How Female Erasure (Mis)Shapes Our History
Someone I know, discovered that her family tree does not record members of the female sex. Not daughters, nor daughters-in-law, no women. The last link shows her father’s name followed by an empty box with asterisks – because he has no sons. The legend at the base indicates:
* Unmarried
** Married but no children
*** Only daughters
This is female erasure at its starkest. We are not only a country that aborts fetuses at birth for being female. If they’re born, we won’t acknowledge their existence in a record of births.
Record-keeping is so important. It forms the foundation of all narratives that build history. This system has nullified the entire existence of half of humanity by omitting to record the females on the family tree. This isn’t just a missing name—this is female erasure, erasing the very existence of countless women.
I’ve never seen my own family tree. My ancestors were not particularly rich or remarkable or prominent in a caste-organised society. There have been verbal stories of specific individuals. A smuggler generations ago; a top cop (funnily enough his son-in-law). A fireman here, a polygamist there. A relative rumoured to work for a top secret government department. A collector. A politician. An engineer who built the first hovercraft while still in college. All men.
I assumed, without much thought, that no remarkable women existed in my family. And I know I’ll be forgotten too, a thought that never bothered me before. I’ve never set much store by the idea of leaving a legacy or having my name known generations after I pass. But I wonder now if some amount of that male ego is necessary.
Erasing women from memory
Female erasure isn’t new—it’s woven into history, where women’s achievements were often minimized or forgotten. Possibly the first known instance of science fiction in English literature was authored by a woman. It was originally published anonymously and why does that surprise us? As recently as the 1990s, a woman abbreviated her first name to just an initial to be able to publish a story about a wizarding school.
Mary Shelley’s initial anonymity shows the deep-rooted female erasure in literature and culture. It’s possible that the book only even got published because Mary was white, privileged and the daughter of an illustrious philosopher. It would have been easier to erase Mary Shelley since became an unwed mother from a relationship with an already married man.
And yet, history is full of authors, artists, musicians, politicans and even religious leaders who are flagbearers of nepotism and have done much worse (rape, murder, slavery, war, genocide, looting, exploitation). Their fandoms remain as robust as ever, their fans demanding that you separate the art from the artist. That idea is never extended to women. We are barely perceived as human and individual; much less allowed to have things in our life beyond the personal.
One of the early reviews of Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein outs her gender and blames that for the novel’s flaws:
Isn’t it interesting that Frankenstein while being a classic for an audience that’s mostly male (often toxically so sciencebros) explores the complexity of creating something that turns against you? Only a woman could have written that.
The women of my history that I almost didn’t know
My assumption about there being no remarkable women I was related to, isn’t unique—many of us unknowingly overlook the women in our lineage because they’re simply not recorded. This year, I became close to an elderly aunt. I never saw her at the rare functions I attended as a child. Living in Mumbai, we were cut off from the usual social glue of rituals & festivals that bind Indian communities.
As it was, I only connected with her because of the specific efforts of a few men across generations. My grandfather was very close to her husband despite being of a different generation and related only by marriage. He would travel to their town often. Her husband was very fond of my father (a younger cousin separated by distance) and would call often. My dad is very fond of her son. And her son (a second cousin in my sea of aunts/uncles/cousins of my generation) is the big brother I’ve never had. He pranks me while I yell at him; he is also there when I or my parents are unwell without question, without even needing to be asked. And he made it possible for me to build a relationship with my aunt.
In Indian families, the default trajectory of relationships goes along the lines of duty and these are always defined by the male members. Familial relationships are fulfilled (not nurtured) as obligations, as charted in records such as the family tree. If even one of these men had not bucked that trend, my aunt and I would never have met. If not for luck and these men’s actions, female erasure would have kept me from knowing my aunt’s story and my own history.
I don’t remember seeing her at any of the engagements, weddings, vallaghappu (baby shower) or arangaitrams (first public Bharatanatyam performance). It only occurs to me now that she might not have been included in these because after her husband passed away, she ceased to exist in people’s minds. When all women are seen only as their function to men, why would history care about the ones ceasing to be so?
My aunt was widowed when she was very young, leaving her two sons under the age of 10. I vaguely knew that she was ‘a working woman’ and I assumed that that took care of everything. How conveniently we write off the entire life stories of women! If she had been a man who lost a wife young and had two children to take care of, everyone would have rallied around to ensure that the roles of spouse, caregiver and co-parent were filled as soon as possible. The societal expectation to focus on male achievements perpetuates female erasure and reinforces patriarchal narratives.
My great-grandmother was also widowed young and she had three little boys to care for. It would have been unheard of, for her to work. Her brother supported her financially as long as he was able to. And her oldest son (my grandfather) joined the army instead of studying to be a doctor so he could contribute to the family income. I never met her because she passed away when my mother was very young. What do I know about her?
She was a gentle mother-in-law (by unanimous agreement of all three of her daughters-in-law), in direct contrast to the Indian pattern of bully MILs. She travelled with my grandparents to New Delhi in the ‘50s to help them set up home, despite having no knowledge of the language, the culture and never having had any exposure outside the house. She had very little education but wrote spiritual poetry (discovered in ragged pages after her death). Was she the original writer in my family, and I just one of her descendents with her bequeathed gift of writing?
It shouldn’t take luck or happenstance to know women’s stories. Should our lives not be documented as naturally and thoroughly as the men’s? Reflecting on my family history, I realize how much female erasure robbed me of a richer narrative, of a larger tapestry of familial life to relate to and take pride in belonging to.
Strong women are also like this
I discovered that my aunt has an M.A. in History in addition to the B.Ed degree that let her have the profession and her independence. That she achieved these well after she got married. Her husband supported her studying, another remarkable thing for 70s small town Tamil Nadu. I wonder how much that also contributed to people ‘forgetting’ about her existence after my uncle passed.
Tamilian society is just as patriarchal as the other parts of India. It isn’t necessarily very visible or obvious but it shows in the way we just erase women from our minds. If she can take care of herself, we are not required to think about her, is the attitude. Popular media doesn’t help; it perpetuates female erasure by only showing narrow images of strong women.
On this trip, we were taken to see a rare monument of significant historical value. It is closed to the general public. You can only enter after applying for numerous permissions and even then those permissions are usually only granted to archeologists, postgraduate students of history and such. How did we come to be on this tour? Because the guide had been a student of my aunt. He was proud to show his work to his teacher and her family. It was such an honour and all because we were related to her.
My aunt doesn’t present as the image of ‘strong woman’ that popular media likes to convey. She’s mild-mannered and doesn’t speak much. Then suddenly in her dulcet tones, she’ll drop a humorous observation. Or tap me gently on the arm to point out something wildly funny or equally wise. I am so proud to be related to her; so happy to have been able to become close to her. Strength doesn’t have to be loud. Women often show it through quiet endurance and small acts of kindness that sustain families and communities.
I saw my aunt stumble as she stepped off a boat and almost fall into the water. And then I watched her right herself with complete dignity and continue the arduous walk up to Kanyakumari temple without batting an eyelid, her good humour unfazed. As we turned a corner, she said to me,
“I thought I must be the oldest person on this boat. Ramya, look at that.”
And she pointed to a figure trundling past. Bent over with age, using a walking stick and determinedly plodding up the path was a lady clad in a plain white saree. She must have been in her 90s. Her saree drape suggested that she was North Indian and a widow. And she was in the Southernmost tip of the country, making her way to see the magnificent view. Aren’t desi women just wonderful?
Once-famous, now reclaimed women
The advent of streaming services has created a space (however token) for stories of women. Of older women. Of divorced women. Of single women. Of single moms. And finally we get to see people that we only ever knew as young girls, pretty, flighty objects for the plot progress of male stars. Remember Tina Munim of the sulky faced Bombay train romance of Baaton Baaton Mein? I happened to be in the same room as her a few years ago. It was a conference room. The occasion was a business meeting – a pitch to the Kokilaben Hospital’s marketing team. And I was part of the team doing the pitching.
We walked through the familiar hospital and entered the conference room. As my eyes passed around the table, I registered very late that one of the unobstrusive faces belonged to a former Bollywood star. Of course, I knew that she runs the hospital. I was really surprised to see her there. Why? Top management don’t usually attend pitch meetings like these, deeming it to be beneath their status. It was easy to assume that a Bollywood actress was only the (pretty) face of a venture, rather than a fully contributing member of the organisation.
How wrong I was! Tina Ambani was easily the most memorable senior client that I had ever presented to. She didn’t undercut or interrupt her team. She was just one of the many people listening. She asked questions – useful ones. And she listened for answers from every person speaking. Everything felt respectful as well as practical. Even in a city that is usually good about not letting egos get in the way of pragmatism (we leave that to Delhi), this meeting was a really positive experience for me. Even if we didn’t get the project. Seeing her as a capable leader was eye-opening, another instance where female erasure had kept me from understanding her full story.
It was a similar revelation when Zeenat Aman started an Instagram account. Read the captions, she is a remarkable storyteller. Reclaiming these stories is essential—without it, future generations will lose the chance to be inspired by the real, complex lives of women. It makes a difference to the next generations of women to know they’re not the first to raise a voice to a system that doesn’t see them.
I came across an old interview of Amrita Singh. The one that many of us from the 90s remember is on the Simi Garewal show, a newly married giggly Amrita with her much younger husband, Saif Ali Khan. At the time, I thought he looked regal, every inch the Indian royal. While she was charming, bubbly, likeable, Amrita Singh was never going to look classy in the same way. It was a sweet picture of true love. And really, that was the OG gender swapped May-December fairytale, never mind Priyanka & Nick jiju.
This is a different interview with an older Amrita Singh after her divorce. The interviewer is Pooja Bedi, whom I had hoped would take a more progressive tack, given her own wildchild days in the 90s. Instead, I was appalled at her needling of her guest’s choice to quit working after marriage, then return to work after her divorce. But Amrita, Amrita – what a picture of dignity.
She sounded calm and at peace with all that she was talking through. She didn’t get pulled into a trap of being defensive or dramatic. Her matter-of-fact responses had all the charm of her Simi interview bubbliness. And now there’s something even better than class. There’s grace. Here’s her interview. Even in recognizing influential figures, we must confront female erasure that often overshadows their contributions.
Why we need to record women’s lives better
My aunt could probably explain better why history is incomplete and flawed without the records of half its population. Women’s stories are more remarkable too, not the least because they are so far and few. Women go through many more challenges to achieve the same thing that men do. That makes women’s journeys far more inspiring. For the same reason, women make for better leaders. My gender has had to worry about so many other people for long, while also fighting to exist, that the skills of big vision, resource management and sustainability come naturally now. Leaving women out of family records doesn’t just erase individual lives—it distorts entire family histories and skews our understanding of society.
Earlier this year, my mother was part of a religious function held at a temple. My father and I sat by watching the rituals and listening to the singing. When the program was over, the group made their way to a tiny lift. It had been raining heavily and the staircases were slippery. In addition, they were all senior citizens with the entire gamut of joint, bone and back related issues, my father the only man.
One of the ladies insisted that my father take the lift while my mother joined her in walking down the stairs. Uncomfortably, my father explained that it was my mother who had joint trouble and he didn’t. I assumed the lady’s idea had to do with my father being the older one. But as he said to me later,
“I think they’re all used to having to take care of the men and with women just figuring out how to deal with situations.”
Take a look around anywhere in the world at people over the age of 50. Mid-life crisis, retirement woes – all of these are assumed to happen to men only. Every culture has younger men being disproportionately pampered and older men being pandered to, fussed over and served. While the women of every age are part of the ones doing the serving. Doing the living. Why then are we not included in the history of life?
This is a great post. As a story teller, I love finding lost stories. While I do mourn the loss we’ve sustained, I rejoice in what you’ve been able to learn, and have hope in the future of people like you telling more stories. I’m impressed by your father’s response too.