In retrospect, it is remarkably astonishing that the seeds of doubt concerning my feminism didn’t manifest during the arduous six-month process of orchestrating my wedding. Popular culture, if given its way, would have us believe that marriage and feminism are incompatible notions, with willingly entering a heterosexual union tantamount to relinquishing one’s feminist convictions. Although the feminist movement has progressed far beyond the era of bra-burning, a mere five minutes spent donning a lehenga while enduring the superciliousness of a boutique assistant serves as a reminder that the bridal industry still preys upon female insecurities. Strangely, my initial feminist quandary managed to elude moral scrutiny until two months after my wedding, when I made the conscious choice to assume my husband’s last name as my own.
To be clear, this decision did not arise out of a dearth of alternatives. In today’s age, there are myriad fashionable ways to update one’s name post-nuptials. One could follow in the footsteps of JLo and embrace the change wholeheartedly, as she eloquently stated in an interview with Vogue, “People are still going to call me Jennifer Lopez. But my legal name will be Mrs. Affleck because we’re joined together. We’re husband and wife. I’m proud of that. It still carries tradition and romance to me.” Alternatively, one could take a more understated route by incorporating their partner’s initials into their name, much like Anand Ahuja’s thoughtful transformation into ‘Anand S Ahuja’ after his union with Sonam Kapoor. From exchanging surnames to adopting the Scandinavian tradition of selecting an entirely new family name, a plethora of options abound, with the exception of hyphenation—for no one requires such an excessively cumbersome appellation.
Yet, in this world teeming with choices, I voluntarily chose to alter my last name. Although my decision perplexed my contemporaries, I cannot deny the presence of cognitive dissonance as I immersed myself in treatise after impassioned treatise warning of the erasure of my individual identity should I adopt my husband’s last name. I pondered if I was impeding the progress of the movement or merely a cautionary tale embodying what a modern-day feminist should avoid becoming.
My musings led me to Tanya Vasunia, a psychologist, published researcher, and, more significantly, a compassionate voice of experience, having recently undergone marriage herself. “There were times when I felt like I was being a bad feminist,” she admits, causing a wave of relief to wash over me. For Vasunia, one of the challenges she encountered after marriage involved choosing between living in New York City or Washington DC. While the latter offered superior educational opportunities for her to recommence her practice, the former proved more conducive to her husband’s career. “Ultimately, the decision was based on practicality—he would earn more than me, a critical factor to consider when planning our shared future. However, we engaged in numerous challenging conversations about how I felt my identity as a woman was being marginalized during the process of building our lives together. Having already relocated for his career, there was a lack of acknowledgment that we needed to address as a couple,” she recounts.
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A candid conversation with some married friends revealed that these struggles were not unique to us, encompassing debates on whether to publicly wear a mangalsutra and the delicate navigation of living arrangements with in-laws. “You must be able to reflect on your decisions and feel a sense of satisfaction, knowing that they align with your values and your identity as a woman at that particular moment. Feminism exists on a spectrum, constantly evolving throughout your lifetime. It is essential to be the kind of woman with whom you are comfortable,” Vasunia affirms.
And, if this flawed feminist may indulge in some liberty, it is perhaps the solace found in Vasunia’s words that fosters a more inviting sisterhood, rather than a judgmental noose of disapproval. When I heeded Vasunia’s advice and allowed myself to contemplate changing my last name, my thoughts began to crystallize. Yes, there were administrative benefits to being processed as a family unit, and perhaps, a lingering trace of romance in the idea of adopting a shared name, thus instilling a sense of belonging in our future offspring. However, the most compelling reason, one that took considerable time to voice, resided in the fact that my maiden name no longer resonated with my evolving self. It is possible that the experiences life bestows upon us after marriage contribute to this sentiment, but in many ways, I felt I had matured beyond my former name. Embracing my husband’s name, therefore, became a means for me to explore a fresh facet of my identity, to don it like a garment and assess its fit.
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Yet, there are moments when the need to rationalize my decision to change my last name arises abruptly, compelling me to recite our shared choreography of responsibilities. It is as if I seek to provide evidence that we have entered this marriage as equals. However, any lingering sense of betrayal toward the feminist cause wanes as I glance up from writing this article, only to find that my husband has thoughtfully connected my nearly depleted iPad to a power source while I slept. Although it may prove challenging to possess all the answers or devise a precise blueprint for a feminist marriage, as long as my husband and I root our union in mutual respect and comprehension of each other’s contributions and struggles, be they trivial or monumental, we can journey together toward a future characterized by greater equity.
