‘No African time, please!’

How possible is it to live in a country where you have to schedule weeks ahead to have a dinner date with a friend? A country where you may not be able to build your dream house without getting approval from the ministry of housing? Also, in a country where employees are paid up to 50 percent income tax and where shopping malls close at 5 pm and don’t even open on public holidays?

It may not be an interesting place to live in, not with the kind of lifestyle I am used to in Nigeria . But, that is the kind of lifestyle that The Netherlands has to offer!

It is this precision for every thing, time in particular, that struck me the first few days I arrived The Netherlands.

One particular evening, I was in a store and it was few minutes to five, their usual closing time, when one of the attendants signaled the one attending to that it was closing time. I was shocked because I was not yet done with my shopping. And I was amazed at how precious time was for the Dutch, and not the money.

Back home, the money counts for a shopkeeper who would not mind staying extra hours if there are still customers in his shop. This is one aspect of The Netherlands that I find fascinating. Their precision for time; they are always on time.

“Is satisfaction measured by such a boring routine or well-structured system?” asked Claire, a journalist from Kenya . “Don’t we always need friends around, reachable anytime? What about the freedom to your own house, have access to the malls, cinemas, and coffee shops 24 hours a day, or at least till bedtime?”

“But that rule does not apply here, it is only applicable in Africa ,” I answered. “Privacy is key here. They don’t interfere in other people’s affair. They close on time because they don’t believe they have to be overworked, beside some of them are paid hourly, so staying extra hours may not be compensated if there is no arrangement for that.”

“In Lagos , it is possible for me to pick a bus at any point and at any time on arrival at the bus stops, but Holland does not afford me that luxury of moving at my own pace. It has to be at the tempo determined by the bus schedules,” added Mary.

Nigeria , as we all know it, is a country where bus drivers and their conductors beckon at prospective passengers, announcing their routes. Walking by the road side is enough to attract their attention, as the bus drivers and conductors compete to be the first to get a passenger on board.

This is not the norm in The Netherlands, as you dare not try to stop the bus after it has left the bus stop!

In The Netherlands, schedules are strictly observed because people want to have their privacy to do the things they want to do. This is not the practice in Nigeria . A friend or relative can visit you without prior notice, and most times we take it in our strides without expressing any kind of displeasure. We inconvenient ourselves because we want to be polite, and that’s not the case here, as displeasures are voiced not hidden.

Timeliness is a practice that cuts through all aspect of the Dutch society. The trains and buses are always on time. Most times in the mornings, I see people running to catch up the train or bus as soon as they spot it from a distance, as no bus or train will wait for you.

Everything is about punctuality because it has to be at the next stop where other passengers are waiting. And if it would arrive late, it is announced. This is not a country where you have bus conductors shouting at the top of their voices for passengers. Each bus has its route and the time it must be at the bus stop. If you are one minute late, it will not stop anymore as soon as the passengers are on board.

The situation is not different with the offices. Every worker gets to the office on time, closes at 5pm on the dot. I could recall an incidence that happened last week when Joeri, one of our course instructors, deciding to stay a little late teaching us. “Joeri, you are still teaching. It’s weekend,” observed Abi, the course leader, as she walked into the room. “I know,” replied Jeori. Jeori is just one of the few who stay back for an extra minute or two.

The Dutch have a balanced look at life. The 40-hour work week is strictly dedicated to performing their jobs. The rest of the time is devoted to rest. Weekends are devoted to gardening or attending family or friend’s affairs, as travelling is also part of their yearly itinerary.

In The Netherlands, no African time, every thing is programmed!

In the belly of the earth

The rumbling sound of the approaching metro jolted me back to life after we have had a long walk through some streets of Paris . Walking up and down the metro station was an excruciating task for a tired soul, but I did not have a choice but muster enough strength to carry on.

“We have to hurry,” I managed to tell Nadine, my host, Mary, Toili, Farooque and Hammed, my friends. I don’t want us to miss that Metro just arriving.

“Don’t worry about that,” replied Nadine. Metro arrives every five minutes. There’s no need to hurry before we climb down the stairs another would have arrived.”

Climbing up and down the flight of stairs added to the tiredness, and I was left wondering how France was able to construct its metro numbering about three levels. Paris has one of the best metro systems in the world, as it is possible to go to any part of the city within 30 minutes with proper knowledge of the metro.

It could be really confusing for a first time tourist who may be at a loss on which route to take. To make things worse, all the information on the schedule boards were written in French. Almost everyone was holding a map, including some residents of Paris !


On a particular afternoon, Nadine, Mary and I almost missed our way, even with Nadine a resident, with us. After climbing several stairs, we realised we were taking the wrong exit to board the metro, and nothing could be more hurting to climb the flight of stairs again. On this wing, there were no elevators unlike what we had previously seen at other stops, as the number of minutes it took us to walk around the station was enough to get on the next metro.

Hence that evening, the somewhat long walk at the metro station, added to my tiredness. When we arrived at the foot of the metro, it was packed full. Yet we managed to secure a standing position in one of the coaches.

“This is Molue,” exclaimed Mary. “This is a re-enactment of what we have in Matatus in Kenya ,” added Toili.


We were all surprised at the possibility of having an overloaded metro in a city like Paris, a town in the heart of Europe . We thought that was only possible in Africa , a continent believed to be synonymous with every negative thing you can think of.

However, that was not the only negative thing we discover about Europe . Nadine had earlier warned us to be careful with our bags, as there were bag snatchers and pick-pockets, or call it pick-bags in Paris .

On a typical metro, like the Danfos and Molues in Nigeria , there were all kinds of people with different faces. There were beggars, as well as those who played musical instruments for money. On a particular day, we ran into a young boy with needle marks all over his arm, begging for money to eat.


According to him, he could not get money from government to feed himself and was unable to get a job too. His story was interesting to me because I felt he was still very young and should have been in school. Obviously, the needle marks on his arms showed he had been into drug. Nobody made any attempt to give him money, except an old woman who dropped a coin into his palm.


For me, Nigeria is not the only country where hawking or begging in buses is common, as the Paris example has shown.

With this scenario in a town termed the world’s most beautiful city, it is therefore not right for Western nations to keep labeling Nigeria , or even any African country, as bad. I saw some people who did not even have metro tickets jumping over the security bars.

To access the metro, you have to slot in your ticket through a hole. As soon as the machine reads it, the bar turns, giving you a right of passage. But there were commuters who blocked the bar with their stretched legs because they had no ticket, which is a criminal act.

Although, it is always possible to purchase metro-season ticket to travel, this is cheaper. The Paris metro tickets are available for full day, one week, 10 days, one month, and so on, but these people just refused buying.

Therefore, Nigeria is not the only country crime abound, it is everywhere.


Going underground in a metro took me into another world, a world different from what was happening above, in the open air.

I was able to see another side of Paris , the reality of what goes on in the belly of the earth.

In a city called Romance

In the beginning...
A few weeks ago when we arrived Holland, Abi, our training group’s course leader, sold to us the idea of visiting Paris, which we toyed with for a while. Last weekend, about seven of us finally agreed to embark on this adventurous journey, travelling by road to Paris from Amsterdam ! We spent close to eight hours on the road because the bus had to make some stops along the way.

After the long hours on the road, we were all surprised it wasn’t a tiring journey, as we arrived Paris the early hours of Saturday morning.

Since it was dawn, the weather was quite friendly. It wasn’t therefore much of a problem waiting for nearly two hours for Nardine, our host, to pick us up at the bus station. “I’m really sorry guys for arriving so late to pick you up,” she apologises. “I was held up in traffic.”

We later discovered that the traffic was bad in Galleini that day because of the construction work going on in the Metro line for that route.

After refreshing ourselves, we hit the road almost immediately. The first point of call, of course, was the famous Avenue des Champs-Elysees. It is a very long avenue, lined with trees on both sides. On this road also is world famous fashion designers like Hugo Boss, Louis Vuitton, among others, and this is also where the rich and famous in Paris live.

From this avenue, we moved towards the great Eiffel Tower , Paris ’ hallmark. The week before, I saw a report on CNN on the refurbishment of the tower.

Hence, when we arrived there that evening, the tower stood tall in its resplendent glory. The paint was still shining and there was a long queue of tourists waiting to climb the tower.

We were told the maintenance of the tower includes applying 50 to 60 tons of paint every seven years to protect it from rust, and this happens to be the seventh year. In order to maintain a uniform appearance to an observer who is below, three separate colours of paint are used on the tower, with the darkest at the bottom and the lightest at the top. Occasionally, the colour is changed, as it is currently painted in a shade of brownish-bronze, and named after its designer, Gustave Eiffel, an engineer, and it is the tallest building in Paris and the fifth-tallest structure in France as a whole.

There were many people milling around the tower when we arrived, and it was not a surprise therefore to know that more than 200 million people had visited the tower since its construction in 1889, including 6,719,200 just in 2006. This makes it the most visited monument in the world. It has a 24 meters antenna and the structure itself is 324 metres high.

The first and second levels are accessible by stairways and lifts. A ticket booth at the south tower base sells tickets to access the stairs, which begin at that location. At the first platform, the stairs continue up from the east tower and the third level summit is only accessible by lift.

From the first or second platform, the stairs are open for anyone to ascend or descend, regardless of whether they have purchased a lift ticket or stair ticket. The actual count of stairs includes nine steps to the ticket booth at the base, 328 steps to the first level, 340 steps to the second level, and 18 steps to the lift platform on the second level.

I was able to arrive at this figure because the step count is printed periodically on the side of the stairs to give an indication of progress of ascent. The majority of the ascent allows for an unhindered view of the area directly beneath and around the tower, although some short stretches of the stairway are enclosed.

We exited through the lift on the third level, as we could not continue because it was late. It was past ten in the evening, although the sun was still up! Nature played a trick on us there as we thought we had all the time in the world!

The wait, the hurry

It was only a few minutes past 6 am when the aircraft touched down at Schipol Airport in Amsterdam . It was a very comfortable flight, I must confess, such that we couldn’t even explain how the hours flew by. Imagine a seven-hour flight seeming like just an hour or two hours journey.

For most of us who were lucky to have our seats close to the window, honestly, we did not know the kind of weather that awaited us as we peeped out of the window. The weather was bright and the yellow rays of a May sun was what we thought was a promise kept - of a good weather; but we were wrong. After getting off the airplane, it was a different story altogether. The weather was very cold in spite of the shinning sun.

It was a bit of a walk from the foot of the plane to the arrival hall, considering the fact that Schipol is a rather big airport, one a friend considered perhaps the best in Europe . I had to do some metres walk before finally arriving at the customs post. There were four long queues and I had to look at the instructions on the board to know where I actually belong, considering the kind of passport I was carrying. “All Passports” “EU” reads two well-lit black coloured notice boards. There were two lines each for those carrying passports of other nations except the one for the European Union (EU) while there is another for citizens of the EU.
I took my time to look carefully at all the people on each line and I discovered that there were more whites on two of the lines than blacks.

I was also surprised at the manner in which the few blacks on the line conducted themselves. They were completely different from the Nigerians I met at Murtala Mohammed International Airport . It was as if they were not the same people who were in a hurry to get on the plane when it was delayed for some minutes in Lagos . I couldn’t believe that they have refused to jump the queue here in Amsterdam . At the customs point back home in Nigeria , they questioned the authority of the KLM officer who asked that the elderly, pregnant women and parents with young children should be the first sets of people to board the plane.

This incidentally is the practice anywhere in the world but our ‘Naija’ brothers would hear none of this. They were bent on getting on the plane at all cost even though they were very sure the waiting craft was theirs and would sure accommodate all.

“Me too, I be above sixty o,” joked one middle-aged man. “Don’t mind him, jare, forty-something no go enter too, abi which one you dey, oga?” teased another man.
The exchange between the two men went on for some minutes before the officer called those travelling on Business Class and Premium. This caused another discomfort for our dear gentlemen who went into another long exchange, joking about the discrimination.

Even though they are aware there was no basis for their arguments. “Passengers with seat numbers between 44 and 20 should go on board,” announced the officer again.
“What is all this again?” asked a woman who had also been angered by the whole process. “Is economy not economy and what has seat numbers got to do with it?” As expected, the other two men joined in and the “rebuke” continued once again, only to last for another few minutes. My sympathy, funny enough lies with the officer. For me, there’s nothing wrong with the method he adopted. He’s just trying to prevent the expected obstruction caused by passengers whose seats were at the front for those whose seats were at the rear. It’s just a smart way to make boarding faster and easier for all.

But trust Nigerians, we are always in a hurry to get things done, and in most cases, we don’t care how we get them done, we just want them done.
So, when the same people who were eager to get on board by all means in Nigeria patiently waited for their turns at the immigration point in Schipol, I was too surprised at the new spirit which had suddenly taken over them. Here, in Europe , there was no room for such untoward behaviour, hence our people quietly stayed on the line.

My ‘Naija’ experience was not the last I would encounter on my trip. Last Monday, as we journeyed back to the guest house after classes, I had another funny experience with other African folks in the group. Tony, one of the course instructors, had earlier educated us on the code of conducts and some rules governing transportation and road usage in Hilversum . He told us the route number of the bus we were to board to and from the guest house, so that we would not find ourselves on the wrong bus.

And so, after classes, we got on the right bus actually and got off at the right bus stop. But shortly, after the bus drove off, more than half of those of us standing by the roadside crossed to the other side of the road without taking the Zebra Crossing which was further down the road.

“Stop right there!” shouted Mary, another Nigerian from Voice of Nigeria who was also a member of the course group. ‘That’s not how to cross here,” reminded Harry, another journalist from Senegal . “Africans, when are we going to change?” I screamed at the group of defaulters who were already almost half way onto the other side of the road. “It’s not only Africans, the Pakistanis are there too,” corrected Harry.

That was how we made it to Hilversum with our impatient attitude. It’s saddening that we were too impatient as a people to walk only a few metres down the road to use the Zebra Crossing which the Dutch themselves use. It is just a disciplined society too organised with law abiding citizens. I just hope that some day, as a people, we would realize the importance of keeping to law without unnecessarily defaulting as a result of our impatience. I do hope that someday, the disobedient ones won’t get arrested by traffic officers before the end of the course.

A pink date

FUNKE ADETUTU
As a little girl, I grew up to believe that pink is a girly colour not something befitting for a male. But as I grow older and with the various literary theories I was bombarded with in school, I discovered that such view is rooted in one of those patriarchal beliefs that certain norms and stuffs are for women and not men. These are biases that we have unconsciously internalised which the society have accepted as the norm.

The society believes pink is the colour of universal love. Hence, love is a women affair and not for men? Pink no doubt is a quiet colour and women are expected to be the passive kinds. Lovers of beauty favour pink, beauty is associated with women, hence they must like pink. A pink carnation means “I will never forget you” the women are ‘men-wrapper.’ These are some of the different ways women have been classified as a result of cultural biases deeply-rooted in patriarchy.

Abroad, there is a Pink Energy Pink which is a combination of red and white. The quality of energy in pink is determined by how much red is present. Since colour White is the potential for fullness, the red helps you to achieve that potential. Pink combines these energies. Shades of deep pink, such as magenta, are effective in neutralising disorder and violence. Some prisons use limited deep pink tones to diffuse aggressive behaviour. Pink provides feelings of caring, tenderness, self-worth and love, acceptance. “Put some pink in your life when you want: calm feelings that neutralise disorder relaxation acceptance, contentment.”

However, the society have come to accept these classifications such that women have consciously accepted these biases. Therefore, anything that has to do with women is synonymous with colour pink. The first example that comes to mind is the BankPHB Pink Account. Again, Pink is associated with the woman. She loves luxury and the good things of life; as if men don’t want such things too. And then, the upcoming ‘Pink Ball’ event for cancer awareness is associated with colour pink. Such is the life of the woman!

One thing that struck my mind while meditating over this, is the fact that there could be some kind of synergy between the pink associations, if you’ll permit me to call it that. Why can’t BankPHB and the Pink Ball organised by Genevieve Magazine do something together on breast cancer awareness since it’s all about the woman? The BankPHB Pink Account could do something for women in that regard as they’ll need all the support they can get to combat this dreadful disease called cancer. The life of the woman after all, is truly in danger.

Two nights ago, I saw an advert on TV urging charitable Nigerians to donate some money for a female breast cancer victim. It was really pathetic. I was sad when I saw how a once beautiful pair of breasts have now been eaten up by cancer. As the Pink Ball comes up later this month, I hope the Pink Account owners would consider doing something for women in this regard. It’s a about the enemy of their lives which could be silenced, at least with a Pink date.

FEEDBACK!
I am an Indian and I have been living in Nigeria for the past five years. BBC and CNN journalists have been rubbishing India, may be sub-consciously, but I hadn't expected a Nigerian sister to portray India so badly in her article published last Friday under the title, "Incredible India."
I am a trained journalist and I have been published by BusinessDay on five occasions and hence, I am sure that my views would merit your attention.
You wrote so dangerously about the caste system in India. Caste system is still prevalent in India but discrimination based upon caste, creed or colour is a punishable offence in India. Most often, non-bailable arrest warrants are issued if anyone is found indulging in such acts.
In industrial India and the urban India (50 percent) people of my generation don't bother about which caste you belong to and my daughter's generation doesn't even know what caste system is all about!
India is a vast country and our Prime Minister is a Sikh by religion. The community that practices Sikhism constitutes less than 1 percent of India's population. The leader of the ruling party (Indian National Congress) is an Italian-born Christian and Christians constitute less than 3 percent of India's population.
Our Vice President is a Muslim and the immediate past President was a Muslim too. Muslims form less than 16 percent of India's population. You also wrote that India is a country that practices "Sati." Sorry Tutu, we are not a nation that puts its widows on the funeral pyre.
In the last 50 years, the number of Sati cases is less than five! Your column is widely read and it helps people form an opinion about India. I really plead with you to exercise caution my sister.
Sudhir Bisht
sudhir_bisht@rediffmail.com
sudhir_bisht@hotmail.com
+234 7083239485

Once upon a generation of Oloola

Oloola is a generational craft which spans many centuries, but modern incursions are slowly but surely making the craft a dying culture, writes FUNKE ADETUTU

One rainy July morning, the Ayankola household at Oke Agunpopo area of Oyo Town, Oyo State, wakes up to the noise generated by thunder and torrents of rain whipping across the roof. This, surely, is a fitting background for what is about to take place this morning: all the young children in the household are lined up for the August visit of the Oloona, a Yoruba word meaning “owner of marks”.

“Oloola de o!” (meaning Oloola is here! ) announces the Oloola. He is a dark, elderly man with thick tribal marks visible on his face despite his sagging skin. He spots Buba and Soro, the Yoruba traditional wear, with a satchel slung on his shoulder. After exchanging pleasantries with family heads and their wives, he sits on a wooden stool, adjusts his cap and upturns his bag which disgorges its contents: a sharp knife which glitters in the dimly-lit hallway, a big snail and some powdery substance. The children who seem unaware of what is about to take place are lined up before him according to their age.

“How many marks do you want on this child’s face?” asks the Oloola, pointing at the first child on the line. “We want you to do Keke for him,” answers the family head. And so, the child’s mother pulls his son to herself and holds him tightly in-between her thighs, while the Oloola brings out his knife. On spotting the knife, the child breaks into wracking sobs, but is quickly assured by the Oloola that the knife would do him no harm. The process then begins in earnest.

The Ayankola household is just one among many that still get their children’s faces marked with the Oloola’s knife, a practice which most people, as a result of civilisation, are fast rethinking. This may also be having a direct effect on the Oloola who knows no other trade than decorating people’s faces with facial marks.
The Oloola’s trade, explains Samuel Ogundeji, an Oloola at Ilaka area of Oyo town, dates back to eons of centuries, even before the advent of colonialism among the Yoruba people in South-West Nigeria.

All the descendants of the Oloola are familiar with the practice, even the educated ones. This is not surprising because only males born into the Oloola household can practice the trade.
“It is a generational trade known to a particular household called Oloola. Tribal marks are different from any other trade. It’s a generational craft because our fathers handed it down to us,” says Ogundeji. “We have researched into it and discovered that it does not affect religion in any way. Where our own trade differs from others is that we have a house called Oloola, an abode of tribal marks. It is not that we have a particular place where people can bring their children. Those who have just given birth would come from their respective homes to tell us they want to do tribal marks, and we would go there to grant their wish.”

In times past, facial tribal marks were more or less a form of identity in Yorubaland, so it is only natural that Ogundeji would explain that facial marks have variants, which are synonymous with each household. For instance, Keke has different variants: Keke of Owu, called Keke Olowu which is common with the Olowu. There is another one called Gombo, which is not synonymous with any household but cuts across different households. There are yet others called Meeje meaning “Seven,” Pele, meaning three horizontal lines and Ture, which is synonymous with the Olokun Esin household.

Amusa Oladokun is the Olori Oloola of Oyo. Given the title by the Alaafin of Oyo, Oba Lamidi Adeyemi, he is therefore the only one with the right to do facial marks for the descendants of the King. “If you see anyone that has six marks on his face, it means he is the Alaafin’s child or is related to him. The Ture, that is their mark, the Keke called Alodi, that is their sign. The Alare who lives up the road, they have Pele with four on each side. That is their identity. The other kinds are all over the place. Those with 11 marks are there. They would have eight on one side, with three at the top. There are those with seven, three upward and four at the bottom. There are those with four or eight Baamu. It comes in different forms,” explains Oladokun.

With these variants, Ogundeji says those without tribal marks are often taunted by wearers, who say they cannot afford to pay the bill of an Oloola. But that is all in the past, as Ogundeji observes.

Meanwhile, this dying culture has become an issue, not only for the Oloolas but in the four walls of the university system. Kehinde Oladeji, an expert on African and Asian Studies and a lecturer in the Department of Language, University of Lagos, says facial marks have become irrelevant as a result of modernisation. “Facial marks were for identification during the inter-tribal wars and slavery. It was a simple means of knowing where someone was from, as it is said in Yoruba that a person with tribal marks will not remain missing for too long. Such a person, if separated from his relations during war or other conflicts, would meet someone who would identify his town and even his family, through his facial marks,” he explains.
However, such wars no longer exist with the advent of modernism and technology, both of which make having facial marking obsolete. Hence, Oladeji observes that in most towns across the country, it is difficult to come across tribal marks on the faces of people younger than 35 years old. “The culture may linger a while with traditional institutions, but they will let go with time,” he adds.

Demola Dasylva, a doctor of literature at the Department of English, University of Ibadan (UI), however disagrees with Oladeji’s view on the issue. Dasylva says facial marks may remain with traditional institutions for a long time to come. “Some aspects of culture are so integrated that you cannot change them. Great Britain is a developed democracy, yet the monarchy there is accorded so much respect. If having facial marks is a condition for being made an Oba, Emir or Eze in any part of the country, concerned princes will be avoiding scarification at their own risk,” he observes.

In spite of these divergent views, facial marks perform dual roles in the Yoruba culture, first for their aesthetics and second for their functionality.
Ohiomamhe Elugbe of the Department of Languages, UI, on his part, describes facial marks as mere inoculation against certain diseases, it is used as a measure to prevent Abiku children from their cycle of deaths.

As for Akin Onipede, a visual artist, facial marks are symbols of pride and identity, especially among the Yorubas. This view greatly influenced one of his works he titled: National Award, which is a piece that features the Queen of England spotting a facial mark called Meeje. This, Onipede, explains offers multi-dimensional viewpoints and meanings: “It could be seen from the point of view of a country or people offering distinguished citizens or individuals one of the highest awards in the land such as KBE, OBE, MBE, GCFR, OFR. But then, this will appear normal. But an award to the Queen has to be unique and reflective of the culture of the person giving it.”

Therefore, tribal marks, for Onipede, are the most befitting award that the Queen of England can be given, and his art is just one of the means artists employ to prevent the total erosion of a people’s vibrant culture.

Incredible India!

I was trudging home from work last Tuesday when I ran into an Indian family. I was attracted by their musical accent and the style of their stride in Oniru Estate’s cold night.
As the group approached me, I could easily identify the father and mother, but found it almost impossible naming the kids. They all seemed to share the same looks and height. But on second thoughts, I felt some of the kids could be relatives of the family.
As they drew closer, the proximity of the couple brought to my mind the Indian tradition of the woman asking for the hand of the man in marriage. I also recalled the popular 1980s Indian movie titled: Dusnumbari.
Yet again, I remembered a discussion I had with two Indian journalists whom I met in South Africa: Amita Shinde of Mid Day, India and Meher Bruno Castelino, a freelance journalist for several Indian publications. They both admitted that India has much cultural and religious diversity, a trend which also extends to dating habits.
“In most cases, dating in this region starts after parents arrange marriage. In this article, we will look at the culture and past of this region. It would be really very difficult to comprehend the dating habits of this area unless we have a look into its historical background,” said Amita.
From Meher, I learnt that Indians in upper North India are known as a warrior class, as historically all the invasions in India were through this route. Muslim invaders, beginning with the Muslim King ‘Babar’ entered India through this route. During invasions, the looting of property and the rape of females were common. It was normal to abandon the raped woman, even if she was married. And some fathers would abandon a girl child if she was raped. People practised monogamy almost as a religion here. Although not as true now, divorce was a major taboo.
“At the time of the wedding, the bride’s father would sing the folk song “Teri Doli jaayegi te arthi hi aayegi”; meaning “I am sending you off as a bride and may you come out of your husband’s house only on a pyre and not otherwise”. Another famous saying was “Sada Suhagan Rahe”, meaning “may you never become a widow”; that is you should die earlier than your husband,” Meher explained to me.
My friends were of the opinion that more than 80 percent of marriages are arranged by parents. Parents first look for a suitable match. After they choose one, the boy and girl are made to see each other. And if they happen to like each other, dating starts from that point onwards.
In the case of love marriages also, it was generally expected that both boy and girl seek parents’ approval. In many cases, the father of the girl had to approve, even against his wishes, because the family name would be smeared if the girl should elope with the boy.
In cases where a woman did marry without her father’s approval, any younger sister would find it difficult to get a match for her.
For choosing a date, social considerations weighed very heavily. At the time of marriage, the bride’s father had to give heavy gifts to relatives of the groom, which the Indians also call dowry. Before marriage, a list of such relatives was given to the father of the bride-to-be.
“In Bania community, even dowry is negotiated based on the expenses incurred on the son’s education and how much the boy is earning. Dowry is illegal, but still it continues unabated. It is insulting for a boy to get a bride without a dowry, and even today, on and off one can hear instances that a new bride is burned alive because of insufficient dowry,” Meher added with a sigh.
What I found disheartening about the whole Indian marriage was that in the lower North India state of Rajasthan, ladies used to observe ‘Sati’ a ceremony which makes a lady sit on the burning pyre of her dead husband and burn herself alive. “Now sati, though still there in some small areas, is illegal. While widowers had no restriction on getting married again, widows getting remarried was absolutely forbidden, even in cases where a girl becomes a widow at a young age of 20,” observed Amita.
I believe like any society, these values had an enormous impact on the Indian society as many cultural ceremonies witnessed generations and generations of illiterate women. Since women, till the 1950s in most parts of India were generally not very educated, and certainly not professionally qualified. But then, the society has emerged an incredible one regardless of her population and what the west would term barbaric culture.