Buntedi: The Work Was Never New- On Inheritance and Labour in Bunt Society

Welcome to Buntedi, a series born from memory, history, humour, and no small amount of stubborn pride — and possibly a few servings of neer dosa and unsolicited advice from grandmothers. Over the past four years, I’ve penned 37 essays and memos — personal notes on life as a Bunt woman, observations from across oceans and generations, and reflections on a matrilineal society that’s equal parts complex and compelling. I’ll be releasing them here, one by one. Think of them as letters from a land where inheritance has long had a different shape, and women never waited for permission to work. In fact, they probably built the office and sent the invoice.

When I moved to America, people would ask — “Where is your family in India from? Punjabi? Tamil?” I’d say, “Actually, I speak Tulu,” and without fail, they’d say, “Ah, Telugu!” No shade to Telugu — great language, excellent cinema — but it frustrated me how easily India was flattened into a single flavour. Much like England has a new accent every 25 miles, India has a new dialect, cuisine, and culture every 25.

Tulunadu, the region we’re from, sits between Goa and Kerala, forming a significant part of India’s western peninsula. It’s a land where the Portuguese were once defeated by Rani Abbakka Chowta, where slums are rare, and where temples, mosques, and churches are not only places of worship but also social anchors.

In many parts of India, the entry of women into the workforce is described as a recent phenomenon — a cultural shift, a modern development. Scholars like Aruna Ranganathan have rightly observed the tensions and transitions that come with this change. But the Bunt community of Tulunadu tells a different story. Here, women were never "first-time workers."

Historically, Bunt women have run estates, managed nurseries, set up schools, and handled complex business negotiations — often while remaining unnamed in the official archives. Labour here is not an act of rebellion or newfound freedom. It is tradition. It is expectation. It is power passed down. In Bunt society, work is not a disruption to femininity. It is integral to it.

Even today, the echoes remain. Millionaire Bunt men, when asked about their success, will often mention the critical role their sisters or wives played — not as passive support, but as architects of the journey. Many of these women choose to place men at the forefront publicly while remaining the decision-makers in private. Power, in this community, is often worn subtly — but wielded unmistakably. You know who really signed that cheque.

My father, a Bunt man, was proud that his wife earned more than him, and he prayed for a daughter over a son. He expected more from women than men — not because he undervalued men, but because he believed in the innate strength of women and it was a part of his culture. My paternal grandmother, now in her 90s, still runs her businesses and holds her granddaughters to higher standards than her grandsons. Her expectations were not unusual. They were cultural — maybe even constitutional, if the Bunt community ever wrote one (though we’d probably still be arguing about the kori rotti recipe on the same page).

I grew up hearing stories of formidable Bunt women. One from before my grandmother's time was a dynamo — running nurseries, factories, and schools. Another was a doctor who found herself a house husband, a man whose duty was to her family. In the Bunt society, this wasn’t scandalous. It was Tuesday. He didn’t inherit land — he managed it on behalf of his wife or sister. Even the domestic arrangements wore power suits.

Even the language this region speaks, Tulu, gives something away. It is rich in vocabulary related to action, business, and justice — but it lacks the romantic flourish found in other tongues. Love is formal. Power is precise. You can’t grow up in this community without understanding the weight of work, the value of independence, and the currency of marriage as capability.

Inheritance, too, follows this rhythm. Aliya-Santhana, the matrilineal system unique to Bunts, ensured that property was passed through daughters. Even now, in households where both sons and daughters exist, the cultural tilt toward daughters persists — not just in sentiment, but in action. Daughters are educated more, given more, and leaned on more. Sons adapt to the homes they marry into, but their natal families often see them as lifelong supporters — particularly in service of their sisters. Emotional labour is gender-neutral here — it just comes with more WhatsApp messages.

Marriage in Bunt society is a currency of capability. Families that lacked daughters equipped to carry forward an estate or business found sons-in-law who could. If a daughter wasn’t a doctor, she was married to one. If a son inherited by default, the family ensured his wife could carry the torch. No pressure!

After the Karnataka Land Reforms Act, many Bunts migrated — to Bombay, Madras, England, and America. In Bombay, they opened restaurants and hotels, sometimes entering the underworld. Those who went abroad entered professions like medicine, law, and academia. But wherever they went, the matriarchal fabric of their identity endured. Daughters remained central, sons became satellites. Even in exile, the mothers ran the ship — and probably the catering.

This is not nostalgia. This is ethnography. And not the dry, dusty kind. It’s a lens shaped by institutional theory and behavioural economics — a way to examine how work, wealth, gender, and power get handed down and reinterpreted. How structure and sentiment co-exist in the same kitchen. Or boardroom. Or WhatsApp family group.

Buntedi is my attempt to bring these reflections into the open — not only to honour a society where women have always been central to the economy, but also to interrogate how that power operates. Because while matriarchy may sound romantic to those outside it, it is not without fault. Matrilineal societies, like all others, are shaped by contradictions, blind spots, and biases. This isn’t a PR campaign. It’s a field study — one filled with pride, humour, questions, and the occasional raised eyebrow (and possibly a coconut shell thrown in for good measure).

In Bunt culture, status and wealth are visible markers, but the muscle underneath it all is a woman — a Buntedi. A word that does not just mean a Bunt woman, but signifies a kind of unstoppable strength: independent, entrepreneurial, proud, and poised.

In this society, the work was never new. The labour was never radical. It was simply hers — as it always had been.

And now, dear reader, you’re invited to join me in exploring this world — essay by essay — to better understand how matriarchy survives, stumbles, and sometimes even outsmarts itself. The first of my 37 essays will follow soon. Stick around — the Buntedis have a few stories to tell.

Disclaimer: There are always exceptions to everything. I do delve into the other communities and castes of Tulunadu in my later essays, but contextually, I focus more on the Bunts. Again, this is just one community.

Disclaimer 2: My research has its limitations. Feel free to send us a message on any observed ones.

P.S. I started focusing on this study after a class I took at HEC Paris. My Professor was shocked that such a community existed after hearing of only suppressed women and female infanticide narratives in India.

P.P.S. If you are a Bunt reading this and you have an interesting story, feel free to leave a message using the live chat option at any time. I'd love to hear it and keep it a part of my research while anonymising your names.

P.P.P.S. Aishwarya Rai and Shilpa Shetty are Bunts. Also, Suniel Shetty.