Imagine an invisibility cloak that follows a woman wherever she goes. It hides the right half of her body and makes it transparent. A man stands behind her, making her body appear half hers and half his. Nobody finds it strange because people believe that a woman’s identity is inextricably linked to the men in her life. An invisibility cloak sounds mystical, something that can only appear in fantasy movies. But if you look more closely, a woman has walked around with it since her birth. It is her surname.

“I will be removing the surname from my citizenship card when I grow up”, I declared while cleaning the dining table when I was very young. My mom turned around from the kitchen stove and gave me a furious look. My father, who was quietly using his phone at the dining table, chuckled without lifting or turning his head. “This girl’s reading habit has gone too far now”, said my mother, as she thought I got such ideas from the fictional novels I read. The kitchen went silent; I giggled. “This is not something to joke about, naani. Don’t try to be oversmart,” she added.

That moment ended; days and nights went by, but even today, I ponder why it was my mother who was greatly offended by me not wanting to keep my father’s and my to-be husband’s surname. Why didn’t my father react in the same way? Is it because my mother knows that the system and society will recognise me, her and any other woman only by a man’s surname?

But it isn’t just my mother who stands in the way of me finding my identity outside the surname I’m given. The whole historical idea of Manuvaadi gotra, as well as today’s governmental system, will not recognise me as a citizen without a proper lineage or just my mother’s name. But why would I entertain a surname and gotra that is one ‘donation’ (kanyadaan) away from changing? Why wouldn’t I leave the section on my citizenship empty, if I, as a woman—without help from a man—possess no title to fill in it?

Systems that failed her

Traditions differ from place to place. Different rituals exist around the world. However, when it comes to giving surnames to women, the practice remains universal. They are given either their father’s or their husband’s surname. Most people find this practice normal because this concept isn’t new; it has been driving along with humanity for centuries. Even when there are no binding roles, most women—in a heterosexual marriage—still prefer to take their husband’s surname. Moreover, research shows that women need to use their full name in a professional setting to gain recognition in a male-dominated field, especially STEM. Her name alone doesn’t suffice because she will be disregarded as a woman and automatically be confused as a man. Thus, this indicates that women still have a long fight against patriarchal norms.

In a heterosexual marriage, it takes a man and a woman to continue a lineage. But the woman is deemed dispensable while creating vamsavalis. Her existence remains questionable when a genealogical paper is checked. Even when she carries the weight of her surname, she has no identity. Where will she be recognised, and when will her name be enough? The Constitution of Nepal, 2015, grants citizenship rights to children in their mother’s name. But this provision has yet to be realised in practice. The process of obtaining citizenship through a mother’s name is filled with obstacles. We hear many stories about the lengthy bureaucratic processes, filled with questions and suspicions, when people go to have their citizenship cards made in their mother’s name. In some cases, children have been denied their citizenship altogether. Her name, although clung to a man’s label, isn’t sufficient to provide her child with a better future.

Even when a woman holds a man’s surname, her name is disposable and insignificant. The prevailing social and governmental systems fail her. Her surname fails her. She drags her last name around with pride, but it doesn’t give her the same honour. She remains in the shadows of men forever.

Where do women belong?

Another incident transpired. Every Dashain, on Dashami, our ‘clan’ has a kuldevata puja. Everyone in my family, except me, is ‘eligible’ to participate in it. I asked my mother why I was the outlier in this ritual, and she said that it was because my gotra would change after I got married. This ritual indirectly states that I will eventually be tossed away like a foster pet to my ‘in-laws’ to claim their gotra and surname. That is why I don’t qualify to get involved in the ‘clan’ I was born in. The women in my family believe that if I mistakenly hear the name of the kuldevata and their mantra, I will become a curse for the whole family.

So, questions arise: “Will my to-be husband’s family name make me the daughter of their lineage when the surname I held since birth couldn’t make me my family’s own?” Where do I belong? Where is my and every woman’s sole identity? Will I and they always just remain “falaano surname ko chhori” and “falaano surname ko budhi?” What is so good about keeping a surname that fails to give me a home?

Hence, as a woman, I would claim that everything I achieve belongs to my first name. As a woman, I would bend Shakespeare’s saying and instead ask: “What’s in a surname?”