Datth, Hakk, Maryaadi, and Paal: A Bunt Tapestry of Adoption, Rights, Respect, and Inheritance
SSN Shetty- May 1
- 11 min read
In Tulunadu, adoption wasn’t just about raising a child. Inheritance wasn’t merely a question of property. And respect— maryaadi— was never random. In Bunt society, these were threads in a living tapestry, woven with kinship, memory, and code. Over generations, what began as ritual became reason, and what once spoke the language of love began speaking in the tongue of law.
This essay walks through lived histories and personal echoes, tracing how Datth (adoption), Hakk (rights), Maryaadi (honour/respect), and Paal (division of property/inheritance) danced through Bunt's life—sometimes as a blessing, sometimes as the battlefield, and quite often as a very spicy family WhatsApp group.
During my research, I found myself wandering—both metaphorically and through dusty texts—into the corridors of other matrilineal communities. The Travancore Royal Family of the Venad Dynasty, for instance, were matrilineal and had far more written records (thank you, meticulous scribes!) than the dynasties of Tulunadu, which danced more with oral history.
It was here that the concept of adoption grabbed my attention. The royals of Travancore grew their empires through adoption, and naturally, I wondered: What about the Bunts? That led me down the rabbit hole—to find Datth Dethondina (adopted) or Datth Gethondina and Datthog Korthini (gave up for adoption). Both mean the same; only the dialects of Tulu differ depending on which side of Tulunadu you're listening from.
Yes, adoption did exist among Bunts, and not just as an act of kindness but as a strategic chess move in the game of inheritance and survival. If you’ve read my earlier essays on the aftermath of the badhi (dowry) system, you’ll remember how the absence of a fit female or male heir could lead to a household being reclaimed by the monarch—yes, royal repo men, basically.
But we can't talk about just adoption, so bear with me as I attempt to unpack four themes in one essay. Maybe a shoddy job, but I've tried.
You’ll recall the grim scenario: no daughter, no son, no heir? The king or the nearest cousin with a sly grin could swoop in and claim your estate. No pressure.
Let me spin you a few yarns.
The Sisters’ Pact
Once upon a monsoon, in a land of mango trees and gossip, lived Solme, the second sister of an Arasa—ruler of an Aramane (Palace). Solme didn’t inherit the big house; that honour went to her elder sister. Instead, she was gifted a Beedu as part of her dowry. (Yes, dear reader, back then, land was wrapped up in silk and called a wedding gift.)
The earliest form of Datth I discovered was between sisters. Take Solme, for instance—the second sister of the ruling Arasa of an Aramane. Her elder sister inherited the palace; Solme got a Beedu (noble house) as a dowry. She had three daughters and no sons. Normally, her eldest daughter would inherit the Beedu. But during wartime, households were expected to have at least one able male child. Otherwise, the Arasa could reclaim the Beedu and redistribute it to a more "suitable" matrilineal heir (santhana).
Enter politics. Enter cunning. Enter love disguised as strategy.
But Blood Has Its Own Plans
Solme feared that if her Beedu passed to a cousin’s line, her daughters would be demoted to a Guthu (feudal house) existence or no inheritance. So, what does Solme do? She has a heart-to-heart with her youngest sister, Padakka, who has two boys. Solme adopts one while he’s still a toddler. Padakka, who only received a Guthu in her Paal, is now elevated. Her son becomes a Beedu man. The inheritance stays in the Kavar (family line), and Padakka gains more Maryaadi both in her own home and at Solme’s.
And the saga doesn’t stop there.
Solme’s elder sister Meenakka, Aramane’s heiress, loses her only daughter to smallpox. Now left with just a son—uh oh, succession crisis.
Solution? She adopts Solme’s eldest daughter and Solme's second daughter becomes Gurkaardi of the Beedu. That way, both the Aramane and the Beedu stay snug within the Kavar (same family line). Neat, right?
Fast-forward to the 1880s
Fast forward a few generations to the 1880s. Maayakka, a descendant of Solme and the Gurkaardi of the Beedu, has two sons but no daughters. Custom dictates that her Beedu should go to her cousin Gulabakka. But Maayakka adopts Gulabakka’s daughter, Ratna. All is well until Maayakka miraculously gives birth to a biological daughter.
Cue the thunderclouds.
Though Ratna was supposed to inherit, the birth of Maayakka’s own daughter tilted the scales. Bloodlines trumped promises. Ratna caught between her adoptive and biological families, lost her Hakk (rights) in both. Ratna had now lost Hakk in her adoptive house and her biological house. Villagers knew she was adopted. There was no legal paperwork, just whispered witness accounts. This, my dear readers, is where I saw the cracks of conflict.
Still with me? Good. We’re not done.
Backtrack to the 1750s
Let’s rewind to the 1750s. Meenakka’s Aramane is now under Ambakka. She has two daughters and a son. Her brother, the Arasa, is childless. Ambakka offers her son, Angaara, as his ward. There’s no inheritance involved—just grooming. But really, it was a strategic move to prevent her sister-in-law from adopting someone else from her own matrilineal home. Can’t risk sharing Maryaadi and Hakk, right? What if that child who was not of her Kutumba (matrilineal lineage) tricked her brother into an inheritance?
And By the 1900s… The Curious Case of Deju and Poovakka
Now fast forward again to the 1900s. Shame replaced strategy. A woman unable to conceive faced social pity and no Bayyakke (baby shower). Adoption became an emotional necessity. And yet, this birthed a new set of expectations. Adoptions involved pre-agreed terms—last names, ceremonies, and who gets to sit where at family functions.
Let’s take Deju. He and his wife Poovakka couldn’t have kids. Poovakka adopts her brother’s daughter. Her sister-in-law agreed because she had less wealth and wanted her daughter's Maryaadi to rise with the silent greed of Paal.
But this wasn’t just an emotional exchange—it involved Panchaathige and Paathera. The adoptive child’s rights had to be acknowledged, like a little contract sealed with coconuts and conscience.
Things get emotional. Women who couldn’t bear children carried invisible shame. Baby showers became both celebration and subtle stings. Adoption became an act of love—but also came with legal scribbles and whispered conditions:
“You can adopt my daughter, but she keeps our surname.”
“She gets inheritance only if your own daughter doesn’t come along later…”
“We’ll need to involve the Panchaathige and the Paathera, just in case your memory fails you in old age.”
People got smart. Also slightly suspicious.
By the 1940s, legal recourse had become more common.
After the 1980s...
Datth within the family circle began to fade. Legal adoptions from orphanages rose. The days of adopting a nephew like a mango plucked from a cousin’s tree were over. Modernity had arrived—with paperwork, court cases, and sometimes, unfortunately, WhatsApp fights between siblings.
By the 1980s, adoption within families dwindled. The Bunt dynasties were merely symbolic. The strategy gave way to sentiment. But the obsession with bloodlines? That remained. Especially among men. Inheritance wasn’t just about fairness—it was about DNA. Men who made wealth left more to biological nieces than to their adopted children.. Women were less attached to bloodlines post-colonisation. And if an adopted child was one of two or three. The biological children inherit more regardless of gender. There are very few exceptions.
Ughh my head hurt even writing this.
Let’s Talk Hakk (Rights)
Let’s talk Hakk. A slippery, shape-shifting term.
A wife had little Hakk in her husband’s house if his sisters stood guard. But the husband, as an Aliya (son-in-law), had more Hakk in his wife's house than her own brothers.
Hakk was wealth-driven. Bring a hefty Badhi (dowry), and you gain Hakk.
Blood and Kavar ties dictated Hakk. The closer the blood, the higher the claim.
Hakk differed by matrilineal versus patrilineal origin. Your mother’s family had more say than your father’s.
Wealth could tilt the balance regardless of relation. The richer kavar (line) always had a louder voice.
Enter Maryaadi (Respect)
Maryaadi was a performance—a pageant of status, let's go back to the example of Solme:
Solme’s brother—the Arasa—stood highest in Maryaadi. His voice carried weight, his presence turned heads. In him, the lineage’s pride and authority were seated.
Solme’s sister Meenakka walked just a step behind, draped in double honour. Not only was she the gurkaardi—the keeper of the keys and heart—but she also cradled her daughter, now her ward, in her care. Her Maryaadi rose like incense: rightful, resounding, revered.
Solme’s sister-in-law—her brother’s wife—was met with grace. She was treated kindly, her place assured by courtesy and care. If she ever needed a shield, Solme would rise. But in matters of voice and power, her word whispered lower in the room.
Solme’s youngest sister Padakka stood higher still. Blood, yes—but more than that, her son had become Solme’s own ward. That boy, nestled in Solme’s protection, lifted Padakka’s Maryaadi above the sister-in-law’s—firm, familiar, favoured.
Then came Solme’s husband—fifth in the line. Yes, fifth. Even below the sister-in-law.For it was she who brought the badhi, that sacred bundle to bless the granary and keep bellies full. Still, Solme’s husband mattered. Meenakka gave him the honour of an Aliya, and Padakka, after her wedding, called him elder brother. He was respected—not for what he demanded, but for how others chose to offer.
Now, let us pause and learn the art of Poddher—the world of in-laws. Here, Maryaadi danced in circles, spiralling through kin and custom:
To her own husband’s parents, Solme bowed, as tradition bade her do.
But the poddher of Meenakka, her sister, were wrapped in the same reverence— because sisterhood bound hearts more tightly than marriage alone.
Padakka’s in-laws, too, were welcomed with care.
Even her brother’s in-laws were acknowledged—but in quieter tones. The poddher of sisters always sang louder than those of brothers.
And not just sisters—first and second cousins who were girls wove their own poddher into the fabric. These extended in-laws were fed first, helped first, and invited first. Maryaadi meant service, welcome, and attention—and this was given where women’s ties reached. Because in this world, the branches grew from the daughters.
And still, the branches kept growing. Solme, though she bore no sons, had wards to raise—and their poddher, too, received Maryaadi. Yet nothing matched the grace given to the poddher of daughters. Not even close. For in this house, in this land, in this line—the Maryaadi of a girl’s world always rose higher than that of a boy’s.Like the tide answering the moon.
Even in-laws had rankings. Your sisters’ in-laws could sometimes out-Maryaadi your own husband’s family. The poddher (in-law networks) were like emotional spiderwebs. Tug one, and everyone felt the shake.
And Finally, Paal (Inheritance/Division of Property)
It often came in the form of dowry—land given at the time of a daughter’s marriage. (See my article on badhi for context.)
But things got more complex when there were many daughters. I've discussed Paal at length in another essay.
Take Hemakka, for example. She had nine daughters. In such cases, the older daughters would traditionally receive larger portions of land. The first daughter would get the largest because she would inherit the main house and her Aliya would reign. The younger daughters were often married strategically into families where they could exercise hakk (rights). These daughters were given dowry in the form of gold, silver, and cattle instead of land.
However, situations could change. If the youngest daughter lost her husband and returned to her maternal home with her children, she was fully within her rights to ask for paal—even if the land she requested lay within her eldest sister’s property.
By the 1870s and beyond, paal distribution became more influenced by favouritism among sisters, though the system remained matrilineal.
This led to increased involvement of panchaathige (community or family councils) to mediate disputes over who was entitled to what.
Let’s also consider Hemakka’s middle daughters. They were married off with significant dowries to well-positioned families. But if they didn’t get along with their sisters or were denied support from their in-laws, they, too, might seek paal—sometimes from their husband’s property, other times hoping for a share in their maternal estate.
As economic conditions changed in the 1880s, with the growth of family businesses, claims to paal were increasingly based on the dowry that had been given and the role the daughters or their husbands played in building those businesses.
By the 1990s, paal had become more egalitarian. Sons began to demand equal rights in their maternal homes—challenging traditional norms. This shift happened in stages:
In the 1910s, many Bunt women still trusted their eldest sons to divide paal fairly among their sisters, following customary practice. But with the land reforms that came later, this trust was often undermined—partly due to greed, but also due to concerns around financial security. Wives of eldest sons frequently held influence and shaped how paal was distributed, sometimes prioritizing their own family’s interests.
Some brothers denied their sisters' rightful inheritance, leading to prolonged court cases that stretched for years, even decades.
In some cases, sisters cheated their own sisters out of paal, triggering further legal battles and family rifts.
After the 1990s, with more families becoming nuclear and wealth increasingly concentrated, sons began asserting their claim over their father's property. Even if the father preferred to pass it on to his daughters, sons cited Karnataka State Law to claim an equal share—often in direct contradiction to the older aliya santhana system.
In short, paal—once based on tradition and flexible distribution—gradually became a contested, legalistic, and emotionally charged issue as families grew, wealth increased, and laws shifted.
And so, my dear reader, in the Bunt world:
Datth was not just about children, but strategy.
Hakk was earned, inherited, or sometimes demanded loudly at a Panchaathige.
Maryaadi was a performance of power, lineage, and perfectly timed flattery.
And Paal—well, Paal was war, waged with coconut oil and court orders.
So, What Did All This Mean?
Beyond the drama and the dinner-table diplomacy, these practices reveal the intricate dance between culture, kinship, and capital. Sociologically, Datth, Hakk, Maryaadi, and Paal were less about sentiment and more about social engineering—tools to preserve lineage, manage risk, and reinforce status within a matrilineal framework. They shaped gender roles, dictated power flows, and offered women both protection and pressure in equal measure. From a behavioural economics perspective, the decisions weren’t always “rational” in the spreadsheet sense, but they made perfect sense within the emotional economies of the time—where affection, obligation, pride, and fear influenced adoption patterns more than legal logic ever could. The fallback plans, the symbolic gestures, the strategic alliances—they were all invisible hedges against uncertainty, driven by a community that knew survival meant more than just succession; it meant belonging, with both roots and rights intact.
In Bunt society, Datth, Hakk, Maryaadi, and Paal weren’t just old customs—they were practical tools for social survival. Adoption wasn’t just a gesture of love; it was a strategy for keeping legacies alive. If you didn’t have an heir, why not adopt one? It wasn’t about affection, but about keeping control over the family fortune.
Hakk was the power to command respect, but it was also a way to ensure that what you owned would stay with you—if your family played along. And Maryaadi? It wasn’t just about keeping up appearances—it was the currency that determined how much you could demand in this game of family politics. Respect wasn’t just earned; it was inherited, bought, and occasionally auctioned in a very Bunt way.
The post-colonial shift turned these familial dealings into legal entanglements, but let’s be honest—whether in the 1750s Tulunadu or today’s modern world, human nature remains the same. We’re still out here fighting for what’s ours—whether it’s property or pride—and no matter how evolved we become, we’ll always be negotiating family, power, and legacy. After all, family drama doesn’t need to be a Netflix show—it’s been running since day one.
Disclaimer: We saw more of Datth from Kasargod in the South to Udupi/Bramhavara (including Kudla) in the North and Karkala and Puttur in the East. Kundapur had fewer cases.
Alternate explanation: If you watched Game of Thrones, Ned Stark's kids would not be House Stark they'd be Cat's mother's house - not even House Tully. Sansa was natural heir, and Arya would get an inheritance.
P.S. I have written about Paal in a separate essay that may be released in July. Did you read the sentence where I wrote "still trusted their eldest son"? That deserves its own unpacking.
P.P.S. In the coming week, you may see 6 Ads appear at the bottom of every page. We gave these two 6 companies/organisations that reached out to us. The proceeds of these Ads will go to educating the higher education of a girl child from Tulunadu. We do not wish to crowd this space and will not offer more than 6 banners under each page. We also will not accept advertisements from those who have been particular subjects of this study.
P.P.P.S. I prefer this blog to remain word of mouth. Thank you to V for helping me with the names.
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