Official interviews of devotee women always reflected the official position in the philosophy. Devotees were always expert at presenting everything in the movement as they knew Prabhupada would want it to be. So for American journalists or researchers, devotee women would always claim that no, of course we don't feel inferior to men because we are not these bodies. On the spiritual platform we are equal. But in the material world we must make these distinctions. And no, we don't want to do the jobs that men do. One of the researchers, E. Burke rochford, Jr., writes in his book Hare Krishna in America :
While it is tempting to view the devotee woman as marginal to the Krishna society because of the sexism implied by the movement's adherence to traditionalist sex roles, this view ultimately rests on an outsider's analysis (it is an assessment that rests on the assumption that women should be equal in all ways with men). Many, if not most, Krishna women see their role as complementary and ultimately equal to the role played by men.
Rochford then admits that not all women adjust completely and some leave because they cannot accept the position of women in the movement.
From my experience and personal conversations with other devotee women, few wholeheartedly accepted their lower status. We engaged in a number of strategies that I see as attempts to lessen the sting of the "less intelligent" label that was placed on us. Besides relying on the knowledge that our souls were fully equal, we often pointed out examples of male stupidity and remarked on how "conceited" the men were. We also took refuge in verses that indicated we had more natural piety.
I knew one devotee woman who made it her project to memorize Bhagavad Gita, verse by verse. Others of us made it a point to occasionally chant the Sanskrit slokas in Bhagavatam class after the men had finished. The procedure was that one devotee would chant a line and the congregation would echo it. We used that forum to demonstrate our expertise--and intelligence.
Nevertheless, our confidence was diminished by our status. Our relationships with our husbands, when we married, were negatively affected by our strict roles. We were supposed to treat our husband as our guru, and unquestioningly accept his authority over us. And yet we could see, by close association, that some of our husbands were not truly superior to us either in intellect or devotional behavior.
Still, we aspired to the goals of Vedic womanhood and tried to take scriptural heroines such as Kunti and Draupadi as our models. We read with awe how Gandhari, wife of Dhritarastra, placed a blindfold over her eyes so she could share her blind husbands disability. We were told our surrender would grant us spiritual advancement, so against our strong inclinations toward independence, we surrendered as best we could.
Furthermore, we policed ourselves for signs of unchaste behavior. We were always on the lookout for women who talked unnecessarily with men they were not married to, furtive glances, too much jewelry or the use of American style make-up instead of the tilak and kum-kum that was allowed. Saris were pulled up to cover the top of the head, though not the face as in Muslim women's outfits.
Just as the women in India are still taught to revere the custom of sati (the practice of widows burning themselves with their husband's corpse), so too was it glorified by American devotees. Prabhupada had taught that it should never be forced on a woman, but that for a woman to choose it was the highest level of chastity. It was seen as the ultimate act of devotion, surrender, and faith. The widow was then to follow her husband. If he took birth, she would follow. If he made it "back to godhead" or to the spiritual world, she would follow there also.
Given the cultural context of women in India, as presented in Elisabeth Banmiller's book May You Be The Mother Of A Hundred Sons, I can understand why Indian women are still in awe of sati, or at least ambivalent about it (1990: 62-74). But it is particularly startling that women from American culture could embrace this practice--even in theory. I am somewhat ashamed to admit that I too romanticized sati. I often wondered whether I would have either the nerve or the faith to perform it. I had the story of Padmini (a princess who performed sati with her servants to avoid rape by invading Muslims), and read it over and over. I also read with fascination the story of Queen Kunti and how her co-wife begged her to take on the raising of her sons so she could perform sati. For Queen Kunti, living for her sons and those of her co-wife was seen as an austerity!