Monthly Archives: April 2010

Widows in Vrindavan

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I worked again with Irene, a graduate student from Ca’ Foscari University of Venice, whose research topic was Hindu widows. I had already assisted her in October 2009 in Varanasi, but this time she wanted to visit Vrindavan. She had heard a lot about the widows from Bengal who live there, and about the city’s importance for Hindu widows. Since I did not know much about Vrindavan myself, I contacted my friend Yashu, who lives there, and he kindly promised to help. In fact, he arranged everything for us — hotel, food, and even many interviews.

Irene had already heard about the Bhajan Ashrams (ashrams where chanting sessions are organized) and wanted to visit them to see if it was possible to interview the women there. I had also heard about widows working in these ashrams, but I had no idea how many there were or how large they could be. To my surprise, there seemed to be at least one in every alley, and some were extremely large, housing three to four thousand widows under the same roof. These ashrams are generally run by wealthy religious people. Each widow who chants for three hours receives Rs. 2, along with a small portion of rice and lentils.

The ashrams usually run two or three shifts a day — the first beginning around 8:00 a.m. and the last ending around 6:00 p.m. However, not just any widow can join. They must first register with the ashram, after which their chanting time is scheduled. There are thousands of widows in Vrindavan, most of them — over 90% — from Bengal. Many do not speak Hindi. Some live in government ashrams, some in private ones, some rent small rooms, while others sleep on the streets or along the Yamuna River. Over 95% make a living by working in Bhajan Ashrams and begging. Most widows chant during the day and then beg in the mornings and evenings, when pilgrims are on their way to temples.

Vrindavan, known as the “city of temples,” has nearly 5,000 temples and is considered one of Hinduism’s holiest places. Each year, hundreds of thousands of pilgrims visit. Because of the religious devotion of visitors, donations are common — which makes Vrindavan an unfortunate hub for begging. It was painful to see how many widows depended on it for survival. When we asked the widows why they chose Vrindavan instead of other sacred cities like Varanasi or Haridwar, most said that Vrindavan is particularly popular among Bengalis. However, few knew the reason behind this. One non-widow woman shared a fascinating story:

She said that long ago, two brothers worked as cashiers in a king’s palace. One day, while busy with their work, they ordered water with sugar. By mistake, the servant mixed salt instead of sugar. The brothers drank it without noticing, so absorbed were they in their work. When the servant confessed his mistake, they were astonished that they hadn’t realized the difference. This made them reflect: If they could be so devoted to their worldly duty, why not apply the same devotion to God?

The brothers abandoned material life and came to Vrindavan, then a forest, to meditate. Their devotion was so powerful that even the king came to meet them. When he offered them any reward, they only asked him to repair the broken stones at the ghat where they meditated. To the king’s shock, the ghat was made of precious stones that were rarer than anything in his own palace. Realizing their spiritual greatness, the king then offered them as much land as their eyes could see from one spot — and that land became Vrindavan. This, people say, is why Vrindavan is so popular among Bengalis.

Despite Irene’s efforts, we managed to interview only about ten women. Most did not speak Hindi, which limited communication. We also visited two government-run widow ashrams: one by the central government and one by the state of Uttar Pradesh. The central government ashram was more organized, a new building with 500–600 rooms and about 2,700 widows living there. At first, a government helper allowed us to sit and talk with the women. But soon, another official stopped us, insisting we needed permission from the district magistrate. A similar thing happened at the largest Bhajan Ashram. Finally, when we reached the state-run ashram, a kind security guard let us conduct interviews discreetly. He warned us not to let the officers find out, explaining that both officers there were corrupt.

According to him, officers steal from the widows’ pensions. They first demand Rs. 300 from each widow to issue a pension registration card, which is supposed to be free. Then they claim the pension takes a year to start, when in fact it begins within days. This way, they pocket the widows’ entire first-year pension. Even afterward, they keep half of the monthly pension for themselves. With about 300 widows in the ashram, he estimated that they steal around Rs. 90,000 every month, while also bribing higher officials to remain silent. I was shocked and saddened to hear this. How could anyone exploit poor widows who survive on Rs. 2 and a handful of grains?

It also explained why officials at the central ashram had tried to stop us from interviewing women — they didn’t want their corruption exposed. Because of these obstacles, we shifted focus to interviewing widows who lived independently. Many shared heartbreaking stories. Most were married very young, lost their husbands early, were denied education, and eventually came to Vrindavan. Some left home because their own children neglected them. A few Bengali women told us they stay in Vrindavan for 11 months, save money and grains, and then return home briefly to give everything to their children.

We also noticed cultural differences. Many Bengali widows did not strongly believe that widowhood was punishment for sins in past lives, while most North Indian widows did. Curiously, although North Indians often say Bengal discriminates most against widows, the Bengali women we spoke with did not feel this way. Perhaps, sadly, they have normalized discrimination to the point where they no longer recognize it as injustice. We asked about widow remarriage. Interestingly, older widows (around 70) supported remarriage, while younger widows (40–50) believed it was a sin. Younger widows felt that widowhood was divine punishment, and if they tried to escape it by remarrying, they would be punished further — even becoming widows again in the next life. Perhaps older widows, having faced loneliness, understood the value of companionship more deeply.

Later, we spoke with a Sanskrit scholar and katha speaker to learn what Hindu texts say about widowhood. She explained that scriptures list several causes for widowhood: disrupting another couple’s marriage, engaging in extramarital relationships, or even physical relations during the menstrual cycle. She insisted these rules applied equally to men and women. Interestingly, this also suggests that love marriages were accepted in Hinduism, since forcing someone into an unwanted marriage is condemned.

After spending time in Vrindavan and Varanasi, I reached one strong conclusion: widows who stay with their families and find some work, however small, live far happier lives than those who depend on ashrams or begging. The situation in ashrams is tragic, worsened by corruption and lack of accountability. In my view, the only real solution is education. If women are educated and skilled, they can seek employment, support themselves, and live with dignity. The question is: when will the Indian government finally take women’s education seriously?

corruption in Indian police

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I completed my tour guide training in December, and my license was printed in January. Soon after, the Ministry of Tourism office in Delhi asked me to submit a police verification certificate from my local police station. This certificate is supposed to confirm that there are no legal cases against me. The Ministry even provided a standard form, and I was told I simply had to get it stamped at my local police station. When I went there with the form, the officer refused to stamp it. Instead, he told me to go to the DIG office and apply for a character certificate.

By mistake, I went to a different police office. I explained my situation to an officer there, but after learning I was a tour guide, he mocked me, saying: “Oh, so your job is to fool tourists and exploit them.” I was furious but held my calm. After a few more questions, he finally directed me to the correct DIG office. The DIG office was in terrible condition—dark, dusty, and neglected. The officer responsible gave me a form, which I filled out and submitted with my documents. I had been warned by my local police station that I would need to “take care” of him, so I handed over ₹100 as a bribe. He told me to follow up with my local police station in two days.

Back at my local station, they confirmed my application had arrived but demanded a domicile certificate from the court—something that would take over 15 days. I had already provided my passport, which was proof enough. Thankfully, an advocate present at the time intervened, insisting that a passport was equivalent to a domicile certificate. Only then did the officer reluctantly accept my documents. Even then, he said they would send someone to verify my residence in a week. I understood what he really meant.

When I asked if I was supposed to “give something,” he bluntly said: “Such work doesn’t happen without money.” My friends had told me ₹500 was enough, so I offered that. But the officer said there were five or six people to share the money with, and it wasn’t enough. We finally settled on ₹700. After taking the money, he gave me an unexpected “lesson.” He explained how to bribe properly: always look around to see who is in the office, offer money when there aren’t many people, and never mention a bribe to another officer. He even warned me never to admit I had bribed his colleague at the DIG office. After this “training,” he promised my documents would be forwarded the same evening.

From there, my file went to the LIU (Local Intelligence Unit). At their office, the same cycle began. They said they would verify my residence but then hinted that a payment would speed things up. One officer casually asked for ₹500, saying that if I paid, nobody would need to visit my home and my file would move forward the same day. I paid. Something absurd happened while I was there: I received a call about my guest house business. The officer overheard and asked if I had a restaurant. When I said no, he looked disappointed and said he would have liked to come for a meal—especially if there was “hot chicken with whiskey.” I was shocked at how openly he said this.

From LIU, my papers went to the CO office (a regional police office). There, an officer told me: “We know your daytime character, but we don’t know about your nighttime character—how many women or prostitutes you sleep with, or how many bars you visit at night.” He repeated this in front of other officers, and they all laughed. I was stunned by the humiliation. Finally, I asked how much money he wanted. He said, “Give anything.” I paid ₹200, and suddenly there was no need to check my “nighttime character” anymore. My file was forwarded to the SP (Superintendent of Police) office.

At the SP office, I had to wait an hour before being presented to the SP himself. He looked at me briefly, asked why I needed the certificate, and signed the papers. That was it. His PA later asked me to come back if I wanted to “make sure things moved quickly.” I returned a few days later, and luckily my documents had already been forwarded to the DIG office. Finally, back at the DIG office, I was told that another senior officer still needed to sign my papers. I waited for three hours in the heat until that officer finally arrived. The DIG officer then took my documents to him, got them signed, and finally issued me the character certificate.

The certificate itself was laughably unimpressive—a small piece of paper stating that no legal cases were registered against me. They hadn’t even updated the forms for 2010; it was printed as 2009 and corrected by hand with a pen. In total, I had spent nearly a month of running from office to office—DIG → Local Police → DIG → LIU → CO → SP → DIG again—and paid around ₹1,700 in bribes just to get this single piece of paper. What hurts most is not the time or the money, but the way I was treated. I was mocked for being a tour guide, accused of sleeping with prostitutes, and humiliated by people who were supposed to serve the public.

In the end, I got my police verification certificate, submitted it to the Ministry of Tourism in Delhi, and finally received my license. But every time I look at that piece of paper, I can’t help but feel that my character certificate was issued by the most characterless people I have ever met.

Sudden request for dowry

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One of my relatives is getting married in the last week of May. The bride is a graduate student, and the groom works with a chartered accountant in Lucknow. The bride’s father runs a small saree business, so the family does not have much money. The marriage was arranged by one of their relatives. It is a very traditional wedding, with everything being done according to Hindu customs. When I first met the groom and his family, they seemed very nice. In fact, when the bride’s father asked about dowry, the groom’s father said it was not an issue for them. I really appreciated that response.

However, just a few days before the tilak ceremony (a ritual where the bride’s family visits the groom’s family), things changed. The groom’s family suddenly began demanding dowry. They asked for ₹51,000 in cash, a motorbike, jewelry, clothes, a refrigerator, a TV, a bed, and several other items. I knew very well that the bride’s parents could not afford this, but instead of refusing, they promised to give it—though arranging it would be extremely difficult for them.

Later, when I spoke with the bride, she told me she had discussed it with the groom. He assured her that he personally did not want anything at all and that the demands were entirely his father’s decision. He said he could not do anything to stop it. The bride looked very sad while talking about it, and I felt the same. I saw her father desperately trying to arrange everything, though I knew it was beyond his means. A few days after the tilak, the groom’s father called the bride’s father again and said that since the groom had already bought a motorbike, they no longer needed one—but they wanted cash in place of it.

When the bride’s father questioned why they still demanded money if the motorbike was already bought, the groom’s father insisted that they either wanted a motorbike or cash in exchange. On top of all this dowry, the bride’s family also has to arrange a wedding reception that will cost at least ₹1,50,000. Altogether, the expenses will come close to ₹3,00,000—an impossible amount for the bride’s family. Unfortunately, stories like this are not rare. There are countless cases in which brides are tortured or even burnt alive because their parents could not provide the dowry demanded by the groom’s family.

Sometimes, even after fulfilling the demands, brides continue to be harassed until they break down completely. Many end up taking their own lives. Yet, in many cases, brides remain silent, fearing that going to the police or taking legal action would bring shame to their family in society. I often wonder whether such marriages are truly marriages or just business deals—deals where one side always loses everything. Why is it always the bride’s family who must pay? They are already giving their daughter, who will devote her entire life to the groom’s family. Is that not worth more than a motorbike or ₹51,000 in cash?

It is heartbreaking to see how the dowry system is not weakening but becoming stronger. Families now demand more and more. Many people do not even want daughters anymore, because they fear the burden of dowry. I don’t know when this will change—or if it ever will—but it must change if we want to build a truly happy and developed society.