In 2012, Bangladesh passed the Hindu Marriage Registration Act-its first formal attempt to give legal standing to Hindu marriages. It was a long-overdue recognition of a community whose marital traditions had, for centuries, existed in a space between custom and invisibility. The Act offered a path to legal proof of marriage for Hindus, particularly for women. But more than a decade later, this well-meaning legislation remains limited in reach, and in reality, deeply inadequate.
The biggest reason? Registration is still optional.
In everyday life, that optionality seems harmless. Couples follow age-old rituals-saptapadi, kanyadaan, the sacred fire-and believe their marriage is whole. Spiritually, it is. Socially, it is. But legally, without registration, that union may not hold in court. And it is in court where rights are tested-especially when things go wrong.
The people affected most acutely by this gap are Hindu women. If their husband dies and the marriage is not registered, they may be denied a share of property. If they are abandoned, they may have no way to prove they were ever married. Courts need documents, not memories. The absence of legal proof can erase a life shared in good faith.
To understand why this matters, one must examine how religion and law have long danced around each other in Bangladesh. Hindu marriages were historically governed by sacred customs, not civil codes. Colonial administrators largely left these personal laws untouched, allowing communities to continue their own ways. After independence, Bangladesh carried forward this fragmented legacy. In contrast, Muslim marriage laws were codified, enforced, and closely monitored. Hindu laws remained in limbo, caught between tradition and state neglect.
When the 2012 Act arrived, it was a compromise. Lawmakers did not want to offend religious sentiments by making registration compulsory. Instead, they created a framework that recognized all customary marriages and offered the "option" of legal documentation. But in law, options don't work where protections are needed. Optionality is often where justice ends.
The social cost of this legal gray area is immense. Recent reports from women's rights groups confirm that many abandoned Hindu wives-especially in rural areas-cannot access maintenance, shelter, or legal protection simply because they lack a registered certificate. In their own words, these women describe feeling "invisible"-living through marriages that meant everything socially, but nothing legally.
Meanwhile, the state has not done enough to close this gap. The number of trained Hindu marriage registrars remains low. In some districts, there are none at all. Where registrars exist, the process is often confusing, inaccessible, or poorly advertised. In rural areas, most families are unaware the Act exists. They rely on community elders or priests, unaware that the rituals they trust may not hold up in legal disputes.
Another pressing issue is child marriage. Despite the Child Marriage Restraint Act of 2017, underage marriages-especially among Hindu families in rural areas-persist. Because Hindu marriages are not routinely registered, underage unions often escape scrutiny. If registration were made mandatory and linked to national identity cards, age verification would be automatic. It would become far harder to marry off a 15-year-old girl without consequences.
India offers a mirror. Its Hindu Marriage Act of 1955 mandates registration and bans polygamy. Divorce is allowed, and courts routinely protect women's rights through documented proof of marriage. While problems still exist, the legal clarity has helped India achieve higher levels of gender justice within Hindu communities. Bangladesh can-and must-learn from this.
Law is not just about codes and clauses. It's about what we choose to protect. When a woman stands in court after twenty years of marriage, asking only for what is fair, the law shouldn't ask for more than she can give. Her memories, her vows, her life together should not be dismissed because no paper was filed. Legal recognition isn't a technicality-it's a shield.
For the Act to work as intended, several changes are urgent. First, registration must be made mandatory. Not as a punishment, but as protection. Second, awareness campaigns must be rolled out-on television, at temples, through community leaders-so families understand that registration secures their sacred bond, not replaces it. Third, infrastructure must expand. More registrars, digital access, and simplified forms can remove the logistical barriers that keep so many marriages undocumented.
Most importantly, reform must come with compassion. The law must speak in a language people trust. Religious leaders, especially priests who perform the rituals, can be empowered as marriage registrars themselves. That would bridge the divide between sacred and civic, tradition and law.
The Hindu Marriage Registration Act was a start. But a law that asks people to opt into protection does not go far enough. Marriage, when solemnized, deserves both cultural reverence and legal recognition. It deserves celebration-but also documentation. Anything less leaves too many, especially women, at risk.
A country cannot move forward if half its citizens are left behind by the law. It is time to ensure that every Hindu marriage in Bangladesh is not only a sacred promise-but a legal fact. A marriage can be both sacred and secure. Bangladesh has the chance to show that tradition and progress don't have to be at odds-they can walk hand in hand.
The writer is a law lecturer and assistant course coordinator at Sonargaon University (SU)
