SONYA FATAH

June 30, 2008
SONYA FATAH
THE TORONTO STAR

BAGHPAT, INDIA–Six years ago, Sandhya Sharma lived in a mountain village in Himachal Pradesh, the land of snowy mountains that is nestled in the western Himalayan range.

Sharma, 26, had never left her village before she was brought here, to the Indo-Gangetic plains of Uttar Pradesh, India’s most densely populated state, married to a man whose language and culture were unknown to her.

Sharma talked about the deep isolation she felt immediately after her marriage.

“At first I never spoke to people. When I did, no one would understand me, so I cried a lot,” said Sharma as she gently fussed over her year-old twins.

Such set-ups are neither marriages of convenience, nor of choice. But in the northwestern states of Haryana, Punjab and Uttar Pradesh, such arrangements are on the rise. It’s a trend that seems strange in a culture where language, caste and regional identity are so deeply and separately treasured. But take one look at the 2001 national census and the numbers offer an explanation – they reflect the sad saga of the killing of baby girls and aborting female fetuses in India.

As the Indian population has grown, the country’s ratio between girls to boys has declined. With a national average of 927 girls for every 1,000 boys, the ratio for children from infancy to age 6 is 798 girls to 1,000 boys in Punjab, 819 girls in Haryana and 916 in Uttar Pradesh, according to the 2001 census of India.

Over 27 per cent of India’s 593 districts have an adult population ratio of under 900 females for every, 1,000 males, indicating a long-standing practice of female infanticide and feticide.

That means thousands of men can’t find brides in their areas, a shortage that is felt particularly in states where the practice of female infanticide, and now feticide, is practised and accepted.

The British medical journal The Lancet recently estimated that 500,000 female fetuses are aborted each year in India solely because of their gender.

It’s hard to tell whether marriages of majboori or helpless compulsion are a rising trend. The stories, to date, are anecdotal, and research on them is limited. But social workers documenting the impact of female infanticide and feticide on society insist that such marriages are on the rise.

“They are importing women from all over,” said Davinder Singh Dhamo, who runs the Navodya Lok Chetna Kalyan Samiti, a non-governmental organization that has worked hard to advocate for the rights of girls, and that has fought against ultrasound clinics that are aiding the feticide business.

“In every village there are a few women who have come from far-flung areas – from Assam, from Bihar, and Jharkhand, for example.”

Loneliness and culture shock shape the experiences of many of the women who’ve been traded casually by their families, poor mountain dwellers or impoverished rural folk for whom the spectre of dowry and the lifelong financial burdens it promises ease the crime of selling or sending their daughters far, far away.

Beyond the interstate marriages fixed through personal ties and word-of-mouth, is the more sinister trade in trafficking women, which analysts say, is on the rise. Dhamo has a vault full of horrific tales about women sold off through auctions. Among them is the tale of Sonia, a young woman from Banaras who was sold for $1,000 before a sea of curious faces.

The business in trafficking women for marriages wouldn’t be thriving quite so much if female feticide and infanticide were under control. In April, Indian Prime Minister Manmohan Singh termed female feticide “a national shame.”

“The practice (of female feticide) is rising and it’s all about money,” said Sabu George, a researcher and activist who has worked in this area for several years.

“There are increasing numbers of doctors getting involved in this profession. Let us wait for the 2011 census and we will see.”

More marriages of a forced nature are taking place every day, according to George, who fears that failure to implement laws against feticide will only add to this small but growing population of unnatural unions.

Several decades ago, men from villages in these parts trekked across India in search of brides. Almost all such marriages were second marriages, borne of desperation – a widower’s desire to remarry after being spurned by a village girl on account of his age.

That was the fate of Tanjala, 35, from Bihar, who was married 20 years ago to Lal Mohammad, now 60, in Ibrahimpur, in Uttar Pradesh. Her friend and village mate, Sameema, 32, also from Bihar, was married to a man 28 years her senior when she was just 17.

“It was hard for my husband to find a young woman willing to marry him so they looked outside the state,” said Tanjala.

“It was so difficult when we first came,” said Sameema, whispering so that other women in the village would not hear her. “People would call us names and abuse us under their breath.”

Popularity: 3% [?]

June 10, 2008
SONYA FATAH
THE TORONTO STAR

NEW DELHI–The black-and-white photographs carefully taped onto the inside of the wooden bedroom door capture a distant past. In one of them, a younger Rita Sikand, now 86, is dressed in a sari, her lips richly painted, and laughing as she waltzes in her husband’s arms. In another, dressed in lily white, she is watching a polo match.

Today, abandoned by her daughters, Sikand rarely has visitors. Her companions, lying neatly in the middle of her bed, are a motley collection of stuffed dolls and teddy bears.

Sikand’s experience is no longer unusual in India. Like a growing number of elderly Indians, she is living out her old age away from friends and family in a seniors’ home, counting on the kindness of strangers – salaried staff and volunteers from neighbourhood schools – to see her through.

Economic opportunities, labour migration and an increasing number of women in the workplace, are slowly breaking down the once sacred traditional family system.

Where once young Indians would have shuddered at the thought of sending their parents to old folks’ homes, a rising number of such facilities reflect how many Indians are finding it easier to institutionalize their parents rather than tend to their needs at home.

With life expectancy on the rise and with India lacking a social security net for its growing population of seniors, an increasing number of the elderly are finding themselves in the throes of loneliness – abandoned, destitute and on the fringes of society.

“There’s a sizeable shift in family structure, and the centre of gravity is moving toward nuclear families” with seniors no longer wanted by their children for various reasons, said Mathew Cherian, chief executive of Help Age India, an international non-profit organization that advocates for the changing needs of elderly people.

More than 75 million elderly people live in India, according to the 2001 census, more than twice Canada’s entire population.

“There has been a dramatic increase in the number of old age homes,” said Cherian. “Earlier, there were limited free spaces for abandoned people, but even the middle and upper classes are now moving into old age homes and `pay and stay’ residences have become a recent trend.”

Today, there are more than 4,000 old age homes, according to Help Age India. In 1995, there were just 1,392.

While many elderly people continue to live with their children, the increasing number of needy senior citizens provoked a response from the Indian government last year.

In December 2007 it passed a law to protect the welfare of seniors. Under the law, the elderly can file applications against their children if they have taken their property and thrown them out.

But such protection is seen as largely cosmetic.

“Think about it,” said S.P. Agarwal, 77, who once taught university-level physics, and now lives at Gharaunda, a free home set up on the outskirts of New Delhi by the Paras Foundation trust. “How many parents are going to take their children to court? Even if they do, how many years will it take for litigation?”

The government has also committed to building old-age homes, one in each of India’s 610 districts. It won’t be enough for larger districts like Medinipur in West Bengal, where almost 10 million people reside, but it’s a start.

The growing demand has attracted private foundations, religious societies, and even individuals to set up retirement centres.

Bessie Mathews opened Johns Daycare and Boarding for Senior Citizens in 2003, partly as penance.

“I think back and I wish I could have given my parents’ more time. I was so busy with work and my own children I couldn’t give them the time they deserved.” Her 11-room facility provides seniors with many comforts.

Sikand’s accommodation, too, is one of the finest around. At Har-mit Trust, Sikand lives in an air-conditioned one-bedroom apartment. Residents pay a monthly $300 fee for space in the tastefully decorated “home away from home” located in a posh south New Delhi neighbourhood. Among its offerings are a bright courtyard, a common dining room with a library, a recreation and television space, healthy meals and a manicured garden.

For most Indians, however, $300 is a princely sum; most live in free retirement homes where they receive little love and care.

Moreover, old-age homes remain a largely urban phenomenon. Some years back, the government of Maharashtra built 42 homes in the western state.

“People didn’t feel taken care of,” said Cherian. “There’s more care available from informal connections – neighbours and others in the village. People prefer that to an old-age home that is isolating and unclean.”

For urban Indians, too, accepting life in an old-age home isn’t easy, and almost everyone has a painful story to share.

Like Baboo Lal Avasthi, 78, and Prem Lata Avasthi, 77, who moved into Gharaunda after their five children abandoned them.

“Children only care for their parents when their parents have money,” said Baboo Lal, his voice cracking. “If they don’t have money, they desert them. I spent all my money on my children. My biggest mistake was not to save some of it. If I had, we would not be in this situation.”

The couple shares a small room inside Gharaunda’s two-storey building that isn’t fancy, but it’s clean, and its residents have formed an unlikely community, bonded through stories of shared pain.

Shantya Mukherjee, for instance, lost her son four years ago when he was stabbed to death. Three months ago, her daughter packed Makherjee’s bags and didn’t tell her where they were going.

“They lied to me and when we got here they told me that I have to stay here and try it out,” said Mukherjee, 70. “I have left everything behind. This is our fate.”

There are no simple solutions for the growing alienation of India’s sizeable population of seniors.

“You can’t legislate love,” said Cherian talking about government measures. One thing Help Age is gunning for, however, is an All India pension plan that would give seniors financial independence.

Meanwhile, with large-scale sociological changes happening fast, India’s seniors find themselves prey to market forces.

“You can tell how I’m feeling every day because when I’m happy I turn her this way,” said Sikand, showing off the smiling face of a rag doll. “But when I’m sad, I just turn her the other way.” On the flip side, the smile on the doll has disappeared and tears stream down her face.

Popularity: 3% [?]