Chandana: Wrapped in White, Bound by Culture!

A few days ago, I returned home after spending a month abroad. The familiar comfort of home felt reassuring after weeks of travel. Yesterday, as I sat down for lunch, the doorbell rang.

I opened the door and found two women standing outside.

My gaze immediately settled on one of them—a barefoot woman draped in a coarse white cotton cloth. Her face was dry and exhausted, her head covered with the same lifeless fabric.

For a moment, I could not place her.

Then it struck me.

Chandana!!

My breath caught in my throat.

This could not be the same Chandana who used to walk into my house every day for the past six years, her colourful sari brightening the room before she even spoke. The Chandana I knew wore red and white plastic bangles, small earrings and a thick streak of vermilion in the parting of her hair—a symbol of marriage in hindu culture.

Yet my instincts knew before my mind could accept.

It was her.

The same Chandana whose labour supported the mobility of my daily life.

Years ago, she had migrated to Noida from a remote village in West Bengal with her husband and their three young children. They lived in a rented room, surviving one day at a time. Apart from a sister living nearby, she had no family in the city.

Life had never been easy for her.

Her husband was an alcoholic. His earnings were irregular, often non-existent. His drinking frequently erupted into arguments and chaos at home. Chandana and her children endured it in silence.

It was Chandana's income that kept the family alive.

It was Chandana who paid the rent.

Chandana who bought food.

Chandana who dreamed of a future for her children.

While I was travelling, I received the news that her husband had died after a brief illness.

When I landed back home, I called her. I expected she would remain away from work for some time with her three children: fifteen, twelve and eight years old, looking to her as their only pillar of support. I knew that she would need time to grieve, to recover and to rebuild their life.

So when I saw her standing at my doorstep, I was shocked.

Not because she had come.

But because of what she had become.

The vibrant woman I knew had disappeared beneath a shroud of ritual mourning.

Unable to contain myself, I asked, "Why are you dressed like this? Why are you barefoot?"

Her answer was calm.

"It is our custom."

For thirteen days after her husband's death, she explained, she was forbidden from wearing proper clothes or footwear. On the fourteenth day, she would have to organize a ritual feast for those who had accompanied her husband's body to the cremation ground and for several Brahmins. Only then, according to tradition, would her husband’s soul continue its onward journey.

Then she hesitated. And asked me for money.

I gave it immediately. She asked for more. I gave that too.

Money was the least of my concerns.

What disturbed me was the sight before me.

I urged her to wear slippers and dress in proper clothes.

I told her she could fall sick.

I told her that her children must be distressed seeing her this way.

Her reply left me speechless.

"They are also dressed like this."

After she left, I remained standing at the door long after she had disappeared from sight.

Later, I learned she had been going from house to house, borrowing money to arrange the ritual feast.

And since then, I have not been able to stop thinking about her.

One part of me wants to protest.

India has reached the moon. We speak the language of technology, innovation and progress.

Why then must a woman strip herself of dignity to prove her grief?

Why must a mother of three borrow money for a ceremonial feast instead of saving it for her children's survival and wellbeing?

Why should poverty be made heavier by tradition?

But another part of me asks:

Who am I to decide what matters to her? Who am I to dismiss the beliefs that have shaped her world?

Customs do not survive because people are foolish.

They survive because communities make them powerful.

Because belonging often depends upon obedience.

Because the fear of social exclusion can be stronger than hunger, stronger than reason, stronger even than suffering itself.

And therein lies the tragedy.

Women like Chandana do not merely follow customs.

They inherit them. They absorb them.

They carry them like invisible chains passed down through generations.

The punishment is rarely written in law.

It is written in expectations. In whispers. In judgment.

In the fear of being cast out by one's own people.

I cannot stop wondering:

Why is widowhood still treated as a condition to be displayed?

Why must grief be measured through deprivation?

Why must a woman prove her mourning by denying herself comfort, colour, dignity and care?

The questions that remain unanswered are - If Chandana falls ill while walking barefoot under the harsh sun, who will care for her?

If exhaustion breaks her body, who will feed her children?

If poverty deepens because of rituals she cannot afford, who will rescue her family?

The answer is painfully simple.

No one.

Chandana's story is not merely the story of one widow. It is the story of countless women whose lives are shaped by the intersecting forces of gender, caste, religion, poverty and tradition.

It is the story of women who are expected to sacrifice themselves even in moments of personal devastation.

It is the story of a society that often demands suffering from women and calls it virtue.

Death is inevitable.

But the death of a husband should not become the social death of a wife. The dehumanization of women on husband’s death is uncalled for.

Until women are allowed to grieve without being punished for it, until humanity is valued above ritual, until dignity becomes more sacred than customs, the journey for equality would remain elusive.

There are still miles to go!