Are kitty parties still relevant?

On an ordinary Thursday, the hum of Noida life was rudely stilled for 20-something Simranh. A sudden drop in blood pressure laid her flat on her back, making her feel like a stranger in her own new haven. The familiar sounds of the neighborhood seemed distant, her husband away, and her young children a world unto themselves. “It was a wave of nausea,” she recalls, the memory painting a seasick grimace on her face. “My elder daughter was in school, the little one barely two, and I had no one to call for help. I had barely stepped out of the house in my early years of marriage, except for my monthly kitty parties.”

It was then that fate, disguised as a phone call, intervened. A woman from her kitty, a women’s social group, dialled at just the right moment. In hushed tones, Simranh painted her predicament, and within minutes, her lifeline arrived. Throughout the day, this friend from her sisterhood soothed her fears, tended to her baby, procured medicine, and ensured the elder daughter returned home to a warm meal as usual.

As a part of the globalised urban crowd, with the internet and freedom seemingly at my fingertips, the concept of kitty parties had always appeared frivolous—mere gossip fests. But these gatherings, created as informal savings circles in the 1950s, were, and are, so much more. They whisper of a time when married women were denied the simple pleasure of a weekend bar visit, or even a coffee date with friends. Confined to domesticity, they yearned for a slice of their lives, a space to breathe. And these women-only clubs, with their occasional financial injections, became their sanctuary. 

For many women across South Asia, and the South Asian diaspora throughout the world, kitties offer a glimpse of liberation even today. A space to discuss the creepy uncle lurking on the street, flaunt a coveted sari, or share, as Simranh calls it, “women’s private problems”. Simranh’s group exemplifies the spectrum. Their evenings might see them engrossed in tambola (a vibrant bingo-like game), sharing a potluck feast, or indulging in spirited window shopping through the streets of Delhi. Other kitties, with older members or a more devout lean, hum bhajans and savour tea and cookies.

Rhea, living with her husband and in-laws in Vasant Kunj, paints a different picture. “Married young, love was unknown to me,” she confides, a wry smile playing on her lips. “My kitty friends and I, we escape every few months. Luxury vacations are our thing—places where we can flaunt our designer bags, with some mimosas by the pool—for a taste of freedom. My husband doesn’t mind the indulgence, as long as it stays unseen.” These women, denied expression at home, find joy in impromptu getaways—Bali one month, Sri Lanka the next, their laughter echoing in places devoid of judgement.

For the diaspora, these parties are essential tools that help women hold onto their roots, and let them connect with people who share them. Gurmehar, an MBA graduate who relocated to South Kensington after her nuptials, finds solace in these gatherings. “We celebrate as many festivals as possible, from Eid to Diwali,” she beams. “It’s a reminder of home, a balm for our longing, you know?” 

Born from the ashes of the Partition of 1947, these groups once helped middle-class women navigate financial storms through communal funds that they could dig into when necessary. Today, they offer women, living mundanely curated lives, a chance to celebrate themselves. From dress-coded events to performers they hire on special occasions, kitties offer some a space to be, others a more serious escape from toxic households, stressful days, or just plain old loneliness. As Gurmehar declares, “We are more than gossip! We share burdens and joys. On these afternoons, we shed what the world expects of us, and rediscover ourselves, far away from the male gaze.” It doesn’t get more feminist than that.

 

Illustrations by Jishnu Bandyopadhyay

This article originally appeared in Harper's Bazaar India in March 2024, print issue. 

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