Karwachauth: Since When Did Love Become a Test of Hunger?
here is something undeniably beautiful about Karwachauth.
The anticipation of the day. The rituals passed down through generations. The dressing up, the mehendi, the prayers, and that moment when a woman finally looks at the moon and then at her husband, waiting to break her fast. Beneath all the rituals lies a sentiment that is genuinely precious: I pray for your well-being. I wish for your long life. I want us to grow old together.
At its heart, isn’t that what love is about? Wanting the person you have chosen to share your life with to be happy, healthy, and by your side for years to come?
And yet, somewhere between the beautiful sentiment and the way the festival is traditionally practiced, I find myself wrestling with an uncomfortable question.
Why does expressing love have to involve suffering?
The tradition we inherited, and the guilt we continue to carry
Traditionally, Karwa Chauth has been observed by married Hindu women who fast from sunrise until moonrise, often abstaining from both food and water, praying for their husbands’ longevity and well-being.
Over the years, society has evolved. Relationships have become more egalitarian, and many couples now celebrate the festival together. Men fast alongside their wives, participate in the rituals, and express the same hopes and prayers for their partners. I think that is wonderful. It reflects the understanding that love, care, and commitment are not one-sided responsibilities.
But while our practices may be changing, I wonder whether the guilt associated with breaking tradition has evolved quite as much.
Even today, if I eat something during the fast, even fruit or something permitted within certain interpretations of the ritual, a part of me feels as though I have done something wrong. As though I have committed a small moral offense. As though I have failed at something that should come naturally to a loving wife.
And that feeling deserves some reflection.
Because what have I really done wrong?
I have listened to my body. I have responded to its need for energy. I have recognized that I cannot always function at my best without nourishment.
Why should that make me feel like a bad person?
My body is not the enemy of my devotion
I work in a demanding, technically intensive profession. My work requires concentration, sound judgment, problem-solving, and the ability to think clearly. These are not things I can simply switch off for a day and resume when the moon appears.
My brain needs energy. My body needs nourishment. And if I push myself to the point of dizziness or feeling faint, I am not necessarily demonstrating extraordinary devotion. I may simply be ignoring a signal that my body is asking me to acknowledge.
I believe in discipline. In fact, discipline is a significant part of how I try to live. I make conscious choices to look after my health, build better habits, and perform at my best. I understand that not every good decision is comfortable, and that consistency often requires sacrifice.
But there is a difference between discipline and punishment.
Discipline is choosing what helps us become healthier and stronger. Punishment is making ourselves suffer because we believe that suffering is what makes us worthy.
When did the two become so difficult to distinguish?
I can understand the spiritual significance of fasting. I can respect the intention behind it. I can appreciate the devotion of someone who chooses to observe it in its strictest form.
But I also want to believe that my devotion is not diminished simply because my body cannot or should not have to follow the same practice.
If I need to eat, I should be able to eat without feeling that I have failed my husband, my marriage, my faith, or my culture.
My body is not a bargaining chip with which I negotiate the sincerity of my love.
If my husband fasts for me, does that make it a competition?
There is something heartwarming about a husband who chooses to fast for his wife. It challenges the idea that the ritual belongs exclusively to women and recognizes that a partner’s well-being matters just as much, regardless of gender.
But I wonder whether we sometimes miss the larger point when we focus on who fasted and who did not.
If my husband fasts for me, I see it as a beautiful gesture of love. If I fast for him, I hope he sees it as an expression of the same affection.
But what if one of us cannot complete the fast?
Does the love suddenly become less real?
Would I ever measure my husband’s love by how many hours he spent hungry? Would I question his commitment to our marriage because he chose to eat when his body needed food?
I hope not.
Then why should I apply that standard to myself?
A relationship is built through thousands of ordinary moments. It is in the care we show when the other person is unwell, in the compromises we make, in the respect we offer, in the difficult conversations we have, and in the decision to keep choosing each other even when life is not particularly romantic.
Love is being someone’s safe place. It is knowing that you can be vulnerable without being judged. It is supporting each other’s ambitions, carrying responsibilities together, and showing up when things get difficult.
Surely, these things count for something.
Surely, they count for much more than whether I managed to go an entire day without eating.
The invisible burden of being a good woman
Perhaps the hardest part is not the fasting itself. It is the guilt. Unfortunately the burden is mostly (if not always) is placed on a woman.
The little voice that tells you that you should be able to do it. That women before you have done it for generations. That others can manage, so why can’t you? That eating something, even when you genuinely need it, means you are somehow less devoted.
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It is remarkable how easily a cultural expectation can become a personal judgment.
We may no longer live in a world where every woman is expected to follow every tradition without question. Many of us have careers, independent identities, financial responsibilities, and relationships in which decisions are shared. We have learnt to question practices that no longer serve us and to adapt the ones that still hold meaning.
And yet, some expectations survive quietly within us. They do not always need someone else to enforce them. We enforce them ourselves.
We feel guilty before anyone has criticized us. We judge ourselves before anyone has passed judgment. We carry the weight of an imagined disappointment, even when the people we love may not be asking us to carry it at all.
I think it is worth asking ourselves why.
Who decided that a woman’s devotion must be demonstrated through deprivation? And why does breaking a rule sometimes feel like a failure of character rather than simply a personal choice?
I do not believe that everyone who observes a strict fast is wrong. For many women, fasting is meaningful, empowering, and deeply spiritual. Their choices deserve respect.
But surely, the freedom to choose must also include the freedom to practise the festival differently.
A tradition can be meaningful without being mandatory in precisely the same form for everyone.
What if we kept the love and let go of the guilt?
I do not want to discard Karwa Chauth. I do not want to dismiss the generations of women who have observed it with faith and affection. I do not want to take away the beauty of dressing up, praying together, looking at the moon, or celebrating the life two people are building.
I want to preserve those things.
I want the prayers for long life and good health. I want the sentiment of wishing for many more years together. I want the opportunity to pause amid our busy lives and remind each other that our relationship matters.
I want the celebration without the fear of doing it incorrectly.
Perhaps we can fast if it feels right for us. Perhaps we can eat fruits, have a meal, or adapt the ritual to our circumstances. Perhaps we can pray together, express gratitude for each other, or simply spend the evening acknowledging the privilege of having someone to share life’s uncertainties with.
The ritual may look different from one couple to another. That does not automatically make one couple’s love more genuine than another’s.
And if we truly believe that Karwa Chauth is about praying for our partner’s well-being, then perhaps our own well-being deserves a place in that prayer, too.
After all, I am also someone’s partner. My health matters. My happiness matters. My ability to live a long, healthy life matters.
Why would a prayer for my husband’s well-being require me to disregard my own?
So, how do I prove that I love him?
Perhaps that is the wrong question to begin with.
Why must love be proved through a ritual? Why must devotion be validated through hunger? Why must I earn the right to feel like a good wife by pushing myself beyond what feels healthy or reasonable?
I love my husband in the life we share. In the choices we make together. In the care we offer one another. In the future we hope to build. In the ordinary, unremarkable days when there is no festival, no ritual, no moon to wait for, and no audience to witness our commitment.
I love him when I look after myself, too, because I want to be healthy enough to share that future with him.
And I want him to look after himself for the same reason.
I do not want either of us to believe that love requires us to hurt ourselves to prove that it exists.
So, this Karwa Chauth, I am allowing myself to ask a question I suspect many women have quietly asked themselves:
If I eat when I am hungry, drink when I am thirsty, or stop fasting because my body needs me to stop, does that make me love my husband any less?
I do not think it does.
I think I can honour the tradition, respect its history, cherish its meaning, and still choose what is right for my body.
I can pray for my husband’s long life without treating my own health as an acceptable sacrifice.
I can celebrate togetherness without turning it into a test of endurance.
And I can be a loving wife without feeling guilty for being a human being with human needs.
Perhaps the real evolution of a tradition is not in how many people participate in it, or whether both partners now fast instead of one.
Perhaps it is in our ability to preserve the love at its heart while letting go of the guilt that has accumulated around it.
Because, at the end of the day, I do not want my husband to have a wife who has successfully endured a day of suffering.
I want him to have a partner who is healthy, happy, fulfilled, and able to share a beautiful life with him.
And if that means I eat something before the moon rises, then so be it.
My love is not measured in hours of hunger. It is measured in the life we choose to build together.
Responsibility as a parter/husband
I do not know what to say in this specific area, however I do believe there is an equal responsibility from the parter/husband. If I have to include a check list when you select your partner, ask him about his thoughts on Karwachauth. See what he says. That will be a testament about how this person thinks and if this person is right for your future?
I do not want to conclude what’s right or what’s wrong here but I do believe the answer of this question will help ladies know what they are committing to :)
