For the past week, I have been in a place called Leh, which is in the province of Ladakh in the state of Jammu and Kashmir. Unfortunately, Leh does not have accessible Internet service. As a result, I haven't been able to upload all the posts that I have been writing. However, they should all be up in the next few days!
Thanks,
Nikki
Friday, July 16, 2010
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
Stories from India, part 1
In one of the posts, I had mentioned that when we visited the temple, we were unable to see Lord Juggernath because he was "sick". There is actually a story behind this, which I got to know from my grandmother as we were resting in our home in Puri. To begin with, in the Hindu religion, there is one God (and myriad forms of this God, which is why almost every day is a holy day). Three Gods, however, make up this one God; they are Brahma (the Generator), Vishnu (the Operator) and Shiva (the Destroyer). Yes, their initials spell out God. Lord Vishnu has come to Earth 9 times, in various avatars (one of them being Lord Buddha). It is said that when he comes to Earth for the 10th time, something bad is supposed to happen, like the Apocalypse is supposed to occur with the 2nd coming of Jesus Christ. Anyway, Lord Juggernath is one of Vishnu's avatars. And, as Vishnu comes to Earth as a mortal, he must also go through everything that mortals go through. That is what this festival of Rath Yatra essentially celebrates. The giant statue of Lord Juggernath in Puri temple first is married, and then gets "sick". He then goes on a trip to his aunt's house, along with his brother and sister. This trip starts at the Juggernath temple, which is on one end of the main road in Puri, and stops about halfway. The three statues of the Gods are carried on long wooden chariots, called the raths, hence the name of the festival. While we were in Puri, we saw people constructing these massive raths. In fact, it took approximately 9 people to carry a piece of wood that was probably 7-8 feet in length. These raths are massive. Anyway, his aunt gives him some food, after which he continues on to his destination, which is the other end of the road. There he stays for 9 days, meditating, and he then makes the return journey to his house. Upon reaching, he finds that his wife, Lakshmi, has locked him out. Why? Because he didn't take her on the journey. Outside he stays for two days, begging and pleading Lakshmi to let him inside his house (the temple). She finally relents; that's the end of Rath Yatra.
Even more interesting is the story of the statue. First of all, Hindus follow the lunar calendar, in which each month has 28 days. There are 12 months (and a few days) in a lunar year. Eventually, there are enough days left over to create another month; this month is called the "double month," as it has the same name of another month (it would be like having two Julys in one year). When the month called Ashar is the "double month," (about once in 12 or 13 years) the statue of Lord Juggernath has to be rebuilt. But not just from any piece of wood. The head priest supposedly gets a dream from Lord Vishnu as to where he can find the wood for the statue. It can be from a forest in India, or it can be a piece of wood floating in the ocean (apparently last time it was Madeira wood that was floating in the ocean). Lord Juggernath is then built from that wood. Once the statue is built, the head priest goes through a very sacred ceremony, to transfer the "soul" from the old statue of Juggernath to the new statue. He first blindfolds his eyes several times over with black cloth so that he can't see, and he then covers his hand in flour and wraps them with thick cloth so he can't feel anything. Using a key he carries with him at all times, he unlocks the old Juggernath's "belly," and transfers the "soul" to the new Juggernath. Legend has it that after the new Juggernath is put into the temple, the head priest dies within a few months.
Even more interesting is the story of the statue. First of all, Hindus follow the lunar calendar, in which each month has 28 days. There are 12 months (and a few days) in a lunar year. Eventually, there are enough days left over to create another month; this month is called the "double month," as it has the same name of another month (it would be like having two Julys in one year). When the month called Ashar is the "double month," (about once in 12 or 13 years) the statue of Lord Juggernath has to be rebuilt. But not just from any piece of wood. The head priest supposedly gets a dream from Lord Vishnu as to where he can find the wood for the statue. It can be from a forest in India, or it can be a piece of wood floating in the ocean (apparently last time it was Madeira wood that was floating in the ocean). Lord Juggernath is then built from that wood. Once the statue is built, the head priest goes through a very sacred ceremony, to transfer the "soul" from the old statue of Juggernath to the new statue. He first blindfolds his eyes several times over with black cloth so that he can't see, and he then covers his hand in flour and wraps them with thick cloth so he can't feel anything. Using a key he carries with him at all times, he unlocks the old Juggernath's "belly," and transfers the "soul" to the new Juggernath. Legend has it that after the new Juggernath is put into the temple, the head priest dies within a few months.
Saturday, July 3, 2010
"Hospital Ahead: Drive Dead Slow"
Our farmland This was an actual sign that I saw when we were driving to Dugal; I'm not sure that whoever put the sign up realized the irony behind it. Anyway, today we (my grandmother, father, and I) decided to visit our family's farmhouse and land in the village of Dugal. The farmhouse had been built by my great-grandfather, but my grandfather decided to let other farmers rent the house and till the land, as he had no time himself to do it. As I had never seen our ancestral farmland, I asked my grandmother if we could go to the village, and that's what brought me on this journey to rural India. As we were driving along the dirt road (and this was a complete dirt road- not a road covered in dirt, a road made out of dirt, fit for a Jeep, not the Honda City that we were traveling in), I wondered what had put that question in my head. I'm not one to get nauseous very easily, but driving along this one-lane road made me want to throw up everything I had eaten for the past week. Dugal is surrounded by a few other villages; seeing as our driver didn't know which exact village was Dugal, we frequently had to ask people where the village was, back-tracking and reversing until we found someone else to ask. At one point, the road suddenly increased to a higher level, almost like a set of stairs. There was no way that a car could "jump" to the higher elevation, and there was no ramp in place for the car to drive over, so the driver and my father found stones to put in front of the car's tires that would act as a ramp. Although ingenious, this idea failed, and we soon had to reverse the car and take an alternate road that would take us through the villages instead of above them. We finally reached the village and our house.
The farmhouse seemed to be a two-room house, although I wasn't sure because it seemed rude to explore. The family initially wanted us to sit in a room, assuming that we would feel more comfortable inside than outside, but as that room was partially covered in large rice sacks, we decided to sit outside on a mat. After that began our tour of our land. We were sitting facing the backyard, which had ten coconut trees. As we had come, the family sent for someone who would climb up the tree (using only a rope) and bring down three young coconuts. Acting as a typical tourist would, I pulled out my dad's camera and took quite a few pictures of this incredible feat. After the coconuts were deemed fresh, someone else pulled out a cross between a knife and the swords that pirates used (with a curved blade), and hacked off the top of the coconut. These were young coconuts, meaning that there was delicious coconut water inside. Sticking a straw in the top of the coconut, I quickly finished the coconut drink, and then ate the flesh of the coconut. It was a taste that I hadn't tasted since my vacation to Thailand the year before; nothing in the US could compare.
Afterwards, we walked to our farmland, where rice and lentils are grown. While my dad was talking to the three farmers about the amount of rainfall that allows for the maximum amount of rice to be grown, the type of lentils grown, and other such topics, I was busy taking pictures of the village (that will soon be uploaded). I wanted the pictures to truly symbolize the village and the tight-knit, hardworking community that the villagers had created. So in addition to the pictures of the rice-fields, I took pictures of the villagers, particularly the girls. Many of them were shy, running into their houses before I could take their picture, but once I took a picture and showed it to them, they were all smiles. I couldn't understand what they were saying, but smiling and nodding seemed to transcend the boundaries. Word must have somehow spread that there was a tourist girl snapping pictures, because every time someone saw me, they would try and pose for a picture. For a small time, it seemed as though I was accepted in the village (which is more than I could have said half an hour earlier-people would stare at me as I crossed their house, surprised to see a girl not wearing a sari (even though I had dressed conservatively, wearing a long skirt instead of jeans)). I was almost a part of the village. And in truth, I could have been. It was mere fate that landed me where I am today- a slight change in plans could have landed me in Dugal, speaking Oriya and learning how to husk rice. Each village had a temple, so too did this one. On the way to the temple, my dad explained everything he had learned about the farmland a mere 15 minutes earlier. Apparently, our rice fields amounted to 0.9 acres; each year, rice would be grown only once, as the water from the canal wasn't enough to have it grown twice. The rest of the time, lentils (apparently my favorite lentils) would be grown. They used no modern technology when harvesting rice-they only used oxen and their own farm-made tools. Even with that, the amount of rice grown per year was about 900 kilos, equivalent to about 12 sacks of rice. 900 kilos on 0.9 acres with no technology?! My mouth fell open. Originally, when my great-grandfather had told the farmers to take care of our land, we had proposed a 25-75 split, meaning that they could keep 3 sacks of rice, and we could keep 9 sacks (eating one and selling the rest, the money earned going towards my grandfather's education). Now, it seems to be less a split and more that the farmers can keep 11 sacks, give us the one sack that we consume, and give us coconuts and lentils when we need them. We reached the temple, prayed to the Gods, and returned to the village, as all three of us were eager to get out of the humidity and heat and into fans and air-conditioning. While my dad and grandmother gave some money to the farmers (my grandmother later explained that it was out of politeness, for these families had been tilling our land for generations), I was busy taking pictures of the village kids. Their smiles (at seeing their own pictures) reflected happiness. True, their life was much more labor-intensive and more difficult than mine, but their simple pleasures seemed to give them more happiness than any material object ever could. Their happiness seemed ethereal. It is the smiles of not only the children but all the villagers that will continue to stay with me even as I finish typing this blog post.
The village templeWednesday, June 30, 2010
One more wedding
Yes, we were invited to another wedding. Except this time, it wasn’t an actual wedding, it was the reception, a chance for everyone to see the bride and groom. The reception took place in Cuttack, which is about an hour’s drive from Bhubaneswar, so we had to leave at 7:30 in order to reach in time. When we entered, we met the bride and the groom, who were sitting at the front of the room in two throne-like chairs. The bride was again decked in traditional Indian clothes, wearing an orange sari and decked in at least three kilograms of gold. She had gold everywhere from her hair and nose ring to her ankles, where thick gold anklets were wrapped around her ankles. After taking pictures with them, we went to do pranam to all the relatives, many of who we hadn’t seen before. During this time, we were introduced to three girls, ages 19, 16, and 10. They were my father’s cousins, meaning that they were my aunts. I had never had an aunt that was younger than me, so it was a new experience.
We started talking about school and college, which was the first topic in almost conversations (seriously, after introducing who you were, the first question most would ask would be, “What grade are you in?”) We conversed in English, as they had gone to an English-medium school as opposed to an Oriya-medium school (meaning that they were instructed in English rather than in Oriya) and were quite fluent in English. During dinner (which was quite delicious), they bombarded me with questions about life in the US. They asked about our “night life,” to which I promptly responded that I had none, seeing as I didn’t live in a city, and they asked about Prom and school dances (which don’t exist in India), and other things that kids in America take for granted but which don’t exist in other places. There were many differences in our two cultures, but that’s not to say that there weren’t any similarities. Taylor Swift and her songs were one of the similarities that existed, and by the end of the night, we had exchanged emails, promising to keep in touch. All three girls desperately wanted to visit America, but knew they couldn’t until they had finished college. It’s times like these where you realize how lucky you are to be living in America, the land of many, many opportunities.
We started talking about school and college, which was the first topic in almost conversations (seriously, after introducing who you were, the first question most would ask would be, “What grade are you in?”) We conversed in English, as they had gone to an English-medium school as opposed to an Oriya-medium school (meaning that they were instructed in English rather than in Oriya) and were quite fluent in English. During dinner (which was quite delicious), they bombarded me with questions about life in the US. They asked about our “night life,” to which I promptly responded that I had none, seeing as I didn’t live in a city, and they asked about Prom and school dances (which don’t exist in India), and other things that kids in America take for granted but which don’t exist in other places. There were many differences in our two cultures, but that’s not to say that there weren’t any similarities. Taylor Swift and her songs were one of the similarities that existed, and by the end of the night, we had exchanged emails, promising to keep in touch. All three girls desperately wanted to visit America, but knew they couldn’t until they had finished college. It’s times like these where you realize how lucky you are to be living in America, the land of many, many opportunities.
Puri
Every time we visit Bhubaneswar, we also visit the town of Puri. Puri is famous for its temple, the Juggernath temple, from which every year a giant statue of the God Juggernath is taken on a journey. The trip from Bhubaneswar to Puri is about an hour, so we normally leave early in the morning so that we can come back as early as possible, for Puri becomes extremely hot in the afternoon.
The first temple we visited in Puri was that of a Goddess, who supposedly granted whatever you asked of her, providing that you promised to give her something in return. My dad said that whatever he had asked for he had received, but I was not too sure that it was completely because of the Goddess. Leaving reason and logic behind, I too asked for something and promised something in return. The interesting thing about this goddess is that she is the only goddess in which fish can be given too. In most Indian temples, fruit and milk is given to the Gods as food; in this temple, fish was allowed.
After dropping my aunt and grandmother off at our ancestral house (which has been in our family for five generations), we went to Juggernath temple. The car was only allowed up till a certain point, after which we took a rickshaw to the temple. Shoes weren’t allowed in the temple, so after leaving them outside and washing our feet, we went inside the temple. This is one of the few temples in which only Hindus are allowed inside; in fact, one of India’s Prime Ministers, Indira Gandhi, was not allowed inside the temple because she wasn’t Hindu. Inside the temple are a series of mini temples, each devoted to a specific God or Goddess. We visited almost all of them, almost running across the scorching marble from temple to temple. After visiting the smaller temples, we went to see Juggernath. The doors (which Juggernath is kept behind) were closed, as this was the time in the festival in which Juggernath was “sick”. The story behind this is that all Gods come to earth, and so as part of Juggernath’s mortal life, he also falls sick, which is indicated by this time in the celebration (he also gets married and takes a vacation before he finally returns to his resting spot in the temple). After leaving the temple, we went to one of the restaurants that we also always go to in Puri (more because it has air-conditioning than because of the quality of food available). While walking, many, many of the beggars in Puri came and asked us for money. In fact, the amount of poverty in Puri seemed to be exponentially higher than that of any other city I had visited. And it wasn’t just this time that I had noticed; every time we visited, the poverty in Puri seemed to be increasing. There are a few possible reasons for this. Perhaps this was because of the fact that Puri itself hasn’t changed very much. I asked my dad if Puri looked any different from the time when he used to come during his summer vacations and he promptly responded that nothing had changed. With no change coming into the city, the opportunities for the newer generations are extremely limited. Most sons of priests know that they are going to be priests, so they don’t go to school and receive an education; instead they sit around all day, asking for money so that they can spend it on whatever they want. However, many of the beggars were women. For that there is another explanation. Many times if the husband dies, the family casts out the wife so that they get the land that the husband had. They can’t simply throw her out of the house in their own city, as then their reputation would be tarnished, so they bring the widows to Puri and then leave them there, where they are exploited and have no way of bettering their situation. Puri desperately needs some change, but as it is a religious city, change will be slowly accepted.
Anyway, after lunch we visited our ancestral house to rest before we visited my grandfather’s sister. The house itself has not changed at all. Ever since I can remember, the house has looked the same, with the sole exception that there used to be a cow that used to live in the house, but now is on the streets. I wasn’t in the mood to rest, so I began to flip through some old wedding albums. I came to my parents’ wedding album, which I had never seen before. It was interesting to see how everyone looked-not only my parents but other relatives. Soon everyone was flipping through the albums, reminiscing about weddings and the time when this happened or the time when that happened.
Going to my grandfather’s sister’s house was last on the agenda, and we only stayed for an hour. I had a little bit of fun playing caram with my cousin. The caretaker and his wife came to join us in playing caram, and for the hour that followed, the conversation was reduced to smiles and some broken Hindi (the caretaker’s wife fortunately spoke Hindi and Oriya, so she became our translator). This caused for some awkward moments, but it was still a fun experience, and by the end of the game, we were smiling and laughing as though they were my relatives who I had known for years. My hope is that after my grandfather’s sister dies, they get the house, as the caretaker’s family has been taking care of my grandfather’s family for years.
That culminated the trip to Puri. On the way back we passed by the Konark Beach, a beach we normally visit but this time decided not to. Hopefully Puri has changed by the time I next visit the town, but I’m not hopeful.
The first temple we visited in Puri was that of a Goddess, who supposedly granted whatever you asked of her, providing that you promised to give her something in return. My dad said that whatever he had asked for he had received, but I was not too sure that it was completely because of the Goddess. Leaving reason and logic behind, I too asked for something and promised something in return. The interesting thing about this goddess is that she is the only goddess in which fish can be given too. In most Indian temples, fruit and milk is given to the Gods as food; in this temple, fish was allowed.
After dropping my aunt and grandmother off at our ancestral house (which has been in our family for five generations), we went to Juggernath temple. The car was only allowed up till a certain point, after which we took a rickshaw to the temple. Shoes weren’t allowed in the temple, so after leaving them outside and washing our feet, we went inside the temple. This is one of the few temples in which only Hindus are allowed inside; in fact, one of India’s Prime Ministers, Indira Gandhi, was not allowed inside the temple because she wasn’t Hindu. Inside the temple are a series of mini temples, each devoted to a specific God or Goddess. We visited almost all of them, almost running across the scorching marble from temple to temple. After visiting the smaller temples, we went to see Juggernath. The doors (which Juggernath is kept behind) were closed, as this was the time in the festival in which Juggernath was “sick”. The story behind this is that all Gods come to earth, and so as part of Juggernath’s mortal life, he also falls sick, which is indicated by this time in the celebration (he also gets married and takes a vacation before he finally returns to his resting spot in the temple). After leaving the temple, we went to one of the restaurants that we also always go to in Puri (more because it has air-conditioning than because of the quality of food available). While walking, many, many of the beggars in Puri came and asked us for money. In fact, the amount of poverty in Puri seemed to be exponentially higher than that of any other city I had visited. And it wasn’t just this time that I had noticed; every time we visited, the poverty in Puri seemed to be increasing. There are a few possible reasons for this. Perhaps this was because of the fact that Puri itself hasn’t changed very much. I asked my dad if Puri looked any different from the time when he used to come during his summer vacations and he promptly responded that nothing had changed. With no change coming into the city, the opportunities for the newer generations are extremely limited. Most sons of priests know that they are going to be priests, so they don’t go to school and receive an education; instead they sit around all day, asking for money so that they can spend it on whatever they want. However, many of the beggars were women. For that there is another explanation. Many times if the husband dies, the family casts out the wife so that they get the land that the husband had. They can’t simply throw her out of the house in their own city, as then their reputation would be tarnished, so they bring the widows to Puri and then leave them there, where they are exploited and have no way of bettering their situation. Puri desperately needs some change, but as it is a religious city, change will be slowly accepted.
Anyway, after lunch we visited our ancestral house to rest before we visited my grandfather’s sister. The house itself has not changed at all. Ever since I can remember, the house has looked the same, with the sole exception that there used to be a cow that used to live in the house, but now is on the streets. I wasn’t in the mood to rest, so I began to flip through some old wedding albums. I came to my parents’ wedding album, which I had never seen before. It was interesting to see how everyone looked-not only my parents but other relatives. Soon everyone was flipping through the albums, reminiscing about weddings and the time when this happened or the time when that happened.
Going to my grandfather’s sister’s house was last on the agenda, and we only stayed for an hour. I had a little bit of fun playing caram with my cousin. The caretaker and his wife came to join us in playing caram, and for the hour that followed, the conversation was reduced to smiles and some broken Hindi (the caretaker’s wife fortunately spoke Hindi and Oriya, so she became our translator). This caused for some awkward moments, but it was still a fun experience, and by the end of the game, we were smiling and laughing as though they were my relatives who I had known for years. My hope is that after my grandfather’s sister dies, they get the house, as the caretaker’s family has been taking care of my grandfather’s family for years.
That culminated the trip to Puri. On the way back we passed by the Konark Beach, a beach we normally visit but this time decided not to. Hopefully Puri has changed by the time I next visit the town, but I’m not hopeful.
My Big Fat Indian Wedding-Bhubaneswar, Orissa
After staying in New Delhi for a week, our plan was to stay for two weeks with my dad’s mother in the small city of Bhubaneswar, in Orissa. Bhubaneswar is the capital of the eastern state of Orissa. The language spoken is Oriya, although my dad and his family speak Bengali (since they are from the state of West Bengal, where Bengali is the local language).
The day we reached, we had a wedding to attend. After dressing up in traditional Indian clothes, we departed for the guest house, where we would stay for an hour, chit-chatting with all the relatives. The only problem with that was that although I could understand Bengali, I could not speak a word of it. So after doing pranam to all the elders in the family (essentially touching the feet of the elders as a sign of respect) and nodding when everyone said, “Wow, she’s grown so tall,” the cultural barrier got in the way of any “chit-chatting” that I could have done. After watching the England-Germany game for an hour, we were told that it was time to go to the place where the wedding would take place. The place was only a kilometer away, but as is traditional in Bengali weddings, we were to walk the one kilometer, dancing to the music that was emitted from the truck that was leading the way.
In theory, we should have all been dancing. In reality, it was too hot and humid to dance, but more importantly, the songs were either Bengali songs or old Hindi songs that were slightly difficult to dance for. After spending a good 45 minutes dancing/walking, we finally arrived at the wedding place, where we went to visit the bride. She was wearing the typical Indian wedding dress- a red sari with lots of gold ornaments- and was sitting in a room by herself. Everyone from the boy’s side of the family insisted on taking a picture with her, such that by the end of the night, she must have taken at least one hundred pictures.
Truth be told, I felt a little sorry for the bride. She was surrounded by people she met for the first time, who insisted on taking pictures with her and touching all the gold ornaments that she was wearing. Albeit the fact that she was sitting in an air-conditioned room, the room was not very cold, and she was decked in at least two kilograms of gold, meaning that she was probably feeling hotter than we were. Anyway, after taking pictures with the bride, we left to eat dinner. This was when things became a bit strange. Apparently, tradition dictated that the girl’s family members were not allowed to see the groom, meaning that they had already eaten and left by the time the boy’s family members had arrived. I thought that marriages were a time when both sides of the families met each other, but clearly this was not the case. In addition, while we were eating, the marriage was going on. So while everyone was getting concentrating on the food, the bride and groom were preparing to join their lives together. The actual wedding ceremony was to last for four hours, from 10 pm to 2 am, but most people left around 12 am, meaning that most people didn’t see the actual wedding ceremony take place. They just ate food and left. This wedding seemed to be more a place to eat good food (although our driver later informed us that the food was pretty terrible considering the normal marriage standard of food) with a wedding thrown in on the side.
The day we reached, we had a wedding to attend. After dressing up in traditional Indian clothes, we departed for the guest house, where we would stay for an hour, chit-chatting with all the relatives. The only problem with that was that although I could understand Bengali, I could not speak a word of it. So after doing pranam to all the elders in the family (essentially touching the feet of the elders as a sign of respect) and nodding when everyone said, “Wow, she’s grown so tall,” the cultural barrier got in the way of any “chit-chatting” that I could have done. After watching the England-Germany game for an hour, we were told that it was time to go to the place where the wedding would take place. The place was only a kilometer away, but as is traditional in Bengali weddings, we were to walk the one kilometer, dancing to the music that was emitted from the truck that was leading the way.
In theory, we should have all been dancing. In reality, it was too hot and humid to dance, but more importantly, the songs were either Bengali songs or old Hindi songs that were slightly difficult to dance for. After spending a good 45 minutes dancing/walking, we finally arrived at the wedding place, where we went to visit the bride. She was wearing the typical Indian wedding dress- a red sari with lots of gold ornaments- and was sitting in a room by herself. Everyone from the boy’s side of the family insisted on taking a picture with her, such that by the end of the night, she must have taken at least one hundred pictures.
Truth be told, I felt a little sorry for the bride. She was surrounded by people she met for the first time, who insisted on taking pictures with her and touching all the gold ornaments that she was wearing. Albeit the fact that she was sitting in an air-conditioned room, the room was not very cold, and she was decked in at least two kilograms of gold, meaning that she was probably feeling hotter than we were. Anyway, after taking pictures with the bride, we left to eat dinner. This was when things became a bit strange. Apparently, tradition dictated that the girl’s family members were not allowed to see the groom, meaning that they had already eaten and left by the time the boy’s family members had arrived. I thought that marriages were a time when both sides of the families met each other, but clearly this was not the case. In addition, while we were eating, the marriage was going on. So while everyone was getting concentrating on the food, the bride and groom were preparing to join their lives together. The actual wedding ceremony was to last for four hours, from 10 pm to 2 am, but most people left around 12 am, meaning that most people didn’t see the actual wedding ceremony take place. They just ate food and left. This wedding seemed to be more a place to eat good food (although our driver later informed us that the food was pretty terrible considering the normal marriage standard of food) with a wedding thrown in on the side.
Saturday, June 26, 2010
Honor Killings
For the past few days, the capital’s most read newspaper, The Delhi Times¸ has been abuzz with a story involving an “honor killing.” Two brothers and their friend were accused of killing their two sisters and one of their sister’s husbands. Why? Because they had put a stigma on their family’s reputation. One of the girls had eloped with the man who was to become her future husband. As if that was not bad enough, they happened to be of the same gotra, which is similar to a clan (meaning that they could be distantly, distantly related). The other sister had wanted to pursue a modeling career in the city. Seeing as they lived in a small town, the idea of a girl working in a big city was unthinkable. To save the family’s reputation and to ensure that other girls didn’t do the same thing, the two brothers and their friend shot and killed the two sisters and their brother in-law.
But this isn’t the most surprising or shocking part of the story. The most shocking part of the story is that the townspeople believe that the triple murder was necessary, and the murderers should be freed. One of the village elders actually said that if his daughter had done the same, he would have killed her too. Each and every village elder (all of them were male) that was interviewed agreed with the idea of an “honor killing.” This town is located only five minutes from the busiest part of the capitol city, but these conservative, traditional values are still strongly enforced.
This incident sheds light on another issue with modern Indian society. The younger generation uses the West as a “guide to life,” while the older generation continues to look to traditional Indian teachings as proper guides. While not always contradictory, in many ways, the two cultures clash. Something as superficial as wearing shorts is thought of as okay in one culture, while in the other culture, it is a sign of being a “loose.” Even deeper is the role of women in society. Only recently has the West come to terms with women being equal to men in society (although some barriers still remain), but in India, this social equality is yet to come. A women’s sphere is still considered to be in the house, while it is a man that is supposed to be the breadwinner for the family. The younger generation is desperately trying to change this image, and more and more Indian girls have entered the workforce. And that is where the divide between the older generation and the younger generation comes in. A divide that is growing each day, and if not reconciled, may see more incidents occurring such as the aforementioned one.
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