Child Marriage

Much as I wish that I might not have to write this chapter, I know that I shall have to swallow many such bitter draughts in the course of this narrative. And I cannot do otherwise, if I claim to be a worshipper of Truth. It is my painful duty to have to record here my marriage at the age of thirteen. As I see the youngsters of the same age about me who are under my care, and think of my own marriage, I am inclined to pity myself and to congratulate them on having escaped my lot. I can see no moral argument in support of such a preposterously early marriage.

Though I wish I did not have to write this chapter, I know I will face many such bitter moments in this story. If I claim to worship Truth, I cannot do otherwise. It is my painful duty to record that I married at thirteen. When I see the children of the same age in my care and think of my own marriage, I feel sorry for myself. I also congratulate them on escaping my fate. I can see no moral argument for a marriage at such a ridiculously early age.

Let the reader make no mistake. I was married, not betrothed. For in Kathiawad there are two distinct rites,—betrothal and marriage. Betrothal is a preliminary promise on the part of the parents of the boy and the girl to join them in marriage, and it is not inviolable. The death of the boy entails no widowhood on the girl. It is an agreement purely between the parents, and the children have no concern with it. Often they are not even informed of it. It appears that I was betrothed thrice, though I do not know when. I was told that two girls chosen for me had died in turn, and therefore I infer that I was betrothed three times. I have a faint recollection, however, that the third betrothal took place in my seventh year. But I do not recollect having been informed about it. In the present chapter, I am talking about my marriage of which I have the clearest recollection.

Let the reader make no mistake. I was married, not betrothed. In Kathiawad, betrothal and marriage are two distinct ceremonies. Betrothal is a preliminary promise by a boy’s and a girl’s parents to join them in marriage. The promise can be broken. If the boy dies, the girl is not considered a widow. Betrothal is purely an agreement between the parents, and the children have no part in it. Often the children are not even told about it. It seems that I was betrothed three times, though I do not know when. I was told that two girls chosen for me had died, one after the other. So I conclude that I was betrothed three times. I do have a faint memory that the third betrothal took place when I was seven. But I do not remember being told about it. In this chapter, I am talking about my marriage, which I remember very clearly.

It will be remembered that we were three brothers. The first was already married. The elders decided to marry my second brother, who was two or three years my senior, a cousin, possibly a year older, and me, all at the same time. In this there was no thought of our welfare, much less our wishes. It was purely a question of their own convenience and economy.

As you may remember, there were three of us brothers. The oldest was already married. The elders decided to marry my second brother, a cousin, and me at the same time. My brother was two or three years older than I was, and my cousin was perhaps a year older. The elders gave no thought to our welfare, much less our wishes. The decision was purely a matter of their own convenience and economy.

Marriage among Hindus is no simple matter. The parents of the bride and the bridegroom often bring themselves to ruin over it. They waste their substance, they waste their time. Months are taken up over the preparations—in making clothes and ornaments and in preparing budgets for dinners. Each tries to outdo the other in the number and variety of courses to be prepared. Women, whether they have a voice or no, sing themselves hoarse, even get ill, and disturb the peace of their neighbours. These in their turn quietly put up with all the turmoil and bustle, all the dirt and filth, representing the remains of the feasts, because they know that a time will come when they also will be behaving in the same manner.

Marriage among Hindus is no simple matter. The parents of the bride and groom often ruin themselves over it. They waste their money and their time. They spend months preparing, making clothes and ornaments, and budgeting for dinners. Each tries to outdo the other in the number and variety of dishes. Women sing themselves hoarse, whether they can sing or not. They even make themselves ill and disturb their neighbors’ peace. The neighbors quietly put up with all the noise and commotion, and all the dirt and filth left by the feasts. They do so because they know that their own turn to behave the same way will come.

It would be better, thought my elders, to have all this bother over at one and the same time. Less expense and greater eclat. For money could be freely spent if it had only to be spent once instead of thrice. My father and my uncle were both old, and we were the last children they had to marry. It is likely that they wanted to have the last best time of their lives. In view of all these considerations, a triple wedding was decided upon, and as I have said before, months were taken up in preparation for it.

My elders thought it would be better to get all this bother over with at the same time. It would cost less and make a bigger splash. They could spend freely if they had to pay only once instead of three times. My father and my uncle were both old, and we were the last of their children to marry. They likely wanted to have one last great time in their lives. For all these reasons, they decided on a triple wedding. As I have said before, the preparations took months.

It was only through these preparations that we got warning of the coming event. I do not think it meant to me anything more than the prospect of good clothes to wear, drum beating, marriage processions, rich dinners, and a strange girl to play with. The carnal desire came later. I propose to draw the curtain over my shame, except for a few details worth recording. To these I shall come later. But even they have little to do with the central idea I have kept before me in writing this story.

Only through these preparations did we learn that the event was coming. I do not think it meant much more to me than good clothes, drumming, wedding processions, rich dinners, and a strange girl to play with. Sexual desire came later. I intend to draw a curtain over my shame, except for a few details worth recording. I will come to those later. But even those details have little to do with the central idea I have kept in mind while writing this story.

So my brother and I were both taken to Porbandar from Rajkot. There are some amusing details of the preliminaries to the final drama—e.g. smearing our bodies all over with turmeric paste—but I must omit them.

So my brother and I were both taken from Rajkot to Porbandar. There are some amusing details about the preparations for the final drama. These include smearing our bodies all over with turmeric paste, but I must leave them out.

My father was a Diwan, but nevertheless a servant, and all the more so because he was in favour with the Thakore Saheb. The latter would not let him go until the last moment. And when he did so, he ordered my father special stage coaches, reducing the journey by two days. But the fates had willed otherwise. Porbandar is 120 miles from Rajkot,—a cart journey of five days. My father did the distance in three, but the coach toppled over in the third stage, and he sustained severe injuries. He arrived bandaged all over. Both his and our interest in the coming event was half destroyed, but the ceremony had to be gone through. For how could the marriage dates be changed? However, I forgot my grief over my father’s injuries in the childish amusement of the wedding.

My father was a Diwan, but he was still a servant. This was all the more true because he was in the Thakore Saheb’s favor. The Thakore Saheb would not let him leave until the last moment. When he did let him go, he ordered special stagecoaches for my father, shortening the journey by two days. But fate had other plans. Porbandar is 120 miles from Rajkot, a five-day journey by cart. My father covered the distance in three days, but the coach overturned during the third stage, and he was severely injured. He arrived covered in bandages. The accident diminished both his and our interest in the coming event by half, but the ceremony had to go on. How could the wedding dates be changed? Still, I forgot my grief over my father’s injuries in the childish fun of the wedding.

I was devoted to my parents. But no less was I devoted to the passions that flesh is heir to. I had yet to learn that all happiness and pleasure should be sacrificed in devoted service to my parents. And yet, as though my desire for pleasures, an incident happened, which I will relate later, that has ever since rankled in my mind. Nishkulanand sings: ‘Renunciation of objects, without the renunciation of desires, is shortlived, however hard you may try.’ Whenever I sing this song or hear it sung, this bitter untoward incident rushes to my memory and fills me with shame.

I was devoted to my parents. But I was just as devoted to the desires that come with being human. I had yet to learn that I should give up all happiness and pleasure to serve my parents devotedly. And yet, as if connected to my desire for pleasure, an incident happened that has troubled me ever since. I will tell of it later. Nishkulanand sings: ‘Giving up things without giving up the desire for them does not last, however hard you try.’ Whenever I sing this song or hear it sung, that painful, unfortunate incident comes rushing back to me. It fills me with shame.

My father put on a brave face in spite of his injuries, and took full part in the wedding. As I think of it, I can even today call before my mind’s eye the places where he sat as he went through the different details of the ceremony. Little did I dream then, that one day I should severely criticise my father for having married me as a child. Everything on that day seemed to me right and proper and pleasing. There was also my own eagerness to get married. And as everything that my father did then struck me as beyond reproach, the recollection of these things is fresh in my memory. I can picture to myself, even today, how we sat on our wedding dais, how we performed the Saptapadi,⁴ how the newly wedded husband and wife put the sweet Kansar⁵ into each other’s mouth, and how we began to live together. And oh! that first night. Two innocent children all unwittingly hurled themselves into the ocean of life. My brother’s wife had thoroughly coached me about my behaviour on the first night. I do not know who had coached my wife. I have never asked her about it, nor am I inclined to do so now. The reader may be sure that we were too nervous to face each other. We were certainly too shy. How was I to talk to her, and what was I to say? The coaching could not carry me far. But no coaching is really necessary in such matters. The impressions of the former birth are potent enough to make all coaching superfluous. We gradually began to know each other, and to speak freely together. We were the same age. But I took no time in assuming the authority of a husband.

My father put on a brave face despite his injuries and took full part in the wedding. Even today, I can picture where he sat during the different parts of the ceremony. I had no idea then that I would one day severely criticize him for having me married as a child. Everything that day seemed right, proper, and pleasing to me. I was eager to get married, too. And because everything my father did then seemed beyond criticism, my memories of those things remain fresh. Even today, I can picture us sitting on the wedding dais and performing the Saptapadi⁴. I can see the newly married husband and wife putting the sweet Kansar⁵ into each other’s mouths. I can see how we began our life together. And oh, that first night! Two innocent children unknowingly hurled themselves into the ocean of life. My brother’s wife had carefully coached me on how to behave that night. I do not know who coached my wife. I have never asked her, and I do not feel inclined to do so now. You can be sure we were too nervous to face each other. We were certainly too shy. How was I to talk to her, and what was I to say? The coaching could not help me much. But no coaching is really necessary in such matters. Impressions from a former birth are powerful enough to make all coaching unnecessary. We gradually came to know each other and began to speak freely together. We were the same age. But I wasted no time in taking on the authority of a husband.