belong to a voluntary
organization.
An early study by MirraKomarovsky (1946) finds for example that among
American urban dwellers, the higher the socio-economic status, the greater
the likelihood of joining an organization, and this correlation is also
established by Wright and Hyman’s evidence from American National
Sample Surveys: ‘Membership is directly related to socio-economic status,
as measured by level of income, occupation, home ownership, interviewer’s
rating of level of living, and education’ (1958: 294). British studies reveal
the same trend. Stacey’s work in Banbury, for example, found that the
voluntary associations contained people of ‘above average occupational
status’ (1960), and a survey of organizations in Birmingham showed that
‘membership tends to be concentrated among middle- and upper-class
people’ (Newton 1974: 6). In a summary of the sociological literature, Sills
finds that: ‘The largest and most consistent differences in participation are
those in socio-economic status, whether measured by income, occupation,
home ownership, or educational level’(1968: 365).
While the literature on voluntary associations in western society is
relatively sparse, that for the Third World is even more so. Where
anthropologists or sociologists have turned their attention to voluntary
organizations, these have mainly been studies of ethnic or caste associations,
or, occasionally, of churches and trade unions. Data on women’s associations
are lacking both for western and non-western societies. Studies carried out in
the west which take sex into account merely report that more men than
women are involved in voluntary associations, and that women who do join
associations tend to join cultural, charitable or religious associations; such
women are more likely to be middle than working class (cf., for example,
Bottomore 1954; Chambers 1954).
This article looks at a women’s association in a middle-class
neighbourhood of Madras (now Chennai), which was studied between 1974
and 19751 as part of a wider study of women’s organizations in the city. Most
of the organizations studied in depth drew members from all over the city, but
the neighbourhood club was exclusively for residents of the locality. Besides
studying the members and activities of the organization, I also took a census
of the whole suburb and was thus able to arrive at a comparison between the
women who joined the women’s club, and those who did not. This article,
then, examines the neighbourhood club and its activities, and then goes on to
compare members of the club with other women in the suburb who did not
join. Reasons why some women join and others do not are suggested, and
this is related to their family’s socio-economic status, and aspirations for
social mobility. In addition, the article shows how such associations serve as
important institutions of urban adaptation.

Kamalapuram (a pseudonym) is a suburb of some 134 households lying to the

south of the city. It has been built over the last fifteen years, with land set
aside by the Housing Board primarily for government servants. However,
since many government servants are frequently transferred, they are likely to
let their houses; others prefer to use them as a source of income, and remain
living with their kin while they save the rental. A considerable range of
occupations is thus represented—government servants, employees of private
industry, and professionals such as doctors and lawyers. Almost all the men
work outside the suburb, either in the city, or in one of its industrial areas on
the outskirts, but only a tiny handful of women work outside the home, and
the majority are full-time housewives.
The residents of the suburb are thus indisputably middle- class, and
indeed, most might be better described as upper-middle class.2 The houses
vary considerably in quality, one being large mansions with beautiful
gardens, while others consist of small single-storey buildings. All, however,
are built of cement and have essential services like water and electricity.
In other respects, the residents are somewhat varied. Many were born in
the city, but others have migrated there from other parts of the state, or else
from other states in south India, and a small number have come from north
India. There are even a handful of Europeans, mostly students of Indian
culture. A variety of languages is spoken, although the chief language is
Tamil and virtually everyone is reasonably fluent in English.

T C

The women’s organization was founded in 1971 ‘to serve as a voluntary

association of ladies for social, cultural and religious and other such
purposes; to encourage contacts, promote knowledge and understanding,
welfare, recreation, and other allied objects in Kamalapuram and
neighbouring areas’. At an early stage, the members managed to raise a loan
from the Housing Board and build a club house, which was opened in 1974.
Repayments have to be made on an annual basis over a long period. The club
house was envisaged as a meeting place for women of the suburb, and as a
centre for social work in the area.
Early activities were centred around fund raising for the building; the
initial deposit was raised through the holding of a charity film show for
which tickets were sold at prices as high as Rs 250 (around ￡ 13).
Subsequently, however, it was found that fund raising required a great deal of
work and organization, and paying off each installment of the loan became
something of a problem.
 The club began a nursery for poor children of the area, providing them
with a full day’s care, including a mid-day meal. This nursery was originally
located in the garage of the club president, but later moved to the verandah of
the club house. (Since most of the children who attended were not only
working class, but also untouchables, it could not be held in the club house
itself which, in any case, was used by the members during the day.) Later a
dispensary for poor people was started on a part-time basis, with a local
doctor giving her services free of charge.
Other activities of the club are primarily for members themselves and
consist of entertainment, such as occasional film shows, or classes. Middle-
class women, both in this suburb and elsewhere in the city, show great
enthusiasm for classes of all kinds, particularly in cooking, and in arts and
crafts. The club also arranges outings from time to time.
Women gave three reasons for joining the club: (i) to ‘do social work’, to
(ii) learn ‘new things’, and (iii) to meet people. The social work of the club
of is focused upon the nursery and their part time clinic. As I have shown
elsewhere (Caplan 1978), there are very few women’s organizations in the
city which do not have ‘social work’ as their chief raison d’etre. The
reasons for this are complex, and space precludes a full discussion here.
Nonetheless, it must be pointed out that a woman’s primary duty is to her
home and family, many women can only justify leaving their homes in terms
of ‘duties to wider society’; to join a club simply for pleasure or recreation
might well be condemned not only by their families, but also by their
neighbours and kin.
The second reason, ‘learning new’ things’, means largely attending the
various classes arranged by the club, which range from public speaking to
cookery. Some of the classes are in ‘traditional, domestic arts, like rangoli
(drawing designs in coloured powder), others are in what are seen as
‘modern’ skills like baking western-style cakes. Ability to demonstrate a
wide range of such skills are clear evidence of membership of the upper-
middle class. As Banton points out, ‘The formulation of new roles and
relationships is also apparent in the features of voluntary associations that
seem to have no useful purpose’ (1968: 361).
’Making friends’ is also an extremely important function of the club.
Many women have come to this suburb when their husbands were transferred
to Madras from elsewhere; others have left kin and neighbours in the more
crowded older parts of the city. Like suburban women elsewhere in the
world, they are left alone when husbands and children leave for school and
work. Although many women do make friends with their neighbours, this is
not always easy when there are differences of caste and community, which
may hinder visiting each other’s homes. The club provides, as it were, a
‘natural ground’, free of considerations of pollution and purity. In many
respects, then, it serves as an institution of urban adaptation which enables
women of diverse backgrounds, who may be lacking the support networks
elsewhere provided by kin, to come together as members of the same class,
and as women with common problems.

J C N -J

Socio-economic Status

The households in the suburb were almost equally divided into joiners and
non-joiners with just under half (sixty out of 134) represented in club
membership. In certain significant respects, there are differences between
women who joined the club and those who did not, and also between their
respective household.
Let us take first the question of caste and community (see Table 9.1).’

Table 9.1 Comparison of Joiners and Non-Joiners on the Basis of

Community
 More than half of the members are Brahmins, and Brahmins are more
likely to join than not to join. This is not surprising in view of my findings
that other women’s organizations in the city are often dominated by Brahmins
(cf. Caplan 1978). There are complex reasons for this: Brahmins were
among the first in south India to take advantage of the western-style education
offered by the British. As a result, they came to dominate the civil service.
Yet they also tended to be very active in the nationalist movement, and many
Brahmin women were involved in both the nationalist and the women’s
movements. Such women tended also to be among the first to receive
secondary schooling and higher education. The result of these historical
factors is that Brahmin women tend to be more highly educated than women
of other communities, and are also likely to be fluent in English, the language
in which most of the club’s written records are kept. Brahmin families, which
are disproportionately more represented in the upper socio-economic strata
of Madras society, are also more likely to view favourably the participation
of women in activities outside the home.
Women from other parts of India tended not to join the club largely
because of language difficulties, since most of the club’s business was
conducted in Tamil. North Indians find it very difficult to learn this language,
but some of the women who had come from other parts of south India, where
Dravidian languages are also spoken, did manage to acquire sufficient
command of Tamil to be able to participate in the club’s activities. Women
who did have language difficulties tended to join associations of their own
community, such as the Malayalam club, and various North Indian voluntary
associations in the city.
Another clear-cut difference between joiners and non-joiners was in their
educational level as shown in Table 9.2.
Joiners were thus much more likely to have higher education than non-
joiners—60 per cent as compared with only 30 per cent. This applied
equally to their husbands (see Table 9.3).
Thus, nearly 95 per cent of joiners’ husbands had received higher
education, compared to less than 80 per cent for non-joiners. (Table 9.3 also
reveals, incidentally, the much higher level of education of males as
compared with females.Middle-class men who are now in their forties and
fifties are almost certain to have gone to college, whereas far fewer women
did so.)

Table 9.2 Educational Levels of Joiners and Non-Joiners

Table 9.3 Comparison of Husbands’ Educational Levels of Joiners and

Non-Joiners
 There is only one discrepancy in the otherwise nearly perfect correlation
between levels of education of wife and husband, and the likelihood of wife
joining the club, and that applies to women who are either themselves
postgraduates, or else are married to postgraduates. Such women are less
likely to join the club, and the reason for this is that such women would
regard a neighbourhood club as being too unimportant and would tend
instead to join one of the larger and more prestigious city-wide
organizations.
Income level is closely tied to educational level, and in general, the
higher the educational level of the husband and wife, the greater the income
of the household. This means that with the exception of the topmost stratum,
the households of joiners are considerably better-off than non-joiners. This
has relatively little to do with differences in the type of occupation of
husbands, for in this respect, the two categories are very similar as Table 9.4
indicates.

Table 9.4 Comparison of Husbands’ Occupation of Joiners and Non-

Joiners
It would appear, however, that the household income of joiners is higher than
that of non-joiners by their standard of living. For instance, joiners were
somewhat more likely to be living in owner-occupied housing. The former
category also lived in somewhat larger houses, with an average of 4.57
rooms (excluding kitchen and bathroom), whereas non-joiners had an
average of 3.86 rooms. Joiners also had more servants per household, an
average of 1.5 each, whereas non-joiners only had an average of one each.
Furthermore, over 70 per cent of joiner households owned cars, whereas
only 50 per cent of non-joiner households did so.

Family and Household

There are other differences between the average joiner and her non-joining
sister, which relate particularly to household composition. Non-joiners tend
to live in somewhat larger households—5.23 persons as opposed to 4.86
persons in the case of joiners. There are two reasons for this. First, the non-
joiners are more likely to live in joint-family households as Table 9.5 shows.

Table 9.5 Household Composition of Joiners and Non-Joiners

 A women who is non-joiner is much more likely to be living in a joint
household, which is larger than the household of her joiner sister, and which
she runs with fewer servants. An additional factor in a joint household is that
a woman is subject to the authority of her husband’s parents, particularly her
mother-in-law, who may well not approve of such innovations as joining a
club, and mixing with women of other castes and regional backgrounds, and
spending time away from home. As one woman told me: ‘We are afraid of
our mothers-in-law. If she does any kind of work, we have to help her. We
can’t go out by ourselves and enjoy ourselves’. Interestingly enough, although
there are club members who live either with their daughters- or mothers-in-
law, in no cases did two women from the same household join the club
together.3
The second reason why non-joiners’ households are larger is that they
have more children—an average of 3.24 each, compared with the 2.5 of the
joiners. It is thus scarcely surprising to hear that the most frequent reason
given for not joining the club was ‘lack of time’.
A number of women who were club members kept diaries for me over a
two-week period, and from these it was possible to see how housewives’
time was taken up. Most women rose at around 5 a.m. and began cooking
almost immediately. Many had to feed family members before they left for
school, college or work, so that they spent around two-three hours in the
kitchen. Family members did not assemble for an early morning meal
together, but rather got up and ate according to the time they had to leave the
house. By’ after 9 a.m. most husbands and children had left the house with the
exception, of course, of children under five. Women then- had their own
meal, bathed and performed puja. For some women, it was necessary to
begin cooking a second time at midmorning, either because some family
members returned for a midwork through a messenger or with a ‘tiffin-
carrier’. Most women managed to rest for a brief period after mid-day, but
then had to begin cooking again, this time for the late afternoon snack
(‘tiffin’) taken by family members on their return home.
Early evening was usually spent en famille—sometimes going out for a
walk, or, if there were school-going children, the mother would spend at
least an hour ‘coaching’ them to help them in the fiercely competitive
examination system, and to try and make up for often inadequate teaching, due
to crowded classrooms. Finally, the family would eat supper together before
retiring to bed—few women cooked an entire meal, but would serve mainly
food cooked earlier in the day, with perhaps one new dish.
Most women claimed to spend 3–5 hours in the kitchen, aside from other
household tasks. Not only is this a relatively heavy burden in itself
(particularly when one remembers that the temperature is for much of the
year well up into the nineties or more), but the constant demands of the
family mean that there are only relatively short periods in which the woman
is free of responsibilities for cooking and serving food.
Indeed, it is often necessity for the woman to serve as well as prepare the
food which prevented them from undertaking outside activities. ‘My husband
expects me to serve his food’ and ‘my daughter won’t even drink coffee in a
flask left for her, so I must be there when she gets home’ were the kind of
comments many women made to me.
It is true that club activities are arranged with women’s domestic
schedule in mind, and are held either around mid-day or in the late afternoon,
but for many women it was impossible to find a two-hour free period at any
time during the day.
Given, then, the household routine of most of the women of the suburb,
and the fact that it is heavier burden for women with larger families and
fewer servants, it is not surprising to find that so many did not join the club.

A I M
Out of the sixty club members, twenty were on the committee, and these
women were the most active club members, taking responsibility for
arranging programmes, and supervising the nursery and the dispensary. The
kind of trend already discussed—namely, that the higher the social status, the
greater the likelihood of joining the club—also applies if one compares
active and less active members, Women on the committee are likely to be
better off, and better educated than the ordinary members. In this regard too,
my findings are consonant with those who have looked at voluntary
organizations in the West. Bottomore’s study, for example, found that ‘there is
a considerable difference in the proportion of members and officials
respectively from each of the occupational groups’ (1954: 358) and that
‘members with the highest incomes will be able to participate in more of the
activities... as a result of greater participation, they achieve greater
prominence and prestige, and tend to form the leadership of the organization’
(ibid.: 365). Similarly, Stacey’s study of Banbury notes that ‘the committee
tends to have a higher social status than the membership’ (1960: 81).

M O O

Women who were members of the club were more likely than those who
were not to belong to other voluntary associations. Almost half of the women
in the club did so, while only 7 per cent of non-joiners were members of
other organizations. Even so, the average number of other associations for
club members—0.8 per person—is not particularly high. Of the other
organizations studied, most had members who belonged on an average to
more organizations than did the women of the suburb club. This is because
these were city-wide organizations, with much more ambitious programmes
of social work, attracting women of the top socio-economic stratum in the
city—those with sufficient money and servants to enable them to be virtually
free of household duties, and with husbands who were only too pleased for
their wives to make a name for the family in the philanthropic field.
Some of the women in the suburb club would have liked to reap the same
rewards from it. The secretary often said that the club should ‘get a good
name’, particularly for its social work, and many of the members were very
pleased when they had to interact with members of the city-wide
organizations.

W M J

The women of the suburb participated much more in voluntary organizations

than did their men folk, yet here again the difference between female joiners
and non-joiners is evident. Only 28 per cent of non-joiners’ husbands
belonged to a voluntary association, while almost half of the joiners’
husbands did so.
Some of these men belonged to ‘service’ organizations, like Lions or
Rotary; some were members of music and arts associations (sabha); others
belonged to sports clubs and some to the prestigious recreational clubs in the
city. To a large extent, membership of voluntary associations for men ties in
with their work. The ‘service’ clubs for example, accept men on the basis of
their occupations (and some restrict the numbers of each profession).
Furthermore, many companies insist that their employees join a club and may
even pay their fees, partly for prestige reasons, and partly because it is
expected that they will make useful contacts.
Only a minority of men in the suburb belonged to the only other voluntary
association in the neighbourhood—the Kamalapuram Residents’ Welfare
Association, although it had been in existence for almost a decade longer
than the women’s club. Although the Residents’ Association was in theory
open to both sexes, in practice only a couple of women belonged, and it was
universally referred to as the ‘Gents Club’. This association did not possess
a proper building, only a make-shift wooden structure, and its activities
consisted largely of celebrating national holidays, and putting on the
occasional film show. It was, in fact, less active than the women’s club.
In many respects this was scarcely surprising, for the men, most of whom
were away from the suburb for the entire day, had very little time to organize
it. Some of them were aware of this, and indeed, there were suggestions from
the men during the period of fieldwork that they should merge with the
women’s club. The women were not enthusiastic about this proposal,
however, on the grounds that decorum was better served by separate clubs
for the two sexes.
None of the three reasons given by women for joining their club—to learn
new things, to do social service, and to make friends—applied to the men.
The men were not confined to the suburb for most of their lives, needing to
get to know their neighbours. They did not need to demonstrate their own or
their family’s status in the way that women did, for the men’s status was
unequivocally laid down by their occupation and salary level—making
symbolic statements about relative class position, and evolving a common
lifestyle was a job for the women. And this applied equally to doing social
service, which is seen in India as an extension of the housekeeping role and
thus peculiarly suited to women (cf. Caplan 1978). The Gents’ Club might
occasionally hold a fund-raising event and give the money to charity, but they
did not see it as their role actually to organize social welfare institutions.

This article has looked at a women’s club in a middle-class suburb of a south

Indian city. It has compared the backgrounds of women who choose to join
the club, and women who do not, and found that there are significant
differences between them. As has been found in the west, on the whole,
people of higher socio-economic status tend to be ‘joiners’; those of lower
status to be ‘non-joiners’.
In a recent article, Hanna Papanek has suggested that in addition to
women’s role as paid workers and as domestic workers, another category of
work should be recognized—that of ‘family status production’. ‘Status-
production work is part of the process of social mobility by the family or
household unit. It is an option, not a necessity for survival, that is undertaken
only at certain levels of class or income when these imply sufficient control
over scarce resources to assure family survival. When family aspirations can
be satisfied through the earning of some family members, others can be
released to do something else. Often this ‘something else’ has to do with the
family’s present or future status’ (1979: 776).
Papanek divides this kind of work into several categories— the first is
‘support work’ which helps the jobs of paid workers (e.g., entertaining
colleagues); the second is the appropriate training of children; the third is
‘status maintenance’ in such contexts as gift exchanges between families on
ritual occasions or preparation of feasts that maintain the family’s status in
the community; finally the fourth category is constituted by women’s ritual
and religious observances.
Papanek points out that very wealthy women, the elite, can often have
more freedom to do what they like, and are not as restricted in their lives as
women of the middle classes, where there is the greatest concern both to
maintain and possibly improve family status. In societies where women have
only a limited option to engage in paid work which is commensurate with
their family’s status aspiration, they are most likely to put their energies into
‘family status production’ work.
Her observations are particularly appropriate to the context which I have
been discussing in this article. Very few of the women in Kamalapuram work
outside the home for pay. All of them engage in domestic labour, although to
varying extents they are able to delegate part of it to servants. But most
‘family status production work’ cannot be delegated. For some, engaging in
this type of activity in the form of joining the women’s club is not a viable
option—they are simply too preoccupied with domestic work because of
their inability to hire enough servants. The joiners, on the other hand, tend to
come from households where numbers of children, servants, and family
income make it possible for them to engage in outside activities.
Nonetheless, women at this class level do not always enjoy the whole-
hearted support of their families in their activities. There is sometimes
conflict about how women spend their time. In this respect, women of the
upper middle classes are in a less favourable position than women of the
upper classes, whose families are usually unequivocally in favour of their
engagement in social work through women’s associations. One reason for
this is explained by Papanek—who does what is as important as what is
done. Thus, for example, it is perfectly acceptable for an upper class woman
from a wealthy household to delegate cooking and relatively highly paid, but
it is quite impossible,for a middle-class housewife to ask her lower-caste
maid of all work to do so.
Thus, the women who are joiners in Kamalapuram often find themselves
in conflict with their families, and are careful to limit the amount of time they
spend at the women’s club. It is for this reason that the club, unlike the larger
city-wide women’s organizations which are the provenance of the upper
classes, tends to lack the whole-hearted support and commitment of its
members.

Notes

* Originally published as ‘Joiners and Non-Joiners: A South Indian City

Suburb and Its Women Club’, in the Sociological Bulletin, vol. 29, no.
2, September 1980, pp. 206–21.
1 Fieldwork was carried out between July 1974 and September 1975 and
was financially supported by the Social Research Council of Great
Britain.
2 In analysing my material, I found it useful to distinguish between the
upper class and the upper and lower middle class. The distinction was
based partly on economic and partly on occupational criteria. The upper
class consisted of people who had (at the time of fieldwork) an income
in excess of Rs 2,000 per month. The were mainly large property
owners, owners or directors of medium to large companies, senior
government servants (e.g., IAS officers), and successful doctors,
lawyers and judges. The upper middle class consisted of government
servants, bank officials, managers and executives in industry with an
income of Rs 1,000–2,000 per month, while those in the lower middle
class were people whose income did not exceed Rs 1,000 per month,
such as the various white-collar workers.
3 In an interesting survey of the literature on voluntary associations,
Oommen suggests that as far as rural women’s associations (mahila
mandals) are concerned, the situation is that younger women use them
as an ‘escape route’: ‘oppressed daughters-in-law, sisters-in-law and
 co-wives may consider the time they spend in women’s clubs as a
welcome relief from the torments of their households and the dictates of
elder women’ (1975: 175).

References

Banton, M. 1968. ‘Voluntary Associations: Anthropological Aspects’,

International Encyclopaedia of Social Sciences, vol. 16.
Bottomore, T. 1954. ‘Social Stratification in Voluntary Organizations’, in D.
V. Glass (ed.). Social Mobility in Britain. London: Routledge and Kegan
Paul
Caplan, P. 1978. ‘Women’s Organizations in Madras City, India’, in P.
Caplan and J. Bujra (eds.). Women United: Women Divided. London and
Bloomington: Tavistock and Indiana University Press.
Chambers, R. C. 1954. ‘A Study of Three Voluntary Organizations’, in D. V.
Glass (ed.). Social Mobility in Britain. London: Routledge and Kegan
Paul.
Komarovsky, M. 1946. ‘The Voluntary Associations of Urban Dwellers’,
American Sociological Review, vol. XI.
Newton, K. 1974. ‘Voluntary Organizations in Community Politics’, SSRC
Newsletter, 24.
Oommen, T. K. 1975. ‘The Theory of Voluntary Associations in a Cross-
cultural Perspective’, Sociological Bulletin, vol. 24, no. 2.
Papanek, H. 1979. ‘Family Status Production: the ‘Work’ and ‘Non-work’ of
women’, Signs, vol. IV, no. 4.
Sills, D. L. 1968. ‘Voluntary Associations: Sociological Aspects’,
International Encyclopaedia of Social Science, vol. 16.
Stacey, M. 1960. Tradition and Change: A Study of Banbury. London:
Oxford University Press.
Warner, W. L. and P. S. Lunt. 1941. The Social Life of a Modern Community.
New Haven: Yale University Press.
Wright, C. P. and H. H. Hyman. 1958. ‘Voluntary Association Memberships
of American Adults: Evidence from National Sample Surveys’, American
Sociological Review, vol. XXIII.
Section C: Education

The sociology of education in India has been concerned primarily with

examining class and caste inequalities in educational achievements. Gender
inequalities in educational achievements and the gendered character of the
educational system has been underlined by feminist scholarship. Scholars
have underlined the ways in which the educational system has taught the girls
‘to lose’ through the gendered curriculum and other educational practices.
For feminist sociologists, the issue therefore is not limited to measuring the
educational achievements of girls, but to draw out issues of ‘hidden’
curriculum, of stereotypes and role models and to everyday interactions in
the educational system. The vital connection between feminism, education
and change has been well established. Feminist educators see the curriculum
and teaching methodologies as sites of struggle and as potential areas for
change.
In India, the issue of women’s education is intertwined with social reform
and the nationalist movement. Middle-class reform on the question of
women’s education underlined enlightened domesticity and motherhood as
goals of education. The non-Brahman movements of social reform like the
Satyashodhak movement in western India highlighted the linkages between
power and knowledge for women. The issues of coeducation came to be
debated and there were variations by region in this matter. After
Independence, women’s education gathered momentum but the gap in
opportunities by caste, class and gender continued to operate. Feminist
scholars have addressed this gap and sought to delineate the economic,
political and sociocultural determinants of this gap.
Velaskar underlines the school as a significant source of caste, class and
gender inequalities and is concerned with the dynamics of the reproduction
of inequalities. Chanana’s essay in this section traces historically the ways in
which the gender inclusive educational policies are subverted by the
gendered vision of parents, teachers and administrators. Religious
ideologies, norms and values that underpin the socialization practices and
pose severe constraints on women’s education are underlined.
10

F S E H
G I *

Karuna Chanana

The general conceptual framework that has guided this article has evolved
over the last three decades of my work on the education of girls and women
in India and in South Asia. The argument is that the growth and development
of women’s education in India is caught in two simultaneous processes. On
the one hand, the state policy and public discourse on education put a
premium on the need to promote education among girls and women to
generate positive forces at the macro-level. On the other hand, the micro-
level forces rooted in the family, the kingroup and culture determine the
educational policies, programmes and ability of girls and women to access
them. Therefore, it is not possible to view women’s education without
reference to their social context, which is rooted in culture, religion and in
the ‘patrifocal family structure and ideology’.1 In fact, the macro policy itself
is coloured by the cultural contours surrounding the societal conception of
the feminine role. Although feminists have been able to uncover the hidden
agenda of the educational policies and programmes, yet the societal
rootedness of femininity is hard to overcome. Moreover, it is not possible to
remain confined to the structural characteristics of education as an institution
or to look merely at its growth or absence of development due to financial
and administrative constraints, but is necessary to look at its interplay with
culture and religion.
Additionally, looking backwards to the historical or mythic past is also a
necessity. Practices such as female seclusion and sex segregation, the
relative rigidity of the division of labour and of the notions of the
‘naturalness’ of males’ and females’ work, and many subtle aspects of
gender relations all contribute to the shaping of and are themselves shaped by
the ideology underlying these practices and behaviour patterns (Dube 1997).
Moreover, there are continuities in the issues during the colonial and post-
colonial period. Some of these are shortage of single sex schools and of
women teachers; unsafe or undesirable location; co-education; relevant
curriculum, etc.
In South Asia, girls undergo a socialization process which is common in
several of its dimensions. Further, the central concern with protection of
female sexuality and the attendant notions of female purity/impurity and its
links to caste status and the honour of the agnatic kingroup and familial
consideration put severe constraints on the schooling of girls and women.
This has to be seen along with the practice of seclusion and segregation,
especially around puberty, to control female sexuality. Formal education or
schooling involves moving into public spaces, interaction with males (in co-
educational schools and with men teachers); or being socialized (through the
curriculum) as boys; and supposedly moving away from the eventual goal of
wifehood and motherhood.
The basic argument is that the concern with protection of female sexuality
accounts for whether girls have access to education or not. It also determines
the quality, type and duration of education they receive and what they do with
it later, i.e., whether they work or not and what kind of jobs they take up;
whether they work to earn before or after marriage. Further, the adaptations
to changing situations are basically adjustments which do not call for
structural changes or question the basic premises of the value system
surrounding female sexuality. If anything, the correspondence between the
higher education of the groom and higher amount of dowry, reappearance of
sati and the uses of higher educational qualifications of girls for marital
alliances in contemporary Indian society have reinforced the traditional
values and ideology. This article explains the material or the empirical
reality in conjunction with the ideological and the textual. It begins with the
images, of women as depicted in the Hindu scriptures and texts, moves on to
the colonial period and the independent India. It seeks to see links between
socialization and education as processes.

T T I

Classical Hinduism or Hindu ideology is neither monolithic nor uniform; nor

is it static since it has been changing over time. There is also differentiation
between textual and contextual Hinduism, namely, the ideological and the
empirical (Saraswati 1977). Scholars also talk of multiplicity of customs and
social practices and their forms over time and space. Similarly, they refer to
the varied and changing ideals of femininity within Hinduism (Allen 1982,
Dube 1997, Mukhopadhyay and Seymour 1994; Wadley 1977).
There are ideological variations in the way the woman’s question has
been handled in India. These ideological differences also influence the view
of the Hindu woman.2 For instance, Altekar (1978) and Mukherjee (1978)
provide several instances of women’s centrality in rituals, family life and
education and contend that the Hindu woman enjoyed a position of equality in
the early Vedic age. Altekar infers that deterioration in frer position comes
much later. Several scholars (Chakravarti 1999; Roy 1999) contest this
position. Moreover, inspite of ideological differences there is general
agreement among scholars on some points. For instance, images of Hindu
women have varied over time and it is generally agreed that their position
has undergone a change for the worse from the Vedic to the classical period
and thereafter. Second, that even though there are textual references to
women occupying the public space of education and the birth of a scholarly
daughter being desired (Altekar 1978), the patriarchal constraints begin to
impinge on her life in the later Vedic period (Bose 2000). The disagreement
among scholars is about the time when the decline begins. Third, that there is
ideological continuity from the present to the past, which enables one to
identify the ‘ideal Hindu woman.’ Fourth, the image of the ‘ideal Hindu
woman’ is that of the householder and dominates and co-exists along with
other images.
Again, religion adapts to local culture and thus there are likely to be
variations in how socio-cultural practices impact on access to education.
Moreover, tradition and modernity have a dialectical relationship and may
not be viewed as polar opposites. While ‘tradition’ constraints women’s
entry into the public spaces of ‘schools’, it also allowed entry into masculine
disciplines such as medical education. The question is: how far can one
stretch this argument?
One is also aware that ‘gender relations are constructed differently in
different cultures’ and that Hinduism cannot be painted with one brush, nor
all of India, or even Hindus can be viewed as having one culture (Dube
1997: 1).

For example, there is corporate or individual control over female

sexuality and strong emphasis on seclusion and segregation in North
and Central India. Again, there is considerable diversity across
castes, regions especially between the North and the South, and
between partrilineal and matrilineal communities (Dube 1997: 5).

Thus, the South Asian sub-continent is characterized by ‘immense

geographic, historic, economic, sectarian, caste and other differences’—all
of which are reflected in the diversity of their women, their life styles and
their position vis-à-vis men’ (Allen 1982: 1). Yet underlying this diversity
there is a thread of cultural uniformity which allows one to talk of a Hindu
woman.
Writing on Hindu women, Allen reduces the fourfold goals of moksa,
dharma, artha and kama to a dialogue between moksa and dharma, between
the renouncer and the man-in-the world. Similarly, he argues that the Hindu
woman can be alternatively viewed as pure-impure, sinister-benign,
creative-destructive, ally-opponent, goddess-witch. These structural
categories also give rise to several female stereotypes such as pure virgin,
voluptuous temptress, obedient wife, honoured mother, etc. (Allen 1982: 1).
In Bengal, this opposition and the female power are reflected in the cult of
the Mother Goddess in her two different incarnations: destructive Kali and
benign Durga (Engels 1999: 73). Madhu Khanna (2000) refers to three
paradigms of female sexuality in Hinduism. These are: the reproductive
model wherein the female body is the instrument of fertility, the second is the
virile female body for pleasure and the third is the female body as an
instrument of transcendence. In the first model, the female is the virgin
maiden and the chaste-wife (Kanya-patni) whose womb, is the receptacle to
receive the male for perpetuation of the patriarchal line. It is the first model
which is relevant to the discussion on its linkages to education that will
follow later. What is pertinent is that the varied images of the Hindu woman
and the corresponding stereotypes and their impact on the contemporary
Hindu girl and women in the context of accessing ‘modern’ education.
While renunciation has been an important value in Hinduism, which
views moksa and samsara as incompatible, ‘Woman with one foot planted
firmly in the physical world of reproduction and sexuality, and the other in
the social world of the family,—is an obstacle to the goal of spiritual
salvation’ (Allen 1982: 2).
In addition, the powerful and the wealthy among the high castes place
high value on the production of sons for continuation of the line, for descent,
inheritance and ownership of property. Therefore, among them, the
reproductive mother is worshipped along with the worship of the pure virgin.
Thus, while purity, virginity and chastity are valued in conformity with caste
mores, fertility and maternity are valued in conformity with joint family and
lineage (Allen 1982: 9).
According to LeelaDube ‘a proper analysis of the ideology of the family
and its concern with protection of female sexuality is not possible without
understanding its roots in Hindu traditional thought’ (Dube 1997: 5–6).

South Asia shows a special kind of male control oyer female

sexuality, rooted in patrilineal ideology and in a consciousness of
territoriality and group solidarity which may be called corporate
control .... The South Asian sense of rights over the sexuality and
productive capacity of an in-marrying woman is closely tied to the
sense of common agnatic blood, to patrilineal, patri-virilocal family
solidarity ....(Dube 1997: 52–53).
Further, the development of a social hierarchy based on notions of relative
purity has had a doubly unfortunate effect on the lives of Hindu women. On
the one hand, they are impure and a source of pollution because of
menstruation and childbirth and are assigned lower social worth. On the
other, they are venerated as pure beings and their condition reflects on the
honour and status of their menfolk. According to Engels, the contradiction
between pollution and power is vital to the understanding of the practice of
female seclusion or purdah (1999: 73). The view of the Hindu woman as the
pure, who is in danger, and as the impure one, who is dangerous (Mukherjee
1978), led to loss of autonomy, male control and management of her
sexuality. Central to this is the concern with purity which underlies the
division and hierarchy of the caste system.
Thus, apart from religion and kinship organization, the position of women
and concern with purity related to the social status of men in the caste
hierarchy. Dube argues that ‘uncontrolled female sexuality is a danger to the
purity of both the agnatic group and the caste group. The phenomenon of
boundary maintenance characteristic of caste society places special
responsibilities on women and therefore, it is legitimate to place restrictions
on their behaviour and movements’ (1997: 67).
According to Dumont (1972) the status differentiation in the caste system
is explicitly based on an ideology of purity (Allen 1982; Yalman 1963). A
concomitant of this concern leads to preoccupation with female chastity. This
is so in India, where the purity of the caste and its menfolk is a direct
function of the purity of its womenfolk, primarily of their sisters and
daughters, whom they give in marriage and secondarily, on the women they
take as wives (Yalman 1963). This leads to social practices such as
seclusion, early marriage, denial of public spaces, etc., to control female
sexuality.
A related notion .to the protection of sexuality is that of control. Control
here refers to the authority and power to direct, command and restrain
women and of being able to take unilateral decisions regarding their lives.

Ideology is used to exercise control over resources and women’s

actions, bodies and sexuality. The main mechanisms are the disbution
of resources or entitlements such as education, food, property;
 organisation of space, work, and time; rules of avoidance and respect;
socialisation patterns, and in general, the denial of choices and
opportunities (Dube 1997: 8).

Purdah or seclusion and sex segregation are the most important social
practices to control women, which is linked to protection and management of
female sexuality. While women in the North and Central India are generally
secluded, they are segregated even in Southern India. While seclusion leads
to clearly marked physical and social spaces for women and men,
segregation can be equally constraining. For example, girls and women were
not secluded in Southern India, yet the Agraharam or the residential quarters
of the Brahmins were so designed that women could move from one house to
another through doors that directly led into houses on both sides. They hardly
ever moved out. Also the concern with puberty and concomitant concern with
purity and sexuality lead to segregation as is discussed later. As per the
principle of protection, the responsibility for protecting an unmarried girl
lies with her natal or patrilineal male kin, particularly fathers and brothers. It
has two aspects, viz., the honour of males vests in the purity of the females,
i.e., the sisters and daughters. Even now brothers, fathers and kinsmen in
India and in South Asia go to any limits, even to the extent of killing her, to
prevent an unmarried sister or a daughter from ‘sullying’ the ‘izzat’ or honour
of the family3 and the kinship by entering into alliances outside the kin/caste
group.
This concern with protection of female purity and the control and
management of female sexuality has led to several customs and social
practices such as child marriage, sati, prohibition of widow remarriage,
limitation on physical movement through purdah, i.e., seclusion and
segregation, etc.4 For instance, puberty rites ensure that when a girl begins to
menstruate she is protected, and child marriage ensures that her husband will
harness her destructive capability into reproductive power.
Virginity at first marriage is crucial to the honour of the family in
Hinduism. The concern to preserve it for the husband has given rise to social
practices such as child marriage (in large parts of India), pre-pubertal
marriage (as in Nepal); pre-pubertal “marriage with delayed consummation
(as in Rajasthan), the celebration of puberty rites, spatial confinement of girls
around puberty. This responsibility for protection gives men the right to
control all aspects of women’s behaviour.
Again, it may also be underscored that purdah varies not only by religion
but also by region,5 caste and class and, now, by education and working
status. Yet again, purdah has an attendant code of behaviour and demeanour
which affects women’s daily lives. Vreede-de-Steurs (1968) refers to strict,
partial, intermittent and absent purdah as well as to the purdah of the eyes
while Bennett mentions the idiom of purdah in Nepal (1983: 7).
In a society which places premium on virginity, purdah along with early
marriage is a useful device and puts women under the control of men of the
family. Thus, Dube argues, that ‘purdah in South Asia, has drawn its
legitimacy both from the kinship organisation and from religion ... .’(Dube
1997: 64).Dube identifies two aspects of purdah, viz. control of female
sexuality and avoidance based on respect. The former results in protecting
women from potentially threatening outsiders (male) and the latter reinforces
rules of respectful behaviour (even among women) within the joint family
and kingroup (Vatuk 1982: 62). But both make women dependent on men and
both constrain choices.

... purdah did not only mean secluding women behind veils or walls,
but entailed an all-encompassing ideology and code of conduct based
on female modesty which determined women’s lives wherever they
went. Accordingly women’s political experience and participation—
even if we can establish its significance—needs to be deconstructed
and contextualized .... (Engels 1992: 2)

Thus, so far it has been argued that Hindu women, their social status, the
evaluation of their worth and the stereotypes have an underlying ideology
even though at the empirical level there are variations by caste, class, region,
religion, etc. Further, that this ideology and the related role expectations and
valuations are embedded in the caste system as well as in kinship and family
organization. Central concerns here are purity of the female for boundary
maintenance of the agnatic group, the class and the caste and the protection,
control and management of female sexuality These have also affected the
distribution of familial resources and the capabilities of girls to access them.
These concerns are transformed into appropriate socialization and behaviour
patterns, which, as demonstrated later, impinge directly on the schooling of
girls.
There is general agreement that women did not have access to education
for most periods of India’s history. Examples of exceptional women scholars
in the Vedic era do not detract from the fact that during the colonial period,
little is known about the girl students, if any, in them, even though one reads
about one school in every village.6

T C

While at the ideological level it is possible to talk of Hindu tradition as it

affects women, the empirical reality is far more complex and women are
affected by culture cutting across religion.7 Culture derives from religion but
also goes beyond religion as it is more rooted in the material, and is
therefore affected by the local and the folk traditions.
Culture, as used here, is not a static concept but has a dynamic and
flexible frame. According to Giroux, ‘Culture is not seen as monolithic or
unchanging, but as a site of multiple and heterogeneous borders where
different histories, languages, experiences and voices intermingle amidst
diverse relations of power and privilege’ (1992: 205). Here, culture and
religion are not being accepted by me as a given, but ‘culture is taken up as a
basis for challenging those institutional and ideological boundaries that have
historically marked their own relation of power behind complex forms of
distinction and privilege. It raises questions about the margins and the centre,
especially around the categories of race, class and gender’ (ibid.: 202).
Thus, religion and culture are contested terrains and yet they intersect.
This article is based on the premise that decisions regarding access to
education are taken within and by the family and are governed by familial
considerations of gender roles and the need for formal education. In the
process, it seeks to uncover the dialectic between tradition and modernity
(Chanana 1992). Moreover, how do considerations of propriety, protection
and control of female sexuality, the feminine domain and social roles affect
women’s participation in education, its perceived benefits, the motivations
for sending daughters to schools, and the type and amount of education
received by women (Chanana 1998)? This is done using a historical
perspective starting with the colonial period which witnessed the
introduction of formal education for girls. This period was marked by
several impulses for change, namely, reformist, revivalist, nationalist, etc.,
all of which had two common planks—women’s education and change in
their social status.
The article also provides an understanding of the nature and functioning
of familial socialization8 as the process of gender construction, and its
impact on the education of the girl child. It also seeks to provide insights into
how the two processes, namely socialization and formal schooling or
education, interact and react with each other. Both are processes of social
control and train the individual to conform to the expectations of the social
group. The basic premise is that the family is the site of primary socialization
while schools, which are the sites of secondary socialization, only reproduce
primary socialization. The second premise is that practices, norms, values
and religious ideologies9 provide the underpinnings for the socialization
process, which in turn influence the notions of what a girl should be and what
functions formal schooling should perform for her. Protection of female
sexuality and her purity are central to the socialization of the female child.
Thus, socialization practices and their different significance for boys and
girls are crucial to expose the constraints imposed on girls’ and women’s
education.

T C C :W E
W ?

Even though the social position and education of women had attracted the
attention of social reformers (Cha-nana 1994) earlier, the debate over the
question acquired a particular intensity around the end of the nineteenth
century The spate of books and tracts reflecting on the status of Indian women
and the need for educating them offer conclusive evidence of this (Basu
1976). Education of women had definitely come to be a public issue by the
early 1920s, opposition to it notwithstanding. Such a debate had become
possible because the 1920s were a period of immense social and political
awakening in India followed by intense social reformist efforts. Thus, the
issue of women’s status, long the focus of social reform, was also reflected
in a series of legal enactments relating to or affecting women. The slogan of
Indian leaders and social reformers by this time had become ‘educating a girl
means educating a family’, overcoming the earlier belief ‘that a girl who
could read or write would never find a husband or would soon become a
widow (Borthwick 1984: 61; Engels 1999: 60). The desirability of educating
women to harness their potential as mothers and wives and also give
direction to their dangerous sexuality as input into the familial sphere was a
prime consideration. Thus, the twin images of women as dangerous
temptresses because of their sexuality and as goddesses because of their
spirituality continued to underlie the concerns of the social reform
movements. Some scholars contend that they were characterized by
ambivalence and that Indian women became a contested site in the colonial
period (Chatterjee 2000).
Various push factors were working in favour of sending girls and women
to schools and colleges in late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. The
question arises: why was education considered desirable or necessary for
them? What brought about change in the attitudes of parents?
Mahatma Gandhi, alongwith several other reformers, was instrumental in
breaking the age-old barriers of purdah and bringing women out of their
homes and into the streets (Basu 1976). However, he tried to channel their
traditional qualities of forbearance and self-sacrifice into the non-violence
movement (Chanana 1993). According to Engels, even Hindu revivalism
gradually turned femininity from a passive object of adoration to a powerful
agent for political mobilization. Yet the social reformers such as the Brahmos
‘who had internalized new social norms under the British rule and for whom
women’s emancipation became a matter of self interest’ viewed women’s
education as being different from that of men (1999: 59). So far as the
nationalists were concerned, ‘Women were prepared for household work,
and through cultural and national orientation, for their role as guardians of
Bengali culture and tradition’ (Engels 1999: 166).
 The scene was similar in Punjab too. In a study of three generations of
Punjabi Hindu women in New Delhi undertaken by the author, the older
women who were born in the early twentieth century in West Punjab were not
only literate, but knew more than one language. Although writing skills were
not widespread, most could read Punjabi written in the Gurumukhi10 script
and Hindi. A few knew English and Urdu as well. Gurumukhi helped
women11 to read the Guru Granth Sahib, the holy book of the Sikhs. Since
Punjabi was spoken at home, reading the Granth Sahib provided cultural
continuity in terms of language and content. The division into the public and
private domain and the learning of languages by men and women seemed to
be correlated. For instance, since reading of scriptures was in the female
domain, women learnt Punjabi. Urdu, on the other hand, was the official
languages under the • Mughal administration and was replaced by English
under the colonial rule. These two clearly belonged to the public domain and
were mastered by men. Hindi was introduced under the impact of the reform
movement. Yet it was not the official language but was imparted in the newly
set up schools. Therefore, it belonged to the public domain and men learnt it
more often than women. Later, it also entered the private domain through its
association with the reform movement whose major aim was female
education. Thus, the primacy of the private sphere determined which
language skills were acquired by women (Chanana 1998: 164–65).
Inspite of differing motivations of the missionaries,12 social reformers,
Indians of various hues and colours and the government to promote the
education of women, their interests in furthering the cause of women seemed
to converge. The objectives of women’s education were generally formulated
within the context of their traditional family roles. It was assumed that the
family was and is the basic unit of social organization in India, and since
women as mothers and as wives are integral to the stability of the family,
reforming the position of women was crucial to reforming society (Forbes
1998: 162–63; Mazumdar 1976: 66). Moreover, women as keepers of the
domestic realm and as the primary agents of the socialization of children
were essential to the success of sons and husbands.
Concern for daughters’ sexuality and virginity made the parents reluctant
to send them to school or send them unescorted. Therefore, several
arrangements emerged in response to this need, e.g., self-learning at home
with examinations conducted at home or at school; school teachers went to
the homes of students to teach and to give examinations; going to school in
covered palanquins or horse-drawn carriages (tongas), or escorted by
domestic maids, etc. These arrangements are known as the zenana13 system of
schooling and were widespread in regions of female seclusion (Chanana
1998: 165).
Again, the preference of educated men for educated women as brides
reinforced ideas of women’s education and motivated parents to send their
daughters to school. Whatever the motivation, most parents were keen to
have an education for girls that would embellish their ‘feminine’ qualities.
To quote Srinivas, ‘the pressure to get women educated is part of the
process of securing good husbands for them’ (1978: 24). Thus, a girl had to
receive ‘sufficient’ education according to the educational standards set by
the males of her endogamous group, and the gap between an educated
husband and an uneducated wife had to be bridged (Mazumdar 1976: 49).
However, there was another significant reason for giving girls some
education. Urban-based educated men had come to prefer the company of
courtesans to uneducated wives, and by providing high-caste Hindu widows
with an education, it was hoped they would not become courtesans and, also,
if Hindu girls were educated and ‘cultured’, they would be able to control
their husbands who would not seek the company of courtesans.
Meanwhile, the emergence of a class of women who were aware that
organized action was necessary to ameliorate their lot, was an additional
factor in helping to focus on the current position of women and the need for
educating them (Forbes 1998: 162). As more and more women received
formal education, they became conscious of their problems and social status
and sought amelioration of their situation. Women’s associations and
organizations also joined in promoting female education without departing
from its professed aim of reinforcing patrifocal ideology.
Thus, all the justifications for promoting formal schooling among girls are
derived from their social and feminine role as good daughters, wives and
mothers.
 I C :C -

As mentioned earlier, in Hinduism, pre-pubertal girls are considered

intrinsically pure and are worshipped as goddesses in parts of India and
Nepal. The onset of puberty in India is marked by special rituals and
confinement of the girls. In order to preserve her purity, she has to be kept
confined within physical space generally and from attending school or going
out. The main concern at this time is to control sexuality in the direction of
motherhood. There is thus a rush to marry girls before or soon after they
reach puberty. The onset of puberty, coupled with the practice of female
seclusion and sex segregation, limits the girls in terms of time and space.
Purdah implies strict sex segregation and results in the reluctance of parents
to send their daughters to school. Thus, if the schools were mixed or had
male teachers, parents were unwilling to expose their daughters to male
company and influence, even within the educational institutions. These
concerns had a direct impact on acceptance or non-acceptance of co-
educational schools.
A central issue in the educational debates was the limited response of
parents to co-education and whether or not to open separate schools for girls
and at what levels. Acceptability of coeducation for girls varied by province
or region. For instance, separate schools for girls were found in the initial
stages in the Bengal presidency. On the other hand, in Madras and Bombay
presidencies where women were not secluded, the girls either attended boys’
schools, or did not go to school until much later, as in Punjab, Bihar and
North’West Frontier Provinces (NWFP). In fact, in the early twentieth
century, more girls at the primary level were studying in boys’ institutions
than in the 1930s. For instance, in 1902 as many as 44.7 per cent of the girls
under instruction were attending boys’ institutions, but this percentage
dropped14 to 38.5 per cent in 1927 (Government of India, PEI 1927–32:
171).
The relationship between social practice and women’s education is not,
however, a simple one. The social inhibitions against co-education gave a
fillip to private enterprise in girls’ education and provided the impetus for
expansion. Leading political and social leaders and proponents of women’s
education supported zenana education, which assured parents to send their
daughters to school. This was an indicator of change in attitudes.

That orthodoxy and female learning were no longer contradictory, as

had been the case only half a century ago, was a measure of the
ideological shift orthodox Bengali Hindu society had undergone.
Purdah girls arrived at school in closed carriages and horse-drawn
buses, which were provided by the pathshala15 to be instructed about
‘the strict observance of Shastric injunctions in matters of domestic
life and about patibrata dharma, devotion to their future husbands. The
novelty was ... the cultural similarity between school and home
education (Engels 1999: 167).

It is difficult to decide, however, whether some leaders— Hindu as well as

Muslim,16 men and women—reinforced purdah by setting up zenana schools
for reasons of strategy or because they were convinced that these traditional
social practices should continue (Chanana 1994: 48; Minault 1982: 92). Or it
was a strategy adopted to assure parents that established social values,
norms and practices would be reinforced within the new institutions and their
daughters were ‘safe.’
It may’ be noted that women were and are not secluded in all parts of
India. The Indian sub-continent is marked by a variety of social practices
rooted in regional cultures. For example, while women are secluded in the
north, northwest, central and parts of eastern India, they were not affected by
this practice in southern and western India. However, sex segregation and
female seclusion, though different, share certain similarities, for e.g.,
separation of physical and social spaces is a characteristic of both. Also the
concern with the protection of female sexuality and the purity of the agnatic
group heighten the constraints on women in segregated societies even if they
are secluded. For instance, during 1927–32 Madras Presidency, where
female seclusion was not in practice, had the highest percentage of girls
under instruction as well as a much higher percentage of girls attending boys’
schools than in the other provinces, such as Punjab and NWFP where female
seclusion was in practice. However, even in Madras Presidency they were
withdrawn from boys’ schools in large numbers after the fifth standard, i.e.,
at the 11 plus age when they reached puberty (Chanana 1994). In Punjab, the
government had to set up separate schools for girls and employ only women
teachers.
In 1932, more than half the girls’ primary schools in British India were in
Bengal where female seclusion was practised. Thus, the relatively low
percentage of girls in co-educational schools in Bengal, for example, reflects
the large number of girls’ schools in that province due to the practice of
purdah. Thus, sex segregation and female seclusion combined with the
relative stress on female sexuality impact on access to female schooling.
Linked to this issue, however, was the availability of women teachers. In
the purdah dominated areas, the presence of male teachers in girls’ schools
was not socially desirable. That is why Bihar and Punjab started late and
made a slow beginning. Missionaries and social reformers, therefore,
concentrated their efforts on establishing separate schools and training
schools for girls, whereas the kinds of schools set up by the government were
governed more by financial than social considerations. Separate schools for
girls with women teachers involved an overall higher cost, which, coupled
with the initial reluctance of parents, resulted in fewer schools for girls and
fewer girls availing of the education facilities.

E C :C
‘R ’

While emphasizing the need for educating girls and women, curricular
content became a key issue in women’s education among all the actors in the
field and continues to be so even now, although in a modified form. The main
argument was that there should be a special curriculum designed to meet the
needs of girls. By 1882, considerable public opinion had built up in favour
of a differentiated curriculum for girls, keeping the ‘nature of women’ and
their social roles in view. The Education Commission of 1882 supported this
view, while advising a cautious approach to its implementation.
 As reform movements gained momentum most proponents of women’s
education, despite varied motivations, seemed to believe in education for
enlightened motherhood and took a narrow, domestic perspective of the
social roles of women. The question in favour of what to teach seemed to
have been settled. What could not be decided easily was when and at what
age to introduce feminine subjects.
Social reformers, Hindu as well as Muslim, propagated this view. Thus,
girls’ schools run by Hindu voluntary organizations, such as the SevaSadan at
Pune, taught music, home science, first-aid, nursing, midwifery, along with
languages for girls. Those run by Muslims included the Qur’an as an
essential component of the curriculum.
Kumar has something similar to say about a girls’ school, Arya Mahila
School, which was established at Varanasi (formely Benaras), Uttar Pradesh
in 1933 as a primary school and recognized as a high school in 1939. This
school was set up by a revivalist reform organization, Arya Samaj, which
played a leading role in opening schools for girls in northern India.
According to Kumar:

Arya Mahila’s is the clearest case of a grand philosophy that falters

for reasons of a familiar contradiction: the logistic problem of
following a modern government syllabus and simultaneously breeding
a new generation of Aryan mothers. The much trumpeted Hindu culture
to be transmitted by her school restricted itself, and that with mixed
success, to art, music, dance and recitation, all described as ‘optional
subjects’ (Kumar 2000: 170).

While a gender-differentiated curriculum at the primary level was not

considered necessary, its need was seen to be greatest at the secondary level
where schooling was viewed as most socially problematic for girls who had
reached puberty. In addition, a differentiated curriculum for boys and girls
was justified on the assumption that girls were not going to take up jobs after
completion of their education, but would be getting married (Chanana 1988).
Therefore, the curriculum should be made relevant by teaching subjects
suited to perform their social roles more efficiently. An education that failed
to do so would be a wastage. A further justification was provided in terms of
the ‘nature of women’, i.e., although the moral, emotional and intellectual
makeup of women and men was similar, women were psychologically and
physically distinct from men: hence the need for a separate curriculum to
enhance these differences (Karlekar 1993).
Thus, debates on curricular change, although extensive, reveal the same,
consistent theme, even from enlightened leaders: education for socialization
and reinforcing patriarchal ideology.

C C :F S
F E P

How soon does the process of gender construction begin? Answers to this
question will, no doubt, vary from society to society and also within a
society. Yet, at the risk of generalization, it can be stated that the construction
of feminine identity begins very early on in all societies. In some cases even
before birth or at birth—which is evident from the following quotes about
Hindu daughters in different parts of India.

‘It is a girl,’ sighed Lakshmi’s husband Gangaram. ... Gangaram was

right; had it been a boy, Sarju would have come out in the rain and
thunder shouting, in her shrill voice, ‘It is a boy; it is a boy, give me
money ... ’ (Mehta 1977).
‘Four daughters! Each one will take ten thousand rupees and walk
out of the house. ... Bringing up a daughter is like pouring water in
sand’ (Dube 1987: 167).
‘Bringing up daughters is like watering plants in the neighbour’s
house’ (ibid.: 167).

According to Dube, girls begin to understand the special value accorded to

brothers when they hear comments like, ‘Oh, what a sweet child! How
wonderful if she had been a boy’ (1987: 167). Bennett, in her study of Nepali
Hindu women, also mentions that all her women respondents were aware of
the superior position accorded to boys in their families. Some recalled that
milk and curd were given only to the boys and that boys did less work. All
the older women reported that only boys had been allowed to go to school
when they were young (Bennett 1983: 166).
Thus, there are values, norms, social practices, customs and rituals that
need to be understood in order to see the connection between gender
socialization and the formal process of education at school. However, we
shall briefly mention some of those which affect a girl’s schooling. A point
that may be mentioned here is that the process of socialization varies by age
and status as well as in accordance with a girl’s relationship to sex and
reproduction, e.g., small girls are given some freedom and may be sent to
primary schools (even the co-educational ones) but the nearer they are to
puberty, the more the restrictions imposed on them, a point substantiated
earlier in the context of co-education. Therefore, why girls drop out at 11
plus and 14 plus may be understood in this context.
The notions of adjustment, tolerance and sacrifice are embedded in
cultural ideology and, therefore, restraint, obedience and sacrifice are
important elements in a girl’s training. The crucial point in a girl’s training is
that she is a target of control and adjustment for the family. Toward this end,
gender-typing of tasks, behaviour, dress, food,17 toys, game, space and time
utilization begins early. Moreover, there is a hierarchy of tasks where in
domestic chores occupy the lowest place. The hierarchy of male and female
tasks within the domestic realm correspond with those associated with the
pure/high castes and polluting/low castes. For instance, women perform the
polluting/inferior tasks associated with the caste system and this sexual
division of labour reaffirms their low valuation due to the impurity inherent
in them during menstruation and childbirth. Thus, daughters and women, may
or must sweep floors and wash clothes and dishes, but sons and men must
not. Sisters and mothers cook and serve food to brothers, fathers and
husbands.18 Thus, from infancy girls are socialized to help, to be submissive
and to learn the centrality of their domestic realm.19
What are the other implications of this for girls as students? Since girls
are expected to be obedient at home, they find it easier to obey and to
conform at school. Again, boys are found to be better at motor and spatial
skills as also verbal facility, which explains their ability to compete in
debates, etc., while girls, socialized to be docile, are discouraged from
talking all the time20 and are therefore better at written ability and do well in
written examinations. Even now when most girls come home from school,
they are expected to help their mothers in household tasks after completing
their homework. Boys can finish their homework and go out to play. In fact,
in these homes, if sons stay at home they will be asked—are you girls? In
addition, the aspirations of young girls are unrelated to their actual
intellectual and cognitive abilities.21Although they perform better at schools,
by the time the girls reach the end of middle school or secondary school their
educational and occupational aspirations differ markedly from that of the
boys. Again, when they join college, they take up gender-specific courses
even though they are performing better than boys in school finishing
examinations.
Since marriage is not just an individual act but a social institution, such
considerations as a girl’s purity and virginity are crucial. Dowry is an added
factor. Parents who have to invest in dowry are reluctant to invest in their
daughter’s education because they cannot afford to spend on both. Kanyadaan
in Hinduism is the central ritual in wedding ceremonies. Literally it means
‘the gift of a virgin’. Its ideological underpinnings are not clear to most of us.
The concern with the purity-virginity of the bride, its effect on her as a
person and its implications later on, are overlooked. Even now educated
parents ‘gift’ their educated daughter to the educated groom and his educated
parents with a lot of pomp and show.

S C

If this is the training at home, how does schooling mediate in this process?
There is sufficient evidence to show that schools discriminate in subtle and
not-so-subtle ways’ For instance, sons are sent to expensive private schools
while their sisters go to cheaper schools. Again, sports activities are used to
reinforce this divide because girls are not encouraged to play football or
cricket and are expected to play with the swing, hopscotch, etc. Even in
music, girls may be offered vocal or instrumental music while boys have to
take up drums. This is done subtly by saying to a boy, ‘sufficient number of
students have already given the option; you are late’.22
Again, the voluntarily limited choices of subjects and disciplines of girls
are reinforced in most schools through informal and formal counselling and
through the hidden curriculum. In addition, principals of girls’ schools do not
even offer science subjects at the plus two or higher secondary stage.
Science is not only perceived as masculine but also involves longer hours of
work in the laboratories, study and reading. A common perception is that this
will affect the eyesight—a handicap in the marriage market. Parents also
discourage daughters from taking up science because who will escort them
while returning home late in the afternoon or the evening?23 This way the
convergence of gender based divisions of roles, subjects and extra-curricular
activities, at home and at school, reinforces the belief that this division is
natural, and hence must be maintained.
More recently, women are becoming ‘visible’ in pure science subjects in
colleges and universities. For instance, their proportion has increased from
7.1 per cent in 1951 to 34.17 per cent in 1996–97, in comparison to men
whose enrolment has shown a decline from 92.9 per cent in 1951 to 66.7 per
cent in 1993–94. In other words, in comparison to one woman student to
thirteen men students in 1950–51, the ratio is one woman to two men in the
sciences in 1993–94. Is this a sign of women’s preference for science? Are
they pushing men out and getting into highly prestigious disciplines leading to
elite occupations? This recent trend of ‘feminization of pure sciences’ has to
be seen in the context of globalization and market forces unleashed since the
1990s. These forces have reduced the importance of pure sciences for jobs
while media, information technology, management, etc., have emerged as the
most sought after jobs. Therefore, young men are moving out of science and
into the so-called professional disciplines, leaving pure sciences to women.
One can hear Indian scientists lamenting the lack of students for doctoral and
post-doctoral work. Therefore, pure sciences are no longer so prestigious
and in demand and, therefore, women are finding space in them. As
mentioned earlier, it may be noted that they achieve high grades in most
school board examinations. Yet, they are finding a larger space in science
after it has been devalued. This trend is similar to feminization of
occupations. Given the hierarchy of disciplines and specializations, the next
question in the context of pure sciences will be: which science disciplines
and specializations are they entering and how long do they survive? What are
the chances of completing doctorate, post-doctoral research and getting jobs?
The enlargement of disciplinary choices in the 1990s has also affected the
young women from the urban middle and upper strata of professional and
salaries classes in the metropolises. The two most sought after professional
courses by women are the computer and management oriented courses. In the
absence of any statistics and macro level qualitative studies, the example of
management studies is being given to illustrate the point that even these
emerging disciplines are perceived to function within the tradition-modernity
dialectic. I would like to give the example of a college for women in
Chennai. This is a self-financing college affiliated to Madras University.
Here every student has to pay a substantial tuition fees in comparison to the
fully aided colleges with charge such low fees that it amounts to tuition free
education. Therefore, there are about 250—300 students at one point of time
who are enrolled in management courses. Informal discussions at the college
revealed that only about 30 per cent students have career goals. Others join
only to get a degree, and now a ‘management’ degree enhances the marital
value of a young woman. This is substantiated by the fact that the wedding
invitation cards mention the qualifications of the bride if she has a
professional, e.g., engineering or management degree, along with those of the
groom (Chanana 2000: 1019).
When women enter colleges and universities, that is the time for their
marriage too. While it is being increasingly postponed in urban areas for
under-graduation, master’s degree becomes problematic because by then they
are above twenty-one years of age. Science requires several years of
laboratory work, much more than general education, and parents have to
choose between education and marriage. While women in all post graduation
disciplines are affected, those in the sciences are in a real bind. These are
hard decisions, especially when marriages are arranged and proposals for
martial alliances come at a certain age for a few years. Thus, what is being
argued here is that women are pushed into and pulled out of science not on
academic considerations or job potential, but on the basis of their feminine
identity and role.
 Tradition and modernity have a dialectical relationship instead of being
polar opposites. Medical education is an interesting location to observe the
pull of the ‘traditional’ role and the push of the ‘modern’ parents’ and
daughters’ expectations. As mentioned earlier, medical education could
never be labelled as a masculine discipline in South Asia as it was in the
west.24 Here, female seclusion entailed that women patients’ bodies may not
be exposed to male (doctor’s) gaze. Therefore, the imperatives of tradition
opened the doors of a ‘modern’ profession for Indian and South Asian
women, on the one hand. On the other, it also impinged in limiting their entry
into it. For example, even now a large number of women doctors remain
voluntarily unemployed and do not utilize their skills because of overriding
familial perceptions. Again, even now considerations of ‘hard work’, i.e.,
long hours of study and several years of education required to become a
medical doctor prevail in the choices made by parents. For instance, this
year two of my acquaintances’ daughters completed the tenth class.25 Both
the girls wanted to become doctors and opt for biology. The parents of one of
them prevailed on her not to do so because it takes too many years of study
and will affect her eyesight and impair her health. This is not an exception or
an aberration. Weak eyesight means that girls will have to wear spectacles
(contact lenses notwithstanding) sooner or later.26 Thus, young girl students
are denied not only their subject choices, but eventual career choices
because of the fear of their adverse impact on female health and female
beauty which are imperative for marital prospects. Thus, it is the future uses
of the female body that determine subject choices, not the present intellectual
capabilities or the aspirations of young women.
This assumes special significance for girls, since in their case the social
and educational functions are seen as one, whereas in the case of boys these
functions are separated. Schooling is expected to perform a function for boys
which is quite apart from their social role while it is expected to reinforce
the social role of girls which is seen as that of a housewife and a mother
(Ahmad 1985). Did or could education ever be an equalizer in a situation
where the socialization process intervenes in such a manner?

C O
Educational policies and programmes are rooted in social values and
premises. Even when they are made gender inclusive, they are constantly
subverted by the gendered visions of parents, teachers and administrators
who are the custodians of formal education. Thus, the process of subversion
continues unhindered.27
This subversion may be conscious and explicit or indirect and implicit,
but it is finetuned to familial expectations and socialization. It is possible to
move along with every stage of the life cycle of a girl through school and
college to highlight the concerns around female sexuality and body that
colour and determine the options available to her and the options she makes.
Thus, schooling of girls is essentially embedded in the societal context even
though it provides an expanded space for growth to women. It ensures that
women remain passive actors-in the process of schooling, do not question the
patrifocal ideology and do not transgress the social boundaries and work
within the accepted system of values. In fact, schools and schooling become
active instruments of cultural reproduction and social control without seeking
to alter the informal and formal processes of socialization.
The educational discourse emerging from the development and
modernization paradigm imbues education with the powers of engineering
societal change at the collective level. Within this paradigm, the individual
who experiences mobility and attitudinal change through education is the
kingpin who assumes the role of the change agent. This model assumes a
positive relationship between formal education, occupational mobility and
change. Formal education bestows necessary skills for the market and also
the ‘modern’ attitudes suited for a changing society, and school is the site of
transformation of individuals. But this is not expected from women’s
education. They are denied agency because the goals of familial socialization
and schooling as processes have to converge. Denial of women’s agency in
the educational context revolving around female education is closely
intermeshed with the concerns of the family, the agnatic group, the caste (and
even the village) in protecting and controlling female sexuality.

Notes
* Originally published in the Sociological Bulletin, vol. 50, no. 1, March
2001, pp. 37–63. This article was presented at the Fifth Women and
Religious Symposium held at Siem Reap, Cambodia, from 16 to 23
January 2000, under the auspices of the Heinrich Ball Foundation, South
Asia Office, Lahore. I am grateful to the Heinrich Ball Foundation,
South Asia Office, for permission to publish this article.
1 According to Mukhopadhyay and Seymour, ‘patrifocal family structure
and ideology’ refers to ‘a set of predominant kinship and family
structures and beliefs that give precedence to men over women—sons
over daughters, fathers over mothers, husbands over wives, and so on
.... These male-oriented structures and beliefs, we suggest, constitute a
socio-cultural complex that profoundly affects women’s lives and hence,
their access to education and educational achievement.’ (1994: 3).
2 Given the dearth of writings on the social history of women as depicted
in the Hindu texts, it is difficult to undertake a comprehensive analysis.
However, recently, interest in interpreting original texts which reflect on
women’s condition has resulted in some publications (see Bose 2000,
Roy 1999).
3 In Pakistan, this phenomenon is known as ‘honour’ killings of women
and has assumed serious proportions.
4 Some scholars are of the opinion that these practices did not exist in the
early Vedic period and evolved much later in Hindu civilization
(Altekar 1978).
5 Purdah, the symbolic shelter, as Papanek calls it (1982) and as
practised in South Asia is contrasted by Dube with the South-East Asian
Muslims with their bilateral and matrilineal systems of kinship and
lesser controls over women. According to Papanek (1982) and Dube
(1997), the ideology underpinning purdah among Hindus and Muslims in
India is different and the mechanisms and social practices also vary. Yet
the net result is the similarity of outcome for women, viz. seclusion and
limitation of physical and social space; restrictions of choices,
resources and opportunities in the world of education and work and
inheritance rights.
6 There is evidence (Chanana 1997; Minault 1982) to show that Muslim
girls were going to Koran schools to learn to recite the Quran. The fact
that they went to a public space from secluded private space has not
been explored.
7 Scholars (Dube 1997; Papanek 1982) working in the area of gender and
kinship or on the impact of purdah on female schooling have referred to
the similarities shared by girls and women in India and in South Asia
irrespective of the religion they belong to. This will be illustrated by
what I have to say about girls’ schooling in the Indian context. In fact,
the concern with female purity and sexuality or the family’s honour
would have a familiar ring for those looking at Islam and women
especially in India and South Asia.
8 Although socialization takes place is different contexts and sites in this
article it refers specifically to the socialization within the family. Here
it is also referred to as informal socialization which too can take place
in varied contexts. Formal socialization and schooling denote forma!
education in the schools.
9 Religion is referred to here in the context of ’religiosity, folk religion or
popular religion which have been used to excuse the prejudicial
treatment of women, to degrade them, and to restrict them to endless
child bearing and drudgery .... Therefore, in a development context, we
must distinguish a religion’s rituals, customs, and institutions from its
inner truth and most fundamental philosophy (Carol 1983: 2).
10 Gurumukhi is the script in which Punjabi language is written.
11 The separation of Hinduism, at the level of ideology and practice,
seems to be a later phenomenon. It is interesting that in most
villages(Gurudwaras and temples were in the same room or the
building.
12 For example, the extant literature (for references see Chanana 1994)
suggests that one of the objectives of social reformers and thinkers in
the pre-Independence period was to meet the challenge posed by
Christian missionaries who were proselytising while imparting
education. There were divergent views among the Christian
missionaries too.
13 The literal meaning of zenana, is—of the women or pertaining to
women. It refers to women’s quarters in the house. Schooling
provisions suited to secluding girls came to be referred to as zenana.
14 The main reason for this decrease in enrolment in co-educational
schools was the establishment of separate schools for girls by social
reformers and the private initiative.
15 It refers to Mahakali Pathshala opened in 1893 by a female ascetic,
Mataji Maharani Tapaswini, to provide formal traditional education to
girls (Engels 1999: 167).
16 For details of similar zenana arrangements for girls’ schooling and for
similarities and differences between Hindu and Muslim social reform
movements, see Minault (1998).
17 My childhood schoolmates told me that they were not given meat at
home after they reached puberty. This practice seems to continue. The
reasons were two. First, the daughter may be married into a vegetarian
family and therefore be used to it in anticipation. Second related to her
becoming ‘too healthy’ or too big (tall), i.e., the concern around her
body.
18 However, when these domestic skills are linked to the market they
become male skills e.g., tailors, cooks/chefs.
19 ‘As in other societies, it is at this advanced stage of early childhood
that the cultural expectations of boys and girls begin to diverge
radically. ... Late childhood also marks the beginning of an Indian girl’s
deliberate training in how to be a good woman, and hence the conscious
inculcation of culturally designated feminine roles. She learns that the
‘virtues’ of womanhood which will take her through life are submission
and docility as well as skill and grace in various household tasks’
(Kakar 1979: 37).
20 Rama Mehta’s heroine in the novel, Inside the Haveli, was brought up
in cosmopolitan Bombay. She was being married into a Hindu feudal
family in Rajasthan, where strict purdah was observed. Therefore, the
mother tells her daughter before marriage, ‘Keep your head covered,
never argue with your elders ....Don’t talk too much’ (1977: 14).
21 This is evident when the results of school finishing or Board
examinations are announced. Year after year, the performance or
success rate of girls has been better than that of boys.
22 These experiences were related to me by my niece 20 years ago and
subsequently I hear them being repeated by successive generations of
boys and girls.
23 In order to overcome this bias, science was made compulsory for all
students upto tenth class. This had a very positive impact because it
provided girls with access to science at least upto tenth class. Now the
National Council for Educational Research and Training, the apex
institution for overseeing all aspects of school education, has proposed
that this compulsion clause may be removed. It will have a very
retrogressive impact on girls and will nullify the positive effect of
training successive generations of girls in science during the last decade
and a half.
24 For instance, the proportion of women’s enrolment in ‘medicine’
faculty has been substantial. It was 16.7 per cent in 1950–51 and stands
at 34.56 per cent in 1993–94.
25 After the tenth class students have to choose between science and non-
science subjects and within science between medical and non-medical
science in senior secondary or XI class.
26 This refrain has been heard again and again for the last two decades—
the time since I became conscious of the gender bias in parents’
choices.
27 For instance, when the feminists raised the issue of ‘home science’
being labelled as a feminine discipline, they were arguing for a broader
framework and for making it gender neutral. But several elite private
co-educational schools in Delhi discontinued this subject thereby
closing the option of a career (as home science school teachers) to
women. Perhaps, considerations of cost went into this myopic decision
because home science entails setting up laboratories. It also meant
saving on teacher salary.

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11

U S S I
I *

Padma Velaskar

That the expansion of educational systems in unequal societies can have at

best limited, if any, equalizing effects is well established by the vast and
continuously accumulating volume of empirical evidence.1 This has, on the
one hand, shattered liberal-functionalist assumptions and notions about the
role of formal education as an instrument of individual achievement, equal
opportunity and large-scale social mobility. On the other hand, critical
perspectives that view education as reproducing social inequality have
gained firm ground. The main functions of schooling, according to these
latter views, are the reproduction of dominant ideologies and their forms
of knowledge, and the distribution of knowledge and skills in a manner that
will reproduce the structure of social inequality.
The major strands within this larger reproductive model are
represented by the economic-reproductive, the cultural-sreproductive and
the hegemonic-state reproductive models. The first, developed around the
work of Bowles and Gintis (1976), is basically concerned with how
schooling functions to inculcate in students attitudes and dispositions that
are required to legitimize the dominant-subordinate relationships in the
economic sphere. The main thrust of the second model, of which Bourdieu
is the major exponent (1973), is the emphasis on the mediating role of
culture in the creation of class societies and attempts to show how schools
are critical in legitimizing and reproducing the cultural capital of the
dominant strata. The third model, drawing from Gramsci’s formulations of
the role of the state in a capitalist society, seeks to analyse and understand
the role of state intervention in shaping the reproductive functions of
education (Giroux 1983; Sarup 1982).
Conventional stratification approaches have failed to provide an
adequate understanding of gender differences in educational access and in
educational and occupational attainment. The recent feminist materialist
approaches seek to offer a fuller explanation of the relationship between
the educational system and the reproduction of the sexual division of
labour. It is held that such an analysis should involve ‘a full consideration
of the sexual division of labour and the uneven and contradictory nature of
reproduction of capital’ (Wolpe 1978).
This chapter is an effort towards understanding how and to what extent
schooling has functioned to reproduce and consolidate caste, class and
gender inequalities in India. With this objective in view, the chapter
weaves together evidences on the varied dimensions of inequality in
educational access, performance and outcome, and attempts to build as
coherent a picture of educational inequality as possible. The focus is on
examining the school itself as a significant source of inequality. This
exercise, tentative and exploratory in nature, is guided by the new
theoretical perspectives of schooling outlined above but does not purport
to systematically test specific propositions flowing out of these
perspectives. This task, besides being one of immense complexity, is
necessarily constrained by the quantity and quality of available research in
several crucial areas. In conclusion, the chapter assesses our present
understanding of the situation in the light of the insights gained.

S I :U A

The Unequal Diffusion of Schooling

At the time of Independence, India’s commitment to education was
expressed in the political resolution to gear the education system to the
goals of economic development and social justice. However, the two-
pronged strategy of democratization and compensatory discrimination
notwithstanding, even the basic minimum goals in education—that of full
literacy and universal elementary education—-remain unfulfilled. And
there appears little possibility of fulfilling them in the near future.
It is in fact evident that the distribution of educational opportunity has
followed emergent patterns of social differentiation and social inequalities
in the country. This pattern, indeterminate and fluid, represents the complex
interaction and interweaving of traditional and newly-evolving
conceptions of status deriving out of the structures of caste, class,
patriarchy, religion and ethnic origin. The following sections reveal how
this intricate pattern of social differentiation is reflected in the educational
system.
First, the overall figures, of the 1981 Census for literacy (36.23 per
cent) or school attendance (44.23 per cent of children between 5 to 14
years) in the country mask sharp regional (interstate and rural-urban) and
gender imbalances. For instance, Kerala is way ahead of other states with
70.42 per cent literacy while Rajasthan with a literacy rate of only 24.38
per cent ranks last among the sixteen major states.2 A similar situation
prevails with respect to school attendance.3Further, there are sharp rural-
urban and gender imbalances in each state, with the exception of Kerala.4
This indicates that expansion of education has favoured urban as against
rural residents, and men as against women.
A further dimension of gross inequality in the diffusion of education is
that of ‘social class’. The representation of the dominant strata is
disproportionately high at all levels of education and most conspicuously
in the higher and elite echelons, in urban as well as rural areas. The
dominant strata constitute the upper and middle class Hindu men and, to a
much lesser extent, women, who are largely drawn from the higher and
middle castes. This implies that caste status continues to be indicative of
occupational and economic status. Evidence of this is available from
research conducted in several parts of the country.5
 Those who constitute the upper and middle strata in urban areas are
largely the beneficiaries of uneven capitalist development that has taken
place in the country. Besides the numerically small but powerful industrial
owners, they include employees ranging from clerical to managerial staff
in the professional, technical, administrative and management services, the
self-employed in these services, and the owners of small capital. In the
rural areas, the dominant proprietary class is that of rich farmers who have
gained immensely from the development of capitalist agriculture (Bardhan
1984; Dandekar 1977). Along with the non-cultivating landlords and
merchants, the rich farmers comprise barely 14 per cent of the rural
households but control 70 to 80 per cent of the total land. The middle
peasants control most of the remainder. Given this grossly unequal
distribution of economic and social power it is hardly surprising that these
classes are unequal usurpers of educational opportunities.
This is not to say that the lower strata find no place in the educational
system. Under the impact of massive expansion, those from the humblest
origins—the agricultural labourers, poor peasants, and urban proletariat
classes living around the poverty line and drawn from the lowest castes—
do participate in the school system. They are generally underrepresented,
but in some specific contexts (e.g., in the metropolitan cities such as
Bombay) they have even managed a fair representation.6
Yet, it is also equally true that the substantial problems of non-
enrolment and non-attendance that do exist, mainly afflict the lower
classes. Census figures for 1981 reveal that around 61 per cent of the
population in the age group 5 to 9 years and 50 per cent in the age group 10
to 14 years, currently do not attend school. On the whole, 56 per cent of
children in the 5 to 14 years age group (the elementary school level) is out
of school. A sex-wise breakdown reveals that 47 per cent of the boys and
65 per cent of the girls in this age group are out of school. Studies have
also shown the conspicuous backwardness of the Scheduled Castes vis-à-
vis the ‘forward’ sections of society.7It has also commonly been that the
representation of women and Scheduled Castes decreases at successively
higher levels. Thus, the basic problem in the field of education is that of
enrolling and retaining within the system those segments of the lower
strata, which have to contend with specific constraints, arising out of
specific structures of social inequality. There is, for instance, the double
burden for the rural girl child as against the boy child. The burden of
poverty is borne through hard work on farms or elsewhere, and that of
patriarchy through relegation to the lesser occupations, survival on less
food, less clothing and more household work in a general atmosphere of
subservience, restriction and oppression (Banerjee 1989). The opportunity
costs of educating girls are higher than for boys; and together with
patriarchal values, they make for a situational finality from which the girl
child cannot escape.
At another level, the segregation of the Scheduled Castes, particularly
if combined with the pernicious element of untouchability, is demonstrative
of the independent restrictive influence of caste. In such oppressive
contexts, schooling must remain irrelevant and remote.
The foregoing is illustrative of how the multiple bases of social
differentiation are operative in a transient, plural society such as India.
More importantly, they indicate how in the consideration of unequal
opportunities, variables such as sex, caste and region are not reducible to,
and cannot be subsumed under, notions of ‘class’ or ‘stratum‘.

Unequal Provision of Education as a Determinant of

Unequal Access

While structural variables fundamentally affect access to education, it is

important to underscore the ubiquity of unequal educational provision—a
fact that has been trivialized by the rhetoric of expansion.
Despite the loud claims to democratization, the spread of educational
facilities to hitherto underprovided regions— remote, interior regions,
areas populated by the Scheduled Castes and tribal populations—has
proceeded at an uneven and halting pace.8 Further, state expansion of
education has been confined largely to the primary level and, to some
extent, to the middle level of schooling. The private sector has been mainly
responsible for the provision of secondary school education as a result of
which facilities at this level are far from adequate.9 In any case, the
expansion of private education has largely been motivated by and served
vested interests (Baviskar 1980; Rosenthal 1977).
The quality of ‘free’ government facilities will be discussed in a
following section. However, it could be hypothesized that quantitative
inadequacy acts as deterrent to the pursuit of education. It would not be
unreasonable to assume that the existence or non-existence of facilities at
the subsequent levels would affect an individual’s desire to enroll and
complete his/her education at the earlier level. Non-availability of
facilities within the vicinity particularly affects potential girl learners.
Studies have shown that ‘distance’ as a factor is more significant for girls
in that parents are unwilling to send their daughters to distant schools for a
number of cultural and practical reasons.10 There is also a parental
preference for schools meant exclusively for girls, as well as with women
teachers, of which there is a dearth, particularly in rural areas. Girls’
schools constitute only 15 to 20 per cent of the total, indicating that most
girls study in coeducational schools. It is possible that a greater
availability of girls’ schools might lead to greater enrolment. One could
extend this argument to the non-availability of other types of institutions to
explain the lower participation rates of girls in different educational
spheres.

U A M R
S

It is unfortunate that there is insufficient amount of specific data on the

critical issue of inequalities in educational achievement—measured either
in terms of years of schooling completed or academic performance.
Research conducted in Western countries shows that home background
exerts an independent influence on academic achievement, through a range
of social and socio-psychological factors. These include parental
education, parental motivation, attitude, aspiration and interest, housing
conditions and family culture, values and relationships, life-styles and
language.
Research in India has indicated the impact of culturally deprived
environments on the intellectual development and, consequently, the
academic achievement of school children. Psychologists have extensively
examined the relationship between economic deprivation and the
development of cognitive and perceptual skills and motivational levels. It
has been established that the culturally and socially disadvantaged are
‘inferior’ cognitively, motivationally, physically and in terms of
personality as a result of environments that are ‘deprived’ with regard to
the amount of sensory achievement orientation. Comparative studies of
Brahmin and Scheduled Caste children have revealed the superiority of the
former in terms of several abilities as well as aspiration levels. Culturally,
the Brahmin families appeared superior, i.e., better educated, more
interested and better oriented towards the schooling of their wards (Sinha
1982).
Sharp gender differences in attainment are also evident. There is a far
greater proportion of dropout and wastage among girls than among boys.
As in the case of non-enrolment, this trend is more marked among the rural
poor. Attainment for girls in general is a function of the notion of the
‘appropriate’ level of education for girls that prevails in the different sub-
groups.11
There exists little systematic evidence of sex differences in academic
performance. It suggests that girls’ performance compares quite favourably
with that of boys. Indeed, data for urban girls suggests that their
performance surpasses that of boys in all subjects at the lower and higher
levels. However, at the secondary stage, there is a tendency among girls to
choose the ‘softer’ and more feminine option. Possibly, both home and
school processes are at work in the realization of this stereotyped result
(Karlekar 1987).

U S U P
While one could scarcely dispute the contribution of ‘home factors in the
academic performance of girls or boys, cross-national data has directed
attention to the school as a significant variable. Studies conducted in
several developing countries including India have revealed a generally
systematic pattern: the less developed a society, the less the effect of
social status on learning and the greater the effect of school-related
variables (Farrell 1982). This finding assumes significance especially in
light of the sharp differences in schooling that exist in India.
Almost everything about the school system in India—its organization,
the internal structure of individual schools, content and processes of
schooling, indeed its total ethos—is structured towards bringing about the
unequal outcomes that it eventually does. All existing schools can be
broadly classified into a four-tiered system. The top tier constitutes the
elite schools, which include the exclusive public schools and the unaided
private schools. The fees are high, rendering them an exclusive preserve of
the upper classes. The next layer comprises government central schools
and ‘good’ quality private aided schools. The third tier includes private
schools, aided or unaided, of average or indifferent quality. Both types
cater largely to the upper middle, middle, and increasingly the lower
middle strata of society. Finally, there is a stratum of provincial or
regional government/ local body schools that is meant to cater to the
poorer segments. With exceptions, the schools in this last category are
considered to be ‘inferior’ in quality to the private schools.
Another crucial line of differentiation is the medium of instruction.
Within each tier the English-medium schools command a higher prestige
not necessarily because they offer ‘superior’ education but because of the
primacy given to English in the higher social circles and its value in the
job market.
A number of studies have documented differences in the quality of
schools.12 One of the most vital aspects of polarization in the quality of
schools is the marked disparity between rural and urban schools, even in
terms of basic facilities such as blackboards and the number of teachers. In
local body schools there is the chronic problem of political interference in
schools, where the teacher’s dignity and autonomy are devalued and
abused by local politicians. Under such circumstances, education can only
suffer.
Studies conducted in the urban and metropolitan areas have documented
(a) the social class difference in the composition of different types of
schools; (b) sharp differences in quality in terms of the physical condition
of school building and classrooms, toilets, size of classrooms, quality of
laboratories and libraries, and organization of co-curricular and extra-
curricular activities; and (c) the importance accorded to, and competence
in, the teaching of ‘difficult’ subjects such as English, Mathematics and
Science.13 Yet, these studies do not really convey the intensity of
inequalities that exit. For this one has only to turn to newspaper reports of
the ‘appalling’ conditions of city schools for the poor.14
A system that is so grossly unequal cannot but function in a central
agency of inequality and domination. All the same, the dominant ethic of a
just meritocracy governs and legitimizes the system. Apart from the
exclusive minority of the totally unaided schools and the central schools
whose students appear for a separate examination (ICSE and AISSCE,
respectively), the vast majority of students—whether from aided,
government or semi-government schools, English or regional-medium
schools—appear for the common Secondary School Certificate
Examination. This phenomenon of mass examinations creates a false
impression of an open and just competition, while the unequal system
ensures that the sorting along class lines remains intact (Kumar 1987).
The issue of whether or not there is a gender dimension to this
phenomenon has not been separately investigated. Do parents segregate
sons and daughters into ‘better’ and ‘worse’ schools by choice? Among
the middle and upper strata such discrimination is not overtly visible. It is
possible that among the lower strata financial constraints may favour the
entry of boys alone to the better schools.
The significant difference between schools in academic performance
levels of children is evidence of the role of schools as mediators par
excellence of social inequality. Studies have indicated that dropout,
wastage and stagnation are largely problems of schools catering to the
lower strata.15 Thus, there is a difference in attainment as measured by
years of schooling completed.
Levels of academic achievement at all stages of education are lower
for children from the ‘low strata’ schools as compared to those from ‘high
strata’ schools. Some studies of the municipal schools in Bombay have
vividly revealed the appallingly low levels of learning—around 50 per
cent of the children score very poorly on the most simple skills and
abilities expected of them.16 There are, of course, intra-school differences
in performance. However, the implication of such inequality between
schools is far more serious for the issue of equity of learning; it begs a
question of critical importance—how far will these low levels of
education take the children from disadvantaged homes? Unfortunately, the
question has not even been seriously or systematically raised by the
authorities concerned.
The disadvantaged, however, show a remarkable awareness of the
workings of the system. With the administrators of education caught up in
achieving targets of enrollment and retention in government schools,
without a thought to the substance, meaning and outcome of the education
imparted, we have the phenomenon of many poor parents undergoing great
strain’to put their children through private schools in the hope that theirs is
a losing battle against money power. There exist today socio-economically
powerful groups, which, in their quest for more wealth and status, can
purchase degrees or examination papers at a price.17

C P S
M D

It is intriguing how the entire endeavour to understand differences in

school attainment has hither to concentrated on the processes of
socialization within the home, to the virtual exclusion of what goes on in
schools. There is now a definite shift of interest. The concern is not merely
with school ‘quality’ in term of facilities and learning achievements with
reference to the existing curriculum, but the curriculum itself and the
internal processes of schooling have begun to be questioned.
Today, this is posed as a central problem—how a society selects,
classifies, transmits and evaluates educational knowledge, reflecting both
the distribution of power and principles of social control. The concern is
not merely with ‘knowledge’ but with the ‘hidden curriculum;‘—
normative and dispositional elements that maintain the ideological
hegemony of the powerful elements in terms of serving their economic and
other interests and also giving meaning to learners’ situations. The
question then is how and why are some social meanings rather than others
used in the organization of school life (Apple 1979; Bernstein 1973).
In India we have only just begun to respond to these questions. Krishna
Kumar (1983), who points out the large gaps that exist in this crucial area,
has also made some pioneering efforts to contribute to it. Focusing on
dominant meanings and viewpoints reflected in the curriculum as well as
the actual enactment of it as seen in the teacher-student relationship, his
study purports to show how the experience of education serves to assist
Backward Class children to internalize symbols of backward behaviour.
Other studies have referred to the ‘irrelevance’ of the curriculum as one
reason for student inability to comprehend what is being taught in the class.
Some studies have suggested that teacher preconceptions, teacher
biases and teacher behaviour, subtle or deliberate, conscious or
unconscious, operate to discriminate against girls, Scheduled Caste/Tribe
children, or children from disadvantaged homes. Teachers have been
observed to have low expectations of girls and a condescending if not
downright abusive attitude towards poor children from slums. Even if a
good relationship with the children prevails, teachers do not strive for
excellence but for ‘minimum level’ performance from poor children.18
Two studies need specific mention here. The first showed that
Scheduled Caste students in a school dominated by caste Hindus not only
perceived the school climate negatively, but their aspiration levels and
academic self-concepts were markedly lower than in the Harijan ashram-
sponsored school (Pande and Tripathi 1982). The second study (Sinha
1982) showed that within a ‘superior’ school, the difference between
Scheduled and non-Scheduled Caste students accentuated with advancing
age. Both studies indicate that feelings of discrimination, isolation or
alienation neutralize the impact of better facilities.
Analyses of the context of textbooks have portrayed a sexist and middle
class bias. These works are mainly concerned with showing that schools
employ and use predominant forms of discourse. Thus, men’s images are
enhanced at the expense of women’s (Kalia 1979). Also, middle
class/caste culture is glorified while the culture of the lower classes/castes
is negated, devalued and demeaned (Acharya 1987).

Inequality in Occupational Outcomes

Several questions can be raised about the relationship between education

and labour force participation—the extent to which education enhances
labour participation and productivity, whether it provides orientations
towards work life, how the educational policy is geared to the economy,
etc. Since the central concern of this chapter is with the reproduction of
inequality, the question posed here is: to what extent does education
contribute to the dominant social relations of society along sex, caste and
class lines in the labour market?
The initial years of post-Independence ‘development’ resulted in
burgeoning employment opportunities in the ‘modern’, particularly the
public sector. Apart from the technical positions in the industrial sphere,
there occurred a vast expansion of white collar and professional
opportunities. The period witnessed large-scale education-linked mobility
as the level of formal educational qualifications was specified for different
levels of jobs. All segments of the population benefited in varying
measures, including rural youth from traditionally disadvantaged homes,
women from the middle and upper strata, and the Scheduled Castes and
Other Backward Classes. The entry of the latter groups was particularly
facilitated by the policy of compensatory discrimination, which allotted
reserved seats in higher education and government employment.
 Shortly, however, the slow pace of economic growth coupled with
exploitative development policies created an employment crisis of grave
proportions. In a context of contrasting economic opportunities and the
segmentation of labour markets, the role of education was rendered
ambivalent. Thus, there arose a situation in which individual mobility
through education occurred in perfect compatibility with the rigidity of
unequal structures in the face of low rates of aggregate/group mobility.
Moreover, given the complete mismatch between the demand and supply of
labour at nearly all levels of the occupational structure, ascriptive criteria
came to exercise an independent influence on job selection. Basically, the
traditional and new elites—urban and rural—remained firmly entrenched
in the upper echelons. Not only did they consolidate their own positions,
but they have also gained an increasing control over the recruitment to the
lower echelons (Bardhan 1984).
While the issue of gender inequality in employment has been
intensively researched, the specific issue of the relationship between
educational attainment and women’s labour force participation has not
received due attention. Some tentative studies in developing countries
suggest that increasing levels of education among women do not
necessarily improve their opportunities for economic participation. Rural
educated women with secondary education are displaced from traditional
activities without access to alternative avenues (Smock 1981).
At higher levels, women’s education has facilitated their entry into the
modern sectors. But even for university graduates, the rates of
participation differ between the sexes. It is obvious that there is a sex-
typing of occupations, with women relegated to the lower rungs across and
within occupational categories. Teaching, nursing and clerical jobs are
regarded as feminine occupations, and there also occurs a feminization of
vocations which women take up. Further, there are sex differences in
returns to education in terms of earnings and prospects for occupational
mobility (Krishnaraj 1988; Ram 1978; Smock 1981).
Similarly for the Scheduled Castes, education has brought about a
measure of mobility, but a range of constraints hinders their equality and
integration with the rest of society (Chitnis 1977; Tilak 1979).
 There are 30,131,000 registered unemployed persons in the country
today—50 per cent of who are educated, including university gradates.
Graduates of the arts, science and commerce faculties together constitute
over 85 per cent of the unemployed graduates (Jayaram 1988). These are
fields in which women; the Scheduled Castes and Other Backward Classes
are represented in substantial numbers. It has been generally observed that
unemployment ‘strikes from beneath and it strikes particularly at those at
the bottom of society’ (Blaugh 1969; Carnoy 1987; Farrell 1982). To an
extent, this might have been the reason why rural educated youth fell back
on agriculture. Thus, the already overburdened agricultural economy was
forced to provide for additional employment—necessarily characterized
by low productivity and low incomes—fuelling the impoverishment of the
agricultural labouring classes. For a substantial number, however, the
‘educated’ status makes them feel ashamed to participate in what they
regard lowly manual occupations and creates an insatiable desire in them
to gain entry into the modern, organized sector.

Type of Schooling and Employment

There is no direct evidence to show that the unemployed are drawn largely
from inferior schools. However, given the linkage between employment
and social class and the social class differences in the type of schooling
which has been discussed earlier, the mediatory role of schooling in
occupational placement can be inferred (Neelsen 1983).
As far as high-prestige occupations are concerned, however, there is a
clear linkage between the elite schools and elite occupation. The elite
schools, public schools, central schools and the high quality aided schools
function as a channel through which entry is assured to the best colleges
and prestigious courses and thereon to the top levels in the occupational
structure. Children entering public schools seek careers in business and the
professions, especially engineering. They are oriented to occupations of
high social prestige such as the IAS and the army (De Souza 1974). That
they succeed in doing so is suggested by data which shows that
representation of those from elite schools in certain prestigious
occupations by far exceeds the representation of these schools in the
educational system (Karlekar 1983). Studies of students enrolled in
professional colleges in cities lend further support to this contention
(Jayaram 1977; Sharma 1978; Velaskar 1986). These studies show that
there is an increasing representation of students from English-medium
private schools. The private institutions also mediate the emergence of
new structures of inequality. It has been observed that the Scheduled Caste
and Other Backward Class students who enter professional colleges
through reservations are also increasingly drawn from private schools
(Velaskar 1986).

C C

It emerges from the foregoing overview that schooling has brought about
only a marginal dislocation of traditional structures of inequality. In the
process of its expansion, it has created and strengthened new inequalities.
Thus, the large-scale entry into the education system of sections of the
population hitherto excluded from it has represented a structural change in
itself, but not one that has been able to overthrow entrenched structures of
inequality.
The education system has functioned as a mediator of class, caste and
gender inequalities, as summarized in the statements below. It may be
noted that not all these statements are based on hard data but are inferences
drawn from on-going research. They are also personal observations on
how children from different strata and sexes negotiate classroom
knowledge differentially and how the processes of classroom interaction
need validation. Thus, schools reproduce inequality through:

1. the denial of the basic minimum facilities to the disadvantaged and

dispossessed while actively promoting the expensive the exclusive
interests of the minority of new and old dominant sections;
 2. a curriculum rooted in ‘technocratic rationality’ and one which places
a value on ‘high status’ knowledge such as ‘the hard sciences’ directly
serves the needs of an emergent, inequitous capitalist economy. The
curriculum also suits the capacity nurtured by the upper strata thus
giving them a ‘head start’ in education. Mental labour is glorified
while manual labour is disqualified;
3. imposition of a ‘dominant’ culture curriculum not only projects the
knowledge, values, norms, linguistic styles, worldviews and meanings
of the middle and upper classes, but also projects them as being
intrinsically superior and valuable as compared to the culture of
subordinated groups;
4. segregation of children in schools of different quality on the basis of
class and gender and through providing class, caste and gender
specific opportunities and experiences within education. Boys from the
lower strata are channeled to ‘low status’ knowledge streams and
activities that will correspond to their anticipated futures. Similarly,
the myth of female inferiority and ineptitude is perpetuated through the
division of knowledge into male and female knowledge and the
systematic propelling of the sexes along these bifurcated lines.
Channeling actually takes place at the post-secondary level but schools
function as preparatory areas.

Much more research is needed to assess how inequalities are actually

realized through the processes of school education. For instance, the
operation of the ‘hidden curriculum’, through which dominant images are
accepted, resisted or rejected need to be studied further. It would also be
important to identify the ‘dominant interests’ in education, how they
conflict with each other, articulate their interests and produce their
hegemony. In short, we must know more about the dynamics of the
reproduction of inequality through education. All these insights should be
instructive in the formulation and promotion of alternative ideologies and
pedagogies.
Finally, we have seen that the education received by the lower strata
and women does not necessarily bring rewards in terms of economic
returns. On the contrary, they experience long periods of unemployment in
the .‘reserve army of labour’ and become vulnerable to discrimination in
terms of work and wages. Under these circumstances, educational
opportunity, even if truly equalized, will not fetch ‘equal’ results. One
would do well to always view the educational system within the
framework of unequal social relations and processes.

Notes

* Originally published as ‘Unequal Schooling as a Factor in the

Reproduction of Social Inequality in India’, in the Sociological
Bulletin, vol. 39, nos. 1 and 2, March-September 1990, pp. 131–45.
1 For a comprehensive review of this literature see Karabel and
Halsey (1977) and Farrell (1982).
2 Apart from Rajasthan, Bihar, Jammu and Kashmir, Uttar Pradesh,
Madhya Pradesh, Andhra Pradesh and Orissa are the most
educationally backward states. While Maharashtra ranks second to
Kerala, it is still way behind it. The Punjab, Gujarat and Tamil Nadu
are the other advanced states.
3 Once again, Kerala ranks first with 80.88 per cent of its population in
the 5 to 14 age group in school. Bihar ranks last with a corresponding
percentage of 32.62.
4 At the all-India level, the rural-urban imbalance in literacy is 27.75
per cent, and in school attendance 26.77 per cent. Gender imbalance
in literacy stands at 22.07 per cent and in school attendance at 18.18
per cent. Generally, the educationally backward states reveal greater
imbalances than the more advanced states (cited in Note 2 earlier).
5 See, for example, studies by Kamat (1968, 1985) on rural
Maharashtra, Acharya’s study of Bengal (1987), Tilak’s study of
Andhra Pradesh (1979), studies by Jayaram (1977) and Kumar
(1987), and studies cited in the Third Survey of Research in
Education (1978–1983) published by the National Council of
Educational Research and Training (1986).
6 Some recent surveys (unpublished) conducted by the Tata Institute of
Social Science in the slums of Bombay in 1989 have shown the
virtual absence of non-enrolment. See also Di Bona and Singh (1987)
and Neelsen (1983).
7 See the periodic reports of the Commissioner for Scheduled Castes
and Scheduled Tribes, Government of India. Tilak’s study (1979)
examined the relationship between educational facilities and
improved access of the Scheduled Castes and concluded that there is
an insignificant relationship between the two.
8 See the data in the First to Fourth Surveys of Education in India
(1959–1982), published by the National Council of Educational
Research and Training (NCERT), New Delhi.
9 Private aided/unaided secondary schools account for the major share
in the total number of secondary schools in most states. Facilities for
middle and secondary education are particularly poor in the
educationally backward states of Bihar, Jammu and Kashmir, Madhya
Pradesh, Orissa and Uttar Pradesh. See the Fourth All India
Educational Survey, 1979, NCERT, New Delhi.
10 See Government of India (1974). The study further revealed marked
variations in the attitudes to education among different strata.
11 For an analysis of the education of girls from poor sections see
Government of India (1974). See also Karlekar (1987), Mazumdar
(1985) and Velaskar (1988). Poverty is a predominant factor that
governs the dropout rate among girls. There are marked variations in
the attitude towards girls’ education between upper and lower
classes, the former displaying a more positive attitude for obvious
reasons.
12 Several studies have exposed the poor condition of government and
semigovernment schools in rural areas. See, for instance, studies
cited in the Third Survey of Research in Education, 1986, published
by the NCERT, New Delhi. See also Chitnis and Velaskar (1988) and
Kamat (1968).
13 Studies by Britto (1987) and Patel (1983) have extensively
documented differences in schools catering to different social
 classes. De Souza (1974) and Singh (1989) have analyzed the
exclusive character of public schools. See also Chitnis and Velaskar
(1988).
14 Three examples will suffice: (i) Children have to wade through
ankle deep water from over-flowing drains to enter a particular
school in Bombay. During the monsoon the roof leaks and the
classrooms are flooded, forcing the children to sit exposed to the risk
of short circuits; the flooded playground is a breeding ground for
disease-carrying bacteria. (ii) In Pune a municipal school runs for
years together on a budget of Rs 8 a month. Classes for four standards
(I to IV) are held in a small shed (10 × 30 feet). The roof of the shed
had fallen off, but the new roof is also in danger of collapsing. (iii)
The third is an unauthorised private school in Bombay where more
than 1,000 students listen to their teachers under dangerous high-
tension electric lines. The school, established through the ‘influence’
of the then education minister, runs on donations which are illegally
collected and which have earned a fortune for it’s owners.
15 Britto’s study (1987) showed that of the three Bombay schools
selected for investigation, the elite and the middle class schools did
not face the problem of dropouts, whereas the municipal school did.
Patel’s study (1983) showed a lower incidence of failure and a better
performance in a non-slum school than a slum school. The Bombay
Municipal Corporation’s study in 1989 of its schools depicts the high
rate of wastage and dropout at the primary stage itself (unpublished
data).
16 For a review of the findings on the alarmingly low levels of
educational standards and specific deficiencies in cognitive skills of
the Indian children from common elementary schools, see Kurrien
(1983). A series of studies conducted especially to gauge the levels
of learning of municipal school children revealed shockingly poor
results in concept formation, categorization, labeling, reading etc. See
Chitnis and Velaskar (1988) for a summary of the findings.
17 The country has witnessed a steady erosion in the substance of
learning and a growing incidence of misappropriation and fraud.
Most disturbing is the fact that examination results are being
 manipulated by the economically and politically influential. In
addition, it is very easy to bribe those who set the question papers for
examinations.
18 Britto (1987) and Patel (1983) have noted the phenomenon of low
teacher expectation of the academic performance of the poor.
Bernstein (1987) has highlighted some specific handicaps
encountered by the Backward Class child.

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Britto, R. 1987. ‘Unequal Schools‘.Unpublished Ph. D. Thesis, Tata
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Carnoy, M. 1987. Higher Education and Graduate Employment in India:
A Summary of Three Case Studies. Pune: Indian Institute of Education.
Chitnis, S. 1977. ‘Education and Equality’, in A. Kloskowska and G.
Martinotti (eds.). Education in a Changing Society, pp. 73–106.
London: Sage.
Chitnis, S. and P. Velaskar, 1988. ‘Education in Maharashtra: Strengths and
Weaknesses’. A report prepared for the World Bank. Bombay: Tata
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Dandekar, V. M. 1977. ‘Nature of Class Conflict in the Indian Society’.
Lecture delivered at G. R. Bhatkar Foundation, Bombay.
De Souza, A. 1974. Indian Public Schools: A Sociological Study. New
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Di Bona, J. and R. P. Singh. 1987. ‘Modernity of Tradition in Indian
Education: The Revival of Indian Languages and Indigenous Systems of
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Process of Change, pp. 225–44. New Delhi: Sage.
Farrell, J. 1982. ‘Educational Expansion and the Drive for Social
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Giroux, H. 1983. Theories of Reproduction and Resistance in the New
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———. 1988. ‘The Education-Employment Mismatch: A Sociological
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———. 1985. Education and Social Change in India. Bombay: Somaiya
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———. 1987. ‘Reproduction or Change? Education and Elites in India’,
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Section D: State

The literature on nation and nationalisms rarely addresses the question of

gender; an issue that feminist social scientists have sought to change, at least
in the last decade. They have sought to rewrite the histories of anti colonial
struggles; underlining not only the active role that women played in these
struggles but also the cultural agenda that came to be imposed upon them.
They highlight the ways in which women have been and continue to be
central to the project of the nation. Not only are they the biological
reproducers of future citizens but also reproducers of the boundaries of
national groups and the carriers of cultural tradition. In India, feminist
scholarship has underlined the ways in which the specific histories of
colonialism, nationalist movements and embittered community relationships
have reconstituted patriarchies. Cultural nationalism referred back to a past
in which women were the symbols of cultural purity. Women were often thus
reduced to their bodies as either mothers or sexed objects to be regulated
and protected from the ‘outsiders’. This recasting of women in colonial India
has been crucial for the reconstitution of castes and classes. The ideal
woman was constructed as ‘pure’ in contrast with not only the western
woman but also the women of the labouring classes and lower castes. All
these processes have had a bearing upon the policies and programmes of the
Indian nation-state. Chaudhari outlines the making of the nation and the
women’s question in colonial India. Having traced the legacies of the
colonial encounter, she identifies three axes on which the women’s question
was defined: women as agents and recipients development, as politically
equal citizens, and as cultural emblems of the nation. The negation of
women’s rights that comes with liberalization and religious fundamentalism
is also highlighted. Whitehead addresses the issue of cultural differences
delving into gender identities and fanning out into metaphors of racial,
community and national differences. She underlines through the Age of
Consent controversy and the Ilbert Bill agitation the ways in which both
gender and racial subordination are engaged concurrently. Epp’s essays
move between the positions taken by the state and civil society on the issue
of the nude worship in Karnataka. She explores the Dalit Sangharsh Samiti’s
struggle against the practice of nude worship in Chandragutti. The
explanations of the reformers and the devotees are juxtaposed and the
rationalist reform approach is seen as tied to the traditional symbolic
placement of woman. In this context, it is important to recall that gender
ideology in a caste based society not only legitimizes the structures of
patriarchy but also the very organization of caste. Feminist sociologists
therefore have to address the multiple and overlapping patriarchies in Indian
society. Globalization and religious fundamentalism have rendered the
analysis of gender, state, and cultural identities crucial to feminist
scholarship and politics.
12

G T M I N -
S *

Maitrayee Chaudhuri

I attempt here a very broad mapping of the manner in which women have
been addressed in both the making of the Indian nation and in the running of
the Indian state. As I understand it, there are three major ways that the
national movement first and the Indian state later imagined the role of
women. These are: (a) women as agents and recipients of development; (b)
women’s political participation in the nation as equal citizens of a state that
does not discriminate on grounds of gender; (c) women as emblems of
‘national culture’. These three facets of women’s location within
‘nationalism’ and ‘nation building’ reflect three aspects of the ‘national
movement ‘which were ‘germane to the making of the Indian nation’.One, it
was based on ‘a well-developed critique of colonialism in its economic
aspects and on an economic programme leading to independent economic
development’ (Chandra 1999:17). Economic self-reliance, sovereignty,
growth with equity were part of the very identity of Indian nationalism. Two,
the movement was committed to political democracy and civil liberties
which were seen as building blocks of nation-making (ibid.: 17). Political
participation of women both in the national movement and then in the running
of the independent state were therefore important. Three, Indian nationalism
was also a cultural critique of colonialism and an assertion of ‘national
culture’. In this assertion the image of ‘Indian womanhood’ was significant.
As one committed to the view that history is a determining influence in
shaping the parameters within which we imagine and practice, I return to the
past many times in the course of this chapter, ‘including the section on
conceptual clarification. The past is, however, very generally invoked, both
within academic and popular writings, when narrating the story of the status
of Indian women. Indeed the need for a historical past is an inextricable part
of modern nationalist consciousness. The nation, itself a modernist enterprise
however, has to summon a legacy stretching to an ancient, time-immemorial
past. The story of the Indian woman can therefore only begin with a
customary reference to her high status in the Vedic period. The
contentiousness of such a project has been increasingly questioned
(Chakravarti 1989) and I for my part am happier to locate myself in the
colonial past as the starting point of India’s journey to modernity, to state,
nation and the woman citizen.
My reasons for doing so are not very complex. India entered modernity
and capitalism through colonialism. Nationalism and the modern states,
which are posited as nation states, are essentially modern. Likewise the
women’s question has to be understood as part of the modern democratic
project. But liberal democracy’s relationship with the question of rights of
women was never simple. Thus while equal rights necessarily meant rights
of all, men and women, it was not unusual to define citizenship as exclusive
of both women and the dispossessed. On the other hand, modernity with the
corollary processes of capitalism and the refashioning of households and
families meant that women were recast as creatures of domesticity, and to be
a housewife came to represent once more both a full time and natural
vocation. It was also part of the nineteenth century package of ideas that
clamed that the status of a nation ought to be gauged by the status of women.
Indians were thus berated for their inability to attain heights as a nation
because of the pitiable condition of their women kind. Indian social
reformers responded to this challenge and we had a major recasting of
women in modern India. In this recasting we had a construction of middle
class domesticity, much on the lines of Victorian England, that defined the
normative Indian woman as gentle, refined and skilled in running a ‘home’.
We also had a simultaneous assertion of the virtues of an ancient Hindu past
and culture. With the intensification on the national movement, however, new
ideas of socialism, of equality and development also gained ground. The
actual entry of women into political action altered the parameters of
imagining women’s role in the nation. And at the same time the issue of
cultural pride for a colonized society continued to be of great importance. It
is only correct therefore to locate the making of both the nation and the
women’s question in this complex crucible of the colonial encounter. For
therein lay the seed of much of the discord that marked contending ideas of
women as democratic citizens and women as markers of culture, or women
as dependent housewives and women as independent workers.

S ,N W

Perhaps a few conceptual remarks about the modern state, about nationalism
and women may not be out of order here. I attempt below to etch (with a very
broad brush): O’) the ambiguous relationship between the liberal state and
women: (ii) the specificity of women’s role in the nation; and (Hi) the
historical legacy of colonialism.

W L S

The state is not an unified entity. It is a multi-dimensional phenomenon, the

nature of which varies across time and space. Here our concern is with the
modern liberal state with its legally circumscribed structure of power with
supreme jurisdiction over a territory. Such a view may find echoes in ancient
texts but clearly could not prevail while political rights, obligations and
duties were closely tied to property rights and religious traditions. Similarly,
the idea that human beings as ‘individuals’ or as ‘a people’ could be active
citizens of this order—citizens of their state—and not merely dutiful subjects
of a monarch or emperor could only develop in modern conditions.
 I proceed with Held’s definition of liberalism as an effort to delineate ‘a
private sphere independent of the state and thus to redefine the state itself,
i.e., the freeing of civil society— personal, family and business life—from
political interference and the simultaneous delimitation of the state’s
authority; (Held 1984: 3). Liberalism was about a world of’free and equal’
individuals with natural rights. Politics came to be understood as the defence
of the rights of these individuals. And the mechanisms for regulating these
individuals’ pursuit of their interests were to be the constitutional state,
private property, the competitive market economy—and for us here the most
important—the distinctively patriarchal family.
While liberalism celebrated the rights of individuals to ‘life, liberty and
property’, it was the male property-owning individual who was the focus of
attention. The liberal state by definition had an uneasy relationship with
women ‘individuals’. While the West granted universal franchise only after
bitter battles, in India, where a more critical understanding of liberalism was
part of a nationalist discourse, the tension persisted. I have shown elsewhere
that eventually even in the 1938 Plan Document, where ‘near communists’
were members, the rights ‘to hold, acquire, inherit and dispose of property
won over the view voicing the rights of working class women as ‘instruments
of labour’ (Chaudhuri 1996: 227–29). More significantly, however, the rights
of bourgeois women as independent individuals was itself challenged on the
basis of customary practices. We witness this in the incredible opposition to
the Hindu Code Bill after independence, where it was opposed tooth and nail
on the grounds that the very fabric of the Hindu society would collapse (ibid.
1993: 182–92). We witness this in the debates over the first Plan Document
expressed in the view that the ‘State should follow a policy to assure women
the same rights as men’ but without ‘prejudice to Muslim personal law’
(ibid. 1996). And we see this in the conflicts between the Church and
women’s rights (Roy 1991).
The problem is not just attitudinal but one bolstered both by structures1
and theoretical legacy. Theoretically, within liberalism women were not
easily accepted as citizens. Rousseau excluded all women from ‘the people’,
that is, the citizenry, as well as the poor. For citizenship is made conditional
upon a small property qualification and/or upon the absence of dependency
on others (Held 1984: 23). Wollstonecraft (1975) thus wrote:
 But to render her really virtuous and useful, (woman) must not, if she
discharges her civil duties, want individually the protection of civil
laws; she must not depend upon her husband’s bounty for her
subsistence during his life, or support after his death; for how can a
being be generous who has nothing of its own/or virtuous who is not
free ... .?

Structurally the family and the community mediates between the ‘individual
woman’ and the state. An inevitable gap, therefore, exists between the liberal
state’s commitment to gender quality on the one hand and to a patriarchal
family, male property rights and free market on the other.

N ,N W

Scholars have repeatedly warned us of the dangers of conflating state and

nation. (Oommen 1997: 13). Modern states, however, continue to posit
themselves as ‘nation states’ irrespective of the fact that there could be more
than one ‘nation’ encompassed in them or that there would be members of the
same ‘nation’ under the rubric of another state. The desire for cultural
recognition and identity—hallmarks of modern nationalism—has a tendency
to get mixed with the right to have a state to practice one’s cultural
distinctiveness and also be equal in a world of ‘nation states’. This
conflation of terms is precisely the manner in which the curious entity, the
‘nation state’, operates. Anderson (1983) had emphasized the misplaced
nature of studying nationalism in political theory when we ought to really
address it as a package with family, kinship and marriage. But herein lies the
tension between the coupling of the modern, bureaucratic, rationalized state
and the passion of a nationalism that can both kill and get killed in the glory
of the nation.2 One can rightly speak, as Anderson does, of ‘political love’, a
love that retains the fraternal dimensions of medieval caritas but incorporates
as well a maternalized loyalty symbolized domestically; the nation is home
and home is mother (ibid., emphasis mine).
 Hence, it is not surprising that Rousseau who had no place for women as
citizens eulogizes the Spartan mothers. Rousseau repeats Plutarch’s ‘sayings
of Spartan Mothers’ reproducing tales, anecdotes and epigrams of the
Spartan woman as a mother who reared her sons to be sacrificed on the altar
of civic necessity (Elshtain 1991: 546–47.) The Spartans, models for later
civic republicans and early modern state builders, honoured but two
identities with inscriptions on tombstones—men who had died in war and
women who had succumbed in childbirth, both embodying the sacrificial
moment of civic identity (ibid.: 549–50).
This theme of women and sacrifice for the nation is woven into the body
of Indian nationalist thought. For the militant nationalists, India herself
became the mother, at whose altar men and women were sacrificed. More
often they were called upon to play a very special role as mothers and
daughters of the nation. Gandhi’s views resonate with this idea. Gandhi states
that ‘woman ... [is] ....mother to the Nation ... ’ (1917).

The economic and the moral salvation of India thus rests mainly with
you. The future of India lies on your knees, for you will nurture the
future generation ... The destiny of India is far safer in your hands of
a government that had so exploited India’s resources that she has lost
faith in herself (ibid.: 1921, emphasis mine).

Drawing from different historical experiences, Yuval-Davis and Anthias

(1989) sum up the ways in which women have tended to participate in ethnic
and national processes and in relation to state practices. These are: (a) as
biological reproducers of members of ethnic collectivities; (b)as
reproducers of the boundaries of the ethnic/national group; (c) as
participating centrally in the ideological reproduction of the collectivity and
as transmitters of its culture; (d) as signifiers of ethnic/national differences—
as a focus and symbol in ideological discourses used in the construction,
reproduction and transformation of ethnic/national categories; (e) as
participants in national, economic, political and military struggles.
In practice these would tend to blur into each other. The above
propositions do hold true for India. But I would like to contend that the
specificity of an anti-imperialist nationalism also brought questions of
political participation and development centre-stage to the women’s
question. At the same time I would argue that the inherent contradictions of a
liberal state— wedded to equality on the one hand and patriarchal private
property on the other, to individual rights of women on the one hand and to
rights of ‘cultural’ and ‘religious’ practices on the other—inevitability led to
a bind that this chapter looks into. To repeat I seek to analyse these within the
three axes on which I see the women’s question defined in the Indian context.
They are: (i) women as agents and recipients of development; (ii) women as
politically equal citizens; and (iii) women as cultural emblems of the nation.

L C E

Generations have studied the nineteenth century reform movements as simple

straightforward measures to do away with sundry social evils like sati and
child marriage. The last fifteen years have witnessed a plethora o’f literature
in this field belying any such notion and foregrounding both the complexity
and ambiguity of the processes. Central to this problematizing of social
reform was exploring the far-reaching implications of the fact that the early
initiatives on the women’s question had been taken largely by men; that the
reformers belonged mostly to the upper castes; and that the specific problems
addressed and the mode of addressing were very often restricted by region
and caste location. A more dramatic instance of how these researchs have
made us rethink issues is the case of the Widow Remarriage Act which
legally allowed upper caste widows to remarry, but simultaneously through
codification of laws obliterated the rights lower caste widows had
traditionally availed of under their customary laws (Chaudhuri 1993: 31–
38). This move towards increased homogenization and construction of a
monolithic image and practice of Indian womanhood persists to this day.
The other process initiated was the reinterpretation of ‘Indian culture’
and the special role within it for ‘Indian women’. In this cultural regeneration
are embedded complex ideas of what constitutes culture. Cultural practices
often chosen as emblematic of community identity pertain to women’s
mobility and control of sexuality, for example, child marriage, purdah,
sati,the social death of widows. But if women are icons of Indian culture,
the contentious question in a plural society like India is which of its women
and which of its cultures ought to become the ‘national’ icon. And one of the
most vexing battles of issues of modern India has been fought over the rights
of community identity versus rights of women and rights of the state.
While the concerns of the nineteenth century reform movement left their
mark on the women’s question, it is important to emphasize that with the
intensification of the national movement and the spread of internationalist
ideas of socialism and democracy, the women’s question could not be
contained within the restrictive parameters of one or other reformer. Women
within women’s organizations like the All-India Women’s Conference and
women within the national movement insisted on greater political and
economic participation. The legacy of women revolutionaries, trade union
activists, underground nationalists is as much part of the historical legacy that
the independent Indian state inherited. Unfortunately, however, the persistent
tendency of much of modern theory to dehistoricize the private sphere,
celebrating male entry into the public sphere and condemning women to
remain in the ‘timeless universe’ of domesticity and doomed to repeat the
cycles of life’ (Benhabib 1987: 86) seems to have had the final say after
India’s independence.

W A R
D

Economic critiques of colonialism were a key component of Indian

nationalism. With independence the state’s commitment to the nation was
expressed in the pledge to development. Much before India actually attained
independence, serious thought was given to the question of development. The
Indian National Congress constituted the National Planning Committee
(NPC) in 1938 to chalk out blueprints for independent India’s development.
One of the 29 sub-committees formed was on ‘Women’s Role in Planned
Economy’ (WRPE). The formation of the NPC clearly expressed the
intention of the Congress to adopt planning as the most effective means for
the comprehensive economic development of the new nation. The WRPE is
truly remarkable for both the details it has on the status of women of that time
as well its breadth of interest and concern (Chaudhuri 1996: 211–35). I quote
at length its stated objective particularly to contrast it with the amazing fact
that women and development disappeared from the first ‘five’ Five-Year
Plans in an era where planning was the major issue.

This Sub-Committee will deal with the place of women in the planned
economy of India, including consideration of her social, economic and
legal status, her right to hold property, carry on any trade, profession
or occupation and remove all obstacles or handicaps in the way of an
equal status and opportunity for women. In particular it will confine
itself to: a) the family life and organisation, and women’s employment
in the house and the changes therein in the recent years; b) marriage
and succession and the laws governing these; c) the condition of
industrial employment of women and the protection of working
women in mines, factories, plantations, workshops and retail trade; d)
social customs and institutions which preclude women from taking her
full share in India’s planned economy; e) the types and methods of
appropriate education to play her due role in household work in the
professions and social and national services; and f) any other
questions connected therewith.

The WRPE, I have argued elsewhere (ibid.), clearly shows the imprint of the
ideas of liberalism and socialism. The socialist argument that the
emancipation of women becomes possible only when women are enabled to
take part in production on a large scale, and when domestic duties require
their attention only to a minor degree, comes across sharply in the document.
What also comes through and far more effectively is the liberal thrust on ‘the
free and full development of woman’s personality’ so that the individual can
‘contribute to national progress’. The WRPE’s state-centric vision moves far
ahead of its time by acknowledging the ‘home work’ done within the house
as well as by arguing for recognition of women’s labour as a ‘separate unit
of production’ and not as ‘a corporate part of the family work’. The intent of
the state to ensure property rights for women and enable her to carry on trade
and other occupations equally reflects an understanding of women as
independent economic individuals. As I glean through independent Indian
state’s formulations, the reader will be struck by the disappearance, not
marginalization of these issues.
What has baffled scholars is the complete turnabout in the manner women
were understood in the development paradigm once India attained
independence and once planning really began. Indeed women virtually
disappeared from the idiom of development, even work, and entered wholly
the world of welfare. The Central Social Welfare Board was established by
the government in 1953 with a nation-wide programme of grants-in-aid for
promoting welfare and development services for women and children. The
planning commission’s Plans and Prospects for Social Welfare in India,
1951–61 spells out social welfare services as intending to cater for the
special needs of persons and groups who by reason of some handicap—
social, economic, physical or mental—are unable to avail of or are
traditionally denied the amenities and services provided by the community.
Thus women were considered to be handicapped by social customs and
values and social welfare services were thought of to rehabilitate them. This
is a far cry from the systematic analysis of marriage and family, rights to
property and rights at work which marked India’s first plan document—the
WRPE.
The break with the past seems absolute. A new, fresh beginning takes
place with distinct ideological moorings. The analysis shifted from
addressing questions of systemic powerlessness to behavioural issues to be
addressed by training. The origin of women’s programme has to be now
studied within the context of the overall rural development programme;
known as the Community Development Programme (CDP). The CDP was
formulated soon after independence in 1952 with the help of American aid.
The objectives of CDP were essentially two-fold: material and
psychological betterment of village. Material improvement was to be brought
about through government aid (financial and technical) for agricultural
development. The government also.planned to provide the villagers welfare
service, such as educational, recreational and health facilities, wherever
possible. The psychological aspect concerned the creation of community
consciousness among villagers so that they became aware of their own needs
and responsibilities. But this programme, with its main focus on agriculture,
had nothing to offer to those who were not large agriculturists.
Women were integrated into this programme almost as an afterthought,
when it was realized that the lack of participation of women in the
programme was responsible to a considerable extent for the programme not
making the desirable impact. Later when they introduced the women
component in the rural development programme it was designed after the
Home Science Extension programme. In this programme women were taught
some practical skills aimed at making them better housewives and using their
time more fruitfully. Mahila Mandals in the rural areas were visualized as the
catalysts for such development. Accordingly, in the belief that better home-
making skills would improve the living standards, the government devised
the MahilaMandal scheme in 1954 to integrate women into the CDP.
Needless to say this programme did not merit any success because of its
sheer irrelevance to the needs of the rural masses.
After the CDPs receded into the background, the focus of policy regarding
women throughout the period of the Second to the Fifth Plans (1955–86) was
welfare (GOI 1995: 24– 30). Health and family planning concerns about
women found explicit expression. In the Third Plan period we have the
Applied Nutrition Programme (ANP) with the objectives of imparting
nutrition education to mothers through demonstration feeding, production
programme and training of women functionaries. Similar measures persisted
until the time when the Sixth Five-Year Plan (1980–85) was being drafted,
and a group of national women’s organizations demanded that the strategies
recommended by these working groups needed incorporation in the Five-
Year Plan. The Planning Commission responded by including for the first
time a chapter on Women and Development in the plan document.
Simultaneously, the commission initiated a discussion on science and
technology in development and the Ministry of Social Welfare appointed a
Working Group for this purpose. Reviewing the outcome of these policy
debates in its Report to the United Nations in 1985, the government of India
noted that the major result was:

A shift in recognition—from viewing women as targets of welfare

policies in the social sector to their emergence as critical groups for
 development .... This shift represents re-assertion of the principle of
women’s equality of rights—to participate effectively in the process
of development, ensuring thereby movement in the direction of the
Constitutional goals. It is also a reassertion of an ideology enunciated
by the Father of the nation that the future of India cannot be build
without the willing and conscious participation of one half of its
population—women ... (GOI 1985: 6).

What is of significance here is that the tone is not of a new beginning but a
return to the constitutional goals and commitments of the ‘Father of the
Nation’. But even here the first plan document goes unmentioned. In 1995 the
government brought out yet another document ‘Towards Empowering
Women’ in response to the felt need of many ‘in the context of the Fourth
World Congress on Women at Beijing’. The document has little except a
listing of women-specific and women-related initiatives ‘empowering
women’. It has little to say on poverty and exploitation but has pages of
tables indicating projects sanctioned and the number of women benefited.
At one level the concept of empowerment could be read as in continuity
with earlier discourses of economic right and political participation. On
closer scrutiny this is the buzz word of international aid agencies who have
over the last decade appropriated ‘the past years of research, activism and
government action in India’ (John 1996: 3074). As John has sought to show
that ‘as the “agency discourses” have been saying for some time now, the
informal sector is at the heart of the market economy and represents its prime
model. In their view, although “restrictive” third word state regulations are
responsible for the growth of the informal sector in the first place, it is
nonetheless here that high productivity is possible with low capital costs’
(ibid.). This is of defining importance at a time when the Indian state is in a
process of liberalizing the economy, initiating and implementing structural
adjustments and speaking of empowering the poor. What is also to be noted
is that production is no longer definitive for national identity. I have argued
elsewhere that consumption perhaps is (Chaudhuri 1999).
It is not as though the Indian state is oblivious of the implications of
liberalization. The Country Report 1995 has an entire section on the macro-
economic policies and their impact on women (GOI1995: 54–57). While
fearing that the new economic policies may lead to an increase in
employment, with ‘women bearing a disproportionate share of the brunt’, it
ends with the remark that the ‘feminisation of work’ that may be a
consequence of the policies may, therefore, throw up both challenges and
opportunities’ (ibid.: 54–55). The aid agency discourses and increasingly the
state discourse, however, shift away from macro economic policies to micro
interventions for ‘empowering’ of women.
There are two points that I wish to underscore. One is the gap between
the state’s intent to address women as workers and contributors to national
production and the unfailing lapse into a more powerful discourse of women
as passive recipients of welfare and of women as dependent members in
male-headed households. Two is the fact that with liberalization, and the exit
of the socialist bloc, we have entered a new world where aid donors like the
World Bank committed to entry of global capital also appropriate the
findings of the women’s movement and women’s studies to argue that poor
women are ‘more efficient economic actors’ with ‘greater managerial and
entrepreneurial skills than men’. Therefore, what they need is credit and
social services, not ‘the conditions of employment that obtain in the formal
sector, which would stifle productivity’ (John 1996: 3074). Though recent
government reports seek to connect the new discourse of empowerment—
political or economic—to the legacy of nationalism, it is important to
demonstrate that the two are not linked.

W P E C

That nationalist leaders desired women’s political participation3 and that

women participated in the national movement are accepted facts.4 Less
accepted is any consensus as to what exactly did political participation mean
for the women and for the nationalist leaders. One view would argue that
‘even the most cursory examination of women’s’organized activism from the
beginning of the twentieth century explodes the myth still being pursued by
many, that women’s role in the national movement(s) against imperialism
was male-dictated and male- manipulated (Kasturi and Mazumdar 1994: 16).
The other, as Mies points out, is:

To draw women into the political struggle is a tactical necessity of

any anti-colonial or national liberation struggle. But it depends on the
strategic goals of such a movement whether the patriarchal family is
protected as the basic social unit or not. The fact that the women
themselves accepted their limited tactical function within the
independence movement made them excellent instruments in the
struggle. But they did not work out a strategy for their own liberation
struggle for their own interests. By subordinating these goals to the
national cause they conformed to the traditional pativrata or sati ideal
of the self-sacrificing woman (1980: 121).

Other scholars like Gail Minault and Geraldine Forbes argue that the
concept of the extended family in Indian culture5 could extend virtually
indefinitely and be used to justify women’s concerns beyond the kin group.
The metaphor of the extended family certainly assisted middle class women’s
performance of some public roles through their associations (Minault 1982:
220–21).
While at one time an uncritical lauding of women’s political participation
in the national movement was common, more recent views have veered
around the belief that women’s political participation ‘gave the illusion of
change while women were kept within the structural confines of family and
society’ (Jayawardena 1986: 107). Partha Chatterjee has further blurred
boundaries between the nineteenth century Bengal reform movement and the
political activism of women at an all India level in the twentieth century to
pronounce what he calls the nationalist resolution of the women’s question.
The argument is that by separating the colonial, material public world from
the indigenous, spiritual private world the nationalists defined what the
parameters of women’s change ought to be.
I would contend that active political participation often challenges the
boundaries of intended models. And I would not see the question of political
participation of women only from the confines of a set of reform ideas.
Indian women also had a history of militant participation in political
struggles—in working class strikes, in peasant rebellions, in anti-imperialist
and democratic movements for a long time. It was simply not ideas
(important as they were) which led to the Congress adopting the Fundamental
Rights Resolution in 1931.6
As in the case of development, women’s political rights were not
seriously addressed in independent India’s state discourse where women
were primarily understood as recipients of welfare as wives, mothers and
daughters. The state documents themselves accept that ‘while women have
often been in the forefront in mass movements, their presence has not been
felt strongly in structured decision-making and institutions’ (GOI 1995: 67).
The reason they argue is that ‘working in a predominantly patriarchal
structure with no gender sensitivity has made it difficult to bring about real
and sustained changes for women’ (ibid.). No further explanation is given
about what gender sensitization may mean but we are left with the feeling that
state policy debates have left the kind of interrogation of structures, evident
in the first plan document in favour of a discourse on attitudinal changes.
The failure of the state not surprisingly led to a resurgence of the
women’s movement in the 1970s along with wide-ranging left and
democratic movements. The state was confronted with the questions that the
women’s movements were raising, to name but a few: land rights; the gender-
blinded nature of development; political representation; laws pertaining to
divorce, custody, guardianship or sexual harassment at work; about alcohol,
dowry and rape. The women’s movement in turn interrogated their own
relationship to the state. While on the one hand women, particularly poor
women, faced the violent edge of the state, it is the state that the women’s
movement sought ameliorative intervention from.
A decade after the upsurge of democratic and radical movements, the
state, it is important to recall, opted for economic liberalization in the late
1980s with the concomitant presence and pressures of international aid
agencies in the country. Today we are in times where two parallel processes
are underway. On the one hand international financial organizations, the
Indian state and Western states herald India’s entry into the global market,
encourage withdrawal of the state from ‘welfare’ activities. On the other the
same set of actors promote economic and political empowerment of the
grassroots’ women. Economically this implies, as we saw in the last section,
valorization of the poor women’s efficiency and a championing of the
informal sector as the heart of the market economy. Politically, I would go
along with the view that transnational capital supports the idea of ‘low
intensity democracy’ or ‘polyarchy’ with the idea of legit- mizing internal
orders which favour foreign investment and provide stable social and
political conditions for its operation (Chimni 1999: 342).
The Indian government has projected the new economic policies as
representing a consensus, above ‘politics’. Along with the stress on
production a commitment to what is called ‘empowerment’ of the people is
reiterated. We can look at the seventy third and seventy fourth constitution
amendment acts of 1993 ensuring one-third of total seats for women in all
elected offices of local bodies in rural and urban areas in this light. The 1995
Country Report thus writes, ‘Women have thus been brought to the certtre-
stage in the nation’s efforts to strengthen democratic institutions’ (GOI 1995).
State documents suggest that at last we are going back to the constitutional
pledges of political rights irrespective of caste, creed and gender. I am
sceptical of the intent and would go along with Mohanty’s argument that
‘empowerment, civil society and democratization form the new package of
liberalization discourse which on their face value respond to the long-
standing demands of struggling groups’ (Mohanty 1995). At the same time it
would be spurious to dismiss the significance of these measures. That these
are not empty gestures is evident by the fact that the promise to legislate 33
per cent reservation for women in Parliament has been repeatedly scuttled.
Recent years have seen abortive efforts to introduce what has come to be
known as the Reservation Bill for women. That women are not adequately
represented in the Parliament is widely accepted in the twelfth Lok Sabha,
out of 547 members of the Lok Sabha only 32 were women. It has been
observed that as long as the promise of 33 per cent reservation ‘remained in
the realm of pious hope and pontification’, there was ‘uniform goodwill
towards women and their cause’ (Natarajan 1996). In parliamentary circles,
the main opposition to the bill came from those who demanded sub-
reservation for the OBC women within the 33 per cent quota. Critics7 have
wondered what ‘these champions of the OBC had been doing these 50 years
long ... ?’(ibid.). The other views opposing it were that: one, ‘women were
not yet ready for political office’ and they have to be ‘sensitized and
educated’ and two, that reservation for women will lead to the perpetuation
of dynastic politics’. In a political clime where a large number of male
members in both Parliament and legislatures are ‘charged in cases ranging
from murder and dacoity to rape and economic offences’ (ibid.) and where
nepotism is widespread, both criticisms sound hollow. That the bill was
unsuccessfully sought to be introduced after 1996 only shows a very
concerted attempt to oppose it.
There is a strong tendency to project a view that political space for
women in India in the past was granted to women without resistance.
Debates on women’s suffrage in colonial Bengal, which I draw upon only as
on illustrative evidence, suggest otherwise. Oppositions to a woman’s right
to vote were made on various grounds. One, that since ‘she is quite unfit for
defence and administration of a country, franchise cannot be her birthright’
(Southard 1995: 100). Two, that it would lead to ‘discontent with domestic
duties and neglect of husband and children, “even during illness”, that
“politics and other brainworks’” (sic) would make women ‘unable to breast
feed her children’ (ibid.: 101). It was the active intervention and struggle of
women’s organizations that got women their right to vote. Today too political
participation of women is a contested terrain between a hesitant state,
double-faced political parties, international aid agencies and growing
women’s movements.

W C E

This chapter is premised on the assumption that notwithstanding the liberal

‘nation state’s’ pledge for women’s political and economic participation in
the nation, women continue to be seen primarily as biological reproducers of
members of nations and as cultural reproducers of national/ethnic
boundaries. If ‘the nation is home and home is mother’ women cannot but
be signifiers of ethnic/national difference. They participate centrally in the
ideological reproduction of the collectivity and as transmitters of its culture.
It is in a discourse on ‘national culture’ that women therefore are most often
and most ‘naturally’ referred to. Most ‘naturally’ for the middle class who
dominated the ‘national’ debate, women’s economic participation was
cognitively invisible and political participation was alien. Women’s role in
the ‘home’ was natural. And we know the etiology of common sense is
central to hegemony.
It is well documented that both the ‘home’ and the ‘Indian woman’ which
were being eulogized as eternal were specific to a particular historical
moment and marked a definite break from the past. Indeed the nineteenth
century reformers and nationalists alike wanted to liberate the upper caste
women from her world of superstition and ignorance. An audience of
educated men were thus asked whether they did not feel in their daily lives
that their mothers and wives were ‘great impediments’ in the way of their
own intellectual and moral improvement (Chaudhuri 1993: 470). Reformers
thus wanted to devise a system of education for females that would ‘enable
the wife to serve as a solace to her husband in his bright and dark moments ...
to superintend those sweet social comforts, idealised in the English word—
Home’ (ibid.). This ‘home’ is therefore new but ‘homes’ like ‘nations’
appear as natural entities with a history that extends to a past that is ‘time
immemorial’. This process also happily coincides with what I have referred
to earlier as the persistent tendency of much of modern theory to
dehistoricise the private sphere ... condemning women to remain in the
‘timeless universe’ of domesticity ... (Benhabib 1987: 86).
Thus while the economic and political spheres are ‘alien’ spaces women
have to enter, the ‘home’ is the ‘natural’ realm where women already exist.
Western feminists have claimed that in the Western world women have been
seen as nature and men as culture. In India, we know women are represented
as cultural emblems. But what I want to argue further is that this ‘culture’ is
at once ‘nature’ in the sense that like the ‘family’, the ‘home’ and ‘women’,
‘culture’ here evokes a past beyond history. It is primordial and thus inspires
a passion that ‘development’ and ‘political participation’ can only be
envious of.
Culture and nation are thus seen as natural. On the other hand culture in
the modern nation-state can really be understood as a ‘garden’ culture, not
wild and therefore not natural. While wild culture like wild nature can grow
unattended and still look beautiful, artificial gardens can be left unattended
only to be destroyed. Likewise modern ‘nation culture(s)’ are thought out
entities which are administered under the specialized services of the state.
Debates on cultural policies within Indian nationalism and nation building
were important. Defining what constitutes ‘national culture’ however was a
contentious project from the very start. Both the trends towards hegemonic,
homogenous Hindu upper caste nation of culture as well as a well articulated
idea of a ‘composite culture’ with the far-sighted slogan of ‘unity and
diversity’ fought itself through the trajectory of Indian nationalism and the
doings of the Indian state. For women it implied once too often a conflict
between women’s rights as equal citizens and community’s right to cultural
practices which hinged upon gender discriminatory practices be it sati,
purdah, child marriage or denial of inheritance rights or polygamy.
Even in the national and women’s movement in the colonial period
fissures had clearly cropped up between the promise of political and
economic equality of women and equality for cultural practices that more
often than not were discriminatory to women. Amrit Kaur and Hansa Mehta
had objected to the guarantee of religious propaganda and practice. They felt
that the term ‘propagation’ and ‘practice’ might invalidate future legislation
prohibiting child marriage, polygamy, unequal inheritance laws and
untouchability as these customs could be construed part of religious worship.
Kaur suggested that freedom of religion be limited to religious worship
(Chaudhuri 1993: 185).
I have been arguing that culture is perceived as ‘natural’ but is a very
artificial construct in the modern state. Groups who have power seek to
shape the content of ‘national’ culture. In a culturally diverse society like
India, in a clime where women came to represent ‘culture’, community
leaders actively defined what constituted authentic cultural practices of a
community. It has been argued that the women’s question itself became a site
for defining what tradition is. Women’s political activism sought to question
this as we saw in Amrit Kaur’s attempts. But that the opposition to this was
strong is evident from the fact that her views did not have the final say. Today
we thus have a Constitution with Article 15, which deals with the Right to
Equality. But the Constitution also contains articles dealing with other
categories of rights, like the Right to Freedom of Religion, as embodied in
Articles 25–28. And the question can be asked: ‘can a State which proclaims
opposition to discrimination based on sex ... permit religious personal laws,
which affect the life of women in a basic manner?’ (Desai 1994).
Almost sixty years later the fears of India’s early feminists have come
true. Worse still, today the state’s secular credentials are so weak that there
is almost all-round consensus that the Uniform Code Bill is best kept away.
The demand for a uniform civil code has been appropriated by the Bharatiya
Janata Party. It is important to recall’today therefore that the stiffest
opposition to the Hindu Code Bill came from the then Hindu Mahasabha. One
of its leading members, Chatterjee, had argued that the act would encourage
the conversion of Hindus to Islam. And AmritKaur lamented that ‘religion in
danger is a very potent caveat which scares even a seemingly intelligent
person ... ’ (Chaudhuri 1993: 190).
Questions of culture, community identity and scriptural sanctions have
been very much part of the manner in which the women’s question emerged in
India. One of the first issues where this comes up is the sati dispute. While
the Brahmo Samaj marshalled enormous Shastric evidence to show that sati
is not mandatory, the Dharma Sabha pleaded with the British to disallow
those who knew nothing of their customs and religion to deter them from
speaking. Raja Rammohun argued that Manu enjoined a widow to live a life
of denial and austerity while the Dharma Sabha petitioned ‘that in a question
so delicate as the interpretation of our sacred books, and the authority of our
religious usages none but Pundits and Brahmins and teachers of holy lives,
and known learning ought to be consulted—not men who have neither faith
nor care for the memory of their ancestors or their religion’ (Chaudhuri
1993: 71–21). The Age of Consent Bill that raged through India in the end of
the nineteenth century asserted the natural and nationalist right of a
community to decide when and how to reform, rejecting the right of an alien
and unresponsive state to legislate on the private matters of Indians (ibid.:
68–74).
While the establishment of an independent state in a way alters the term of
discourse, the problem of differing identification of communities to the state
persists. The majority community ‘naturally’ identifies with the ‘nation-state’
while degrees of discomfort persist with the other communities. That India
attained independence with the partitioning of the country and unprecedented
killings on ‘communal’ grounds have marked the discourse of state and
communities till date. So far as women are concerned the questions persist:
Who decides who speaks legitimately for a ‘community? Who decides what
constitutes the ‘culture’ of a community?
The Shah Bano case dramatically brought all these questions to the fore.
On 23 April 1985 the Supreme Court of India passed a judgement granting
maintenance to a divorced Muslim woman Shah Bano. The court awarded
Shah Bano maintenance of Rs 179.20 per month from her husband and
dismissed the husband’s appeal against the award of maintenance. The
judgement of the Supreme Court sparked of a nation-wide controversy. The
principal argument put forward by conservative Muslim opinion was that the
Muslim Personal Law was based on the Shariat, which is divine and
immutable. Though sections from the Muslim community defended the
judgement the state was more willing to listen to the voice of conservative
spokespersons of the community. Shah Bano herself was pressurized to such
an extent that in an open letter she denounced the Supreme Court judgement:

... Which is apparently in my favour; but since this judgement which is

contrary to the Quran and the hadith and is an open interference in
Muslim personal law, I Shah Bano, being a Muslim, reject it and
dissociate myself from every judgement which is contrary to the
Islamic Shariat. I am aware of the agony and distress which this
judgement has subjected the Muslims of India today (Radiance1985).

The state passed the Muslim Women’s Bill and the Hindu communal
forces saw this move as an appeasement of the state of the minorities.
Significantly, the fact that it was the Muslim women who were at the losing
end passed them by. The question that arose is who exactly the bill was
seeking to protect— community leaders, divorced husbands or women?
(Pathak and Rajan 1989).
It is important to emphasize that the tendency for the conservative
leadership of a community to affirm gender discriminatory practices as
authentic culture is not confined to the minority community. Soon after the
Indian state passed the Muslim Women’s Bill an eighteen-year-old widow,
Roop Kanwar, was burnt alive on her husband’s pyre in full view of about
3,000 spectators, ‘accompanied by the full panoply of Rajput valour’
(Bhasin and Menon 1988: 12). Despite the Rajasthan High Court’s directives
to the state government to prevent the celebration of ‘Chunari festival’ in
honour of Roop Kanwar, it was celebrated by about two lakh people
assembled at the Chunari Mahotsava and paid obeisance to the sati-sthal
(site of the self-immolation). Many leading politicians participated. The
women of the Rani Sewa Sangha, a voluntary social movement to preserve
India’s ‘ancient traditions’ dressed as brides and marched throughout the
streets of Chandni Chowk, Delhi, to commemorate ‘the historic act of self-
immolation’. Sati was projected as the highest ideal of female spirituality
and renunciation; the highest achievement of ‘naridharma’ and pativrata.
And it was imbued with the aura of sacrifice associated with Rajput history
(Sangari 1998: 26). The sentiments expressed at the sati case were widely
perceived in keeping with the ‘natural cultural’ a nd ‘national’ sentiments of
the people. The state perceived no threat unlike in the Shah Bano case,
widely projected as an instance of a community’s disloyalty to the state and
nation. Quite clearly women to be cultural emblems of the nation have to
conform to a particular culture.

The kind of synoptic view that this chapter has sought to present necessarily
falls short of a nuanced understanding. The basic argument that it has sought
to put forward is that the Indian state has perceived women primarily at three
levels: women as agents and recipients of development, as citizens and
finally as cultural emblems. While India’s specific colonial history and
national movement have shaped these issues in a particular manner, this
chapter also believes that some of the basic anomalies which we perceive
between what the state says and what it does flows from the very logic of a
liberal state. In other words the liberal state is formally committed to the
economic, political and cultural rights of individuals. But so far as women
‘individuals’ are concerned the state tends to relate to them through the
‘family’ and ‘community as evidenced in all the three cases of development,
political participation and culture. This process gets further aggravated in
India with its complex legacy of colonial history and embittered community
relationships.
This chapter has also sought to identify the major shifts in policies of the
Indian state and has attempted to understand the implications of the state’s
liberalization policies on the women’s question be it development or
political participation. The question that may arise is where does ‘culture’
come in? But as has been argued all along, culture is not something that is
added on. It is intrinsic to the imaginings of nations and doings of states.
Empirically we know that along with liberalization we have had heightened
ethnic, communal tensions where the issue of women as emblems of culture
has meant negation of women’s political and economic rights. Theoretically
this chapter rests on the assumption that the ‘nation-state’ couples in itself a
commitment to a rule-bound order premised on the equality of all individuals
(women are equal citizens and economic actors), ‘natural’ and supreme love
for the nation and its culture, where nation is the home (and mother), and on
the freedom of the market which is increasingly disinclined to allow for a
state to protect the weak and the marginal.

Notes

* Originally published in the Sociological Bulletin, vol. 48, nos. 1 and 2,

March-September 1999, pp. 113–33.
1 For details on how inheritance, marriage rules and command over
property determine the status of women in South Asia, see Agarwal
(1994).
2 The recent war at Kargil repeatedly brought images of bereaved women
who had lost their sons or husbands in the battleground.
3 ‘...unless women of India work side by side with men, there is no
salvation for India, salvation in more senses than one. I mean political
salvation in the greater sense, and I mean the economic salvation and
spiritual salvation also’ (Gandhi 1925).
4 ‘It was a stirring spectacle, that of tens of thousands of women, who for
centuries were chained to the narrow domestic life and whom an
 authoritarian social system has assigned the position of helots at home,
stepping out into the streets and marching with their fellow-patriots in
illegal political demonstrations’ (A. R. Desai 1994: 346).
5 As I write and elections to the Lok Sabha heat up, we have BJP pitting
Sushma Swaraj as the ‘desibeti’ against Sonia Gandhi, the ‘videshi
bahu’ who asserts her claim to the nation through her marriage, children
and widowhood.
6 Significantly, the Lahore Congress of Asian Women for Equality, the
Geneva International Conference on Women’s Equality and the Congress
of the Chinese Communist Party adopted a resolution on gender equality
in the same year.
7 That the Lok Sabha in 1996 had some 169 OBC men (in the unreserved
category) and women find no mention in the whole debate (Sunday, 1–7
June 1997).

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13

B E ,B R : I
B ,R C
C I *

Juditk Whitekead

‘A Native, given that he has no high moral principles included by an

educated mother, is unfit to judge a European.‘
‘Our Mother is in the hands of foreigners. ‘

On 9 January 1891, an amendment to Section 375 of the Indian Penal Code,

which raised the Age of Consent for girls from 10 to 12, was introduced into
India’s Legislative Council. Its introduction followed long-term pressure by
social reformers, particularly the publicizing efforts of the Parsi reformer,
Behramji Malabari. Its aftermath was a veritable tamasha, which I translate
as a dramatic controversy with diverse implications. From 10 January until
the amendment was passed on 19 March, protest against it were especially
sensational in West Bengal. Several demonstrations in Calcutta drew
between 75,000 and 150,000 demonstrators, ending in a puja at Kali Ghat
which consisted of 200,000 protesters (Bombay Guardian, 26 March 1891).
There were numerous petitions both supporting and rejecting the amendment
from the Punjab and Northwestern Provinces. Demonstrations both for and
against the amendment were also conspicuous in Bombay and Poona. The
organization of support for the amendment in Maharashtra stimulated the
development of important women’s organizations and marked the first
coordination of reform organizations at a nationwide level (Heimsath 1964:
157).
Protests against the amendment had equally important political
ramifications. Revivalist nationalists publicly unfurled a new rhetoric, which
opposed further colonial intervention in the domestic sphere, regarded as the
last remaining abode of Hindu traditions (Sarkar 1987: 2011). This discourse
constituted a prologue to the display of nationalist strength in the early
twentieth century. The revivalists’ idealization of the private sphere and
Indian motherhood and their condensation of these with deshmata and past
national glory pushed the reform movement on the defensive. Outright
condemnation of Hindu conjugal relations from a Western epistemology of
‘universal’ reason was henceforward0 criticized as being antinational. This
strain of constructed future symbolic boundaries of patriotism which
fledgling Indian women’s organizations had to negotiate in the early twentieth
century.
Why did the amendment arouse such controversy, when similar reforms in
1925 and 1929 (Whitehead 1995a: 2) had provoked little opposition? It
raised the legal age for consent to sexual intercourse from ten to twelve years
for girls of all religious communities in India. Sex with an underage girl,
whether married or not, was defined as rape and was punished by a
maximum of 10 years’ imprisonment or transportation for life (India Office
Library and Collections L\P&J\5\54). In the historical milieu of Anglo-Indian
racism and revivalist reaction in the late nineteenth century, however, the
amendment provoked unconscious emotional reactions from the Indian
middle class, particularly in Calcutta. The controversy reveals the dense
connections between sexuality, conjugality, home and national identity held
by both the Indian and British middle classes in India at a major point of their
ideological confrontation. It shows that the control and objectification of
women’s bodies was an important, if not central, component in the self-
definition of each national community It illustrates how gender identities
possessed the power to provoke emotional reactions on both sides of the
colonial divide.
Many of the practices connected with the disciplining of masculine and
feminine identities exist below the consciousness in daily, routine practices,
which Bourdieu defines as habitus. These practices condition individual
choices and provide a ‘feel for the game‘; they orient our unconscious drives
of sexuality and aggression with wider social directives through the ‘hidden
persuasion of an implicit pedagogy’ (1990: 66–67).
Conceptions of self versus the other among both the British community in
India and the revivalists were highly polarized by the late 1880s. The
iconography of national identities was reflected in their opposed gender
identities. Both the British and the Indian middle classes fantasized their
national ‘body’ by idealizing their mother figures as the bearers of national
traditions. The Age of Consent controversy, which occurred eight years after
the Ilbert Bill agitation, reveals the metaphoric connections that exist
between social bodies and gender identities. The Ilbert Bill, introduced to
the Viceregal council on 2 February 1883, sought to provide Justice of
Powers to all District Magistrates and Sessions Judges. The bill was resisted
by the Britishers because it gave Indian judges the power to adjudicate on
criminal cases involving the Britishers.
The connections between individual bodies and social or political bodies
appear to be entrenched, perhaps even universal modes of human symbolic
expression (Scheper-Hughes and Lock 1987: 7). Since we experience our
social and political worlds through our senses, our body mediates these
relationships, providing a constant interchange of meanings between the
social world and the ‘natural’ world of the body. Gender symbolism often
becomes particularly charged during periods of social change or cultural
anxiety. During the 1870s and 1880s in north India, roles of women were
important symbols of national pride or submission, enlightenment or
backwardness. The honour of both British and Indian communities was often
equated with the honour of their women, while their protection corresponded
with the defence of the nation. The women concerned in these debates,
however, were mainly silent, objectified as symbols and icons of traditions
in which they had, yet, little input.
The Ilbert Bill agitation and Age of Consent controversy engaged with
two forms of gender subordination, the Victorian-medical and the
brahminical revivalist. Each form of moral regulation possessed its own
notions of propriety and impropriety, high and low status, respectable or
dishonorable conduct. The linguistic dualisms defining right or wrong
behaviour were connected to the body through daily sexual, ritual and
hygienic practices. In other words, specific bodily habits in each society
oriented individuals to explicit philosophical discourses which defined and
defended status and gender distinctions.
Victorian legislators, medical practitioners and administrators in India
frequently viewed their social body as a hierarchical organism. Middle class
males represented the head, middle class wives the angelic heart, and
working class males ‘the hands’. Menial workers, prostitutes and ‘other
races’ were associated with lower bodily parts, usually unmentionable in the
preserving decorum (Davidoff 1983: 17–23). The ideal Victorian woman
was one whose upbringing had enabled her to completely sublimate sexual
and aggressive impulses, the difficulties of which were attested to by the
widespread symptoms of hysteria during this period (Showalter 1985).
Unlike middle class Victorian ideology, however, women in north India
were not thought to be passive, repressed beings, either creatively or
sexually. Rather, among middle class ‘respectable’ folk, women’s active
desires and aggressive impulses were to be controlled through early
marriages and physical seclusion in the zenana or antehpur after marriage.
Those forms and norms of moral regulation were especially marked in
nineteenth century Bengal, where polygamy intensified status competition
within the brahminical community itself (Engels 1987: 91). In fact, kulinist
interpretations of the Sastras placed strong emphasis on marriage as the
essential life-cycle ritual determining the status of the daughter’s family.
The overall reactions of middle class women in India to the amendment
are difficult to gauge, since only a small percentage of women of this period
were literate. There were a number of petitions from emerging women’s
organizations in Poona and Bombay, which wholeheartedly supported the
amendment on humanitarian grounds. One of these, from the Arya Mahila
Samaj of Bombay, contained 20,000 signatures (IOLC 1891). In Bengal,
where early marriages were apparently most prevalent, however, the
historical sociologist finds a public gap on this issue, despite the attention
which the Age of Consent controversy has received in the last decade. In
fact, women’s magazines in Calcutta, some established by male reforming
elites, such as the Bamabodhini Patrika Antahpur, Sahitya, and Mukul,
barely mention the controversy. There was only one petition from women
Brahmos in Bengal, organized by Kadambini Ganguly, and containing a mere
151 signatures (IOLC 1891).
Although I have grounded my analysis from the standpoint of the middle
class colonized Bengali women whom the amendment most affected, the gap
in public discourse of these women can only invite speculation. Did the
simultaneous experience of gender subordination and racism arouse
conflicting loyalites in women who were perhaps, like Sarala Debi Ghosal,
already drawn into a nationalist fold in which colonial contradictions took
precedence over social reforms? Or did their silence reflect an informal
taboo on respectable Bengali women speaking publicly about issues of
sexuality? Answers to these questions may only be found through a patient
culling of such women’s private correspondence. An indication of the
ambivalent emotions associated with early marriages can be seen, however,
in the diary of Rassundari Devi, who wrote the first autobiography ever
published in Bengali:

The news of my marriage made me very happy indeed. There would

be music. I would hear the women ululating.... Yet I felt scared at the
same time. I cannot express the apprehension that came to my mind ....
(On my wedding day) I was cheered up by the ornaments, but when
everything was over the next day, I heard people asking my mother,
‘Are they living today?’ I thought they were referring to the guests.
Then I began trembling all over with fear, I was quite unable to speak.
Somehow, I managed to ask mother, ‘Are you sure God will go with
me?’ Mother promptly reassured me that he most certainly would ....
With great effort, they took me away from my mother. I still feel as
when I think of the state of mind I was in and the agony I went through
(Tharu and Lalita 1993: 92–93).

In order to adequately frame the standpoint of Bengali women, it is necessary

first to contextualize the Age of Consent controversy in the growing racism of
the Anglo-Indian community in Bengal and in revivalist reactions to this in
preceding decades. The symbolic closure of the British communities in
Calcutta was reflected in the construction of opposing icons of ideal
femininity in both cases. Images of British and Indian mothers expressed in
the Ilbert Bill agitation and revivalist opposition to the Age of Consent
amendment stand like two reverse mirror-images of each other, signalling the
fear and social distance that existed at a fever pitch between the two
communities in the closing decades of the nineteenth century.1 In this
confrontation the many similarities which existed between Britain and India
in gender, inheritance, marriage and class structures were largely forgotten,
as both colonizer and colonized defended the distinctiveness of their own
domestic traditions.

R R B 1870–90

Factors which contributed to the increasing racism of the British community

in Bengal in the late nineteenth century included the historical memory of the
‘Mutiny’ of 1857–58 and the emergence of an important plantation sector
after 1850. Less difficult to measure but also important was the development
of ‘scientific’ theories of race in Britain, the US and continental Europe
which Were integral to the disciplines of craniometry and eugenics. These
ideas were also popular in mainstream criminology, physiology and physical
anthropology of the period (Gilman 1985; Gould 1981; Harding 1993), and
were an important component of the education of British administrators in
India (Cohen 1987; Tolen 1991; Whitehead 1992).2
The plantation sector, which included tea, indigo and jute plantations,
was the most important capitalist sector in eastern India during this period.
Plantations were characterized by low degrees of capital investment, low
wages and perennial problems of controlling the supply of labour. Workers
were hired on long-term indentured contracts. Extra-economic coercion in
labour recruitment and labour relations was widely reported in the Indian-
owned English-language press between 1870 and 1890, particularly in The
Bengalee and The Amrita Bazaar Patrika. These newspapers contained
numerous articles on forcible recruiting of coolies and some on the rape of
wives of coolies by planters, managers and their agents. Editorialists
expressed anger at the frequently light sentences which British planters and
agents received for such abuses. Here, for example, is an excerpt from The
Bengalee, edited by Surendra Nath Bannerjea, who had lost a hard-won
judicial appointment just prior to the Ilbert Bill agitation:

We referred recently to the proceedings against Mr. Leigh, the

manager of the Rungamatty Tea Estate. He was charged with having
trespassed at night into the house of a coolie woman named Mangly.
Mr Leigh got hold of her in bed. When her husband commenced
shouting, the coolies came up from neighboring lines and kicked up a
row, and Mr Leigh left hastily on his pony. The magistrate showed
great hesitation in taking up the case ....and it has now been dismissed,
upon the extraordinary grounds that Mangly was a woman of loose
character. Another tea planter, a friend of Mr. Leigh’s, swore to having
connection with Mangly although he was aware she was married to
one of his coolies. That Europeans could deliberately go to court to
save one of their countrymen from richly merited punishment by
pleading guilty to adultery in a flippant manner is a further stigma
upon British justice, law, and character’ (The Bengalee, 8 March
1888).

The relative isolation of planters, managers and agents in outlying

districts may also have promoted anxieties that stimulated the development of
a white supremacist ideology that was openly articulated during the Ilbert
Bill agitation. In Calcutta itself, racism helped consolidate the collective
monopoly of European businessmen which was a striking feature of the
industrial and commercial life of eastern. India (Sarkar 1983: 23). Tea,
indigo and jute industries were dominated by Europeans at all the top levels,
and by Marwari intermediary merchants at lower levels. In fact, the British-
born business community and planters in Calcutta and eastern India provided
the major support to the Ilbert Bill opposition. The Ilbert Bill would have
enabled a mere 11 Indian magistrates who were then due for promotion to
adjudicate on criminal cases involving the Britishers. The only official
negative response to the bill was that of Griffith Evans, a Calcutta barrister,
who was piqued at the appointment of R. C. Mitter as temporary Chief
Justice of the Calcutta High Court during Sir Richard Garth’s leave. No
criticisms appeared in Anglo-Indian newspapers on 3 February, the day
following its introduction.
 It was in fact The London Times, an open supporter of the Conservative
Party by the 1880s which initiated the attack on the Ilbert Bill. The Times
objected to it on the ‘grounds that no amount of English education could
transform an Indian judge into someone competent to understand an
Englishman’s conduct, that the legal privileges of Englishmen to be tried
before English judges were a natural right of a conquering race and that if the
Ilbert Bill were passed, British capital would flee India’ (Hirschmann 1980:
41–42). Other English newspapers, on the basis of one dispatch from The
Times‘ Calcutta correspondent followed suit.
As news of The Times‘ article reached India, Anglo-Indian newspapers
there began to react. Most of these newspapers consequently reversed their
stand on the Ilbert Bill. Only the liberal Statesman supported the position of
Lord Ripon’s government throughout the yearlong agitation. Ensuing articles,
editorials and letters to the editor focused on three or four major themes,
which constituted the underlying motifs of the Ilbert Bill agitation. These
themes included the untrustworthiness of Indian males, particularly educated
ones, referred to disparagingly as Bengali ‘babus’, the dangers to British
womanhood of courts presided over by ‘native’ judges, and the general
subjugation of a superior to an inferior civilization which the bill
represented. Often, Indian male judges were seen as incapable of
understanding British, or a more globally European, character because of the
lack of education of the mothers who raised them.
The Ilbert Bill upheaval continued throughout the summer of 1883, with
major meetings convened by the Chamber of Commerce of Madras, Bombay
and Lahore, while smaller meetings were organized by the Anglo-Indian
Defense Association and planters in Bengal and Madras presidencies.
Meetings in outlying towns were financed and often coordinated by agency
houses of tea and jute companies in Calcutta and sometimes by their head
offices in London and Dundee.
The most blatant expressions of English ‘communal anxiety’ were
expressed in a Town Hall meeting in Calcutta on 28 February, organized by
the Bengal Chamber of Commerce. I include excerpts from these speeches,
since they portray the emotional pitch at which distinctions between self and
the other were expressed during this period:
 What the stiletto is to the Italian, the false charge is to the Bengalee ...
Picture the position of an English lady in a remote district who has
been brought before a District Magistrate on a charge fabricated by a
wealthy zemindar who has designs upon her, and mere subjected to an
examination at his hands with all the insolence that cowards are
capable of. Many of you have brought from afar some English girl for
your wife who was entrusted to you by a loving father or a trusting
brother. ... If you give in now, you are betrayers of that sacred trust ...
(Indignant cheers, cries of no! no!)... Do not forget that the wily native
is creeping about like a snake (Branson 1883, quoted in Hirshmann
1980: 301).

The speech by the President of the Bengal Chamber of Commerce, Mr

Keswick, was only slightly less inflammatory. It referred to the potential
plight of the daughters and sisters of planters being convicted ‘on evidence of
perjured villains and lying unprotected in remote prisons’ before being
finally tried by English judges in Calcutta. ‘Do you think a native will
become so Europeanized that he will be able to judge false-charges against a
European?’ Keswick asked ‘Can the leopard change his spots, or the
Ethiopian his skin color?’ (ibid.: 299–300).
In these speeches, as well as in Anglo-Indian newspaper accounts and
letters to the editor, metaphoric and emotional equations between protecting
the body of the middle class Englishwoman and defending the privileges of
the Anglo-Indian social body were apparent. The supposed backwardness of
Indian civilization was symbolically yoked to the lack of formal education of
many Indian mothers. The honour of the English nation then became identified
with protecting the bodies of English wives, daughters and sisters, while the
presumed primitivity of Indian society was identified with the traditionalism
of ‘its’ mothers. The Anglo-Indian community was closing its social
boundaries against ‘racial’ transgression that the social mobility of Indian
males represented. These anxieties were projected on to the bodily
boundaries of English women. Particularly during periods of social change,
anxieties about bodily boundaries often reflect an attempt to fortify and
defend political and cultural enclosures (Douglas 1990: 115).
 The use of animal metaphors by the Anglo-Indian community throughout
the Ilbert Bill agitation also reflected their concern to maintain racial
boundaries. ‘Natives’, especially educated ones, were referred to as ‘wily
snakes’ or as ‘unchangeable, spotted leopards’ closer to nature than culture.
The ‘unmanliness’ of Bengali men was a recurring theme, reflecting the
wedding of British middle class ideals of masculinity to the imperial
imperative:

Indian civilians are men of ability but they cannot for years to come
enjoy the confidence which Englishmen feel in the sturdy manliness,
the perfect independence, the imperviousness to all external
considerations, the bold assertion of opinion against powerful
influences ... which they feel in their own countrymen (Hirschmann
1980: 59).

Anglo-Indian ridicule of the ‘Bengalee Babu’ reflected the attempt to

preserve its race/class identity against possible boundary crossing. Letter-
writer after letter-writer stated that ‘while they loved the native they
abhorred the “babu”’. The ‘babu’ was an English-educated ‘native’, hence
neither wholly Indian nor wholly British. From the Anglo-Indian viewpoint,
he constituted an anomalous category, embodying fears of linguistic
boundary-crossing with a challenge to the Anglo-Indian sense of permanent
cultural superiority. If Indians could master English and Western subjects
(including cricket), then foreign rule was not a permanent and natural feature,
but only a temporary phenomenon.
The Anglo-Indian opposition maintained its attacks against the Ilbert Bill
throughout 1883, even threatening nonconstitutional action if it was passed,
forcing Ripon to introduce a compromise measure. Submitted to the
Legislative Council in December 1883, it proposed that Justice of the Peace
powers be recognized for Indian judges, but that Europeans be given a right
to jury trial before district magistrates and sessions judges. While the bill
recognized rights of promotion for Indian judges, it also maintained legal
boundaries between Anglo-Indian and Indian populations, since only the
former had the right of jury trials.
 One of the most far-reaching consequences of the Ilbert Bill agitation
was,its stimulus of the nationalist movement. Leading nationalist
intellectuals, such as Surendra Nath Bannerjea, called for the immediate
formation of a nationwide Indian Association in response to the successful
agitations of the Anglo-Indian Defense Association. A. O. Hume, a liberal
civil servant, who sympathized with Indian aspirations, canvassed local
leaders throughout 1884 to organize an Indian National Union. This
organization called the first meeting of the Indian National Congress in
Bombay in December 1885. As Bipin Chandra Pal, a later revivalist-
nationalist leader from Bengal, stated, ‘The organization of nationalist
political organizations can be found in the history of the Ilbert Bill
controversy‘.
From the late 1870s, particularly in Bengal but also in Maharashtra, there
occurred a gradual, even if incomplete, shift in the discourse of the
intelligentsia towards what has been termed ‘revivalist-nationalism’ (Sarkar
1983: 23). The revivalists, who included Bankimchandra Chatterji in
Calcutta and B. G. Tilak in Poona, consisted of a mixed group of newspaper
proprietors, urban estate holders living in Calcutta intellectuals and pundits
(ibid.: 1869). They were differentiated from the orthodox in that they were
Western-educated. However, they opposed themselves to reformers, also
Western-educated, by placing political reform above social reform and by
reviving pre-colonial, and sometimes pre-Islamic, Indian history. These
organic intellectuals of the colonized middle-class defended the honour of
Indian women in traditional terms. Although varied and having considerable
ideological overlap with reconstructed reformers such as Kushub Chandra
Sen, the themes of their writings represent an almost exact inversion of the
negative stereotypes of Bengali femininity and masculinity that were so
openly expressed during the Ilbert Bill agitation. The Anglo-Indian
community’s right-wing nationalism seemed to evoke its mirror image, as
colonizer and colonized alike defended the boundaries and honour of their
communities through the protection and idealization of their gender identities.
However alike their underlying family and inheritance structures were, such
similarities were often lost in the debate over cultural difference and moral
superiority.3
 R ’ I

The colonial middle-class in Bengal existed simultaneously in a position of

subordination in one relation and dominance in others (Chatterji 1993: 36).
Bengali males, excluded from the commercial and business world, pursued
social advancement mainly through legal, educational journalistic and
medical careers. However, these were arenas in which they were also
subordinate. The increasing trend towards revival of Hindu traditions in
Bengal consisted of a piecemeal dismantling of Western reason in favour of
vedantic goals of monoism and transcendence. In this emerging intellectual
and cultural milieu, all further social reforms had to be justified within a
Hindu epistemology, and not by reference to supposedly universal utilitarian
reason and progress.
Since national and gender identities are so mutually intertwined, the
reworking of gender images played a central role in this intellectual re-
mapping. British disparagement of Indian middle-class masculinity
especially targetted Bengali men, while excepting the ‘martial races’. ‘A
low-lying people in a low-lying land’, or ‘people with the intellect of the
Greek and the grit of a rabbit’ were common slurs. This disparagement
seems to have been frequently internalized by. the Bengali intelligentsia as
self-hatred. Recurrent newspaper editorials in The Bengalee, The Indian
Mirror, and The Amrita Bazaar Patrika berated the supposed weakness of
the Bengali male physique. Bankimchandra Chatterji, the nationalist novelist,
declared that ‘Bengalis lack physical valour’, while Surendra Nath
Bannerjea editorialized that ‘Bengalis have been compared to grasshoppers,
and perhaps this is true’ (The Bengalee, 12 June, 1888).
Reformist writers tended to attribute the physical weakness of Bengali
men to climate and cultural degeneration, while the revivalists attributed it to
cultural emasculation. The Tagore family, as well as Sarala Debi Ghosal,
launched organizations for physical culture and martial arts in order to raise
the ‘national’ physique of Bengali men. In the late 1870s, editors of the
Amrita Bazaar Patrika were urging readers to take up wrestling. Bipin
Chandra Pal founded a secret society whose aim was the development of
physical culture. Clearly, the regeneration of the Bengali male physique
marched hand-in-glove with the renewal of Indian traditions.
If the nation of Bengal was to be revived and reshaped, however, the
original strength to do so was found more in its female than in its male
constituents. Since the public world of education, work and politics was
marked by humiliation, the private world of the home became valorized as
the site where autonomy, self-esteem and ‘ancient’ traditions could be
preserved (Sarkar 1993: 1871). The mother’s body evoked both the
emotional imagery of a return to the past and the birth of as yet unrealized
nationalist aspirations. Since motherhood was associated with goddess
worship, it was seen not only as a site of cultural autonomy and stability, but
also, if unleashed, a source of potential strength. In early revivalist-
nationalist poetry, the multivocal imagery of motherhood as victim and origin
of life and strength centred on the worship of Kali, a figure of deprivation,
revenge and of a world turned upside-down. Even many reformers, for
example, Kushub Chandra Sen, defiantly gloried in the workship of Kali,
popularized throughout the Bengali intelligentsia by the poet-saint
Ramakrishna, as well as by Aurobindo Ghosh and Vivekananda (Chatterji
1993: 53).
Revivalists poets, novelists, and dramatists linked Mother goddesses to
the spiritual community of Bengali nationhood. Mother goddesses, the
Motherland, an inner spiritual autonomy, and actual living mothers were
metaphorically intermeshed with each other: all were seen as embodiments
of shakti. These symbolic associations reached deep into individual psyches
and fanned out into much wider national and macrocosmic imaginings. They
condensed desires for a return to the pre-colonial past with the maternal self-
sacrifice that nationalists would require to revive and create a nation in the
future. The world-turned-upside-down imagery of Kali evoked images of
subordinate figures becoming ultimately triumphant. These aspirations were
fused into one potent symbol of motherhood, evoking historical, linguistic
and psychological associations.
Some writers, like Bankimchandra Chatterji and RajaniKanta Gupta, went
so far as to idealize sati, or widow-suicide, as a heroic, patriotic act.
Pativratya and patriotism were here joined, as the martial Rajput heroines of
Bankimchandra’s novels who preferred death to dishonour. These national
heroines were upheld as role models for both women and men (Chowdhury-
Sengupta 1993: 41–45). If the goal of colonialism was the drain of wealth
and the goal of patriotism was to reverse its flow, then women, with their
ancient traditions and self-sacrificing strength, had the potential to liberate
Indian males from the trap of Westernization (Sarkar 1993: 1872).
In the imagery of the mother’s body as nation, the Bengali intelligentsia
reversed many negative British stereotypes of their society. In contrast to the
imagery of Hindu women as victims inside the zenana or antehpur, the
revivalists counterpoised motherhood as a source of spiritual self-sacrifice
and fierce strength. In opposition to the view that Bengali males were unfit to
judge Europeans because they kept women ‘ignorant and enslaved’,
revivalists worshipped a sacred feminine principle, shakti. They contrasted
the imagery of Bengali males as physically effeminate and morally weak with
an iconography of spiritual strength from Saivite goddess worship and
identification with Rajput history. Finally, they counterpoised the autonomy
of the domestic sphere, and their inner selves, as a last repository of ancient
culture against the outer, colonized world.
By the late 1880s, then, both the Anglo-Indian and Bengali middle classes
possessed highly conscious and systematic ideologies of their respective
national cultures that were linked to gender identities and hence to embodied
experiences of social and political worlds. The social distance between the
two communities was reflected in the contrasting icons of wives and
mothers. The fortification of national boundaries through the iconography of
chaste daughters and honoured mothers set the stage for opposition to any
further reform of the Hindu domestic sphere and for the controversy that
swirled around the Age of Consent amendment.

A C C

The Age of Consent controversy reflected two different forms of moral

regulation, which disciplined two types of ideal feminine bodies and
objectified them in contrasting ways. Recently, Jaince Boddy has shown how
ritualized wife battering among fundamentalist Norwegian Christians and
female circumcision in the Sudan produce historical traumas which inculcate
repetitive gender behaviour below the level of conscious awareness. This
unconscious ‘memory’ is connected to aesthetic polarities, which form key
metaphors of linguistic, ethnic and religious identities (Boddy 1989; 1994).
In other words, community standards of what constitutes ‘the good, the
beautiful, and the desirable’ are often linked to literal and figurative
transformations of the ideal feminine body, often imagined as the interior
spaces of a society. Although less extreme, I would speculate that early
marriages and childbirth produced much the same psychological and
aesthetic effects among nineteenth century upper caste Bengalis.
Psychological denials of aggression and sexuality in middle class Victorian
women were probably also crucial in defining the aesthetic components of
‘proper’ Victorian gender identities. In the Age of Consent controversy, these
two forms of ‘molding’ female bodies and minds were starkly apparent,
exhibiting the tight fusion that exists between sexuality, national identities and
the channeling of emotion through aesthetic sublimation.
Attempts to ban prohibitions on window remarriage and legally raise the
age of marriage in India were at the centre of long-term campaigns in the late
nineteenth century and were spearheaded by Behramji Malabari. His famous
‘Notes on Infant Marriage and Widow Remarriage’ (1884) urged the
government to ban early marriages and bar government employment to
husbands of very young brides. Malabari, as well as Vidyasagar, saw early
marriages as connected to high rates of widowhood. Noting that 1881 Census
figures recognized 2,122,827 widows below twenty-nine Malabari argued
that abolition of early marriages and acceptance of widow remarriages
‘would give the widows a new found sense of self-respect’. In some
districts, he noted, the census reported that nearly 25 per cent of the female
population was widowed. He contended that ‘early marriages led to a too
early consummation of the nuptial troth, the breaking down of constitutions,
... the birth of sickly children, the giving up of studies, and a disorganized
household leading perhaps to sin’ (Malabari 1884: 4). His newspaper, the
reformist Indian Spectator, contained numerous editorials throughout the
1880s on the need for better female education, reform of widow remarriages
and the need for raising the age of marriage. This, he thought, would
counteract the tendency of an increasing number of young widows becoming
vulnerable to ‘unhealthy’ urban influences. Reformers and revivalists, it
seems, concurred in linking the honour of the Indian middle class with the
honour of the Indian middle class with the honour of women. For both
reformers and revivalists, the spectre of daughters falling into prostitution
was a significant anxiety during this period (Whitehead 1995b: 51).
Malabari’s forthright views received comments from numerous English
and Indian administrators and professional men. Most supported the goals of
his reforms, but urged legislative caution and the importance of education
and the ‘slow progress of propaganda’. Even P. C. Mazumdar, a prominent
Brahmo Samaj reformer, pleaded for legislative caution on the age of
marriage issue. The Viceroy, Lord Ripon, rejected immediate legislative
action, citing Queen Victoria’s 1858 proclamation not to interfere in the
religious customs of Her Majesty’s subjects (Malabari 1884: 10). He urged
Malabari to ascertain the Hindu community’s religious sentiment on this
matter. In 1886, Lord Dufferin also rejected immediate legislative
intervention on similar grounds (Malabari 1884:11). In response, Malabari
conducted a lecture tour of north Indian cities and towns (Indian Spectator,
13 June 1888). In August 1890 he carried his campaign to England, where he
persuaded Lords Reay and Ripon, as well as Ilbert, the Earl of Northbrook,
and Professor Max Mueller and his wife to form a Committee for the
Abolition of Child Marriage (Kosambi 1993: 111).
Malabari’s campaign was strengthened by public reaction to two court
cases, which focused public attention on the issue of child marriage. The first
was the Rukhmabai case of 1884– 88 in Bombay Dadaji Bhihaji, married to
Rukhmabai since childhood, filed a suit for the restitution of conjugal rights.
From a non-Brahmin, but economically elite family, Rukhmabai refused to
reside with her husband, citing grounds of economic and personal
incompatibility. The acrimonious court case ended in an out of court
settlement in which her husband relinquished claims upon her. The second
case was the murder trial of Hari Mohun Maitee, whose wife Phulmoni Dasi,
died on her wedding night, allegedly from forcible consummation. While
Hari Mohun was more than thirty years old, his wife was merely ten. These
much-publicized cases emphasized the unfortunate consequences of early
marriages. Revivalists defended the rights of Hindu husbands in these two
cases. In the Phulmoni Dasi case, they argued that death or injury to young
brides was extremely rare consequences of early marriages.
The mounting pressure for reform in both England and India persuaded
the new Viceroy, Lord Lansdowne, to agree to a diminished version of
Malabari’s proposals. By focusing on raising the age of consent, rather than
the age of marriage, and leaving the issue of widow remarriage to
‘educational progress’, Lansdowne hoped to circumvent much of the
anticipated opposition from revivalists. Preparation for the amendment began
in August 1890, without publicity, to ascertain the extent of early marriages
and early consummation of marriages. Responses from medical officials and
magistrates throughout India indicated that Bengal was the only province in
which early marriages and consummation were widely practiced, due to the
popularity there of Raghunandan’s interpretations of the Shastras.
Raghunandan considered that ritual consummation of the marriage after the
first menstruation called, the garbadhanceremony, was necessary to ensure
the purity of the first-born child. The latter, in turn, was necessary for male
children to provide sraddha (last rites) ceremonies for their ancestors.
The amendment held that sex with a girl under twelve years old, either
married or unmarried, was rape and was punishable by a maximum of ten
years’ imprisonment or transportation for life. However, marriageable cases
were placed in the category of non-cognizable offences, that is, those in
which police could not arrest someone without a prior warrant from a
District Magistrate. This clause was inserted to provide protection against
arrests on the basis of suspicion alone, since a number of commentators had
warned that the honour of respectable families could be destroyed through
false allegations.
Between its introduction in January and its passage on 19 March, English-
language and vernacular newspapers discussed the amendment..The debate,
which was wide-ranging, had five distinct strands. The first strand was
whether the various Shastras and their commentaries prescribed child
marriages and early consummation. The second was whether contemporary
practices included early betrothals and consummation. The third questioned
whether the proposed legislation violated the promise of non-interference in
religious customs. The fourth point of conflict was whether implementing the
amendment would actually protect young women. And finally the medical
argument about the physiological harm to women, their children, and hence to
the ‘race’ as a whole due to early marriages constituted another strand of
discussion.
In the Legislative Council, the major opponent of the amendment was Sir
R. C. Mitter from Bengal. He supported his contention that it represented an
unjustifiable interference by a foreign power in Hindu domestic customs by
citing the authority of the Shastras:

In Bengal proper, the orthodox hindus are guided by the interpretations

of the Shastras given in Raghunandun Bhattacharjea’s Ashtubinghastti
Tuttos. Whether these interpretations are correct or not is, I venture to
think, a question with which legislators in this country should not
concern themselves, if they are to honor the 1858 Royal Proclamation
not to interfere in religious customs of India (IOLC 1891).

Labelling this position ‘Raghunandoxy’, Malabari countered with an

editorial in The Indian Spectator. He refuted Mitter by arguing that
Raghunandun was hardly known outside Bengal, and offered alternative
Shastra prescriptions, drawn, ironically, from Manu:

Manu, in Chapter IX, verse 89, prescribed that a maiden may even
remain till her death in her father’s house, though she attained
maturity; but she should not be married to one who is not fit. This is
explained by the oldest commentator of Manu thus: A maiden is not to
be given in marriage before puberty and she is not to be given after
puberty as long as a meritorious bridegroom is not to be had (Indian
Spectator, 1 February 1991).

The Indian Spectator editorial concluded by stating that ‘Ragunandoxy’ in a

portion of Bengal was not Hinduism in India. M. G. Ranade, one of the
foremost Maharashtrian reformers, supported the amendment by citing
classical ayurvedic medical authorities, such as Sushruta. Sushruta cautioned
that motherhood in women of less than sixteen often led to stillbirths and
weak offsprings. Ranade invoked the image of the Vedic Golden Age, arguing
that early betrothals, marriages and consummation were decadent
appendages to current Hinduism, due to wars, invasions and colonialism:
 In spite of the authority of Manu, Hiranyakishen, etc., marriages after
puberty have fallen into desuetude; but though infant marriages have
become the rule, the texts which speak of the consummation of
marriage do not, as Professor Bhandarkar has conclusively
established, lay down that the garbhadan, or consummation ceremony,
must be performed immediately after the attainment of puberty’ (IOLC
1891).

Various petitions from reformists argued that those opposing the

amendment were ignoring the fact that they worshipped female Vedic sages,
such as Gargiwachanayi and Suhhamaitreyi, who were unmarried and
educated in Sanskrit. The support of the garbhadan ceremony, which
effectively inhibited girls’ future education, stood in contradiction with these
Vedic practices of educating women, they argued.
The significance of this issue for the emergence of revivalist nationalism
as an important political force is exemplified by the career of B. G. Tilak. In
October 1890, still in contact with Poona reformers, Tilak supported late
marriages and widow remarriages, provided4 they were voluntary. However,
he developed strong opposition to the Age of Consent amendment, since
legislation on domestic issues represented ‘cultural emasculation’. He
attempted to ridicule the reformers’ argument that the Phulmoni Dasi case
called for a change in the law, thus:

Hari Mohun could not be held responsible for intercourse with his
wife. His rashness made him guilty ... but this consisted in nothing else
than his having omitted to think on the possibility of his wife having an
unusually dangerous organ, and his having omitted to speculate upon
the comparative dimensions and vigor of the sexual organs of both ...
.Is not even the present law outrageously merciless if it can severely
punish husbands for rarely expected risks of defective female organs?
(Quoted in Wolpert 1962: 53).

In 1895, Tilak chased the Social Conference from the National Congress’
pavilion, arguing that political reforms and independence had to take
precedence over social reform. The Indian National Congress became
similarly divided over the issue, partly due to the strong opposition from
Bengal revivalists. In the 1890 Social Conference held in conjunction with
the National Congress, a resolution to raise the age of marriage was
unanimously passed. Yet by March 1891, various sections of the National
Congress were deeply divided over the implementation of the act, which they
thought could ruin falsely charged families.
The objectification of female bodies was evident not only in Tilak’s
prose. It eddied through various positions in this controversy. Debates
occurred between British medical doctors, the orthodox and the revivalists
concerning the age at which Bengali girls began menstruation and on whether
early marriages harmed the physiology of young women. Perhaps the most
dramatic, yet convincing, intervention in this controversy was provided by a
group of fifty-five British lady doctors, adducing as evidence thirteen cases
of physical injury to young brides during their careers. The various injuries
they judged to result from premature consummation included lacerated flesh,
paralysis of the lower extremities, dislocation of the pubic arch and crushed
pelvic bones (IOLC 1891). Medical practitioners frequently used the
eugenics’ argument that immature sexual congress implied dire consequences
to the welfare of the race, and to the tone and well being of society in general
(ibid.).
The reformers were keen to buttress this issue of social justice with a
wide range of arguments in order to strengthen their case. Malabari also
cited the medical consequences of early marriage and extended these dangers
to the family and society as a whole:

Early marriage leads to early motherhood, and thence to the physical

deterioration of the nation; it sits as a heavy weight on our rising
generation, enchains their aspirations, and generally dwarfs their
growth, and fills the country ... with weaklings and sickly people ...
(Gidumal 1888: 14).

However persuasive the eugenics’ argument for the reformers’ case, it

was also embedded in a discourse of racial, sexual and class differences, in
which Bengali males were viewed as a hypersexual and unmanly ‘race’.
Hence, it ran the danger of appearing anti-nationalist. The Calcutta Medical
Society fixed twelve as the natural age of menstruation, declaring that
Bengali girls who menstruated before that age had been artifically stimulated
by the early excitation of their sexual instincts. The Civil Surgeon of
Mymensingh, for example, informed the Viceroy’s hearings that:

There is reason to believe that mechanical measures are not

infrequently used to dilate the sexual passage, and it is difficult to
decide which is the greatest evil and disgrace, the injury caused by the
natural method or the degradation due to the artificial. A native
medical witness here testified that in about 20% of cases, children
were borne by wives of from 12 to 13 years. This leads to still-borns,
sickly offspring, and often puerperal fever in the mother (IOLC 1891).

While reformers, revivalists and moderate nationalists debated a variety

of points, the reasoning accepted by Sir Andrew Scoble, the Legal Member
of the Viceroy’s Council, was the medical evidence of the lady doctors on the
physiological consequences of early marriages on young women and their
children. Scoble, in refuting Mitter’s arguments that child marriages did not
lead to baneful physiological consequences, argued:

There is, moreover, much reason to fear that comparatively few cases
of this class find their way into the Criminal Courts and not many,
perhaps, into the hospitals. But I would invite the attention of the
Council to the terrible list, sent up by Mrs. Mainsail and other lady
doctors, of cases which had come under their personal observation of
little girls aged from nine to twelve, who had died, become paralyzed
or crippled, or been otherwise severely injured, as the result of
premature cohabitation. Against such positive testimony, I attach little
importance to the negative statement of a number of native doctors
practicing in Calcutta that not a single case of bodily injury to a
married girl has come to their knowledge in the course of their
practice (IOLC 1891).

Lansdowne also cited the Lady Doctor’s memorial as a major reason for
introducing this reform, coupling his announcement with the statement that no
furher interference in social customs affecting marriage was contemplated
(IOLC 1891). Revivalists responded by stating that the amendment
represented a cultural emasculation.
Because the Age of Consent controversy engaged gender and colonial
appositions, it has provided ample evidence for differing historical
explanations in the past decade. By way of conclusion, I summarize these
differing interpretations and then show how a multiple-subjective approach
can reconcile and perhaps transcend them.5
In defending the domestic sphere against legislative intervention, Sinha
has interpreted the revivalist protest as opposing a totalizing colonial reason.
He views the revivalists as resisting the racist disparagement of Bengali
male sexuality, which, according to him, is a crucial element in the defence
of the Raj (Sinha 1979: 100). He holds that introduction of the amendment
represents British colonial intervention in a dominant rather than hegemonic
phase, in which legislative controls were becoming more predominant than
moral suasion.
Tanika Sarkar has provided a useful critique of this onesided
interpretation. Since colonial discourse theory reserves for Orientalism the
entire range of hegemonic possibilities, she contends that it creates a
necessarily monolithic, non-stratified colonial subject who possesses no
agency of his or her own (Sarkar 1993: 1860). Since all power is placed on
the side of the colonizer, any contestatory act, even the support of sati,
acquires by default a rebellious, emanicipatory potential. She further argues
that the controversy represented the political emergence of a distinctive
strain of revivalist nationalism seeking hegemony of the nationalist
movement. During the controversy, she perceptively notes that revivalist-
nationalism staked out new ideological terrain in a discourse of pain and
discipline of the femine body. Far from representing British colonialism in a
dominant phase, she contends that British administrators tried to keep their
distance from the Hindu domestic sphere in the post-1857 decades,
responding only sporadically to reformist pressures (Sarkar 1993: 1873).
Sarkar had highlighted the problems, especially for complex societies
such as India of anti-colonial interpretive schemes, which postulate a single
opposition between colonizer and colonized. Yet her explanation, too,
ultimately succumbs to a binary dualism, that of male versus female, so that
the racist and patriarchal underpinnings of eugenics’ arguments used by the
reformers remain unchallenged. While her argument that British
administrators were reluctant to intervene in Hindu domestic reforms after
1857 is correct, it ignores the fact that this reluctance was more the result of
anti-colonial resistance than of British goodwill. Landsdowne’s personal
correspondence indicates that the administration was aware of the divisive
effects of the Age of Consent debate before introducing the measure, and was
eager to use the splits in the nationalist movement to pressure the Congress to
accept a diluted Council Act in 1892. On 3 January 1891, a letter from the
public works member of the Legislative Council informed the Viceroy that ‘if
Congress leaders side with the anti-reform party, they will show their true
value to their sympathizers at home and may help to divide them from the
reforming camp’ (IOLC MS EUR D594: 7).
Landsdowne also informed Lord Salisbury on 26 March that the ‘age of
consent controversy had produced extremely favourable circumstances for
introducing a moderate council’s act. The controversy which has been raging
over the Age of Consent Bill has, for the moment, demoralized the Congress
Party, almost as much as the Parnell Episode demoralized Irish Nationalists’
(IOLC MS EUR D 594: 15). Although the British Indian government was far
from being a monolithic source of power during the period by Sinha’s
discussion, it was also not, at least not yet, the totally passive political force
implied by Sarkar’s analysis. For example, The London Times, not
surprisingly, was openly jubilant at the divisions in the National Congress
between reformers and revivalists:

Lord Lansdowne’s government thus had not only put an end to an

immoral and cruel practice; it has also mined that Congress party
which, only four years ago, at Allahabad, threatened to lead a
formidable seditious movement.... The abolition of the annual
Congress, such as it was likely to become, is almost as important as
the abolition of child marriage itself (The London Times, 19 March
1891).

Surely the Age of Consent controversy, like the llbert Bill agitation engaged
with both racial and genders subordination concurrently. While these two
forms of stratification can be analytically separated. They are often
experienced simultaneously (Hooks 1981). They are also often
metaphorically linked, since symbols of’natural’ gender differences and
vice-versa.6 The two public controversies show the extent to which
metaphors of cultural difference delved into the inner unconscious of gender
identities and fanned out into wider metaphors of ‘racial’, community and
national differences. Gender identities engage with powerful emotions of
parenting and sexuality. Since gender roles traverse biological and cultural
realms, they can enforce cultural divisions between self and the other by
‘naturalizing’ cultural aesthetics. As the widespread use of metaphors of the
motherland or the fatherland in nationalist movements of this period
throughout the world attests (Anderson 1983; Davin 1978; Koonz 1987,
Mosse 1985; Parker et al. 1992), gender identities provided a powerful
emotional terrain where differences between self and the other were
unconsciously played out. Similarities in modes of moral regulation between
the colonizer and colonized were often lost from view during these historical
moments of cultural polarization, while nationalism became eroticized by its
fusion with culturally specific gender identities.
It was difficult to read these documents without succumbing to the
rhetoric of either form of moral regulation, the Brahminical-religious or the
Victorian-medical. The revivalist defence of tradition opposed British
racism, while European medical discourse provided authoritative support
that challenged feudal forms of patriarchy. Yet, by combining elements of
both discourses, while selectively overlooking their similarities the Age of
Consent debates reconstituted old forms of gender and class distinctions in a
new guise. The overriding impression in these legislative, medical and
journalistic papers is that of the young woman’s body laid bare as a set of
moral precepts on the one hand or physiological ‘facts’ on the other hand. In
each discourse, the cultural definition of the passage from girlhood or
womanhood is objectified, inscribed and persued. The actual experience of
Bengali girls becoming women, however, is lost from view. ‘Facts’ come to
mediate social relations, the experience of early marriage became a datum of
administration and ruling, and male elites on both sides utilized the silent
images of women to debate questions of political legitimacy and leadership
of the future Indian nation.
Notes

* Originally published in the Sociological Bulletin, vol. 45, no. 1, March

1996, pp. 29–54.
1 The opposition between the two communities prevented (or allowed)
both to ignore their similarities in gender, status and class hierarchies.
Sec Goddy (1990) for an explicit discussion of pre-industrial Eurasian
similarities in family, gender, property and inheritance structures.
2 There is now a large literature on the biological objectification of
‘race’ in the late nineteenth century. For Southern Africa see Swanson
(1977: 387– 410) Comaroff and Comaroff (1993). For the Phillippines,
see Anderson (1992: 506–29).
3 The discounting of convergences and similarities in the habitus of
colonizer and colonized has been a recurring feature of the contestatory
movement between colonialism and nationalism. Both seek to valorize
distinctive cultural ‘traditions’, often ones of relatively recent
reshaping. See Keesing (1989: 19–42).
4 Some biographers of Tilak have seen this as evidence that he was a
moderate realist on issues of social reform. Other’s, however, point out
that Tilak only joined the Social Conference in 1890 in order to expose
their supposed allegiance to the British government. See Wolpert
(1962:48–50) for a discussion of the controversies among Tilak’s
biographers.
5 I have chosen the work of two historians for consideration because
these two most clearly express two conflicting perspectives, that of
Sinha (1979) and Sarkar (1993).
6 Lerner (1986) argues from Mesopotamian archaeological evidence that
the still to come objectification of ‘social differences’ in general was
first constructed through the objectification of women in marriages. In
other words, biological conceptions of difference were expanded from
notions of female and male differences and then applied to ethnic and
religious communities conquered by early Mesopotamian states.
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14

D S ,N W
‘C I ’*

Linda J. Epp

On two days every spring, bhaktas (devotees) from several Karnataka

districts have for centuries performed bettale seve (nude worship). This
occurs at Chandragutti village in Sorab taluk in Shimoga district. Devotees
dress, bathe in the sacred Varada river, and walk the 4 km from the
wilderness and up the mountainside to the temple, shivering and shouting,
‘Yellamma, Udo, Udo, Udo’ (Praise to God!). There they fulfil their vows to
the Mother Goddess Yellamma/Renuka: the} pray for forgiveness of sins,
offer thanks for cure of disease, request the birth of a son, and generally seek
to placate a fearful deity. Most of the devotees are from the lower strata of
society: most are Dalit women.
Nudity, especially of women, is taboo in India. However, there are ritual
occasions when nudity has been condoned. Nudity and nude worship in this
region are associated with others rural celebrations, such as the Holi
festival, and celebrants, such as devadasis (women married to the Goddess
and reserved for sacred prostitution) and ascetic Digambara1 Jains. Although
nude worship at Chandragutti was removed from the official list of seves
(services) in 1928, it persisted.
At the so-called Chandragutti Incident of 1986, ‘frenzied devotees,
protesting attempts to prevent worship in the nude, stripped and assaulted
police personnel and social workers’ (The Indian Express, Bangalore, 24
February 1988). This was the result of a protest demonstration against nude
worship staged in part by the Dalit Sangharsh Samiti (DSS; Committee for
the Struggle of the Oppressed). Dalit means downtrodden or oppressed
people. The term refers to Scheduled Castes (exuntouchables), tribals and
other groups that make up the depressed classes in India. The DSS comprises
young men, mostly ex-untouchables, immersed in B. R. Ambedkar’s cultural
and political platform for social reform of caste in equality.2 Many of these
Karnataka activists now define ‘Dalit’ more narrowly as ‘untouchables,
those ill-treated and humiliated by caste’. The incident and the ensuing
Channaveerappa Enquiry Commission ended nude worship in Chandragutti.
The Chandragutti Incident described here is from the perspective of the
DSS members and sympathizers who led the protest and were attacked in the
ensuing riot. Among these insurgents, Mr B. Krishnappa, the first Karnataka
State Convenor of the DSS, was prominent. As a village labourer’s child
who slept and worked in a local landlord’s house, he recalls ‘a bitter
experience with caste and economic inequality’. But when Krishnappa
became educated, and an educator himself, like many of the rising Dalit elite,
he became complacent. However, once Krishnappa was convinced by the
Dalit movement’s early discussions derived from various ‘agitation’
literatures, unlike those who remained in their complacency, he remembered
his own past and the plight of other villagers. He then took on an informed
activist perspective and led the DSS as convenor from 1974 to 1984.
The Chandragutti Incident was not Krishnappa’s first experience with
protest against ceremonial nudity. Six or seven years earlier, he helped DSS
workers in Gulbarga district fight against a nude procession of women,
mostly devadasis about to be dedicated to the deity. The Gulbarga
superintendent of police was a famous Dalit writer and, along with the
support of more militant Dalits (near to Maharashtra and influenced by
Ambedkar directly), took a firm decision to stop this procession. The
Gulbarga success likely set the precedent for the Chandragutti protest.
The thinking of the DSS was that an ‘anomaly’ could be stopped in
society in two ways—by persuading the people and/or by bringing political
force and ‘law and order’ to suppress unacceptable behaviour. At both
protest demonstrations, it was not possible to quickly convince devotees to
cease their worship. They would say, ‘see, our goddess has given this. Let it
be. What harm will it give? If you stop this, the goddess will become
angered, give all the Devi’s curse to us.’ But, as before, the DSS strongly
persuaded local supporters. They also politically pressured the government,
seeking law against nude worship. In a personal interview (24 July 1991)3
Krishnappa expressed the outrage felt by the Dalit community towards the
government. Even when provided with evidence of nude worship at
Chandragutti, the government was initially slow to protect their women’s
honour. The perceived negligence mobilized the DSS to shame the
government.

Any democratic government must see that the people behave in a

civilized manner. In a democracy wherein we have got equality,
liberty, fraternity, all these thing we are talking, in such a civilized
society a barbarous thing is going on. Taking the women in nude is
really uncultured and barbarous. This type of procession going on in
Karnataka is shameful on the part of the people’s representatives to
government. Shameful to the government itself allowing such
processions in the name of the deity, arranging the buses for that fair.
So, we have attacked the government, [saying] ‘We [You] must stop it
or we will fight against the government.’ In this way we converted a
social issue into a political one.

My interviews in 1990–91 occurred half a decade after the incident

(1986), the Enquiry Commission (1987) and resultant five-year ban. During
this period the DSS as a whole took on a different face. However, the DSS
originated in southern Karnataka, and it is these origins, of which the
Chandragutti Incident is part, that are recounted here. This Dalit perspective
is from educated activists and not from the Dalit mass, specifically not from
the nude worshippers.
This article explores what happens when a male movement dedicated to
rationalist action and social reform encounters a feminine, sexual and
religious counter-movement. The premise is that ‘the feminine’ and ‘the
sacred’, alike sexuality, is a ‘dense transfer point for relations of power’
(Foucault 1981: 103). Ultimately, the tripartite nature of nude worship
constitutes a dense interface between supporters of nude worship and
reformers, re-enforced by considerations of caste boundaries. It will not
escape the readers’ attention, the irony of referring primarily to male
authorities surrounding an inherently ‘feminine’ tradition. However, in this
chapter the presiding male reality, around this evocative but ‘de-centred’4
subject, provides an important subaltern perspective. The viewpoint of the
female subaltern5 case will be considered elsewhere (Epp, in print).

T M G :J
R

In any discussion with Dalits or subaltern activists, the local version of the
Jamadagni and Renuka myth is invariably cited to explain why devotees
perform nude service. The beautiful young goddess Renuka married the
ascetic Jamadagni and bore him several sons without sexual union. Each
morning, Renuka went to the river to fetch water for her husband’s ablutions,
where, because of her purity, she was able to fashion a pot out of loose sand.
One morning, she was momentarily diverted by the sight of ghandarvas
(celestial beings) sporting in the river. Thus aroused, she was unable to
fashion her morning’s pot. Thinking that she thus sought to disrupt his
worship, her husband was so enraged that he ordered his elder sons to kill
their mother. They refused, and Jamadagni condemned them to impotence and
madness. However, his youngest son, Parushurama, obeyed his father and
pursued his mother to cut off her head. In the ‘high’ myth, he succeeds, and
this obedience pleases his father. In the ‘local’ myth, however, Renuka did
not wait for her head to be cut off; rather, she ran. As her youngest son chased
her, she lost her sari and exposed her buttocks. Entering into a cave she
prayed to the mother Goddess and was swallowed up by the earth. To this
day, the devotees worship a small stone linga that they claim has grown on
the spot, and also an image of Renuka’s buttocks. Because Renukawas
accepted into the earth nude, her devotees conclude that she likewise called
them to come to worship in similar child-like innocence.
The myth encompasses much of the social ambivalence surrounding
themes of femininity and sexuality in contemporary Indian society.6 We learn
that the ideal of ascetic marriage denies sexual pleasure. Renuka
involuntarily ‘sins’ against her husband by mentally crossing the boundary
from chastity to sexuality, and thereby incurs banishment and death. Duty of
father wins over love of mother. Whereas filial disobedience results in the
elder sons’ impotence, filial obedience condones the youngest son’s
matricide.
But although the Dalit activists cite the myth, they do not engage the
themes. As cultural activists, even for the purposes of protest, they do not
entertain the idea that the ‘low-caste version’ of the high myth presents even
a glimmer of subaltern critique. For example, there is a political dimension
to the Yellamma/Renuka myth. It is well known that Parushurama, son of a
Brahman, goes on to become the scourge of the Kshatriyas. However, since
nudity is the offence, nudity (or other devotional acts to Yellamma) as an
expression of Dalit woman’s anti-Brahmanism, or anti-casteism cannot be
comprehended, nor used in this case as a basis for communal resistance
(Contra Victor Turner’s [1969] views that nudity obviates status and
expresses solidarity.) Nor is it considered accurate about devotees’ general
mind-set. One male aivist said, partially in jest; ‘How Renuka has come so
low, we do not know.... If only they would worship Renuka’s face, and not
her buttocks’ (Focus Group personal interview, 25 July 1991). As males,
they apparently do not question the pervasive patriarchal motifs present.
However, as rationalists, they dismiss this myth, like all religious activity, on
the grounds that it is superstitious and ultimately exploitative.

T D S S

The 1970s were turbulent years in India that spawned many social
movements. B. Krishnappa and other Dalit youths initially joined the
Samajwadi Ujal Sabha (SWUS, Socialist Party Youth Wing) in 1972. This
began supposedly as a general anti-caste movement, but it soon became clear
that it was directed against Brahmans only. After many anti-Brahman
agitation there was a split between Brahmans and Shudras.
Influenced by the literature of Ambedkar and Lohia, the Dalit members of
this Shudra movement felt their main enemy was Brahmanical values and
thinking, rather than the Brahman per se. An ideological versus practical
argument ensued. The Shudra youth activists argued that Brahmans were the
cause of Untouchability, and that their dominance needed to be wiped out to
improve the lot of the Untouchables. Yet, after land reforms most Brahmans
vacated their landlord fiefs and migrated to the cities. The Shudras
themselves had become the dominant landed castes [Okkaligas in south
Karnataka and Lingayats in the north] and therefore the immediate
oppressors. One year prior to the Emergency a rift occurred. The DSS was
formed in 1974. The young Dalit Panther movement in Maharashtra, formed
in 1972, also had an impact on the Dalit movement in Karnataka (cf. Jogdand
1991). This new social movement was aimed at both the caste system and the
Dalits’ unique economic situation: the argument was that social and
economic equality must be fought for by Dalits solely under their own
leadership.
The DSS began as a cultural protest movement formed by artists, writers
and university youth: several of these subsequent leaders of the Dalit
Movement in Karnataka and Maharastra had originally formed a literary and
political cohort when they first met and studied together at Jawaharlal Nehru
University, New Delhi, in the 1970s. One of the first issues taken up was the
content of Kannada literature. At a public function in Mysore, Mr B.
Basavalingappa, a Dalit and Minister of Municipal Administration, called all
Kannada literature ‘bhoosa sahitya’. In Kannada this word means
cattlefeed.7 According to Mr Munivenkatappa, a Dalit poet and Assistant
Director of Agriculture, Basavalingappa’s point was that, ‘All the literature
in Kannada is in favour of upper castes, created by upper castes, for the
upper castes only’ (personal interview, 21 March 1991). These comments
instigated riots between upper caste and Dalit youths across the state,
particularly in Bangalore and Mysore University hostels. After this incident,
students’ study cells and Dalit writers’ conferences were formed.
Krishnappa reports, ‘The early years provided time for discussion, and for
clearing doubts about fighting against the caste system.’ After several years,
these cultural activists concluded, ‘not only the university educated and
youths should fight; the rural people who have been hard hit by the caste
system should [also] be organized.... in the rural areas’ (ibid.).
In 1978 the DSS took to the rural areas and agitations began. They
focused primarily on what could be called ‘boundary crossing’ politics:
social taboos were broken when DSS activists in the company of Dalit
villagers entered previously forbidden temples and hotels,8 drew water from
the common wells, and walked down streets reserved for upper caste people.
They also staged land-grab movements. Although Ambedkar’s ‘three
Commandments’ were to ‘educate, organize, and agitate’, most of the early
DSS activities were agitations. Other contemporary movements in India such
as West Bengal’s Marxist and Naxalbari uprisings, had provided the DSS a
severe, possibly simplistic, and secular model for protest (one specifically
rejected by Ambedkar: see Gokhale [1990: 240]). Krishnappa reports the
thinking as, ‘Whether or not we dialogue with the upper castes we will be
pacified [i.e., repressed]. So, let us attack first’. As a consequence of their
agitations, atrocities against Dalits also became common. ‘The 1980s were
full of burning in Karnataka’ (ibid.).
Up until the Chandragutti Incident in 1986, the DSS was a smaller unified
organization. The DSS has formed committees at several levels: state,
divisional, district, block, taluk, and village. Each of these has a core team
of about fifteen and is represented by three functionaries: a convenor, an
organizing convenor, and a treasurer. Each committee ideally sets out its own
constitution, in complement with the state level. The DSS has now spread
across the state. Factions have also formed, some say more so between the
leaders than among the cadres. The entire membership numbers in the
thousands. Two main reasons are cited for division in the DSS.
First, there are fierce differences of opinion over alignment with formal
political parties. Up until the 1985 State Assembly elections, the DSS had
defined itself, in Mr Shrikanth’s words, as a neutral, ‘non-political, social-
cultural organization’ (personal interview, 28 June 1991). In 1985, Mr
Devanura Mahadevaru, the Convenor who followed Krishnappa’s
Convenorship, decided in consultation with DSS members to support the
Janata Party. Although some DSS representatives claim the Janata Party
owed its electoral success to this Dalit support (at least in the south: cf.
Manor [1984: 156); India Today 31 March 1985: 12), the alignment was
considered a failure by most members. ‘The then Chief Minister, the wily
Ramakrishana Hegde [a Havyaka Brahman], “purchased” a Dalit poet, [i.e.,
Devanura Mahadevaru]’ (Teepee 1991: 4). The DSS has continued to present
itself as ‘non-political’, yet the debate has continued.9
 A second source of contention is ‘whether to take a hermeneutical and
somewhat eclectic approach, or a strictly exclusive reading, of Ambedkar’
(S. Marji, personal communication, 1991). Here, factional lines tend to be
drawn between educated and less educated Dalits: the latter are more likely
to treat Ambedkar with the reverence due to a guru. An exception to this,
however, is the Samata Sainik Dal (SSD), a new offshoot of the DSS founded
in 1991. The founding President is M. Venkataswamy. V. T. Rajshekar,
influential writer and editor of the Dalit Voice, enthusiastically reports that
this ‘non-political faction’ is committed to ‘pure, more radical,
Ambedkarism’ (interview, 20 July 1991). In instances of either political or
philosophical differences, the movement’s purity, its self-definition, and its
form of protest are influenced by the doctrinal choice taken.
Recalling the ostensible centrality of women in the mythical themes and
rites around which the Chandragutti Incident occurred, we may wonder
where women are in this structure? DSS workers deal with the day-to-day
problems. In the case of atrocities on Dalits, for example, women as much as
men are victims. ‘Women are part and parcel of every problem’, they say,
‘and of the Dalit movement’. Although there is no women’s organization, and
women have had no part in the leadership, agitation cannot occur without
them. In 1991, two women who attended the Karnataka State Dalit Meeting in
Bangalore raised this issue: one of them was immediately offered a position.
Given their organization’s youth, their few numbers, and the immensity and
immediacy of the people’s struggle, the DSS has not felt the need to divide its
energies along gender lines.
Through the DSS, the direction for Dalit struggle has filtered from the top
to the bottom: from educated urban to illiterate rural, from top leadership
down through the cadres and finally to the mass. Educated Dalits like
Krishnappa acknowledge that bottom-up flow of information would be ideal;
however, since the rural people in Karnataka are illiterate, most activists
believe villagers cannot understand their own exploitation. Further, activists
stress it is difficult for villagers to organize resistance on their own behalf.
DSS members realize increasingly, however, that education and organization
must coincide with agitation. As we shall see, this is one lesson derived from
the Chandragutti Incident.
 C :D ,P ,
P

The Chandragutti Protest came up in the course of ‘routine’ work on social

problems and land dispute cases. Krishnappawas approached in Bangalore:
‘You have gone to Gulbarga to stop the nude movement. See, in your own
native district it is going on. What action have you taken?’
Consequently, four DSS activists went to observe to Chandragutti jatra
(festival) in 1984. They were shocked by the nudity, particularly that of
women. These unclothed devotees (some covered with Kunkuma [red
powder] and neem leaves) seemed to have no shame; occasional protests by
hesitant devotees were quelled by other worshippers. The reformers saw
‘unnatural’ sights where brothers denuded mothers and sisters, fathers
stripped wives and daughters. Further, they were offended that the Vishwa
Hindu Parishad (VHP) (United Hindu Association), a revivalist Hindu
solidarity movement, had a booth that sold curd and rice to devotees and
voyeurs who came to gaze on th￡ crude, intoxicated,10 nude worshippers.
The VHP presence there reinforced the DSS’s belief in the complicity
between Hindu, especially Brahmanical, religious traditions and exploitation
of the backward classes. One activist took explicit photographs; Krishnappa
wrote an impassioned article.
The DSS intended to publish the photos and article together to awaken the
public to the ‘true facts’ and bring pressure on the government. All
mainstream publishers rejected the photos. Finally, the Lankesh Patrike, a
Kannada daily published by Lankesh, a known Kannada writer and Dalit
sympathiser, printed both. This article claimed to go beyond sentimental
appeal. It presented the involvement of the political and religious people
supporting nude worship, the difficulty social workers face and the economic
plight of the nude worshippers. As intended,this caused an outcry in the
Vidhan Soudha, the Karnataka State Legislative Assembly. Krishnappa
reported that the Home Minister, J. H. Patel, said ‘No such thing was taking
place... but if it was so, the government would stop it’. Although the DSS
mounted a public procession, no further action was taken by the government.
The Chief Minister S. Bangarappa,11 a Backward Caste man and a socialist
who was then the local MLC of Shimoga district, kept quiet; some activist
bitterly claimed that he was a secret worshipper of the Devi. State Assembly
elections in 1985 intervened, and no further DSS agitations over nude
worship were made until the following year.
The DSS renewed their cause in 1986. They formed an Anti-Naked
Service Society and banded together with several other groups, including the
Social Welfare Government Department. The DSS was officially sanctioned
by the state government, through the new home minister,12 to ‘lead the way.’
A propaganda programme was mounted 15 days prior to the festival. The
areas around Chandragutti were targeted and social workers, local leaders,
government officials and villagers worked in concert; DSS members
assumed the single goal was to ‘stop this uncivilized practice’. Staged events
included symposia, small gatherings and the production of various handbills,
advertisements, radio programmes and impromptu dramas. ‘Dividing
themselves into two groups of 20 each, the Samiti volunteers and other
amateur artists staged about 25 street plays prior to the commencement of the
jatra’ (The Indian Express, Bangalore, 29 January 1987).
The drama, BettaleSeve (Nude Worship), was commissioned by the DSS
for this programme. In this, a father, influenced by the village gowda
(headman) pressurizes his daughter to perform nude worship to atone for his
poverty. Her brother encourages her to resist, and eventually seven village
people join in this protest. At the jatra the daughter refuses. To the villagers’
amazement there is no famine, the sun shines, and the crops continue to grow.
So, the gowda is driven from the village.
At one such performance, there was a hint of the trouble brewing. One
hotel owner drew the actors aside, saying angrily, ‘You don’t repeat that
drama again. Don’t use that landlord role. That reflects on us. We are ill-
treated.’ The DSS activists denied any intention to offer personal offence
countering that this was simply ‘a fictitious character in a play’. Again prior
to another performance, an intoxicated man with trishula (a three-pronged
spear associated with Shiva worship) threatened them. ‘Some of the priestly
class sent me to do this’, he said.
 Several DSS members surmised that three ‘priestly’ groups had been
disgruntled by the protests. First, jogatis, the low-caste pujaris (priests) of
Yellamma/Renuka who promote nude service for their living; second, the
religious heads of Chandragutti Renukambi Religious Unit, who manage this
and other religious festivals; and, third, Vishwa Hindu Parishad (VHP)
members, whose presence at the fair and support for nude service has
previously been noted by the DSS. If nude worship were abolished at
Chandragutti, the entire festival would likely cease. Consequently, the
Religious Unit would suffer some economic loss, the jogatis’ livelihood
would be threatened most of all. The religious community, including the VHP,
would also be disgraced if the call to end nude worship did not come from
them; if this was to be, they, and not the DSS, should take credit for ending
this practice. DSS members and sympathizers claim that landlords and these
priestly members were present at several local meetings where these
grievances were aired. A counter-protest against the DSS was imminent.
Despite these warnings, DSS members were comforted by the official
support behind them. They stressed that the Deputy Commissioner was also
from a Scheduled Caste Background. Consequently, he was partial to their
programme. The Superintendent of Police, a Lingayat, had expressed
reservations about the efficacy of their protest. Yet he offered police
protection, saying to Krishnappa (Krishnappa 1986) ‘we are like a water
tank. You may drink with open hand or fill it with buckets’. Thus, the
activists slept well on the eve of the two-day jatra.

T I

Events culminated early on the morning of 19 March 1986. About 200 DSS
activists, including other social workers and women police, joined hands at
the riverside to prevent worshippers from entering nude. They boldly called
out slogans, ‘Bettale seve practice is illegal. If anybody does it they will be
punished according to law’. They formed a human chain.
On the first day, they successfully stopped most nude worship, so much
so, says Krishnappa, that the major papers and magazines (The Times of
India, The Indian Express, Frontline etc.) were disappointed. (See for
example, India Today, 15 April 1986, photo byline: ‘Women taking a holy
dip [top] and semi-clad devotee: anti-climax’.) What became controversial
was their forceful approach to barring nude service. It raised the possibility
that men had touched the nude female devotees. Most activists denied doing
this. ‘We are very conscious of that matter. In India it is a very sensational
point looking at a women, talking with her, touching and looking at her nude
body. It is a very sensational issue in this country. . . . If we touched the
ladies, some waiting group may come upon us, and beat us. We feared like
that.’
A general call was made throughout Karnataka to all interested
supporters and progressives to join the protest. On the morning of 20 March
1986, the reformist numbers unexpectedly swelled to 800 or more. These
reformers found themselves mounting a campaign before 60,000 to 80,000.
devotees and onlookers.
Until mid-morning the protest remained peaceful, and the DSS regarded
the campaign as successful. Then various small quarrels began to break out
in rapid succession. Challenged to worship in dress, devotees retorted, ‘If
you ask us to go in dress, give us dress.’ The reformers had no dhotis or
saris to give. But some re-covered the male devotees with their own clothes
and verbally urged the female devotees to do likewise. The activists found
themselves confronting an increasingly forceful mob. The jogatis were the
key dissenters. For example, a drunk Mr Basavanta and his uncle Pakirappa
are quoted as saying, ‘Why do you take photographs? If you don’t want us
naked, then give us clothes. Why do you not take action against Jaina
Digambara? Why do you not stop cabaret dance? Catch first those Goa beach
hippies.’
The situation degenerated rapidly. DSS activists appealed to the police,
but their numbers were too few. Only three police vans, each holding 20 to
25 personnel, were available to contain the whole jatra. A DSS sympathizer
also overheard orders given over the police jeep radio, telling the police
force near the riverside to withdraw. This was later interpreted as a
conspiratorial act. Immediately, ‘a gang of 25 lathi-wielding persons hurling
abusive words appeared... this was the signal for the subsequent events’ (The
Indian Express, Bangalore, 31 January 1987). According to the reformers,
outbreaks occurred simultaneously in three different places. ‘Like this these
jogatis and other unruly elements were instigated by casteist forces. . . . They
were given weapons and words’, claimed DSS workers. They heard calls,
‘You kill those DSS workers.’
Quickly through the fete the word spread, ‘Some people have come to
object to the goddess, so the goddess has got enraged. So devotees must not
keep quiet but smash the people who came to stop it.’ Kunkuma, which
adorns naked devotees, was thrown in the air and many social workers,
police and press were compelled to enter into the procession, stripped naked
by the unruly crowd. Even the assistant commissioner was shaking. And,
although Krishnappa objected, a policeman was forced to announce over a
microphone, ‘Police will not object to nude service.’ Then a man with a
religious badge grabbed the mike and shouted, ‘Glory unto naked service!’
Asking him by what authority he did this, Krishnappa brought this youth
before the temple trustees, where his name and affiliation with the VHP were
disclosed. But the trustees told Krishnappa, ‘We told you not to initiate this,
but you did not listen’ (Krishnappa 1986). When Krishnappa saw all was out
of control, and his own life in danger, he began to run. ‘They have a Trishula
in their hands. With these prongs they went and made everybody nude. I
cannot explain it because I think that I am in this hell. In our mythology Yama
is the god of hell and he has so many demons as his followers. I saw so many
demons following.’
Like some others, he found safety in a police van. But then the police
themselves were attacked. Although they begged the deputy superintendent of
police to allow them to fire into the air, he refused. Afterwards, even he was
stripped, and the women constables and women journalists were stripped
before him. Some of the workers escaped, others were chased and beaten.
Krishnappa reflects, ‘That day everything was smashed because we couldn’t
withhold the religious feeling of the people’. Eventually, police from other
locations came and controlled the situation. Jogatis were arrested, some
even committed suicide out of fear.

P I
The Chandragutti Incident became an immediate media sensation, aided by
journalists and photographers on site. The Channaveerappa Report, press
coverage, and those interviewed agree that some of the trouble was sparked
by press photographers taking pictures of nude worshippers at the riverside.
Uttam Kemble is a Dalit reporter who was on site. In his book, Devadasi
and Nude Worship (1988), he recounts that on the second morning the
reformers took a stronger stand seizing and re-clothing the devotees. There
were more female than male devotees. By 8 a.m. the reformers had difficulty
containing these women circled within their human chain. He states: ‘One
reformer showed the women devotees that day’s newspapers, which carried
photographs of the nude worshippers saying that, “they are parading your
nudity (and shame) in the city streets.” The result of this was that a press
photographer was badly beaten up’ (ibid.).
At least three journalists were assaulted and had their cameras stolen that
day. (One of them refused me an interview because it was still too unsettling
for her to talk about.) Another journalist, Philomena H. P., arrived early in
the morning at the top of the hill near the temple. She interviewed female
devotees who explained their nude worship was due to vows to the goddess
in return (or hope) for answered prayers: for children, health, etc. From this
vantage point Philomena witnessed the rampage, and hid all day until the
trouble subsided. She subsequently received an award for her reportage.
Like her middle-class leadership, Philomena believes India is a traditional
society and women should be covered. She concedes nude worship by
women at Chandragutti is sincere, but this ‘tradition’ violates normative
female modesty (personal interview, 10 October 1990). But press
interference was not the main cause given for the incident.

C E C

The day after the incident, Home Minister B. Rachiah stated in the House
(Legislative Council) that “‘anti-social elements” had tried to “incite” the
people into provoking the police to take recourse to extreme steps like
opening fire in order to bring a bad name to the Government’ (The Indian
Express, Bangalore, 21 March 1986). These comments responded to
criticism that the police were ineffective in preventing this outbreak and in
protecting ‘women, Samiti workers, and journalists’ (ibid.). Members from
all political parties equally condemned nude worship. They described it as a
‘blot on society’, ‘a barbaric custom’, and an insult to mankind’ (ibid.). The
state government thereupon ordered a magisterial inquiry into the
Chandragutti Incident. However, on 6 April 1986, this responsibility
devolved from the district magistrate to the divisional commissioner of
Bangalore, Mr Rinesingh, who circulated a notice for collection of public
opinion. By 31 July 1986, fifty-seven people had made submissions. The
process then came to a halt when without reason (a job transfer is noted in
one press report) the Rinesingh Committee was cancelled. By December
1986 the retired district judge of Chikkamagalur, Mr J. Channaveerappa was
appointed to conduct a one-man judicial enquiry under the Commission of
Inquiry Act.
Judge Channaveerappa states in his report that the government’s reasons
for regrading from a magisterial to a judicial inquiry are unknown. However,
in several districts the DSS had mounted substantial protests. They called for
the suspension of the Shimoga district superintendent of police and ‘...
described the inquiry ordered by the government by a District Magistrate as
an “eye wash’” (Deccan Herald, 5 April 1986). In May 1986, at
Ambedkar’s ninety-fifth birth anniversary celebrations at Bangalore
University, the home minister agreed to look into charges of collusion
between police and supporters of nude worship. DSS activists were aware
of the Scheduled Caste background of this home minister, but it is a
conjecture that this connection was prevailed upon or influenced the setting
up of a judicial enquiry. Certainly, the newly re-elected Janata Government
was acutely aware of public sentiment against an undisciplined ‘police raj’
that flourished under the previous Congress-I Chief Minister, Gundu Rao (see
India Today, 31 March 1985: 11; The Indian Express, 10 February 1987).
‘Commission of Inquiry Act’ enquiries generally probe police excesses.
The purpose of the Channaveerappa Commission was to determine the basic
reason for the disturbance, particularly for the denuding of DSS persons and
journalists; whether the police officers were derelict in their duty; and
whether other persons (and causes) were responsible for the incident. The
new deadline for public submissions was extended until 20 December 1986.
In February 1987, about 30 witnesses testified before the Commission,
including seven police personnel, the deputy commissioner, the assistant
commissioner, one social worker, five members of the DSS, two journalists,
and 13 witnesses from the public. No members of the VHP appeared, but a
legal advocate for the organization took part. The police and the DSS were
also represented by advocates.
The bulk of the report dealt with the actions of the police, and their ability
to maintain social control. The police officers present, who it alleged, ‘. .
.acted with restraint’ were exonerated. Although noting their anguish, it
dismissed the charges of women constables that the deputy superintendent of
police could have prevented their denuding. However, the deputy
commissioner and the superintendent of police were both indicted for not
providing an adequate force. The latter denied making any promises to the
DSS but was further indicted on charges of negligence. His late arrival was
described as ‘... like locking the doors of the stable after the horse had
bolted’.
The Commission went on to reject the ‘vested interest’ conspiracy theory
proposed by the DSS. That is, a combination of feudal landlords and priestly
classes had knowingly incited ‘unruly elements’ to attack the reformers. The
DSS claimed that perceived threats to devotion and/or livelihood were
fanned, and liquor was distributed. By contrast, although well meaning, the
DSS was said to have brought most of the backlash on themselves. They
brought undue publicity to nude worship at Chandragutti, and were over-
eager and shortsighted in their educational programme. The well-known
enmity between the VHP and the DSS was acknowledged, but the VHP was
cleared of all charges. The possibility that a few ‘miscreants’13 might have
taken advantage of the situation was noted, but the charge that this was a pre-
planned event was dismissed.
The Report further suggests that the DSS was overly forceful, and thus
‘brought the disturbance to a climax and agitated the minds of the devotees’
to establish this case, Judge Channaveerappa cites one reporter’s work and
several enquiry witnesses. The reporter writes, ‘the main intention of the
Members of the DSS was to disturb the devotees by humiliating them... their
action was foolish and goonda-like.’ 14 Similarly, one witness claimed the
DSS threw dust on a naked women devotee, that she fell as a result, and that
they then kicked and rebuked her. This led to a quarrel between devotees and
the DSS. Further, the Report, and more so the media, raised the question as to
whether touching of women had occurred during the forceful re-clothing of
devotees. Judge Channaveerappa concluded that the devotees felt their
centuries-old religious beliefs to be under attack. Since their prayers were
obstructed, and we may infer humiliated rather than reasoned with, the
devotees’ ire was natural. The Report concluded that DSS agitation, together
with insufficient police support, was the cause of the Chandragutti Incident.
As regards nude worship by female devotees, Judge Channaveerappa
posits that this brings dishonour to the reputation of Indian women and
‘insults the very creed of womanhood’. He notes on all auspicious occasions
and festivals the Indian women, fully clothed in sari and with ornaments,
attends places of worship: ‘She is the monument of culture and symbolic as
the deity of the country.’ By contrast, nude worship is ugly and uncivilized
and must be stopped. ‘Goddess Renukambe herself would feel sorry to know
such blind ignorance existed and would be ashamed to see such sights.’
The final Report concludes by reviewing the unfortunate social conditions
and persons who promote such blind beliefs among Backward Class people.
Singled out for blame are these ‘middle-class hermaphrodites called jogatis
who for their livelihood roam from village to village, begging for alms, ...
who ill-advise suffering family members to go for nude service at the
Renukambe Jatra’. Thus, Judge Channaveerappa recommends legislation
against jogatis’ propagating nude service; education of the people; and a ban
of the entire festival (not only of nude worship) to be in effect for several
years. Placing the primary emphasis on law and order, neither
demonstrations for or against nude worship would be permitted at the
Chandragutti jatra. In every case there will be loss of social control. These
recommendations were tabled before the Legislative Assembly on 2 March
1987. Deputy Inspector of Police J. E. George urged the state government to
set a five-year ban, subsequently legislated merely days before the jatra of
9–10 March 1987.
For these two days Chandragutti became a police camp. Under the
supervision of the newly indicted superintendent of police, 2,000 police
persons turned back busloads of devotees, reporters and social workers,
restricted local business, and banned all photography. This ‘high-handed’
imposition of the ban incited many. Local villagers who welcomed the ban
on nude worship nevertheless thought the rest of the jatra should proceed.
Some businessmen who set up temporary shops to make a ‘fast buck’ during
the festival were pro-nude worship. They told reporters the goddess would
be angry at the government. The trustees of the Renukambe temple resigned in
anger at ‘police harassment of devotees... causing the [devotees] mental
torture’ (Deccan Herald, 10 March 1987). Nearly a year later, on 22
February 1988, these discontented trustees filed a public interest writ
petition in the High Court. They asked that all pujas and performances,
except nude worship, be allowed to proceed at Chandragutti. Police
vigilance has relaxed over the years, but the state ban on bettale seve
remains.
Beyond law and order, Judge Channaveerappa’s plea for an extended ban
ideally exists to promote education, legislation and reasoned discussion. As
of 1991, neither the DSS nor the government have put an educational
programme specific to nude worship into place. One sympathizer caustically
comments on the aftermath of Chandragutti: ‘DSS is now fractionalised in
this region [partially over this event, and due to division over political
alignments] and not a strong force. Who can replace the jogatis? They at
least consistently offer the devotees hope... (personal interview, February
1991). Yet, he notes, across the state more youths are now joining the Dalit
movement. Perhaps they will transcend past divisions and take up the
necessary educational work. The Chandragutti activists I interviewed agree
with Judge Channaveerappa that their educational programme was
shortsighted. But they still consider the Chandragutti protest a success,
because nude worship was banned. If required, they would do it again, in
much the same way. Says Krishnappa: ‘As a mother forces an adamant [i.e.,
recalcitrant] child to take medicine by closing his nose tight and making him
drink at least a portion... adamants must be suppressed.’

A C
I have given centerstage here to reformist and Dalit perspectives on
Chandragutti. In fact, many stories comprise this larger narrative about the
Chandragutti protest and backlash. Howev er, underlying the entire
description is a tension between reasoned forms of analysis and the stark
confrontation of ‘the religious’, ‘the sexual’ and ‘the feminine’. From this
account, it is clear that no easy resolution is forthcoming.

A ‘E ’ M :R ‘O ’
‘D ’

A reformist position on such institutional nudity is that it is an insulting

feudal tradition. Upper caste men, landlords and temple keepers deliberately
chain Dalits in superstition to maintain their lordly use-rights. DSS activists
claim, ‘If their own women were going in nude, they would be up in arms’.
Lower caste males therefore perceive an affront from dominant caste males
through the nudity of their woman. The Dalits conclude that this
institutionalized class domination and caste humiliation proves once more
that as a group they have not yet gained full ‘human’ stature within the nation.
The Dalit call for social reform, particularly of Untouchability, remains
unresolved. This leads to a politics of contempt for parliamentary democracy
and for participation in its formal parameters.
We can only surmise about the religious complex and counter-movement.
In its emerging model of nude worship the DSS presents four sub-groups:
Temple trustees, VHP members, jogatis and devotees. These, united as
reform’s counter-protagonists, all uphold this ‘heinous religious tradition’.
Temple trustees, who have hereditary earning rights, are presented here as,
opportunists, out to ‘make a fast buck’ at the impoverished devotees’
expense. The VHP presence at the jatra signals organizational collusion to
extend Hindu fundamentalism in rural life. Through this backward form of
culture, these politics are served. Jogatis are both promoters and
practitioners of nude worship and related Mother Goddess customs. As
wanderers and religious mendicants, they can best recruit devotees in the
rural areas. Reformers, and even more so Judge Channaveerapa, thus present
jogatis as low caste, illiterate transvestites who insidiously propagate nude
worship. They instrumentally prey on devotees’ fears due to their need to
protect their sole economic base. Whereas the formers are all opportunists,
by contrast, the devotees are dupes. The DSS argues, due to their blind belief
the devotees are subjugated to these opportunists. The religious
establishment exercises a ‘rational-religious will’15 to dominate and accrue
financial and moral gain. The possibility that some may be fervent believers
does not alter the Dalit critique.
Because the DSS model is meant to serve subaltern politics it naturally
fails to take into account nuances in counterpositions, and other factors. For
example, there is some speculation that other local politics, which the DSS
have not acknowledged, may have factored into this agitation. Krishnappa
does not say who challenged him to explore nude worship at Chandragutti.
We only know this was catalytic. The DSS narrative shows them to be
responsive, but independent thereafter. However, the Jaina Mathadhipati
(‘Lord of the Monastery, abbey’) in Shimoga district prides himself for
speaking first to the DSS (anonymous personal communication, October
1992). In this region there is a long-standing memory of rivalry between
Jains and Brahmans. This dates back to Jaina supremacy from 800–1200,
subsequently attacked by Hindu reformers. At that time, these were seen by
the priestly Jains as unrefined Brahman upstarts. Since the DSS is also
ideologically opposed to the Brahmanical doctrine and values, it is possible
that once activated, its Dalit reform, pointed at upper-caste Hinduism,
promoted private interests of the JainaMatha without drawing the monastery
into the public fray. From the perspective of Dalit activists and Jain priests
they are both minority groups, and non-Hindus.16 Yet, this shared status is
riddled with potential contradictions. First, secular reformers and religious
priests are allied. Second, male ascetic nudity and female bhakti nudity in
the forms of Jaina Digambara and nude devotees are not treated alike. One is
considered morally acceptable and the other morally reprehensible. On what
basis are these distinctions made? And alliances?
As for the temple trustees, they withdrew from their positions following
the ban on nude worship. While this might be constituted solely as protest
against loss of income, their stated case was to protest the devotees’ ‘mental
anguish’ caused by the police turning them away. For, once forced to spurn
the goddess, the devotees might suffer her unmitigated wrath. The priests
function as mediators for the goddess and the devotees. Ostensibly, the
‘public writ’ request for re-establishing worship, all but bettale seve, was
on the devotees’ behalf.
While the DSS strongly allege VHP collusion at Chandragutti, it would
seem that such a strongly moralistic and patriarchal body would find, with
equal vehemence, bettale seve degrading to Hinduism. Indeed, it was
reported that VHP members handed out pamphlets against nude worship at
the fair. However, once more the DSS claim that during this distribution
illiterate devotees were verbally encouraged to participate. The VHP
advocate before the Enquiry Commission deflected the ‘miscreant role’ for
its members perhaps with some justification, by accusing the police of
turning into social workers rather than fulfilling their role to maintain law
and order.
Although presented as opportunists, the jogatis are the most ambiguous
group. They have liminal sexual and political qualities, which may pose the
threat of social role contamination. Yet, they have their own perspectives on
the moral behaviour implied by foreigners, city entertainment, and Jain nude
worship. Thus they represent a swing category in this political model. Their
low status and high visibility combine to make them vulnerable to scape-
goatism. For example, the DSS claims the jogatis were given ‘weapons and
words’. Although formidable enemies, they are yet seen as pawns of other
religious profiteers. Alternatively, Judge Channaveerappa rejected the DSS
conspiracy hypothesis. But, he singled out the jogatis as the primary
proselytisers who need to be stopped. Thus, they pose here as independent,
immoral and anachronistic agents, who draw on a barbaric tradition whose
time and function have passed. Although Dalits, jogatis are portrayed as
enemies to social reform. Are they its necessary casualties? Structurally
liminal, the jogatis seem to be at the mercy of religious profiteers and
reformers alike.
DSS workers, going out to the countryside on a rationalist reform
mission, are not unlike the jogatis with their religious mission. Their
constituency is the same, as is their social base (albeit most DSS organizers
are educated). One DSS sympathizer observed that despite their misplaced
and irrational belief, the jogatis provide consistent hope to devotees.
Through the ban on nude worship and also on devadasi recruitment (another
regional social reform issue and custom propagated by these mendicants),
jogatis are displaced. To replace this gap reformers must extensively
educate beyond the initial stirring of protest.
What were the jogatis’ words? If you don’t like our nudity give us
clothes. Perhaps this requires a practical response, but may also refer to their
lack of prestige in society. Why don’t you reform Jaina Digambara ascetics?
What about those Goa hippies? Why not stop cabaret dance? All these
questions symbolically associate nudity with certain groups. The first, while
religious, consists of male ascetics. The second, due to its beach attire and
(among some) drug-related practices, reinforces beliefs about the Western
world’s loose morality. But they are foreigners. The third is a lewd form of
dance. However, practiced in the cities among the secular and monied it is
far away. In effect, the jogatis’ query why the DSS became obsessed with
nude worship, singling out jogatis and female devotees, but not with these
other forms of public nudity.
Finally, the DSS’ model, which imposes unity on the religious presence,
breaks down, for the ‘religious’ experience is not uniform. For example,
devotees themselves are male or female (and neither male nor female),
clothed or nude, voluntary or forced, possessed or sceptical, and even upper,
albeit, mostly lower caste. In their narration, however, the reformers do not
attend to these nuances. Rather, they primarily differentiate between devotees
and these other three religious groups. This model, which identifies major
actors and essential groupings, adequately serves their political purposes.

C ‘S ’ ‘F ’17

Liberal Reformism and tke Problem of Female Nu

dity
The discussion to this point has brought into focus that female nudity, in the
context of a shared discourse about barbarism and civilization, provides a
symbolic rallying point for all reformers. The DSS, the state and other
reformers all agree that nude worship, like other superstitious practices,
presupposes that Indian society is not fully civilized. Indeed, the
anthropological truism that ‘nudity is the mark of the primitive, clothing
indicates the beginning of civilization’ (Sharma 1987: 7–11), was, it seems,
dramatically enacted through the re-clothing of the nude devotees.
Denuding, touching and re-clothing are central to the public analysis of
this event. Not all nude devotees were women. Nor were all low caste, yet
the Chandragutti Incident was referred to entirely in these terms. Hence, the
social discourse on female nude worship reveals the following quasi-
symbolic Logic: (i) clothing and covering of women represents modesty,
unclothing represents shame; (ii) denuding and re-clothing women in public
is not an individual act but a communal one. Hence, a community’s modesty
and/or shame is represented and made vulnerable. A similar argument is thus
made for the entire civilized nation; (iii) where one community looks,
touches and unclothes, or encourages to denude another community’s women,
communal boundaries of normative modesty and self- respect are crossed.
Consequently the injured community has the right to retaliate to defend its
honour; (iv) sometimes, however, religious tradition reverses the normative
moral code for short periods of time.
What is shown to be at stake at Chandragutti is this ‘ritual reversal’.18
Nude female devotees symbolically challenge current social perceptions of
civil propriety and national character (in this case, its democracy and
secularism). But, places of worship sporting the silent but graphic stone
iconography— temple dancers, lingas, Renuka’s buttocks—are illustrative
sites for contemporary struggle over woman’s continuing symbolic role. For
activists, politicians and journalists alike share in a discourse about barbaric
versus civil virtue, wherein ‘the feminine’ remains a symbolic masthead of
‘tradition’. However, in contrast to the goddess-possessed, kunkum
acoloured, nude devotee is the self-controlled, adorned and fully clothed
worshipper. It is she, says Judge Channaveerappa, who is now ‘the
monument of culture and symbolic of the deity of the country’. All that is
civilized, cultured, moral and natural is compared to all that is barbarous,
uncultured immoral and unnatural. Thus, a ban on nude worship is a triumph
of civilization over barbarism.
The moral shift indicated is from exteriority—where worship requires
communal and living sacrifice, to interiority—where worship is both
privatized but distanced. Here we take our cue from Foucault’s argument
about the moralization of madness (1973) and sexuality (1981): In each case
the body becomes a site for reform. For example, external control, ranging
from tolerance for mendicant mad men to cruel and public punishment, is
made into a moral problematic, then refined into socially induced self-help
and internal discipline. This ‘gentle punishment’ (see also Foucault 1979) is
sometimes aided by the therapist, asylum, or prison. Referring to the
development of bourgeois liberalism in Europe, Foucault states, ‘At the level
of... “micro-powers” ... it was necessary to organize a grid of bodies and
behaviours. Discipline is the underside of democracy.’ Through this reform
the s; red is thus secularized. ‘Modern [wo]man finds her/himself
categorized, located in space, constrained by time, disciplined, normalized
and individualized’ (Mahon 1992: 5). India as a ‘yet traditional’ civilization
now cogently represented by a demure and modestly covered woman, at least
in public worship. Nude worship transgresses private belief and offends
public decorum; it violates middle-class morality, a new site for ‘tradition’
(see Milton Singer [1972] on the supremacy and reworking of tradition in
India). But neither ‘tradition’ itself (and its perpetrators), nor the feminine as
its symbol, is contested sufficiently by this liberal reformist victory.

Dalit Rationalist Reform Politics

While in some accordance with the liberalist stance on nude worship, within
this broad context, the DSS has adopted a distinctive, countering, rationalist
point of view. Their rationalism repudiates all religious activity as
superstition and exploitation. Their activism employs force (or forceful
persuasion), humiliation, and an appeal to law and correct government.
These combine in the term ‘rationalist action’; whereby Dalit activists
challenge the foundations and supporters of such ‘reversed ritual’. Far from
being content with the ban on nude worship, some supporters of the DSS
regard any religious mobilization as a conspiracy and would like to see the
entire religious establishment decimated. For the DSS ‘the Chandragutti
Incident is one more example of the efforts by “vested interests” to maintain
caste boundaries and the status quo’. While they may harbour these notions,
they regard this dismantlement as a long-term struggle, for they recognize
religion holds sway over the people. Hence, several DSS members concede
that banning nudity is a sufficient victory. They say, ‘If the people do not
practice nude worship for several years and nothing untoward happens they
will be convinced the goddess does not require this.’
‘Rationalist action’ such as that fomented by the DSS is a subaltern
critique. The presentation of a ‘subaltern perspective’ has a specific meaning
for Indian academia: its focus is rewriting nationalist history from a
peasant/insurgent’s point of view. The view from below. One of the subaltern
project’s propositions is:

... that the moment(s) of change be pluralized and,plotted as

confrontations rather than transition (they would thus be seen in
relation to histories of domination and exploitation rather than within
the great modes-of-production narrative). . . .[The] shift in perspective
is that agency of change is located in the insurgent or the ‘subaltern’
(Spivak 1988: 197).

The subaltern as an agent of change, and the confrontation between the

dominant and the exploited, is presented here by the educated insurgents
themselves. There are many subalterns in India. The DSS’ case is that there
is a subaltern below, or apart from, the class-defined peasant. That is, those
humiliated by caste who suffer specific economic consequences due to their
ex-Untouchable status. The Chandragutti Incident also invites consideration
of another depressed category, hitherto unrecognized, the ‘female subaltern’.
Their experience and interpretation of domination has frequently been de-
centred both by reformist subalterns (typically male) and subalternists (see
Spivak 1988: 215–21 on this point). For example, nude worship by female
devotees evokes issues of religiosity, femininity and sexuality. Social
reformers (e.g., Dalit activists, journalists, middle class social workers and
the state) have tended to focus on the moral affront to the Dalit community
and/or to society, and the need for ‘law and order’. Although the protest was
nominally on their behalf, the religiosity of the devotee women has been
obscured in the ensuing political discussion. But, the DSS would argue, for
good reason.
Their rationalist argument dismantles the category of the female nude
devotee. The sexual/feminine subject (i.e., the nude female) is analytically
wrenched from the religious domain. At Chandragutti, theory and practice
coincide. Once nude worship was opposed,sparking that ‘dense interface’,
the dominant exploitative forces behind the ‘devotion’ revealed themselves.
Therefore, the denuding of Dalit women reveals their caste humiliation and
class domination.
Through activist techniques, such as public protests and media reportage,
the DSS also directed its subaltern critique to their initially reluctant
reformist partners, i.e., the government and upper caste liberal supporters.
The barbaric versus civilized discourse inherently associates the frenzied
primitive behaviour of the nude devotee with low status, whereas the demure
control of the modern worshipper is high born. But through the effective use
of humiliation they inverted this structural alignment of barbarism and
culture. For example: The DSS questions the civic virtue of the promoters of
nude worship, such as the Vishwa Hindu Parishad, ‘that self-proclaimed
vanguard of Hindu culture.’ As a prod to action, they mock the secularism of
the government. To make the point that upper caste men would only concern
themselves if it were their women going nude, they compare the support that
a Brahman protest garners with that of Dalits. For example, when the
Brahman community was recently offended by a television programme their
protests were supported nationally, even by government officials, and it was
withdrawn. But they claim, ‘if a Dalit man is wrongly represented, no one
cares.’
Their rationalism is fuelled by affect. Untouchability is a communal
wound that has been repeatedly injured. Is any redress of this wrong not
supportable? Even force and_ humiliation of their own women, for their own
good, and their own community’s self-respect? How ‘goonda-like’ is re-
clothing of devotees in the light of goonda attacks supported by upper castes
on devotees? Struggle, it might be argued, is an expedient, if not nice,
enterprise. Yet, does Krishnappa’s appropriation of maternal images soften
the task of forcing recalcitrant children to take their medicine?
There seems to be a universally strong symbolic replacement value
between children, women and primitives. We have seen how these nude
female devotees cast an undesirable primitive shadow on a civilized reform
programme at Chandrugutti. But what of their substance? When asked about
the paucity of women active in the DSS, Munivenkatappa humbly admitted,
‘that in this way we are like upper caste men.’ The problem is compounded
for a rationalist movement because, ‘our own women are still caught up in
their religion.’ The discourse of barbaric versus civic virtue primarily
reflects the male and community need for self-respect. However, when the
(male) subaltern struggle appropriates woman as symbol—hence, de-centres
her—but does not incorporate her in real terms, they are denied the strength
in identification and another subaltern’s critique.
‘The feminine’ and social reform are intimately associated in India.
Partha Chatterjee (1989) and Ashis Nandy (1990) are only two authors who
note this connection. Similarly, ‘the feminine’ is also appropriated in
communal/ethnic politics. Inevitably, women become a symbolic medium to
uphold an ideal, and frequently a physical medium, that is, a scapegoat to
defame another’s community. Further, as in the Chandragutti case,
preoccupation with goddess, mother and female-centred myths indicates
significant ‘mythopoeic ground’ that even today pervades Indian society. This
evocative nature of ‘the feminine’, and its use, must be raised for ongoing
reflection. When they become morally problematic (as in Foucault’s
treatment of madness), ‘the sexual’, and the ‘the feminine’ are de-linked from
‘the sacred’. But they remain in the public domain as objects of surveillance
and regulation. We must look behind this problematic to understand
operations of power, legitimacy and politics in India.
To sum up, the rationalist reform approach thus far is unable to extricate
itself from a traditional symbolic placement of woman. She is still tied to
patriarchy and force. For one, it does not give a legitimate place to her
worship and mythology. Rather, all grounds for devotion are political and
economic exploitation. Thus, a tradition is required to be abandoned and the
female devotee (nude or clothed) with it.
 Jamadagni condemned Renuka/Yellamma, and their son, Parushurama,
carried out the punishment. At least, he tried to do so. Subalterns, in the form
of nude devotees, have reworked the high myth. Through her escape, the
Mother Goddess robbed Jamadagni of his patriarchal right. Indeed, some
devadasis told me, Yellamma did the unthinkable: she punished Jamadagni,
her husband. For that reason, although they too are social reformers, they fear
her power (interview, August 1991). To the extent that worship of the Mother
Goddess is a genuine expression of faith, it may be argued, a faint protest
continues in the presence of patriarchy, all arguments for exploitation
notwithstanding. Yet, the DSS and other reformers have carried through on
this banishment. They accomplished what even Jamadagni could not. What
are the implications and what will be the costs? The devotees say the
Goddess will be angry. One educated devotee observed that each chief
minister who supported the ban on nude worship has been brought down. In a
letter, he warned Chief Minister S. Bangarappa of the goddess’ wrath should
he continue to prevent her required worship (anonymous personal interview,
7 June 1991). Political as well as personal repercussions are assumed.
The final explanation on nude worship differs radically between
reformers and true devotees, i.e., communal and civic shame versus child-
like faith. It is possible that the mythopoeic basis of nude worship is more
than a pretext, in fact an important underpinning of both sides of struggle over
this practice. On these grounds, it is at least worthy of re-examination.
Certainly, the social crisis, which arose from the Chandragutti Incident, is
instructive to all about social reform’s, perhaps necessary but equivocal, task
of ‘violating the sacred’.

Notes

* Originally published in the Sociological Bulletin, vol. 41, nos. 1 and 2,

March–September 1992, pp. 145–68.
Earlier drafts of this article were presented at the Canadian
Anthropological Society (CASCA) in Montreal, Quebec, in May 1992,
and at the University of Toronto Centre for South Asian Studies’
 Graduate Students’ Union Seminar on 4 December 1992. The author
would like to thank all those who participated in the discussion that
followed. She would also like to thank Professors R. Anderson, B. S.
Baviskar, S. Carr, C. E. S. Franks, P. Narries-Jones, M. Sackville-Hunt,
D. Smith and J. R. Wood for reading earlier drafts of this article; the
Shastri Indo-Canadian Institute whose sustained support during 1990–91
made this work possible; and Mr B. Krishnappa and the other Dalit
activists who shared their stories and concerns with her.
1 dig ‘sky’ + ambara ‘clothing’.
2 Dr Bhimrao Ramji Ambedkar, born into an untouchable caste (a
Mahar), drafted the Indian constitution. Ho attended graduate school at
Columbia University in the United States. He was an economist and
lawyer. His role as an indefatigable advocate of the Depressed Classes
of India has made his memory and writings prominent. Today, he is
considered the founder of the Dalit movement, particularly in
Maharashtra and Karnataka. For many, he is the ‘symbol of revolt
against all repressive features in Hindu Society’ (A.R. Antulay,
Lokrajya, 16 April 1981).
3 This first reference will extend to all other interview materials unless
otherwise indicated. Subsequent quotes are drawn from these interview
sources. As some sources were public figures and willingly gave
information, they are referenced, while others remain anonymous. To
aid in this, names of places where interviews were conducted have been
omitted.
4 ‘De-centre’ is an operative concept used to incorporate the
psychological idea of displacement, as well as the Marxist idea of
appropriation. Further, it allows for play around the idea of the
constituted subject, such as that found in Nieizsche’s and Foucault
thought. Consider, for example, the de-centred man in Nietzsche’s
Genealogy of Morals Mahon (1992: 8) explains, ‘Rather than seeking a
substance in its pristine purity at the origin, Nietzsche looked for a
multiplicity, complex relations of forces, which provide the conditions
for the existence of the entities, values, and events of our experience’.
5 Defined as: of inferior rank; (logic of proposition) particular, not
universal; also is military, officer below rank of Captain. The ‘subaltern
school’ in Indian academe has popularized, and extended, this
definition. It generally refers to subaltern studies as writing ‘history
from below’. It is concerned with peasant and other local resistance
with the anti-colonial project uppermost as a referent, and implies a
critique of upper or elite versions of history.
6 For an anthropological exploration of how sexuality and femininity,
expressed through nudity and body genitalia, can be used as ‘resistance’
or ‘critique’, see Ardener (1981).
7 A Sanskrit interpretation simply means ‘Brahman literature’. But the
term used in Karnataka Legislature was understood as ‘cattlefeed’, and
taken to be an insult.
8 Hotel pronounced, ‘hoatle’, is generally a restaurant or cafeteria. Cf.
‘military hotel’ (cheap) non-vegetarian restaurant.
9 For example, according to one long-term DSS member who has now
left the DSS to form his own activist group (interview, 25 July 1991),
by aligning itself with political parties the DSS has forgotten, in Maoist
terms, to identify and differentiate between the main and subordinate
contradictions. In failing to do so the movement cannot achieve its
goals. In his view, they have forgotten their resolve to stay clear of the
formal political process. Because of their downtrodden status they do
not have what is necessary to become effective politically. That is, (i) a
dominant caste background, or backing, (ii) financial support, and (iii)
party support are required. He argues further that principle
contradictions, such as landlordism and capitalism, are detrimental to
the interests of the poor of all castes, creeds and religions. Thus, to
define the Dalit movement as a caste movement derived from
Untouchability can set poor untouchable and touchable castes against
each other. In his view a predominantly caste based struggle errs
because this is a subordinate contradiction.
10 Nude worship at Chandragutti, of Renuka’s buttocks, is associated with
tantrism. Five objects of worship (panchamacaras or five m’s) are
reported: Meat (mamsa), fish (matsya), roasted corn (mudra—
 according to some accounts not ‘corn’, but ritual hand gestures), liquor
(madya), and sex (maithuna). Intoxication can be due to spirit filling
(claimed by nude devotees), also from liquor. Reformers deny the
former.
11 This Chief Minister has been,replaced as of December 1992.
12 Mr B. Rachiah, of Scheduled Caste background, was one of the first
two Cabinet members appointed by Chief Minister Hegde after the 1985
Janata government re-election.
13 In India, in colloquial usage, miscreant means ‘deviant’ or ‘trouble-
maker’, rather than ‘heretic’.
14 Goonda means ‘hired thug’ or ‘ruffian’.
15 This term is, I think, consistent with the Dalit activist stance. Those
with power in the religious spheres apply a deliberate, and rational
(i.e., calculated) use of religion to exercise their ‘will to power’ over
the devotees. This term is in reference to Nietzsche’s analysis of the
ascetic/priest.
16 The argument adopted from Ambedkar (see ‘Who Were The Shudras?’
and ‘The Untouchables’ in Ambedkar, 1990 [1947]) is that
Untouchables are the Exterior Castes. They are external to the Hindu
chaturvarnya, a cosmological constitution of society that upholds the
four-fold hierarchical division of labour. While Untouchables have
been called the panchamas, meaning the fifth class, militant Dalits reject
this name (as did Ambedkar) because it is inclusive, rather than
exclusive from Hinduism (see also S. K. Gupta [1985]).
17 ‘The feminine’ and ‘the sexual’ need to, and can, be analytically
separated. But, I have not done so in this chapter. The discussion on
nudity here reflects on how Indian society tends to bind femininity to
sexuality. One implies the other. Nudity is shocking, but can be
discussed in public in the context of reform. Yet, sexuality, as found in
the myth, has no public forum. Is the association between femininity and
sexuality more overt, while that between masculinity and sexuality more
covert? Has the former become de-sacralized, hence offensive? While
the latter remains sacred, hence acceptable? For example, nude worship
of female devotees insults the public, whereas JainistDigambaras do
 not. Similarly, in bhakti the male devotee approaches God in a feminine
role but is not censored for sexual inappropriateness.
18 Ritual reversal has been extensively studied in early anthropological
literature. Strong associations have been made with: (i) political protest
such as millenarian movements; (ii) inversions of the structurally high
with the low, such as between kings and jokers; and (iii) with nudity,
which may be found in various rites of passage. Licentiousness, joking
and levelling are common attributes. See for example, Gluckman
(1954); Goffman (1962); and Turner (1969, 1985).

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Chatterjee, P. 1989. ‘Colonialism, Nationalism, and Colonized Women: The
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Foucault, M. 1973. Madness and Civilization: A History of Insanity in the
Age of Reason (1st ed. 1965).New York: Vintage Books.
———. 1979. Discipline and Punishment: The Birth of the Prison. New
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———. 1981. The History of Sexuality, Volume 1: An Introduction. New
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Gluckman, M. 1954. Rituals of Rebellion in Southeast Africa. Manchester:
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Goffman, E 1962. Asylums. Chicago: Aldine Publishing.
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Gupta, S. K. 1985. The Scheduled Castes in Modern Indian Politics. New
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Jogdand, P. G. 1991. Dalit Movement in Maharashtra. New Delhi: Kanak
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Kemble, U. 1988. Devadasi and Nude Worship (Marathi). Bombay: Sukumas
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Teepee. 1991. ‘Birth of Samata Sainik Dal: Karnataka Dalit Unit Takes a
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———. 1985, From Ritual to Theatre: The Human Seriousness of Play.
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R R S B
The most difficult part of this project of putting together articles on gender
issues published in the Sociological Bulletin (1952–2002) was one of
deciding which articles to include. For each article included, there are others
equally important that had to be omitted because of space. The articles
included here are best seen as illustrations of the varied intellectual genres of
feminist sociological knowledge in different substantive areas of the
discipline. A list of the articles from the Sociological Bulletin, relevant to
the theme of the book but not included in this volume, has been given below.

Anjum, M. 2000. ‘Nation and Gender-Historical Perspective’, vol. 49.no. 1,

pp. 111–17.
Chanana, K. 1984. ‘The Trishankus: Women in the Professions in India’, vol.
33, nos. 1&2, pp. 75–91.
Chanana, K. 1990. ‘The Dialectics of Tradition and Modernity and Women’s
Education in India’, vol. 39, and nos. l&2,pp. 75–93.
D’Souza, V. 1953. ‘Mother-Right in Transition’, vol. 2, no. 2, pp. 135–42.
Desai, A. R. 1981. ‘Relevance of the Marxist Approach to the Study of
Indian Society’, vol. 30, no. 1, pp. 1–21.
Ghurye, G. S. ‘Sexual Behaviour of the American Female’, vol. 3, no. 2, pp.
158– 83.
Gupta, S. C. 1985. ‘Sex-preference and Protein Calorie Malnutrition’, vol.
34, no. l&2,pp. 85–95.
Haider, S. 1995. ‘Lifting the Veil of Silence: Jamuna’s Narrative of Pain’,
vol. 44, no. 2, pp. 241–55.
Kazi, K. A. and R. Ghadially. 1979. ‘Perception of the Female Role by
Indian College Teachers’, vol. 28, no. 1&2, pp. 59–71.
Khullar, M. 1990. ‘In Search of ‘Relevant Education”’, vol. 39, nos. 1 and 2,
pp. 147–67.
Lakshminarayana, H. D. 1975. ‘Caste, Class, Sex and Social Distance among
College Students in South India’, vol. 24, no. 2, pp. 181–93.
Pandey, R. 1987. ‘The Shifting Paradigms of Primordial Unit of Social
Reality and the Swerving Ideologies on Women’s Situation in Society: A
Cognitive Analysis’, vol. 36, no. 1, pp. 99–133.
Patel, T. and U. Sharma. 2000. ‘The Silent Subject: Childbirth and the
Sociology of Emotion’, vol. 49. no. 2, pp. 179–93.
Pathare, R. 1965–66. ‘Family Planning Programme: A Sociological
Analysis’, vols. 14–15, pp. 44–62.
Patwardhan, S. 1970. ‘IrawatiKarve’, vol. 11, no. 2, pp. 156–59.
Rege, S. 1995. ‘Feminist Pedagogy and Sociology for Emancipation in
India’, vol. 44, no. 2, pp. 223–39.
Sabbarwal, S. 2000. ‘The Changing Face of Feminism: Dilemmas of a
Feminist Academic’, vol. 49, no. 2, pp. 267–79.
Sharma, S. L. 2000. ‘Empowerment Without Antagonism: A Case for
Reformulation of Women’s Empowerment Approach’, vol. 49, no. 1, pp.
19–41.
Singh, K. P. 1974. ‘Women’s Age at Marriage’, vol. 23, no. 2, pp. 236–45.
Visaria, L. and P. Visaria. 1986. ‘Perspective Changes in the Age and Gender
Structure of India’s Population and their Socio-Economic Implications’,
vol. 35, no. 2, pp. 95–117.
A E
Sharmila Rege teaches at the Krantijyoti Savitribai Phule Women’s Studies
Centre, University of Pune. She previously taught at St. Mira’s College
(1988–91) and the Department of Sociology (1991–2000), University of
Pune. She has published widely on the intellectual, organizational and
pedagogical aspects of engendering sociological discourse in India. Her
recent interests have centred on questions of caste and gender.
A C
Beatrice Kachuck is Professor Emeritus, Women’s Studies, City University
Graduate Center, New York, USA.
C. V. Kala taught at Miranda House, Delhi University and presently lives in
Chennai, India.
G. N. Ramu is on the Faculty of the Department of Sociology, University of
Manitoba, Winnipeg, Canada.
Homa Hoodfar is on the Faculty of the Department of Sociology and
Anthropology, Concordia University, Montreal, Canada.
Judith Whitehead is on the faculty of the Department of Anthropology,
Lethbridge University, Canada.
Karuna Chanana is on the Faculty of Zakir Husain Centre for Educational
Studies, Jawaharlal Nehru University, New Delhi, India.
Leela Dube was formerly a National Fellow of the Indian Council of Social
Science Research and presently lives in Delhi, India.
Linda J. Epp was formerly a Research Scholar at the Department of
Anthropology, York University, North York, Canada. Maitrayee Chaudhari
is on the faculty of the Centre for the Study of Social Systems, Jawaharlal
Nehru University, New Delhi, India.
Padma Velaskar is on the Faculty of the Unit for Research in the Sociology
of Education, Tata Institute of Social Sciences, Mumbai, India.
Pat Caplan is on the Faculty of Goldsmith’s College, University of London,
London.
Patricia Uberoi is on the Faculty of the Sociology Unit at the Institute of
Economic Growth, University Enclave, Delhi, India.
Raj Mohini Sethi is on the Faculty of the Department of Sociology, Panjab
University, Chandigarh, India.
Sharmila Rege is on the Faculty of the Krantijyoti Savitribai Phule Women’s
Studies Centre, University of Pune, Pune, India.
Tiplut Nongbri is on the Faculty of Centre for the Study of Social Systems,
Jawaharlal Nehru University, New Delhi, India.
Index Keywords

Abadan-Unat, Nermin, 200, 216

Abbot, P., 4
Abstract rights, concept of, 58
Acharya, Meena, 242–43
Acharya, P., 329
Acker, J., 4
African Systems of Kinship and Marriage, 100
Agarwal, Bina, 54, 57–58, 72
Age of Consent Bill, 26
Age of Consent controversy, 367, 369, 371–72, 381–91
Agricultural producers in Himachal Pradesh, female occupational pattern
and, 229–40; feminisation of, 240; findings of study on, 229–43;
profile of, 226–43
Ahmad, Karuna, 310
Alberle, David, 188
All India Sociological Conference (AISC), 22–23, 26–27, 30
Allen, Michael, 289, 290–92
Altekar, A. S., 289
Ambedkar, B. R., 37, 396, 400–02, 410
Amin, Galal A., 195
Amott, Theresa L., 60
Amrita Bazaar Patrika, 378–79
Anderson, B., 390
Anderson, Benedict, 345
Anderson, Bonnie, 53
Anglo-Indian Defense Association, 374, 377
Anjum, M., 30
Anthias, Floya, 346
Anthropology, conceptual issues in, 51–52, 88–116; descent theory, 95–116;
feminism and, 88–95; models and real life, 107–08
Anti-Naked Service Society, 404
Apple, M., 328
Applied Nutrition Programme (ANP), 351
Ardener, Shirley, 97
AryaMahilaSamaj of Bombay, 370
Awny, Elizabeth, 195
Bachofen, Johann Jakob, 93
Bahr, Stephen, 130–32, 142
Bamabodhini Patrika Antahpqur, 371
Bamberger, Joan, 94
Banerjee, N., 322
Bangalee, 373, 378
Bangarappa, S., 404, 423
Bannerjea, SurendraNath, 373, 377–78
Banton, M., 273
Bardhan, P., 321, 330
Barnes, J. A., 93, 104–06, 110–11
Barooah, Romy, 72
Basavalingappa, B., 400
Basu, Aparna, 297
Beechey, Veronica, 95, 103, 114
Bengal Chamber of Commerce, 375
Benhabib, Seyla, 78, 348, 359
Bennett, Lynn, 294, 305
Bernard, Jessie, 2–3
Bernstein, B., 328
Beteille Andre, 18, 30–32, 88, 251
Bhagwat, V., 13
Bhandarkar, 385
BharatiyaJanata Party, 360
Bhasin, Kamla, 362
Bhattacharjee, Raghunandan, 383–84
Bhihaji, Dadaji, 382
Blaugh,M., 330
Blood, Robert F., 129–30, 132, 142
Bochner, Stephen, 216
Boddy, Jaince, 381
Bordo, Susan, 77
Borthwick, Meredith, 297
Bose, Mandakranta, 289
Boserup, Esther, 227, 245
Bottomore, T., 271, 280
Boulough, R. W., 41
Bourdieu, P., 33, 318, 368
Bowles, S., 318
Brahmo Samaj, 382
Branson, 375
Brewer, Rose M., 71
Brink, Judy H., 195
British Sociological Association (BSA), 2–3
Brouwer, Lenie, 216
Buchler, Ira R., 104, 106, 110
Butler, Judith, 7, 76
Calcutta Medical Society, 387
Campbell, M., 3
Cantlie, Keith, 191
Capitalism, 67–72, 81
Caplan, Pat, 176, 225, 270, 274–75, 282
Carnoy, M., 330
Cernea, Mikali, 240
Chakravarti, A., 18
Chakravarti, Uma, 289, 342
Chambers, R. C., 271
Chanana, Karuna, 57, 66, 286–87, 296–98, 301–02, 304, 309
Chandra, Bipan, 341
Chandragutti incident of 1986, 396–97, 401–13
Channaveerappa Enquiry Commission, 396–97, 409–14; press interference,
408—09
Channaveerappa, J., 409–16, 418
Channaveerappa Report, 408
Chatterjee, Maitreyi, 297
Chatterjee, Partha, 354, 360, 422
Chatterji, Bankimchandra, 377–78, 380
Chatterji, P., 378–79
Chaudhuri, Maitrayee, 339, 344, 347, 349, 353, 358–61
Chauhan, Abha, 72
Chimni, B. S., 356
Chipko campaign, 66
Chitnis, S., 330
Chodorow, Nancy J., 63–64
Chow, E. N., 8
Chowdhury-Sengupta, I., 380
Christiansen-Ruffman, L., 1–2
Chunari festival, 362
Cohen, B, 372
Collier, Jane Fishburne, 90–93, 103
Collins, P. H., 6, 8–9
Collins, Patricia, 74
Colson, Elizabeth, 172, 174
Comaroff, John J., 171
Commission of Inquiry Act, 410
Committee for the Abolition of Child Marriage, 382
Committee for the Struggle of the Oppressed, 396
Communal property, See Friday property
Community Development Programme (CDP), 14, 350–51
Complementary filiation, theory of, 101–03
Connell, R.W., 8
Constitution of India, Article, 15, 360; Article, 25–28, 360
Contemporary sociology, crisis in, 30–34
Costa, Mariarosa, 69
Cultural anthropology, 88
Dahl, Robert A., 132
Dalit movements, 26
Dalit Panther movement, 400
Dalit rationalist reform politics, 419–23
Dalit Sangharsh Samiti (DSS), 340, 396–97, 399–407, 410–11, 413–21,
423
Dalit Voice, 402
Dalit women, 10
Daly, Mary, 64
Dandekar, V. M., 321
Das, Veena, 32, 115, 133
Dasgupta, S., 32
Davidoff, L., 370
Davin, A., 390
Davis, Angela, 58
De Beauvoir, Simone, 91, 93
Deb, K., 32
Deccan Herald, 410, 413
Derrida, Jacques, 79–80,
Desai, N, 15, 17, 30
Desai, Neera, 35, 55
Descartes, Rene, 56, 61
Descent, meaning of, 106–07
Descent theory, 95–116; complementary filiation, 101–03; functional
consistency in, 110–12; logic of patriarchy matriarchy opposition,
96–98; meaning of descent, 106–07; models and real life in, 107–08;
multi-variate contracts, 98–99; need for, 112–16; possible variables,
109–10; privileging principle of unilineal descent, 99–101, 113;
treatment of marriage in, 116; unilineal vs nonunilineal descent, 103–
06
Deshpande, S., 32
DeSouza, A., 331
Devadasi and Nude Worship, 408
Devi, Indira M., 132
Dhanagare, D. N., 11–12, 14
Dharma Sabha, 361
Dhesi, J. K, 227
Di Leonardo, Micaela, 91
Donovan, Josephine, 53, 57
Douglas, M., 376
Draft National Plan of Action for Women, 15
Draper, P., 97–98
Dual-earner couples, characteristics of, 137; decision-making among, 141–
45; marital power among, 136–50
Dube, Leela, 115, 128, 153, 155, 164, 167, 170–71, 173–74, 185, 187,
288–94, 305
Dube, S. C., 12–13, 17, 240–42
Dubois, B., 38
Dufferin, Lord, 382
Dumont, Louis, 99, 106, 115, 292
Duolocal residence and matriliny, 155–56
Education Commission of 1882, 303
Education system, as mediator of class, caste and gender inequalities, 332–
33
Egyptian family, cultural impact of migration, 216–18; decision to migrate,
197–99; feminization of, 195–219; gender roles in, 212–16; impact
of migration on wives’ participation in labour market, 211–12; inter-
household, 206–08; relationship, 202–06; intra-household
relationship male migration impact on, 195–219; management and
investment of remittances, 208–11; migrants household, 200–02;
power relations in, 212–16; residential status, 200; traditional
gender roles in, 195–219
Egyptian male migration, cultural impact of, 216–18; decision to migrate,
197–99; impact on urban families, 195–219; source of financing
migration, 199; study on, 196–97; wives’ participation in labour
market, 211–12
Eicher, M., 28
Eisenstein, Zillah R., 62, 95
El-Daeif, Syada Giress, 195, 200, 208
Elementary Structures of Kinship, 99
Elshtain, Jean Bethke, 346
Employment, and type of schooling, 331–32
Engels, Dagmar, 109, 290, 292, 294, 297–98, 301, 370
Engels, Frederick, 54, 67, 74, 93
Engendering sociology, 40–41
England, P., 3
Enloe, Cynthia, 53
Epp, Linda J., 340, 395, 398
Epstein, Soarlett T., 240
Equality of Sexes Committee of BSA, 2–3
Ethics of Feminism, 12
Evans, Griffith, 373
Evans, M., 9
Faludi, Susan, 62
Family marriage, and kinship, 128
Farrell, J., 325, 330
Farrell, S. A., 3
Fee, Elizabeth, 94
Female nudity, and liberal reformism, 417–19
Female sexuality, Hindu girls education in India and, 287–311
Feminism, anthropology and, 88–95; conceptual issues in, 51–52, 88–116
Feminist anthropology, 90
Feminist essentialism, 61–67
Feminist liberalism, 56–61
Feminist pedagogy, 37–38
Feminist post-modernism, 75–80
Feminist reflexivity, crisis in contemporary sociology and, 30–34
Feminist scholarship, 5, 7, 11, 17, 28, 225, 339
Feminist social theories, feminist essentialism, 61–67; feminist liberalism,
56–61, 80; feminist post-modernism, 75–81; feminist socialists, 67–
75, 81; theme and variations in, 53–81
Feminist socialists, 67–75
Feminist sociology, 19, 28
Feminized occupations, 61
Fenstermaker, S., 9
Ferber, Marianne, 132
Fergany, Nader, 195, 202
Feudalism, 70
First-Dilic, Ruza, 240
Flax, Jane, 76, 79
Focault, Michel, 78
Forbes, Geraldine, 299–300, 354
Ford Foundation, 14
Forde, Daryll, 100
Fortes, Meyer, 102, 104–05, 111
Foucault, M, 398, 419, 422
Fox, Robin, 105, 189
Fraser, Nancy, 63, 78
Freeman, 105
Freud, 62, 64–65
Friday property, 167–68
Friedan, Betty, 59
Frontline, 406
Furnham, Adrian, 216
Galileo, 56, 61
Gandhi, Mahatma, 297
Gandhi, Nandita, 53, 55, 57, 59
Gandhi, Rajiv, 162
Ganesh, K., 17–18
Ganguly, Kadambini, 371
Ganjoo, Maithili, 115
Garbhadan ceremony, 383, 385
Garth, Richard, 373
Gender and social institutions, 127
Gents Club, 282
George, J. E., 412
Ghosal, Sarala Debi, 371, 378
Ghosh, Aurobindo, 379
Ghurye, G. S., 12
Giddings, Paula, 58
Gidumal, D., 387
Gilligan, Carol, 62–63
Ginat, Joseph, 133
Gintis, H., 318
Giri, A., 32
Giroux, H. A., 295, 319
Gogate, S., 30
Gokhale, J. B., 401
Goldschmidt-Elermont, L., 213
Goody, Jack, 110, 188
Gough, Kathleen, 97, 112, 170
Gould, Julius, 90, 96
Gould, S. J., 372
Gouldner, A., 33, 38
Gove, W., 91
Gramsci, 318
Grown, Caren, 53
Gulati, Leela, 245, 251
Gulbenkian Commission on the Restructuring of the Social Sciences, 3
Gupta, D., 17–18
Gupta, Jayoti, 55
Gupta, Rajani Kanta, 380
Gurdon, P. R. T., 183
Guru, G., 15
Haider, S., 18, 30
Harding, Sandra, 74, 77, 372
Hartmann, Heidi, 70–71
Hartsock, Nancy, 76, 78
Hate, C., 12
Heer, David, 129
Hegde, Ramakrishana, 402
Hegde, S., 17
Heidegger, Martin, 62
Heimsath, C. H., 367
Held, David, 344–45
Henry, A. Selby, 104
Hershman, Paul, 105, 115, 185
Hill, Polly, 188
Himachal Pradesh, active agricultural producers in, 226–43; activities-wise
distribution of time spent in domestic work, 237; agrarian structure
in, 227–28; cultivators and agricultural, labourers proportion in, 229,
231; decision making by gender, 238–39; district-wise and sex-wise
distribution of days of agricultural work done in, 233; female
occupational pattern in, 229–40; land reform measures, 227–28;
land-holding in, 232; number of days worked by men and women,
232; polyandry in, 241–42; rural development in, 241–42; sex and
number of days of work done in cattle care, 234–36; social structure
and rural development in, 227–29
Himachal Pradesh Abolition of Big Landed Estates and Land Reforms Act,
1963, 227
Himachal Pradesh Tenancy and Land Reforms Act, 1972, 227
Hindu Code Bill, 360
Hindu girls in India, coeducation, 300–02; colonial context, 296–300;
contemporary context, 304–07; culture and, 295; curriculum and its
relevance to education of, 303–04; education of, 287–311; familial
socialization, 304–07; female sexuality and, 287–311; formal
education process, 304–07; institutional, 300–02; school as context,
307–10; socialization process, 288, 296, 304–07; textual and
ideological conjunction, 289–95
Hindu Mahasabha, 360
Hinduism, ideals of femininity in, 289–91
Hiranyakishen, 385
Hirschmann, E., 374–76
Hood, Jane C., 130, 139
Hoodfar, Homa, 195, 201, 206, 208–9, 211, 218
Hooks, Bell, 58, 71, 77, 390
Huber, Joan, 130, 142
Human Relations Area Files, 99
Hume, A. O., 377
Husserl, Edmund, 62
Ibrahim, Saad, 196, 202–03, 219
Ideal Hindu women, 290
Ilbert Bill, 339, 369, 372, 390
India Today, 402, 406, 410
Indian Council for Social Science Research (ICSSR), 15
Indian Express, The, 396, 405–07, 409–10
Indian Journal of Sociology, 19
Indian Mirror, 378
Indian nation-state, gender in making of, 341–64
Indian Sociological Society, 20, 23, 31, 41
Indian Spectator, 382, 384–85
International Sociological Association (ISA), 1, 3
Irigary, Luce, 65, 116
Ittaman, K. P., 155
Jackson, D. D., 130
Jackson, S., 8, 39
Jaggar, Alison M., 54, 56, 61
Jain, C. K., 66
Jamadagni and Renuka myth, 398–99
James, Selma, 69
Jardine, Alice A., 79–80
Jayaram, N., 32, 330–31
Jayawardena, Kumari, 354
Jogdand, P. G., 54, 400
John, Mary, 17–18, 352–53
Joint family, influence of women in, 133; studies of, 132; system, 107–08
Joseph, Glora, 55, 71–72
Joshi, P. C., 245
Kachuck, Beatrice, 52–53
Kagitcibasi, Cdim, 202
Kakar, Sudhir, 67, 134
Kala, C. V., 245, 328
Kalia, N., 328
Kalpagam, U., 72–73
Kamble, Uttam, 408
Kamphoefiner, R. R., 205
Kapadia, K. M., 22
Karlekar, Malavika, 18, 57, 304, 324, 331
Karve, Irawati, 13
Kasturi, Leela, 354
Kaur, Amrit, 359–60
Kerala, changing in cropping pattern in 1975, 261–64; crop pattern in, 246–
47; distribution of work based on sex, 250–61; farm labour matrix,
249–50; farm labour social background and economic setting, 248–
49; female participation in farm work in, 245—67; land reform law
in, 246; land tenure and ownership system, 247–48; local
conceptions, 249–50; structural choices available, 264–67
Kessler-Harris, Alice, 61
Keswick, 375
Khafagi, Fatma, 195, 200, 202–03
Khanna, Girija, 132
Khanna, Madhu, 291
Khasi society, affinal ties rituals in, 189–90; centrality of woman, 186;
definitions of gender roles in, 187; gender and, 182–93; ideology,
186; leniency towards men, 191; matrilineal descent system, 185;
matrilineal system, 184, 189–92; negative attributes attached to
women’s sexuality in, 191; role conflict for men, 190–91; role of
women in domestic sphere, 187; Succession Act, 192–93; succession
of property in, 183–84; trend towards patriliny in, 192–93; women’s
position in, 188–92; youngest daughter’s position in, 188
Khattab, Hand Abou Seoud, 195, 200, 208
King, Deborah K, 74
Kinship, and family marriage, 128; ideology of, 154
Kinship studies, gender dimension in, 92
Kiray, M., 200, 202
Kishwar, Madhu, 53
Kohlberg, 62
Kolb, William L., 90, 96
Kolenda, Pauline, 109, 114
Komarovsky, Misra, 270
Koonz, G., 390
Kosambi, M., 382
Krishnappa, B., 396–97, 399, 401, 404, 406, 407–08, 413, 415, 422
Krishnaraj, Maithrayi, 55
Krishnaraj, N., 330
Kumar, K, 326, 328
Kumar, Nita, 303–04
Kumar, Radha, 62
Kuper, Adam, 94, 105
Kutty, A. R., 155, 158, 164, 166, 173
Lacan, 65
Lakshmanna, 31
Lalita, K, 53
Lalita, S., 371
Langland, lan, 91, 94
Lankesh Patrike, 404
Lansdowne, 383, 388–90
Lash, S., 33
Laslett, B., 28
Latour, B., 33
Leach, Edmund, 98, 106
Leacock, Eleanor Burke, 93, 97–98, 184
Lecomte-Tilouine, Marie, 105
Lederer, W.J., 130
Leech, Geoffrey, 97
Leigh, 373
Lenin, Vladimir I., 67
Leonardo, Micaela D., 53
Lerner, Gerba, 93, 114
Levi-Strauss, Claude, 99, 105, 111
Lewis, I. M., 99, 108
Liberal state and women, 343–45
Lock, M., 369
Locke, John, 54, 56–58, 61
Lohia, 400
Lorber, 3, 9
Lorde, Audre, 53
Lupri, Eugene, 130, 132
Lyngdoh, Homiwell, 191
MacKinnon, Catherine A., 55, 73–74
Madan, T. N., 31
Mahila Mandal scheme, 351
Mahon, M., 419
Maine, Henry Sumner, 95
Maitee, Hari Mohun, 383, 386
Malabari, Behramji, 367, 381–83, 386
Mandal, 18
Manicom, A., 3
Manor, J., 402
Manu, 385
Marital power, and economic status, 129–50; decision-making pattern and,
138–50; dual-earner couples, 136–37; nature of marital relations
and, 138; notion of, 131; single-earner couples, 136–37; studies of
family life and, 133; study on, 135–50;— respondents for, 136–38;—
settings, samples and methods for, 135–36
Marji, S., 402
Marshall, B. L., 40
Martel, A., 37–38
Marumakkatayam system, 168
Marx, Karl, 54, 67, 73
Marxism, 67–70, 72–73, 75–76
Mascia-Less, Frances E., 91
Matriarchy, definition of, 95; logic of opposition, 96–98; patriarchy and,
89–90, 93–94
Matrilineal Muslim society, caste-like groups in, 157; change and continuity
in, 172–76; conjugal relations, 163–67, 175–76; control of women’s
sexuality in, 170; dealings in property in, 167–69; descent and
inheritance, 157–60, 174; dissolution of marriage in, 165–66;
duolocal residence and, 155–56; gains from in, 153–77;
Lakshadweep Island, 153–77; Islam and, 177; kinship system, 155;
management of property in marriage, 155–56, 167–69; and divorce
in, 163–66; nature of property and organization of work in, 161;
patrilineal system and, 170–72; resilience of matrilineality in, 174;
resources and property in, 175; segregation and seclusion in, 162;
trade and trading in, 156–57; uxorilocality tendency in, 176; women
and space in, 160–63; women’s situation in, 153, 169–70
Matrilineal property. See, Friday property
Matthaei, Julie A., 60
May, T., 33
Mazumdar, P. C., 382
Mazumdar, Vina, 299, 354
McDonald, Gerald W., 129, 131–32, 138, 212
Mead, M., 91
Medick, H., 171
Meghalaya Succession to Self-Acquired Property (Khasi and Jaintia Special
Provision) Act, 1984, 182–93
Mehta, Hansa, 359
Mehta, Rama, 305
Mencher, Joan P., 245
Menon, Ritu, 362
Messer, Davidow, 55
Middleton, J., 110
Mies, Maria, 53, 61, 75, 95, 228, 240
Migrant household, in Egypt, cultural impact of migration, 216–18; daily life
in, 200–02; gender roles and power relations, 212–16; inter-
household relations, 206–08; intra-household relations, 202–06;
management and investment of remittances, 208–11
Millett, Kate, 91
Mills, C. W., 39
Minault, Gail, 301, 354
Minh-ha, Trinh T., 53
Mitchell, Juliet, 116
Mitter, R. C., 373, 384, 387
Mohadevaru, Devanura, 402
Mohanty, Chandra, 53
Mohanty, Manoranjan, 356
Moi, Toril, 65
Monday property, 167
Moore, Henrietta, 10, 90–91, 103
Moose, G., 390
Moral reasoning, among males and females, 62
Morgan, Lewis Henry, 93, 95
Morrison, Toni, 58
Muaty, Abdel A., 202–03
Mueller, Max, 382
Mukherjee, P. N., 11
Mukherjee, Prabhati, 289, 292
Mukherjee, R., 11
Mukherji, D. P., 12
Mukhopadhyay, Carol C., 289
Mukul, 371
Munivenkatappa, 400, 422
Murdock, George P., 99, 104, 111, 188
Murthy, G. B.V., 32
Muslim Women’s Bill, 362
Mutiny of 1857–58, 372
Myers, K. A., 3, 5
Myntti, Cynthia, 217
Nadim el-Missary, Nowal, 201, 214
Nair, Kusum, 240
Nakane, Chie, 112
Nandy, Ashis, 66, 422
Natarajan, Jayanthi, 357
National Organization for Women (NOW), 59, 61
National Planning Committee (NPC), 349
Neelsen, J., 331
Newton, K., 270
Nicholson, Linda J., 63, 78
Nickols, Sharan Y., 54, 69
Niranjana, S., 17
Nongbri, Tiplut, 112, 128, 182, 192
Nudity and nude worship, 395–419; Chandragutti incident, 403–09;
Channaveerappa Enquiry Commission on, 409–13; DSS and, 396–
97, 399–403; emic model, 414–17; liberal reformism, 417–19;
mythopoeic ground, 398–99; problem of, 417–19; protest against,
396–97
Oakley, A., 4
Oedipus effect, 63
Ogburn, W. F., 19
Oilman, 372
Olson, D. H., 131
Omvedt, G., 12
Oommen, T. K., 11, 345
Pal, Bipin Chandra, 377, 379
Palriwala, Rajni, 107
Pande, N., 328
Panini, M. N., 14
Papanek, Hanna, 283
Paramar, Y. S., 240–41
Parker, A., 390
Parvathamma, C., 12, 22
Patel, J. H., 404
Patel, S., 26, 32
Patel, Tara, 22
Pathak, Zakia, 362
Patriarchy, characteristics of, 109–10; concept of, 10, 51, 90–92, 95, 134;
definitions of, 67, 71, 89–90, 95, 114; logic of opposition, 96–98;
matriarchy, 89–90, 93, 96–98; multi-variate contrasts, 98–99; notion
of, 89, 93–94; problems with, 88–116
Patrilineal system, conflict and contradiction in, 170–71; matrilineal system
and, 170–72; property in, 171
Patri-virilocal system, 170
Patwardhan, S., 22
Periyar, 37
Peterat, L., 37–38
Phule, Jotiba, 12, 37
PhulmoniDasi, 383, 385
Piaget, 62
Planning Commission, 350–51
Pleck, Joseph H., 129
Plutarch, 346
Poonacha, V., 18
Porter, M., 41
Poverty, feminization of, 60
Power, theory of, 78
Prabha, Shashi, 132
Priester, Marjike, 216
Pynkam, practice of, 183
Queen Victoria Proclamation of 1858, 382, 384
Rachiah, B., 409
Racism and revivalism in Bengal (1870–90), 372–78
Radcliffe-Brown, A. R., 95–98, 100–06, 109–14
Radiance, 362
Rajan, Rajeshwari Sunder, 362
Rajshekar, V. T., 402
Ram, Rati, 330
Ramakrishna, 379
Ramu, G. N., 129, 132, 136
Ranade, M. G., 385
Rani SewaSangha, 362
Rao, C. R. P., 31
Rao, S. V. V., 31
Rassundari Devi, 371
Reay, 382
Rege, Sharmila, 1, 13, 16–17, 32–36, 55
Reiter, Rayna Rapp, 91
Report of the Committee on Status of Women in India, 15, 22
Research Committee of Indian Sociological Association, 30
Research Committee on Women in Society of ISA, 3
Revivalism and racism in, 372–80; Bengal inversions of, 378–80
Richards, Audrey, 112, 188
Riddiough, Christine, 71
Rinesingh Committee, 409
Ripon, 374, 376, 382
Risman, B. J., 3
Roberts, Simon, 171
RoopKanwar, 362
Rosenthal, D., 322
Rossi, A., 4
Rousseau, 344, 346
Rowbotham, Sheila, 53
Roy, Kumkum, 289
Roy, Mary, 344
Roy, Raja Rammohun, 361
Rubin, Gayle, 116
Ruddick, Sara, 63
Rukhmabai case, 382–83
Rungamathy Tea Estate, 373
Ryder, R. G., 131
SNDT University, Mumbai, 35
Sabbarwal, S., 30
Sabian, D. W., 171
Sachs, Karen, 97, 109
Safilios-Rothschild, Constantina, 129, 131–32
Sagotra, notion of, 115
Sahitya, 371
Saigal, Omesh, 155, 162, 173, 175
Salisbury, 389
Samajwadi Ujal Sabha (SWUS), 400
Samata Sainik Dal (SSD), 402
Sanday, Peggy R., 213
Sandhu, H. K, 227
Sangari, Kumkum, 72, 362
Sanik, M. M., 129
Sapinda, notion of, 115
Saraswati, B. N., 289
Sargent, Lydia, 69
Sarkar, T., 368, 373, 377, 379–80, 388–89
Sarup, M., 319
Satyashodhak movement, 286
Scarizoni, 138
Scheffer, H. W., 92–93, 103, 105
Scheper-Hughes, N., 369
Schneider, David M., 92, 105, 107, 112, 189
Schooling in India, content and process of, 327–31; diffusion of, 319–22;
employment and, 331–32; performance, 324–27; unequal access to,
319–23; social inequality and, 318–33; type of, unequal attainment
and mediating role of, 323–24; unequal provision of, 322–23. See
also, Unequal schooling in India
Schwartz, P., 3
Schwede, Laurel, 159
Science, post-modern critiques of, 77
Scoble, Andrew, 387
Scott, Joan, 76
Second-wave feminism,gender politics of, 3, 24
Selby, Henry A., 106, 110
Sen, Amartya K, 130
Sen, Gita, 53
Sen, Kushub Chandra, 377, 379
Sethi, Raj Mohini, 225–27, 240–41
Seymour, S., 289
Shah, A. M., 105, 108, 115
Shah, Nandita., 55, 57, 59
Shah Bano case, 361–63
Sharma, A., 418
Sharma, B., 331
Sharma, S. L., 31
Sharma, Ursula, 185, 228
Shiva, Vandana, 65–66, 75
Shorter, Frederic, 197
Showalter, E., 370
Shrikanth, 402
Sibia, 241
Sills, D. L., 270
Silverblatt, Irene, 93
Singer, Milton, 419
Singerman, Diane, 198, 206
Singh, Amita Tyagi, 116
Singh, K. P., 227
Singh, K. S., 104
Singh, N. K., 11
Singh, Renuka, 59
Singh, Yogendra, 26
Single-earner couples, characteristics of, 137; decision-making pattern,
139–42, 145–50; marital power among, 136–50
Sinha, D., 324, 328
Sinha, M., 388, 390
Sinha, Ramesh P., 132
Smith, Dorothy, 4, 41, 54, 74
Smock, A., 330
Social institutions and gender, 127
Social Welfare Board, 350
Socialism, 68, 70
Socialist Party Youth Wing, 400
Sociological Bulletin, 19–20, 23, 25, 27–30, 41
Sociological feminism, 19, 25
Sociologists for Women in Society, 3
Sociology, of absences of women, 19–30; balkanization of bulletins
conceptual issues in, 51–52; crisis in, 30–34; curriculum and
pedagogies, 34–35; development of, in India, 11–19; of education,
286; on engendering sociology, 40–41; experiences from field, 35–
40; feminist challenge to, 1–41; feminist critique of, 3–7; feminist
reflexivity and, 30–34; of gender, 7–19, 34–40;— in India, histories
from borderlands, 19–30; of women, 7–10, 35–40
Southard, Barbara, 357
Spartan mothers, 346
Spitze, Glenna, 130, 142
Spivak, Gayatri C., 80, 420
Squires, J., 6–7
Srinivas, M. N., 14, 19, 25, 88–89
Srinivasan, Kamala, 54, 69
Srivastava, A. K., 56
Stacey, Judith, 8, 28, 30, 91, 103
Stacey, M., 270
Stanley, L., 4, 33–34
Stanton, Elizabeth Cady, 57–58
Statesman, The, 374
Stefano, Christine D., 78
Strathern, Marilyn, 91, 106
Sunder, Pushpa, 227
Swontham property, 167–68
Sydie, R. A., 41
Tait, D., 110
Taylor, Elizabeth, 200, 202
Teepee, 402
Tellis, A., 18
Thappan, M., 18
Tharu, R., 371
Tharu, Susie, 53, 58, 76
Thorne, B., 8–9, 28, 30, 91, 103
Tilak, B. G., 330, 377, 385–86
Times, London, 374, 390
Times of India, 406
Tolen, R., 372
Towards Empowering Women document, 352
Trautmann, Thomas, 94, 107
Tripathi, R., 328
Tucker, Judith, 214
Turner, Victor, 399
US Family Leave Law of 1993, 60
Uberoi, Patricia, 13, 15, 17, 34, 52, 88, 93, 95, 115–16
Unequal schooling in India, access of, 319–23; as mechanisms of
differentiations, 327–31; attainment and mediating role of, 323–24;
content and process of, 327–31; employment and, 331–32;
occupational outcomes, 329–31; provision of, 322–23; social
inequality and, 318–33; unequal performance, 324–27
Uniform Code Bill, 360
Unilineal kinship system, 174
Unilineal society, ideal type of, 111
Unilinear descent, principle of, 99–101
United Hindu Association, 403
University Grants Commission, 14
Unni, K. R., 245, 248
Unnithan, T. N. K., 11
Urban families, influence of women in, 134
Uxorilocality tendency, in matrilineal Muslim society, 176
Vanek, Joann, 129
Vatuk, Sylvia, 294
Velaskar, Padma, 286, 318, 332
Venkataswamy, M., 402
Verghese, Mariamma A., 132
Vidyasagar, 381
Vishwa Hindu Parishad (VHP), 403, 405, 408, 410, 414, 416, 421
Vivekananda, 379
Vreede-de-Steurs, Cora, 294
Wacquant, L., 33
Wadia, A. R., 12
Wadley, S., 289
Walby, Sylvia, 95
Walker, K., 129
Wallace, C., 4
Wallace, R., 3
Weber, Lynne, 9
Weedon, Chris, 79
West, C., 9
Whitehead, Judith, 339, 367–68, 372, 382
Widow Remarriage Act, 1956, 22, 347
Wise, S., 4
Wolfe, Donald M., 129–30, 132–33, 142
Wollstonecraft, Mary, 345
Wolpe, A., 319
Wolpert, S. R., 386
Women, as agents and recipients of development, 341, 348–53; attachment
to men, 64; caring, 62–63, 65; club, 270–85; culture, nation, 359–60,
363; and development and, 226–43, 348–53; domestic labour, 70,
283; eco-feminist account of caring, 65–66; as emblems of national
culture, 341, 347, 358–63; in feminist theorization, 6; legacies of
colonial encounter, 347–48; liberal state and, 343–45; mothering
nation, nationalism and, 345–47; occupational pattern in Himachal
Pradesh, 229–40; oppression of, 65; participation in farm work in
Central Kerala, 245–67; political participation in nation as equal
citizens, 341, 347, 354–57; profile of active agricultural producers,
226–43; sacrifice for nation and, 346; segregation and seclusion of,
243, 288, 293; sociology of in, 7–10; South Indian city suburb, 270–
84; state, nation and, 343, 363; status of, 12, 16, 283; studies on, 15–
17, 19–30; towards reading more than absence of, 10–19
Women and development in Himachal Pradesh, 226–43
Women in Society (WIS), committee on, 1, 3
Womanhood, theme of, 62
Women’s Club, active and inactive members, 280; joiners compared with
non-joiners, educational level, 275–76; family and household, , 277–
80; husbands’ occupation, 277;— socio-economic status, 274–77;
membership of other organizations, 280–81; reasons for joining,
273–74; study of, 270–84; women and men as joiners, 281–82
Women’s Role in Planned Economy (WRPE) Sub-committee, 349–50
Woods, M., 129
Woolgar, S., 33
World Congress on Women, Beijing, 352
World Plan of Action for the Decade for Women, 15
Worsley, Peter, 106
Yalman, Nur, 292
Yanagisako, Sylvia Junko, 90–93, 103
Yasa, I., 202
Young, Iris, 54, 70–71
Yuval-Davis, Nira, 346
Zaretsky, Eli, 69–70
Zetkin, Clara, 67
Zinsser, Joan, 53