Monalisa Bhosle, the garland-seller at the Mahakumbh mela who went viral on social media, got married this week. Big deal? Well, yes, when you consider the name of the bridegroom, Farman Khan.
Monalisa, who says she is 18, claims her family was putting pressure on her to marry someone they had picked for her, which is why they sought safe haven in Kerala. Rajya Sabha MP A Rahim, present at the wedding, said: “The couple has realised that they are safe only in Kerala where all their constitutional rights will be protected.”
Lest we forget, it was in Kerala where the high court in 2017 annulled the marriage of a 24-year-old Hadiya who had converted to Islam because she was too “weak and vulnerable” to decide for herself. It took a Supreme Court order to reverse that decision. It was also in Kerala where the “love jihad” theory, as yet unproven, was born two decades ago.
From rumour to legislation, what a long way we’ve come.
This week, Maharashtra became the 13th state to clear a bill that mandates government permission to convert. Over half of India’s citizens now live in states where interfaith marriage is effectively banned not just by parental disapproval or vigilante bullying but by law.
The bill follows a now-familiar template: 60-days-notice to the government by the person who wishes to convert and tough penalties including non-bailable jail terms of up to seven years. All states that introduce it make the same claim of protecting daughters. BJP MLA and minister Nitesh Rane sang the same refrain: “This bill will protect Hindu girls from love jihad.”
Where does protection end and infantilisation of adult women begin? The right to privacy and to make choices is guaranteed by the Constitution. This must include the right to make bad choices. Hadiya’s marriage ended in divorce, and Monalisa certainly has a knack for making news. But these are their decisions, upheld by Supreme Court precedent. “Once a person becomes a major he or she can marry whosoever he/she likes,” it ruled in Lata Singh. In the Shakti Shalini judgment, it recognised the threat to couples from their own families when it passed orders to prevent “honour” killings that included safe houses.
It’s not just the anti-conversion laws; earlier this year, the Gujarat government mandated parental consent for registering a marriage. What we are seeing, so far without much resistance, is the gradual whittling away of the spirit of recognising the autonomy of adult citizens, particularly daughters. Maharashtra has the numbers in the assembly to pass the anti-conversion law. But, warns queer feminist activist and educator Chayanika Shah, it bears dangerous portents: “This is the State legislating against anyone who is seen as falling out of line.”
In a country where 95% of marriages, according to the India Human Development Survey, are still arranged by families in accordance with caste and faith, where murders committed in the name of family honour, and where even the inter-mingling of girls and boys is frowned upon, the simple act of falling in love can be a radical if not dangerous act.
Petitions challenging these anti-conversion laws have been pending in the Supreme Court since 2020. Until then, separate judgements from various high courts carry some glimmer of hope. The Gujarat HC struck down an assumption in law that religious conversions for marriage are necessarily fraudulent. And in Madhya Pradesh, the high court said a notice period and declaration to a magistrate before converting violated the fundamental right to privacy.
Namita Bhandare writes on gender. The views expressed are personal
