VARANASI, Uttar Pradesh: On a winter afternoon in Namapur village in Varanasi, Meena (name changed) met me at the home of another lady, with whom I had finished speaking for my academic research. She wore a bright orange saree with heavy stonework on the border and greeted me with a wide smile as she sat on a charpaai.
Meena, in her late thirties now, said that she was married a little after her seventh-grade exams, around the age of 12 or 13, and remained with her natal family until her gauna at the age of 16—a customary practice, widespread in parts of Uttar Pradesh, that marks the bride’s transition to her husband’s home several years after marriage.
“At that age, we did not think too much about marriage and all. We would hear a lot from others about how brutal other husbands had been and how they kept their wives. At that point, I used to think it was better not to get married at all. And if I do get married, it should be to a good man from a good family,” she noted.
Meena belongs to the nai (barber) community, which is categorised under the Other Backward Classes in Uttar Pradesh, and is among the many ‘stayed-behind’ wives from migrant households in her village. A tiny settlement, the village, located in the Pindra block of the district, is mainly known for small-scale, often subsistence-based, vegetable farming. Rising household debt, diminishing returns from agriculture and allied occupations, and scarcity of local job opportunities had triggered male out-migration, often facilitated through kin-peer networks.
I don’t want my kids to live the life I lived.
Her husband works in a power loom factory in Surat and migrated at around the age of 13 or 14, shortly after his older brother’s death. The marriage is thus not a partnership in the strictest sense of the word, with Meena bearing responsibility for managing the entire household and its finances, and for raising their three children, while separated from her husband. Attempting to understand the emotional and physical dimensions of marriage that are suspended indefinitely for them, I looked deeper into Meena’s life.
Navigating Life Alone
“I get up late because now it has started to get a little cold. I get up around six,” she said and proceeded to narrate what a typical day entails. “I wash utensils, clean, prepare chai, wake up my kids, give them chai, prepare their tiffins, and food. After that, I watch some videos on mobile, do some sewing-stitching.” By this time, she added, her children return, and the cycle starts. She said she watches a lot of videos on her phone because they provide nuskhas—home remedies and sewing and stitching tricks. “Also, in case of minor illnesses, I prefer to watch online videos and get help from there before taking any medicine and going to the doctor.” The village has no primary health centre or an empanelled government hospital in the vicinity. “My kids, eager to use the phone themselves, often ask me in annoyance, ‘Mummy, what all do you watch?’”
The everydayness of conjugal life as a shared experience had largely been missing. The couple has endured long periods of separation—often year-long—punctuated only by her husband’s returns to the village or by her rare trips to Surat. “I really like Surat. Here, women don’t understand each other,” she said and added that there was an openness in baat-vichaar—dialogue and thoughts. “There’s also work available there to do. Whether men or women, they work sitting at home. They do whatever they like,” she said, pointing to her saree. “They would do some stonework like this.” When I go there for a couple of months, I will get a job and do all of this. Embroidery work is also available there.” Surat also has fewer household responsibilities as there is “just some cleaning and cooking.”
I record everything in writing. I write the smallest of things. This way, I am aware of my expenses. I am otherwise very forgetful.
She said that staying in Surat permanently or for long periods was not an option due to childcare responsibilities. Educating and sustaining all three children would be an uphill task for the couple. The children currently study in a government school and a college close to the village at nearly no cost. This has enabled the family to also arrange coaching fees for the children. She is firm on ensuring that her children do not face her own fate, where poverty had truncated her schooling. “I don’t want my kids to live the life I lived,” she said. She also said that she feared leaving her young daughters alone in their house, citing accounts of socially disapproved romantic relationships among youth that had on occasion ended with tragic consequences such as suicide.
“My children want to study further,” Meena said, adding that she has to single-handedly listen to and manage the aspirations of her young children. She said her oldest, who is 17, wants to be a doctor. “She says, ‘Mummy, I want to learn nursing’”. Her middle child aspires to join the civil services, while her 11-year-old son, the youngest, wants to join the army. “I tell them not to dream so big, I won’t be able to do it,” she said. Pointing to the fact that there were other jobs available: stitching, computer-related jobs, beauty parlour, and barber. Her husband, she said, has been taking over the responsibility of navigating and guiding the three, who she said were all good in their studies. “My roles and responsibilities end there and his start,” she said, with hope in her tone.
Meena steers her family’s finances with quiet determination, keeping track of the monthly spending and taking on some tailoring work to shore up their savings during a money crunch. “I record everything in writing. I write the smallest of things. This way, I am aware of my expenses. I am otherwise very forgetful,” she said candidly.
In the absence of access to formal credit and support infrastructure, she has relied entirely on informal credit channels. Meena resisted obtaining loans from banks even when she felt the need for them for house construction or her children’s future, holding firmly to the belief that “byaaji paisa achcha naa hola”—borrowing on interest was undesirable. “Sometimes I think about it because there is not enough money for my children’s future. But then I pray that ‘God be kind and don’t make us see that day when we borrow from a bank.’”
I miss him the most on special occasions, on festivals, when we cook something special.
She said that the only instance when she borrowed money from the bank was to construct a separate kitchen for themselves after enduring the abuses hurled by her husband’s younger brother, who also works in Surat. “My younger brother-in-law would lash out at us for using the common kitchen or otherwise,” she said. “I cannot tolerate that. My kids are growing up, and I don’t want them exposed to this. My mother-in-law should interfere, but she doesn’t.”
She, however, also told me that she has come to regret that decision as her family continues to repay the loan a year and a half later and needs to provision for it every month. “I want to find some work and earn some money. For how long will I stay dependent? But here, there is no work. I am not that educated either,” she said. There are limited local employment opportunities in the region, and the stifling social setting has created barriers for women eager to work and support their families.
The Texture of Marriage
“Each day, we generally talk for about 5 to 10 minutes on the phone. It is mostly the children who speak at length, not me,” Meena remarked somberly. She described having spent very little time with her husband after marriage, largely navigating her life on her own. She said that she experienced loneliness more acutely earlier and often pleaded with her husband to let her stay with him in Surat, but now her children provide company and comfort, “I have gotten used to his coming and going, but it is still hard. It was even harder when I did not have children,” she said.
The feel of marriage was marked by a shy distance, rare for a relationship spanning two decades, in which the rhythms of daily intimacy in a shared life remained disrupted and slow to return. “Now, when he comes back, I feel shy talking to him for the first 2-3 days upon his return home. It feels weird. It takes some time to return to normalcy.”
She framed their separation as a form of helplessness, a matter of compulsion. The job market is marked by scarce opportunities and poor or delayed payments, even when work is available. “I miss him the most on special occasions, on festivals, when we cook something special,” Meena said. She acknowledged how hard her husband’s life was in Surat, who had to cook and manage all aspects of life, along with earning a livelihood. “Had we lived together, at least he would not have to do my share of responsibilities, and I would not have to take on his share of responsibilities,” she said.
I feel shy talking to him for the first 2-3 days upon his return home. It feels weird. It takes some time to return to normalcy.
Her reflections highlighted how togetherness, though unattainable, was deeply valued and how the emotional fabric of family life was disrupted by migration-induced separation. “You know the love of one’s husband, you can truly feel when he lives with you. It has its own unique place, something no one else can give, and it cannot be experienced from afar. When he is around, I can share anything with him,” Meena said and added that she had resigned to the fate that living together was not a possibility for them in the foreseeable future. “The important thing is that he listens and also understands. He guides me through my problems and tells me when to act and what to do. You know, when he is here with us, I feel more empowered to talk to our extended family. He is my strength, my taakat,” she said. Meena gave a recent example of how her husband managed to call her brother to visit and support the family during a crisis, illustrating how he sustains the family through indirect family networks since he is unable to be present in person.
Meena shared that her husband typically comes home for Diwali or Holi and returns after being away for about a year. When he does return, he stays for anywhere from 15 days to a month. “Ekdum achcha naa lagela (It does not feel good at all),” she said, suggesting that the costs of long-term spousal separation are deeply embodied as well. She went on to describe missing her husband’s physical presence, indicating a form of loneliness that goes beyond emotional and has bodily manifestations, affecting sleep and a sense of physical intimacy, especially in the case of a prolonged absence of the husband. Meena said that she was reluctant to discuss these needs with him, suggesting the perceived futility of voicing desires beyond immediate reach.
“He also says, ‘What use is the money that I am earning? I live here alone by myself,’” Meena said, revealing a shared sense of isolation. “I will be going to him in May,” she said. But planning a visit is not straightforward and involves sending her daughters to live with her older sister for a month and travelling with her son to Surat. The logistics involved demonstrate that the responsibility for caregiving and the children’s safety lies primarily with her. “I hope to get my children educated and settled and then perhaps think about moving to live with him,” she said.
Faith has reinforced her resilience. Though she is aware of her ability to manage most things independently, she recognises the emotional burden this places on her. In this context, her faith in God serves as a coping mechanism. “I don’t participate in a lot of rituals—puja-paath—but, surely, I do remember him in my heart,” she said. While never downplaying her own agency, she partly attributes the successes in their lives—managing to get their own space in the house and ensuring her children’s education, to divine support.
Author’s Bio: Dharini Mishra studies Development at Azim Premji University, Bengaluru, and is driven by a commitment to building a career that puts people at the heart of development work.
