Miranda Moondawn's Blog: Mooniana's Muse of Inspiration and Creativity. - Posts Tagged "sati-mata"

SATI MATA (A poem in Five parts)

(A poem based on real life accounts of the ritual burning of a young 18 year old widow, Roop Kanwar, in the village of Deorola modern day Rajasthan in September 1987. Roop Kanwar's Sati divided the people of India and led to the arrests and trial of many who were said to be involved. None of the participants in the Sati, however, were ever found guilty of their alleged crimes.)

(i)
When the young bride’s husband died,
The 11th century leaped into
The present
When her mother in law said.
”Your husband is now dead Priya,”
“And you must live the rest of your days"
"As a widow,”
“Cursed with the stigma,”
“Of the Kulashini,”
"The devourer of husbands."
"You will have no identity anymore,"
"No social status,"
“No property or possessions,”
“Bereft of a husband’s protection,”
“You will be no better that an outcaste,”
“Alas we are so unfortunate – “
“In better times a young Widow could leave this world,”
“In glory and honour,”
“And join her husband on his pyre,”
“Sharing his destiny and identity,”
“As a Sati Bride”

They were cruel, thoughtless words,
And the grieving Widow took them to heart.
Mingled with the stigma of Widowhood.
The curse of the wife who devours her husband,
There arose in her mind,
A vivid picture of her redemption,
Passing like Sita through the flames,
Her soul would rise,
In the billowing smoke,
Joining her husband’s,
As a Sati Bride.

Priya had decided.
With a strange thrill in her heart,
And a dark trembling in her breast,
The young Bride went to the Pandits
And the Elders of the Village,
That same day.
And she told them,
“Now that my husband is dead,”
“And I am stripped of all honour,”
“And identity,”
“It is my wish,”
“And my duty as a widowed wife,”
“To ascend the Funeral Pyre”
“Even as Sita-Devi,”
“Passed through Fire,”
“To prove her purity to Ram,”

(ii)
At the Panchivat,
There was a great debate.
Many were against the act.
The young Widow’s piety, they said
Was beyond question.
Her devotion to her husband and Lord Ram
Exemplary.
But this was not the 11th century.
This was modern secular India.
And the people of this land,
Had adopted British laws and ways,
For them Sati was not an act of pious self-sacrifice,
But an act of self-immolation,
And Ritual Murder.

Yes, yes,
They all knew the laws.
And the modern ways.
At the same time,
The Ancient Laws of Manu stated,
That If the Widow joined her Fate,
With her husband’s,
Then not only her,
But all who took part
In this auspicious event,
Along with all their ancestors,
And descendants
For Seven generations,
Forward and Back,
All would achieve moksha.
All would be liberated from the Samsara,
Of repeated birth and death

And did not the shastras say,
That to stop the self-willed Sati
In her resolve,
Invited the curse,
Of Mother Sati herself?

The village elders and Pandits
Began to chant
And prepare for the Sati,
“SATI MATA, KEE JAI!”
”SATI MATA KEE JAI!”

(iii)
The Chanting of the Pandits echoed,
Into the cold dark desert night.
On and on into the morning
It mumbled and murmured,
Until at last, the Sun rose gloriously,
And gazed upon a sight
That had not been witnessed,
For generations.
Hundreds of villagers,
Were following
The Sati Bride,
With her attendents,
To the Pyre,
Touching the hem of her sari,
Taking the dust of her feet on their heads,
Worshipping her as a Goddess,
As they fell on their faces,
The women chanting in solemn awe,
“Sati Mata, Kee Jai!!”
“Sati Mata, Kee Jai!!”

The village elders followed the procession,
They were both fearful,
And yet burning with holy fervor.
They knew that if news of the Sati,
Reached the authorities,
They would be tried,
As accomplices to the crime,
Under old colonial laws,
Inherited by an independent India.
But the men of the village,
Were men of Rajasthan,
And the blood of the Rajputs,
Flowed in their veins.

And it was as if that day.
The modern age
Suddenly vanished,
As they trembled with awful anticipation.
A village Widow was about to die.
She would pass through fire,
Like Sita-Devi before her,
And all the great Ranis,
The Royal Widows
Of ancient Rajasthan.
The men joined their voices
With the women,
Only they chanted much louder,
“SATI MATA! KEE JAI!”
“SATI MATA! KEE JAI!”

(iv)

As they chanted,
The Sati Bride climbed elegantly onto the Pyre.
She looked as if she had no fear,
She sat in a pyre of sweet smelling flowers,
With her husband’s head in her lap.
She was no longer thinking of her enslavement as a Widow,
She was no longer thinking about a lifetime clad in white,
A lifetime devoid of any sensual joys or pleasures,
A lifetime spent as a Kulashini,
A devourer of husbands,
Loathed and outcaste.
She was only thinking of her young beloved,
How her soul would rise up with his,
Heavenwards,
In the billowing smoke.
After those brief minutes of excruciating agony,
Were over-
And the God of Fire
Agni-Dev,
Had tried and purified her,

After he had devoured her mortal flesh,
Devoured -
Her beautiful rose red lips,
Devoured -
Her long dark jasmine scented hair,
Devoured -
Her lotus like limbs and hands,
Devoured -
Her golden lotus like skin.
Devoured -
Her wide hips,
And soft dove like breasts.
All her beauty,
All her sweet youth,
All of it would burn up in the fire,

And when Agni-Dev was done.
When the excruciating agony was finished.
All her beauty and youth,
Would be restored again,
And she would be a Goddess,
Remembered and Worshipped forever.
Like Sita-Devi.
Like Sati-Ma.

(v)
What happened next was madness,
Complete horror and mayhem.
The offering of oil was poured onto the pyre,
The Widow’s young brother in law,
Lit the faggots with a flaming torch,
But inexperienced hands had prepared the pyre,
The wood burned slowly,
Too slowly,
The flames began to devour the bodies,
Both the living and the dead.
The dead body didn’t feel anything,
Dead bodies never do.
But the living body screamed,
The living always do that,
Screamed in agony and terror.
Her screams merging,
With the cries and shrieks
Of countless Sati Brides before her.
Mingled with the wailing of the women
The terrified sobbing of the children,
And the rising ecstatic chants of the men,
“SATI MATA KEE JAI!”
”SATI MATA, KEE JAI!i”

The louder the woman’s screams,
The louder the ecstatic cries,
And chants.
The young Sati Bride,
No longer saw visions of herself
Rising up to Heaven,
With her husband in the billowing smoke.
All she felt was the indescribable fear,
The terror and the pain,
Of a young woman being slowly burnt alive,
A woman who chose to be burnt,
Because the choice between living on
As a young Widow,
And dying in the fire,
Were both
As horrendous as each other.

After fifteen long minutes,
The terrifying screams finally stopped,
The roar of the flames subsided.
The women stopped wailing,
The Pandits and elders began to chant softly,
“SATI MA, SATI MA,”
Almost inaudibly under their breath.

And when the ashes at last
Were cleared,
And a memorial plaque engraved,
The crowds of pilgrims,
Into the village swarmed,
By the tens of thousands,
From all over Rajasthan,
They came,
To pay homage to the new Goddess,
To receive the sacred blessings,
Of the Sati Bride,

The police and the newspapers came with them.
All those who had been raised,
With a respect and understanding,
Of British laws and ways.
Not one of them could understand.
How an 11th century practice
Could still go on.
In the modern age.

Everyone agreed that all of those involved
In the grisly affair
Were equally guilty.
They were all accomplices to murder.
But how was it possible to arrest and prosecute
An entire village.
For their part in the gruesome burning
Of a Sati Bride?

By Manfred and Miranda Moondawn 17/1 to 25/1 2017

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