Suttee

– Sarojini Naidu (1879-1949)

Lamp of my life, the lips of Death

Hath blown thee out with their sudden breath;
Naught shall revive thy vanished spark
Love, must I dwell in the living dark?

Tree of my life, Death’s cruel foot

Hath crushed thee down to thy hidden root;
Nought shall restore thy glory fled
Shall the blossom live when the tree is dead?

Life of my life, Death’s bitter sword

Hath severed us like a broken word,
Rent us in twain who are but one
Shall the flesh survive when the soul is gone?

(1905)

Poem originally written in English

Sati

— Satyendranath Dutta (1882-1922)

You ask me,
Why is my body burned?
To whom shall I relate what I suffered?
Would you care to hear?
Then listen, O Mother:

I was born into a Hindu family.

With great affection, for ten years,
I was raised in the house of my father.
My upper-caste father, out of caste concerns,
Flung me into the arms of a dotard —
I came under a stranger’s thumb.

My husband’s manners caused me much mirth —

How shall I express it plainly? —
All my desires were smothered!
With great deference and care
A Hindu wife serves her husband —
Her lord and master.
Destiny had quarrel even with that!

Afflictions of old age

Confined him to the bed.
Awake I spent the nights:
If somehow the days passed,
Passed not the nights.
About a month later he was gone —
The light of life snuffed out.
Sorrows and fears galore
Made my body go numb —
My world of joy smashed to smithereens.

Throwing handfuls of puffed rice

All along the path,
The funeral procession dragged me too
To the cremation ghat.
Crushing my bangles, and beating me,
They installed me on my husband’s pyre.
A crowd of bystanders gathered
As drumbeats and conch-shell trumpets
Rent the air;
Smoke billowed from the half-wet
Funeral woodpile.

I thought the smoke would kill me!

The hot sensation in every nerve, tissue, and cell
Nearly squeezed the life-breath out of me.
But in a flash, amidst the din of yells,
The pyre collapsed, and down into the river I fell.
A boatman swiftly rescued me.

As the crowd screamed, “Thrash her to death”,

I feared no trace of me would be left.
When I opened my eyes next,
I saw that boatman — the one who gifted me
My life — sitting by me in a tiny hut.

Some days were passed in weeping,

In the end, I wed him.
Little by little I forgot my heart’s anguish.
Though fire scorched my beauty,
He still loves my singed face.
Together we spend our days —
Be it in happiness or malaise.

My young man rows his boat;

Owns half an acre of paddy land, moreover.
As for me, I sell dentifrice, O Mother!
So now you’ve heard
Why my body is burned.
(1906)

Poem originally written in Bengali.

Translated into English by Amitendu Bhattacharya.