I DON'T WANT TO BE A GODDESS

Close to the city of Paithan, in a small village called Sauviragram, which lay along the banks of the great river Godavari, lived a woman named Ilaa. Being cotton farmers, her family was well to do, but not among the richest in their area. It was the harvest season, and cotton had to be picked from the plants. The wholesalers and traders from Paithan would be arriving in just a few weeks, carrying gold and goods for barter. They would exchange what they carried for the cotton that the farmers grew. The bales of cotton had to be ready in time! Work was at its peak!

But Ilaa was not to be found in the fields. She wasn't working. Instead, she was sitting by the banks of the great river Godavari.

'I am sick of this!' she grunted loudly. She wryly remembered following this routine year over year for the 9 years that she had spent with her husband Bhimrao’s family …she was almost 21 now.

Her father, Shantarao was a hard working man who had a modest holding of 80 bighas of fertile land in the Village of Dadegaon, South of the Godavari. Her family being reasonably well to do, Ilaa had enjoyed a decent childhood along with her other four siblings, three elder sisters and one little brother.  She was an aberration of sorts, being the only girl child in her family to have received some form of education. Her grandfather, Baburao was an ardent devotee of Saint Eknath of the Varakari Sampradaya and had been a regular participant for many years in the Vaaris organized by the Sampradaya. She happened to be one of the only three girl pupils at the Gurukul run by the venerable Pandit Someshwar, a varkari himself- a progressive man who had prevailed upon her grandfather to send little Ilaa to school. For seven years, she went to the gurukul everyday – on strict instructions to her parents by Baburao- whilst her sisters toiled in domestic work.

The years of education under Panditji, learning about noble saints, great kings and the vile Mughal invaders from the North had made her aware and worldly wise. However, her parents severely worried. “Who will marry her now?” Shalinitai, her weary mother would worriedly ask her father. “She is disinterested in housework and does not like working in the fields. What use is all this learning for a girl?”

As were the norms, she was betrothed to Bhimrao, also of an agrarian family from Sauviragram, a village North of the Godavari when she was all of 8 and thereafter married to him when she was 10. Life dealt a double blow on her when she was all of 12, when old Baburao died of Cholera while on one of his Vaaris and her parents decided to send her to Sauviragram to be with her husband. “Your sisters are all in their husbands’ places from the time they were married. How long do you want to be with us? Bhimrao’s family is not taking it kindly to you staying on here and going to Gurukul. Moreover, the neighbours have also started passing remarks on you attending school with boys, having been married for two years and more”, said her father brushing aside her protests regarding her wanting to continue school.       

With a heavy heart, Ilaa left her beloved Dadegaon and bade a tearful farewell to her family and her little kid brother.

Her initial days in Bhimrao’s household had actually not been bad. Her in-laws were simple, god fearing and respected people who tried their best to make her feel comfortable. Moreover, she was a pretty looking, fair and tall girl- a very sought after combination for an ideal daughter in law. She however, still missed Panditji and the wonderful moments she spent at the Gurukul. Three years later her marital union with Bhimrao was physically consummated and by the time she was all of 15 years and 10 months she had a little girl child- Savitri in her lap.

Ilaa now busied herself to taking care of the child, the family and also helping out in the fields, if required. She however, continued to keep up her reading- gobbling up whatever came her way- be it religious discourses of Eknath, books on basic arithmetic, Marathi grammar and so on. This little effort in self education continued through years in which she not only weathered a miscarriage and the birth of another child (Waman- a boy this time), by the time she was 18.

 “Illa! Where are you?”, she heard the youthful voice of Bhimrao call out for her.  She knew her little private time was now over and sighed as she moved in the direction from which she heard her husband’s voice. Bhimrao, covered with sweat and cotton fluff, lithe and sun burnt, did sound a little angry when he asked her- “You have again drifted off! Waman is crying of hunger and there is so much of work left. I don’t know what has come over you.” Ilaa did not say anything and timidly followed him back to the fields.

It was way past dusk when the family reached back home and had a hearty dinner. Everyone retired to bed early as they had an early and long day coming up.

Illa’s sleep was broken in the wee hours of next morning by sounds of wailing and lamenting. She got up with a start and peered out of the window. She saw a motley crowd gathered outside their neighbour Kushalbhau’s house. She saw that Bhimrao was still asleep besides her. Not wanting to disturb him, she tip-toed out of the house to find out the cause of the agitation. As she want closer, to her horror she found Sampatrao, Kushalbhau’s son, who must have been around 20 years lying on the ground, covered in a white sheet, apparently dead. It emerged that he had been unwell for the last two days with high fever and had passed away in the night. Shaku, Sampatrao’s young wife (who was probably a couple of years younger than Illa) already distraught with grief was undergoing the painful ritual of bangle breaking and tonsuring of her head, as though the pain of losing her young husband was not enough for her.

Ilaa came back home with a disturbed mind. After a while, she was startled out of her stupor by the shrill cries of Shaku. She ran out of the house and saw a hideous scene of the pitiable looking Shaku dressed up as a bride being forced into a bullock cart and the young widow resisting and screaming, whereas a number of villagers including Bhimrao and his father prostrating before her and chanting “Sati Mata ki Jai!”. “What happened mother?” She inquired from her mother-in-law. “Nothing, Shaku is a blessed one, I wonder why she is resisting in performing her divine duty. She has been blessed to become a Sati Mata and get consigned on the pyre of Sampatrao.” Ilaa was horrified. She had heard about the practice of Sati, but never seen it actually being practiced up close. “But this is cruel and wrong. Why should she be burnt on the pyre? She has done no wrong and she does not want to become a Sati in any case,” she blurted out. Her mother-in-law was horrified- “Shut up! Who are you to comment on this. Come inside lest someone hears you. How dare you speak such blasphemous words? You are but a woman and have no right to speak like this.” Ilaa could not take it anymore and continued- “Mother, nowhere does our religion say that a widow must burn at the pyre of her husband against her will. Do you know our Paithan region was one of the most progressive societies for women during the Vedic ages. Women were even involved in running of the government. Come lets go and stop them before they murder Shaku…”. Her talk was cut by a tight slap on the back of her head. She turned around to see her father-in-law standing there livid with anger. “Do we now have to hear discourses from the women of our house about our traditions? Ilaa is not at fault, but her parents- and that damned Panditji who has filled her mind with garbage. Bhim, tell your wife if she utters one more word, I will cut off her tongue”. He gave her another painful slap on her cheeks as a parting shot and stomped off.

Only Bhimrao’s father and uncles went for Sampatrao’s funeral- where Shaku in all her bridal finery was elevated to a Goddess- all a cruel twist of fate combined with heartless superstition.

Two days passed with Ilaa in a melancholy mood. It rained a little the following day. Luckily it cleared out soon and the family left for the fields. A large number of extra labourers had been hired to hasten the harvest and tie the bales. Bhimrao was busy animatedly shouting out instructions to the hired hands, Ilaa still dazed by the experience of a few days back was trying to get back to grid. Soon everyone was deeply engrossed in work fully knowing that the buyers from Paithan would be arriving very shortly. Suddenly, Ilaa heard a loud yell from the direction in which the men were working and along with her mother-in-law rushed towards the source of the sound. To her horror she found Bhimrao clutching his right forearm and writhing on the ground screaming plaintively. There was a commotion all around and she could not comprehend the reason for the agitation. Suddenly, Bhimrao began frothing from his mouth and started having convulsions. “He has been bitten by an Krait!” screamed the foreman, quick somebody get the Vaid. The snake had sneaked into the harvested cotton, probably because of the morning rain and had bitten Bhimrao on his forearm as he was helping some labourers sift the cotton. In a matter of minutes, the convulsions abruptly stopped even as the horrified onlookers helplessly looked on and the foreman was trying to cut and clear the bite area. In just 3 days since she saw Shaku widowed- the unthinkable had happened- Ilaa not yet all of 21 was herself a widow now.

The time after that passed like a bad dream with her remembering only bits and pieces- women lamenting, men folk cursing and her two little children really not comprehending what the fuss was all about. In her trance-like state she was made to relive all the gory rituals of bangle breaking and tonsuring she had seen Shaku undergo just sometime back. Finally, the arrangements for the funeral of Bhimrao were made and a pyre was erected on the banks of the Godavari. Time had come for Ilaa to attain divine status, she was bathed by the women folk of the household and dressed in bridal finery. Drained emotionally and physically, she passed out before the funeral and had to be carried in a palanquin to the location of the pyre. The pyre was ready and the air was thick with the shouts of “Ram Naam Satya Hain….” and, “Sati Mata ki jai”. The priest motioned that everything was ready and the body of Bhimrao was placed on the pyre. Someone then sprinkled cold water on the face of Ilaa to revive her from her swoon, she groggily got up and looked around. Suddenly, she seemed very aware of her surroundings and the fate that awaited her. “No I don’t want to die!” she screamed. “You stupid woman you should not say such things…you are going to be a Goddess very soon, come on hurry up and sit on the pyre!” thundered the portly priest. In a split second Ilaa thought “I don’t want to be burnt into death on the pyre, I rather consign myself to Mother Godavari…” and before any of the people around realized anything, she ran and jumped into the swirling waters of Godavari. As the current dragged her away and she could hear people shouting and screaming on the banks and also  someone jumping into the water. A floating log of wood bumped her head and she passed out.

When she opened her eyes she found her surroundings dark. First, she could not remember what had happened and then  when the memories of her past came back to her in a flash. She got up to sitting position and looked around, she was in some kind of tent or hut. Suddenly, someone from the other end of the hut got up and lit an oil lantern and asked in a kindly voice- “How are you feeling child?”. She saw the benevolent face of an old woman in the flickering light. “Uhh..my head hurts! Where am I?”. “Don’t worry you are safe. We found you lying senseless on the banks of Godavari. I will just go inform the Rani…she was very concerned about you.” The old lady left the hut and came back after sometime with some fruits and a warm glass of milk. “Eat this child, it will help you recover faster!”. Just then another woman came in and announced that the Rani was coming to see her. A few minutes later an elegant old lady with two torch bearers entered the hut and touched Illa’s head very kindly. “Such a beautiful girl! I wonder what tragedy befell her. Rest now my child, you can come and meet me tomorrow when you feel better.”

After a fitful sleep, morning dawned and the old lady gave her a fresh pair of clothes and helped her dress up. She told her that the “Rani” who had visited her last night was none other than Rajmata Jijabai, the mother of the Great Maratha Warrior Shivaji who had routed Bijapur Sultan’s vast armies. The Rajmata, despite her advanced years had a regal presence. “You are lucky my child! She said, “ My entourage was going from Paithan to Nanded, and one of my Sipahis found you lying on the riverside barely breathing. You definitely have Mata Godavari’s blessings! Tell me what happened..do not fear for anything.” Ilaa blurted out all that had happened to her and to Shaku, herself surprised at her own courage and energy considering that these were probably the first words she actually spoke after her ‘re-birth’. Jijabai heard her in rapt attention without any interruption. By the time Ilaa finished, she felt totally drained and was sobbing. The Rani got up and kindly patted her cheeks and said, “Don’t cry my child! What you did was just great…. Even I could not gather the courage to take a stand as you did when my husband Raja Shahaji died two years back. But for my noble son Shiva who dissuaded me from committing Sati, I too would have been consigned to the pyre of my husband. I am now convinced that this practice is barbaric and degrades the very spirit of womanhood.” Surprising herself, Ilaa replied back to the Rani “Rani Sahiba, our land the great Maharashtra was known for empowering its women even in the vedic period and during the reign of the Satvahanas when Paithan flourished as a great centre of learning and knowledge.” The Rani was amazed “You speak beyond your age girl! You seem quite learned”. Ilaa told her about her days with Panditji back in her village and her self-education. The Rani was truly impressed. “We definitely need more young people like you to build a brighter future for our kingdom. Appoint her as my personal chambermaid from here on”, said the Rani motioning to one of the important looking courtiers standing there. 

Ilaa lived with the Rani until the latter’s death in 1674 after which the newly crowned Chhatrapati Shivaji made her the in charge of a girls only Gurukul in Paithan- a first of its kind, where she spread the treasure of knowledge and empowerment to little girls. Also, one of the first steps taken by Shivaji after his coronation was the abolition of Sati in his Rajya, a decision probably somewhere influenced by the real life tale of a helpless young girl who refused to be burnt at her husband’s pyre many years ago.

Ilaa was contented, but knew that she could never ever visit her beloved Dadegaon or Sauviragram and meet her family or children as her ‘disgrace’ in the village on that fateful day would have made sure that her name would have been erased forever from the memories of her kith and kin and in any case her unfortunate children were too young to even remember how she looked like. But every time she looked at the swirling waters of the Godavari, she knew the mighty river understood her sorrow only as a mother could.