It was only a matter of time before the ghastly charade of Indian matrimonial melodrama reached these shores. The mother-in-law of the Indian bride whose tragic death ignited a media frenzy has been arrested, and the British judiciary, ever the diligent spectator, now casts its watchful eye upon the proceedings. One can almost hear the rustle of ermine robes and the clearing of judicial throats from here.
Let us not pretend this is a simple case of justice. It is a circus, a grotesque spectacle wherein the dowry system a relic of feudal barbarism collides with the modern cult of victimhood. The bride, a woman whose name will be chanted by activists and forgotten by history, died under circumstances that reek of domestic tyranny. And now the matriarch, the alleged architect of this tragedy, faces the music. But whose music? The British courts, with their impeccable sense of procedural fairness, are now charged with adjudicating a cultural practice as alien to them as the Druids. Yet they will do so, with all the solemnity of a coroner examining a mouldy biscuit.
The real question is why we care. Why do we, in the comfort of our rain-sodden island, devour these tales of Indian domestic strife with such avidity? Is it moral outrage? Or is it the same thrill that drove Victorian audiences to gape at the 'Hindoo widow' immolating herself on her husband's pyre? We are a nation of voyeurs, addicted to the suffering of others, particularly when it comes dressed in exotic colours. The media, that great engine of indignation, feeds this appetite with relentless efficiency. Every detail is parsed, every tear shed for the camera, every soundbite polished for maximum outrage. The mother-in-law becomes a cartoon villain, the bride a saint, and the law a blunt instrument to be wielded by the mob.
But let us not forget the victim. She is not a symbol. She was a woman trapped in a system that values her womb over her soul, a system that persists because we allow it to persist. The dowry is not some quaint custom; it is a legalised extortion racket, a tax on womanhood. That this case has landed on British soil is a testament to the globalised nature of barbarism. We import not just spices and textiles but also the prejudices that make those industries possible. The mother-in-law may be guilty, may be innocent, but she is a symptom of a disease that knows no borders.
And so the British judiciary, with its centuries of common law, will do its best. It will weigh evidence, consider character, and deliver a verdict that will satisfy no one. The activists will howl for harsher punishment. The traditionalists will mutter about cultural interference. And the rest of us will move on to the next horror, the next tragedy, the next pixelated scream. This is the modern condition: we are all spectators at the Colosseum, and the lions have been replaced by hashtags.
What is to be done? Little. The law can punish, but it cannot cure. The dowry system will not vanish because a British judge frowns upon it. It will vanish when Indian society decides it has had enough, when mothers refuse to pay and fathers refuse to demand. Until then, we in the West will continue to tut-tut and congratulate ourselves on our moral superiority, conveniently forgetting our own histories of bride prices and property deeds that treated women as chattel. The wheel of history turns slowly, but it is always greased by tears.
In the end, this is a story about money and power dressed up as love and honour. The mother-in-law is a villain, yes. But she is also a product. And we, the audience, are the consumers. As long as we keep buying, the show will go on.
