Let me explain. I am taking part in an ancient Hindu tradition called
Karwa Chauth. It requires that once a year, in the fall,
all married women fast. More specifically, they must forgo all food
(with some flexibility for drinking water) for a day to pray for
their husbands’ long lives. And only after they have seen
their husbands’ faces through a sieve and prayed to the moon
can they eat their first bite for the day. This tradition has been
romanticized in Bollywood movies, and it continues to be a central
social gathering in close Indian communities in America. There are
even well-circulated stories of women who succumbed to hunger and
ate before seeing their husbands or the moon, and whose husbands
promptly got sick and died.
Though I have not quite bought into the idea that
my mere act of eating could affect my husband’s mortality
(I suspect that in some marriages women would love to have that
power), I still wait longingly for the moon to make its appearance
on Karwa Chauth, which has been known to take until 9 p.m.
or sometimes, on a cloudy day, never even appear. But I’ll
save that story for another day.
After I got married, it never occurred to me not
to take part in this tradition. It seemed like a rite of passage
and a sacred ritual that only married women could take part in.
I spent the first 11 years of my life in India mesmerized by this
holiday. In India, I lived with a huge extended family, and this
holiday was the most coveted amongst all the women. It was more
coveted than the Hindu festivals of Diwali or Holi, which were meant
for all. Karwa Chauth was saved for only the lucky women
who had found a precious commodity: a marital relationship.
As I watched my mother and aunts from behind doorways
on Karwa Chauth, I couldn’t help but feel envious
of all the fun they were having. There were special meals that only
the married women could eat and it seemed like fun was only reserved
for the married women in the family. Even at the age of ten, I couldn’t
wait to be part of it.
However, as I got older, I couldn’t help
but wonder about the servility of it all. It’s not that Indian
women don’t already have a reputation of being servile to
their husbands. This tradition shows women’s further devotion
to their husbands and their husbands’ health by their sacrificing
of nourishment for a day. Do men also fast for their wives’
long lives you ask?
As I am sitting here on USAir flight 1711, I can’t help but
wonder why I am doing this. Why didn’t I line up at the airport
breakfast bar and order some Egg McMuffins like everyone else so
I could be free to worry about my PowerPoint presentation, this
godforsaken air turbulence and the overwhelming perfume of the passenger
next to me?
But no one is forcing me to carry out this ritual.
I do not belong to a clique of Indian women who will make me feel
guilty for not following it. In fact, most of my Indian friends
don’t even know when Karwa Chauth is and, when they
do, they are equally as ambivalent about following it.
So why am I listening to my growling stomach when
I am so far away from India? I think that’s just it. I am
so far from India. I am not very religious, so I don’t go
to the temple for every religious holiday, and I don’t perform
prayers in my house like my parents do regularly. I view Karwa
Chauth not as a religious holiday, but as a personal tradition
that binds me to India. It also binds my husband to Indian traditions.
It’s a fun tradition that allows me to play the role of a
loving, adoring wife who will abstain from nourishment for the sake
of her husband. My husband’s family has been away from India
for a few generations, so he knows all too well the value of traditions
lost and preserved. His family never observed this particular holiday,
but he is drawn to our own interpretation of it.
In this interpretation, I get to play the role
of a traditional wife for a day in our otherwise nontraditional
home. My husband is a modern husband who enjoys cooking and calls
the kitchen his domain, while I am better at fixing things around
the house. I guess this reversal of roles has taken the sting out
of this holiday for the older, self-aware feminist in me. I continue
to practice this tradition for the kid in me. I do it because I
want some traditional tastes in my life (no pun intended). When
I observe this tradition, I try to recreate what I had observed
in India by gathering my married friends together. My married girlfriends
and I go through all of the rituals to the best of our recollections.
Unlike in India, this group consists of Indian women with non-Indian
husbands, as well as non-Indian women with Indian husbands; the
husbands are not mere spectators, they are also participants.
The evening usually consists of all of us rushing
from work or in my case, the airport to my home. We assemble statues
of gods and a prayer area, so we can gather around it. Afterwards,
we all chat and mingle as we wait for the moon to end the fast.
We all try creatively to kill the time, to take the focus away from
our empty stomachs. We make jokes at the expense of this tradition
or at the husbands who did not fast with their wives. Since my backyard
doesn’t offer an unobstructed view, spotting the moon sometimes
involves many trips by the husbands to the nearest playground. Once
the moon is out, we all perform the ritual outdoors, under the moonlight,
one by one as the others assist.
At the end of the evening, we touch our husbands’
feet as they feed us our first bite of dinner. My husband loves
that I dress up just for him and make a token sacrifice in his honor
(he thinks it’s romantic). In return, he has started to fast
as well. He says that if there is any truth to this sacrifice, it
would be nice if we were both alive together. He also dresses up
in his kurta and jeans (he has his limits) that evening
just for me.
I do not believe that this act is going to extend
his life, but I do believe that this token of our affection does
extend the life of our relationship. Since this holiday usually
is in fall or winter, I can’t help but think that it is no
different from Thanksgiving or Christmas, except I use a different
currency to give thanks and communicate my affection.
Anu Kumar is Vice President of Marketing for Bank of America and a freelance writer. She and her husband Rodney have been married for seven years and are currently living in Washington, D.C.
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