Searching for Patriarchy in the Ramayana
Before putting Valmiki and his great epic in the dock, one ought to read the Ramayana on its own terms.
In contemporary discourse the world seems so terribly patriarchal that finding anything outside patriarchy has become almost impossible. The epics we read are patriarchal, the families we live in are patriarchal, Facebook is patriarchal, politics is patriarchal, and apparently even South Indian cinema is a patriarchal factory. Trump? Patriarchal. Social media? Patriarchal. And then there are Prakash Raj fans who seem to have discovered a magical formula: if he criticizes Modi, he is automatically progressive and non-patriarchal. Never mind the patriarchal authority figures and characters he has himself portrayed on screen—apparently, political disagreement comes with a certificate of ideological purity. Patriarchy sells. Patriarchy has capital. Patriarchy has a fan base. What is one supposed to do now? Smash it, obviously. And where better to begin than with the original “epical patriarchist” himself—Valmiki, the man who wrote the Ramayana? Unfortunately, this seems to be the mindset with which some people approach our epics: verdict first, evidence later, and the actual text somewhere at the very end.
Recently, I heard someone describe the Ramayana as a “patriarchal text.” This is hardly a new criticism; modern academic and ideological readings have repeatedly examined the epic through the lens of patriarchy, particularly when discussing Sita, Surpanakha and questions of women’s agency. So, before we enthusiastically enter the courtroom and put Valmiki on trial for the crime of patriarchy, perhaps we should pause and ask a rather inconvenient question: what exactly is patriarchy? Is every form of male authority patriarchy? Is every traditional family patriarchal? Does the presence of distinct duties for men and women automatically make a text patriarchal? Patriarchy, in its basic sense, refers to a social system in which men exercise predominant authority in family, social, political or economic life. Applying that label to an ancient text, however, requires considerably more than identifying a few uncomfortable passages.
Patriarchy Today
Before we begin hunting for patriarchy in the Ramayana, let us first understand what patriarchy means in the modern vocabulary. Scholars such as Sylvia Walby have described patriarchy as a system of social structures and practices in which men dominate, oppress and exploit women, while Pierre Bourdieu examined how domination can become so deeply embedded in social life that it appears natural and unquestioned. bell hooks, meanwhile, described patriarchy as a political-social system that insists males are inherently superior to females and therefore entitled to dominate. In contemporary discourse, the checklist can become remarkably expansive: authority, hierarchy, gender roles, unequal power, expectations surrounding marriage, family structures and even cultural representations may all become evidence. And once the checklist is sufficiently broad, one begins to wonder whether patriarchy is being discovered—or simply searched for. Perhaps, then, before putting Valmiki in the dock, we should first decide what exactly constitutes the crime.
There is, however, an amusing paradox hidden within these definitions. If patriarchy is understood primarily through the language of domination—one group possessing authority over another—then perhaps we should also examine what happens when the same framework divides society into permanent categories of “dominators” and “dominated.” Who gets to define the dominant group? Who speaks for the supposedly dominated? And what happens when an individual refuses to fit neatly into either category? A framework intended to expose hierarchy can itself become hierarchical when it begins deciding, in advance, who must be the oppressor and who must be the victim. The irony becomes sharper when this framework is carried into ancient texts: the characters are no longer permitted the complexity of their own world; they are sorted into modern categories before they are allowed to speak. Perhaps that is not the discovery of patriarchy, but another form of intellectual domination.
Ideological Lens
And here is where Valmiki becomes particularly inconvenient for the modern ideological courtroom. For a poet supposedly writing a “patriarchal” epic, he seems to have given an extraordinary amount of space to his women and men to speak, argue, question, choose and suffer the consequences of their choices. Sita is not a silent prop; Kaikeyi is certainly no silent prop; Surpanakha is hardly short of an opinion; and Rama himself is constantly caught between competing obligations. Characters make choices—and sometimes those choices are precisely what modern readers dislike. But apparently Valmiki is not allowed the luxury of being a liberal author on his own terms. His characters must first pass through our ideological customs office before they are permitted to possess agency. If Valmiki does not fit our preferred political vocabulary, perhaps the problem is not with Valmiki but with our vocabulary.
And here comes the irony. Let us, for a moment, speak entirely in the language of the modern ideological framework. If social location, oppression and marginalization determine whose voice deserves special attention, then Valmiki should surely receive a rather privileged hearing. By that vocabulary, a poet emerging from a background that many modern interpreters would describe as socially marginalized ought to be precisely the kind of voice we are expected to listen to carefully. But here is the funny part: the moment Valmiki writes something that does not fit the conclusions of today’s ideological gatekeepers, his voice suddenly becomes problematic. His characters need to be reinterpreted, his intentions questioned and his text corrected by people living thousands of years later. Guys, what happened to giving the oppressed a voice? Apparently, the voice is welcome only when it speaks the approved language. If Valmiki is to be approached through the vocabulary of marginalization, can we not extend the same principle to his literary freedom? Can a man from a supposedly oppressed background not be allowed to write his own story—even when his story refuses to agree with ours? That would be a rather peculiar definition of liberation.
Authoritarian Populism
Perhaps this is the strangest political fashion of our times: the authoritarian populism of people who insist that they are liberal. The vocabulary is wonderfully liberal—freedom, equality, inclusion, representation, diversity—but the moment someone exercises the freedom to disagree, the welcome mat mysteriously disappears. You may question everything, provided you question the approved things; you may challenge authority, provided it is the other side’s authority; and you may defend marginalized voices, provided those voices arrive at the correct conclusion. The world has therefore acquired a curious new species of liberalism: one that celebrates free thought while keeping a very strict attendance register for acceptable thoughts. Ancient texts are summoned before modern ideological tribunals, historical figures are assigned contemporary identities, and their words are then judged according to rules they never agreed to. Perhaps the greatest irony is that a movement born from the desire to liberate the individual can itself become deeply uncomfortable with the individual who refuses to conform. Freedom, it seems, is wonderfully universal—until someone actually uses it.
I hope by now I have shown you where the real patriarchy lies in this debate. It is not necessarily carried by Valmiki or embedded in the Ramayana; sometimes, it is carried in the modern minds that approach the text determined to find it. And perhaps here lies the greater lesson of Sanatana Dharma: a civilization that could honor Valmiki—whom modern categories may place among the socially marginalized—as a Maharshi, preserve his words for millennia, and place his Ramayana among its greatest pathways to understanding Bhagavan Rama, deserves at least the courtesy of being understood on its own terms. Respect a tradition that respected jnana wherever it arose. Read the Ramayana before judging it. Jai Shri Ram!
(The writer is a Bengaluru-based author and scholar. Views personal.)
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