Through the canonical myths of femininity

Hindu goddesses can also be viewed as symbols of feminism. But we tend to confine feminism to the feminist uprising that is defined as such in the West. Goddesses are more than just a source of symbolism; their diversity in portrayal shows the potential in all women, writes Kavita Kané.

Do we interpret our mythology correctly and, more importantly, impartially? Or do we look at it from the bias-stained glasses of patriarchy? Despite their powerful individual stories, the women characters from our mythology have been largely ignored. Sadly, it is this prejudiced interpretation of mythology that has in a way shaped our concepts about the women of our society.

In the great gamut of the two epics — the Ramayana and Mahabharata — and the Puranas, is interwoven the lives of various women too. The ancient texts are much more complex when it comes to gender roles. Women in our epics are as diverse as its vastness. Besides Draupadi and Sita — the women protagonists of the respective epics, we often do not register the significance of the other women of the ancient texts — the rishikas, the apsaras, the queens and the princesses, the mother, wife, daughter and sister who were all as much involved in the socio-political matters of the day. Can you imagine the Mahabharata without a Kunti? Or the Ramayana without a Shabri, Tara or Surpanakha? They remain on the sidelines for a reason. Because we do not see the epics through the women’s eyes, we don’t see their stories but rather the stories of war and valour of men be it Ram and Ravan, Krishna and Arjuna and Karna often overlooking a Gandhari, Satyavati, Hidimba or Shubadra in the Mahabharata or Ahalya, Tara and Urmila and many others in the Ramayana.

There are these women who play specific, significant roles: the good, the bad, the greys though myopically they have been bracketed into extremes of black and white, again limiting them into straight-jacketed persona, personality and definition. By slotting them into convenient antipodes, the women get turned into oversimplified embodiments, limited in their conventional images, cornered in their rightful places as dutiful wives or daughters: a skewed and deeply flawed narrative changed through the centuries.

Remove this lens of myopia and misogyny and we can find and recognise each woman, not trapped in repressive institutions but seen as a person of conviction, strong and assertive in manner and measure. Take Tara in the Ramayana for instance. Tara, otherwise an almost unknown figure in the heft of the narrative, is the wife of Vali, the queen of Sugriva and the grieving widow behind Rama’s curse. She is one of the panchkanyas: the revered and extolled women, redeemed from transgressions. But her transgression was that she was both a pawn and a weapon caught in the crossfire of two warring brothers, family war and politics and ended up as a prize trophy to be won by them. So is she the victim who becomes a victor who eventually proves she is a clever, courageous and a master statesman who as the wise queen of Kishkindha ends strife and initiates peace at a personal cost: she accepts her husband’s enemy and brother and the man responsible for her husband’s death as spouse to defend her rights, her choice, her family and her land.

In studied contrasts to the good like Sita, Mandodari and Gandhari are the vamps — Surpanakha, Kaikeyi — the wicked women who transgress from the roles assigned to them and are subsequently punished for their errant ways. But rather than seeing them as black characters, the shades of grey exemplify the diversity in women, the diversity of women and the diversity within each woman rather than limiting the lives of women to one ideal. And thus is created a new paradigm for women’s consciousness be it the political ambition of Satyavati, the loneliness and humiliation of Surpanakha or the dismayed disillusionment of Mandodari or the learned wisdom of Tara.

A myopic view can blind the reader with either prejudice or ignorance and a certain social malice. Seeing them in their valour and vanity, tragedy and triumphs is what makes them women in all their shades, moods, desires and emotions. All these protagonists have been women — minor characters, often marginalised and overlooked, who have been given a voice, who ask questions and demand answers.

Ahalya questions women’s agency and their stake in sexual pleasure — a topic rarely recognised or discussed because our interpretation of mythology has always considered it as unimportant, insignificant, inconvenient and as invisible as she becomes when she is cursed to turn to stone for her infidelity. The idea of a woman, sexually bold and frank strikes many as downright revolting, an abomination to be decried. Yet there are stories which illustrate the opposite: Tara, married to Rishi
Brihaspati, who eloped with Chandra and had a love child. Or the story of Devyani and Satyavati who used their sexual prowess to gain political power. The apsaras are a symbol of this very sexuality employed as a weapon against men, to destroy them as is their job.

The variety of such women characters emphasises the range of feminine power, desires and decisions. Hindu goddesses can be seen as feminist icons too. But we often limit feminism to its Western definition of feminist rebellion. A mild-mannered Lakshmi or the quick-witted, quick-tongued Saraswati who did not endorse marriage or motherhood or the bloodthirsty Kali are but recognition of the various roop of a woman. The goddesses are not just a symbolic resource, their range in diversity in representation reveals the potentiality of every woman. If Lakshmi is gentle (which is supposed to be an un-feminist characteristic for some) the giver of good fortune and wealth, Durga is aggressive, striding on the lion of misogyny patriarchy, defiant and invincible. Each representative role is the mood, the emotion the character and courage prevalent in every woman. Challenged, she will retaliate. Besides the great symbolic value and veneration of the female and the feminine, the element of power, choice and freedom — the seed of Shakti — is incorporated in each of the goddesses. Be it Parvati, Saraswati or even Rati (female sexual power) or Ganga (the power of plenty to nurture), Radha (freedom and power to love) or Sati (power of choice). Power in all its hues is acknowledged, recognised and respected. It’s a different issue altogether how our society has not been able to assimilate this feminist celebration.

(Kavita Kané is a former journalist and author of Tara’s Truce, published by Rupa Publications.)