Widows and Widowhood

Appalling Figures

We give the following figures of the number of widows in India and the Madras Presidency according to the census of 1921. Let orthodoxy ponder over them, and say whether any religion has wrought such great havoc in any country.

No. of Widows in India (under 20 years)

Revolt, 8 May 1929

Widow-remarriage at Erode

Mr. E. V. Ramaswami’s bungalow at Erode was the scene of a happy widow marriage on the 25^th July. The contracting parties were Mr. Gopalakrishna Ayer of Dharapuram taluq and Srimati Lakshmiammal, a Brahmin widow of Cochin aged about 22. The function was presided over by Mr. E. N. Venkataperumal Naidu, Retired Tahsildar and the marriage was conducted eliminating all ceremonial rites. Some of those present spoke on the necessity of widow re-marriage, and blessed the couple for their bold step. The president appealed to the younger generations to encourage such widow remarriages with a view to relieve the young widows from their life-long misery

Revolt, 4 August 1929

Widows and Widowers (By Miss Indrani)

In a very interesting and humourous speech delivered by Srimathi Ramamirtha Ammal before a crowded and enlightened audience of ladies and gentlemen at the Tinnevelly Self-respect Conference, that delightful speaker observed that unless legislation is undertaken to place widowers on a footing of equality with widows in all social, religious, legal and moral conventions, orthodox Hindus will be blind to the fate of their widows. Things will mend, only, if what is happening to the Hindu widow is going to happen to the widower in just the same measure.

A tali will have to be tied round the neck of the man as well and removed when he loses his spouse. If the widow is to have her hair shorn off, so must the widower. A white cloth, for both. Meeting a widower brings as much ill-luck as meeting a widow. If it is “Moonadai” (derogatory term for widow – editors); it is “Moondan” (a neologism for widower – editors). If it is no amusements, no ornaments for the widows, similarly for the widower. If Sati is to be performed by the widow, the widower also must be getting ready. The very presence of the widower is an ill-omen. All by legislative enactment – the preamble to which will be: “What is sauce for the gander is sauce for the goose.”

At any rate, this ambitious programme is seemingly worked out with commendable success in the case of widowers in South America. We  read from Frazer’s “Golden Bough”, the highest authority on Folk Lore:-

“In the Mekeo district of British News Guinea, a widower loses all his civil rights and becomes a social outcast, an object of fear and horror, shunned by all. He may not cultivate a garden or show himself in public nor traverse the village nor walk on the roads and paths. Like a wild beast, he must skulk in the long grass and the bushes and if he sees or anyone coming, especially a woman, he must hide behind a tree or a thicket. If he wishes to fish or hunt, he must do it alone and at night. If he would consult anyone, even the missionary he does so by stealth and at night; he seems to have lost his voice and speaks only in whispers. Were he to join a party of fishers or hunters, his presence would bring misfortune on them; the ghost of his dead wife would frighten away the fish or the game. He goes about everywhere and at all times armed with a tomahawk to defend himself, not only against wild boars in the jungle, but against the dreaded spirit of his departed spouse, who would do him an ill-turn if she could.”

Why not send our orthodox brethren for a course of training in Mekeo district in British New Guinea, before any legislation is attempted? It may do some good. We will wait and see.

Revolt, 22 September 1929

Widow Re-marriage – Mr. K. Punniah’s Lecture

Mr. K. Punniah, editor of the Sind Observer, delivered an interesting lecture on “Widow Remarriage” at the Arya Samaj Mandir (Sushila Bhawan). He started with the fight for widow remarriage reform waged by the late Ishwar Chandar Vidyasagar of Bengal who being an “ocean of knowledge” and having mastered the Vedas and the Shastras, laboured ceaselessly and found out many authorities from the religious books for permitting marriage of widows willing to remarry. He narrated the story as to how Ishwar Chandar had been moved by his mother appealing to him to do something for widow marriage reform by taking before her son a 3 or 4 years old widow.

The lecturer described at some length the miserable and most pitiable conditions of living for widows in the days of Ishwar Chandar about 40 to 50 years ago and also those prevalent now in his native province of Andhra and some other provinces.

The speaker next referred to the laudable work of Rai Bahadur Viressalagam, an Andhra Pandit and reformer who influenced the speaker and several other young men like him 27 years ago. The speaker referring to himself narrated how while studying in the Matriculation class and living with his sister, he went to attend a widow marriage and how after his return from that widow marriage his own brother-in-law refused to permit him to stay with him and how he was starved and eventually retaken into the family on making penance by even having his head shaved. From that day onwards the speaker made up his mind to do his level best for ameliorating the condition of widows.

Mr. Punniah next gave his emphatic opinion that whether shastric injunctions operated in the good old days ought not to be binding in the present generation in view of that changed circumstances. He said if the Shastras laid down anything which was against anybody’s conscience or even against reason it was not binding on him. They of the new generation must have their own Shastras to guide them in their daily conduct.

The lecturer next referred to the offensive conduct of some orthodox Sanatani Hindus at the Khalikina Hall on the occasion of speeches favouring widow marriage and said it was shameful that these so called Sanatanis should forcibly deprive any people, of the right of giving free expression to their view. In this connection he advised the audience to “dethrone superstition and install reason.”

“Woman must be given equal treatment,” continued the lecturer. “It is only when woman in India is given an equal place with man that India can hope to be free from the foreigners’ bondage.” If a man was permitted to marry as many times as he liked he could not understand that logic which put a ban on a woman marrying after the death of her first husband. It was the duty of the reformers to see that girls and boys were both married after they attained the age of discretion. They must help in the eradication of all degrading social customs and practices.

It was the speaker’s emphatic opinion that unless the Hindu widows numbering 8 millions of marriageable age were allowed to enjoy the blessings of married life the Hindu race will bring about its own ruin. The Hindus’ injustice to their widows was bound, sooner or latter, to react on them if no immediate steps were taken to raise these fallen and suppressed and oppressed creatures of God from their state of serfdom and given an honourable place in the family.

Now-a-days there was cry of immorality all round. Widow marriage was bound to result in a better purity. The speaker placed before the audience a recent instance published in newspapers of a Hindu widow of Andhra, who had left her home and married a Muslim cart man who was the first man she met after leaving her village on account of cruel treatment at the hands of her kith and kin. The papers were also full of tragic occurrences the result of immoral conduct on the part of widows forcibly deprived of the pleasures of the grihista ashram (conjugal and family life – editors). There was nothing to be wondered at. The circumstances were wholly changed and it was their duty to move with the times and adapt themselves to the changing conditions of life.

The lecturer in conclusion, appealed justice for the Hindu widows; otherwise by continuing injustice to these suppressed and oppressed creatures the Hindu race will perish.

– The Widows’ Cause

Revolt, 13^th October 1929

Widow’s Paradise Regained – A Short Story (By Mr. Kritivas)

It was about six in the evening. The cloudy November sky of Madras entrapped in its bosom, the sickle shaped moon who was peeping from within as a damsel in purdha. The sea was a picture of peace in spite if her perennial music.

Overlooking the beach was the lonely room, partially visible in the dim twilight.

An artistic untidiness. A table strewn over with books, a corner giving place for charkitis (sic), sheets of newspapers decorating the floor, a jasmine creeper peeping out through the window, a woman or a mere dream reeling (sic) on a sofa, all these marked a superb carelessness of the inhabitant of that lonely abode. The dim moonlight lit the face of Kalyani. Just a youth of twenty, charmingly sweet was the expression in her eyes. The deep attractive eyes showed an anxiety for a mute tale to tell. I don’t know if the makers of poems will concede beauty to Kalyani, for she possessed not a skin of golden hue, black, waterladen clouds of flowing tresses, the rainbow of an eyebrow, streak of lightning taking human shape. But if true beauty is ultimately spiritual beauty, the expression of the force of will, of poetic activity and all that go to make up an aggressive free personality, certainly she was beautiful!.

Kalyani was careless in her dress. The exuberant hair on her forehead was assorted into a bundle and was impatient to break the bondage. Her face was as pale as the moon that lay encased amidst the hanging clouds. She was attired in a light crimson saree, the dress of the evening sky. The sun was wending his way towards the west and the crimson colours of the heavens were also marching westward, in quest of their lord, the sun. Was Kalyani also in expectations?

Just at this moment Sharada entered Kalyani’s room. She was wondering as to what had happened to her friend and relation whom she used to accept as the “maker of dreams” a busybody busily doing nothing whose wont it was to waste mornings on fisher girls in slums and the evenings on the Charka. But the room is open! She must be inside, she thought.

Sharada entered the room switiching the electric light on as she entered;

Kalyani was reclining on the sofa and held in her hand a letter paper. ”Well, you maker of dreams! I suppose the poor Charka is enjoying a holiday that it richly deserves” ejaculated Sharada.

Sharada was a relative of Kalyani. They were bosom friends, but they were put in different casts. The former was jovial, the latter melancholy. Sharada liked to flit about in colours, make calculations of her husband’s return from ‘Home’– I mean England – mug up formulae of Chemistry, study notes on Shakespeare and laugh and laugh. Kalyani was fond of the destitute, was made up of the stuff of poetry that kindles pain in her soul. That was why the Charka appealed to her, the eternal musician who sings the woes of an exploited nation. Despondency was lit large on her face, her soul quaked in communion with other’s sorrows.

Kalyani was as if startled from her meditations, stood up and restraining a deep sigh carefully and lending her hands to the intruder, showed a chair for her to sit.

“You are welcome Sharada”, she said, “Poor Charka is enjoying rest after all.”

“Then, are you free to have a stroll in the beach with me” asked Sharada.

“Please excuse me” answered Kalyani. Sharada got irritated and said, “What is the matter with you Kalyani? Don’t like this self-torture of yours. It is really silly of you to boast of service to the downtrodden, while you carry an infectious sorrow with you. The Charka at least used to be a poor excuse for your evading my company. What is it, you do now? Can’t you at least coax yourself into joy, to please a compatriot?”

“Sister dear, how can you expect joy of one like me? “Shastras” said Kalyani smiling, “ordain that when a women loses her husband, she must starve, she must emaciate herself, pray, prey upon herself and weep. Why, a widow cannot even weep to her heart’s content lest she should infect others with her sorrow. She is at liberty to weep only during nights, moisten her eyes, moisten the bare ground on which she is expected to sleep and hide the sorrow of her race behind a beguiling smile during all day.”

“I don’t want to hear your satires” said Sharada, pleased with her companion’s smile, “I am happy dear Kalyani, to find the change in you. You have discarded Charkha, the philosophy of despair and the white saree, the emblem of sorrow.”

“There you are, my sister” spoke Kalyani in a spirit of approval, “You

have understood my sentiments only too well. But, then, dear Sharada, you are the protagonist of the Shastras of our country, the messenger of light to the world. Will you enlighten me as to why the omnipotent Shastras that forbid widow remarriage do not kill the soul of the woman the instance the husband dies?”

“It is an awkward question, my friend”, answered Sharada burning with rage. “You are fast growing into an agnostic nowadays. Faith is a good thing, even for the faithless. It ensures peace, and peace paves the way for joy. All your mental freaks of service, humanity, naturalism are the manifestations of the same illness, no doubt. Savitri and Damayanti, Sita and Indumati, these are the divine inspirations of the human race? Don’t you think so, Kalyani?”

“But this is not an answer to my question”, said Kalyani laughing over her companion’s rage, “Let us leave shastras and puranas alone. Now, answer, are you getting Collegiate education in English?”

“Yes.”

“Your husband is in England and is perhaps eating meat, drinking intoxicants, cropping his jutta and neglecting his holy thread?”

“Yes. What if? I quite understand your insinuations. But what has that to do with a belief in the Shastras, belief in the holy precepts of the Rishis? If education is capable of enlightening you, ennobling you, in strengthening your old ideals, in interpreting your Shastras to you in all its oriental splendour, I don’t care if the education is English or Parsi, whether you are in England or in India.”

“I don’t want to worry you, sister”, answered Kalyani, “But I have quite quixotic views of my own on education if you are pleased to call it so. To me, education is the craving of the soul, it is neither oriental nor occidental. It is a mystical force which creates and not copies. True education implants in the human soul a mystical yearning for perfection which in the course of evolution has raised impulse to become passion, and passion to become love and which should incessantly strive to raise love to ever greater love. Any way, education is not boot polish to be used for polishing old shoes, intended to be exhibited in International Exhibitions as Indian Curiosities.”

“I don’t understand what all you mean”, exclaimed Sharada disgusted. “Come along, let us go for a short walk on the sands, it is already 6.30 and the moon is up.”

“Sorry sister, how happy I shall be to oblige! I have got an appointment with a young friend and colleague of mine. Please excuse me.”

With the exchange of usual greetings, both the friends departed. The appointed time was 7 o’clock. The half an hour intervening was hanging heavily about her. The prosaic letter of her friend was lying lifeless on the sofa. She took it twenty times and looked into it again and again. The letter was absolutely prosaic, a mere announcement of an impending visit of old friends, pilgrims in the path of service. Gopal, for that was the name of the youth, came of poor Non-brahmin parents. His school life was bright but he wrecked his career by joining the Non-cooperation movement. His friends used to admire him for his love of adventure but his uncompromising critics would say that he was fickle, good for nothing. Adherence to Mahatma Gandhi would have won for him laurels; for Non-cooperation on the cross is an ‘ism’ to be worshipped even though it might have been called madness, in its days of potency. He was caught in the trap of the Lahore organization, the Society for breaking castes and creeds. He began to fall in love with the World Messiah, Krishnaji’s teachings. It was a wrong thing for the poor fellow to do. Instead of the love for the world teacher, the love of his teachings are a bombshell to societies, time honoured traditions, gods and prophets. He has had his reward. The blasphemy of prophets led him into jail at Lahore. He is now a jail bird at large and after two years he was returning to Madras. He could inflict himself only upon Kalyani, the woman of silent sorrows, the goddess of the oppressed. His friends used to taunt him saying that he might try at widow marriage which they used to humorously call ‘experimented’ marriage. But Gopal used to tire them out by his silence. His friends would taunt him the other way saying “You are a Buddah Dev an ascetic”. But all the while a thought, rather a dream lurked in his bosom. “Yes I shall marry Kalyani!” “No, She is a typical Brahmin by birth. Impossible!”

“What a fallen man am I”, he would think at last. ”Marriage is a fall, even as birth is a fall. I must be, no I will be a celibate to the end of my life.”

A feeling of incompleteness, a striving for perfection was raging like a storm inside his bosom. A burning ray of all that evening sunshine entered his bosom, opened the petals of his heart, quickened the heart throbs and in a minute he was on the threshold of the lowly abode of the lonely Kalyani.

Kalyani who was anxiously awaiting Gopal’s coming home, darted like an arrow and began to caress the jasmine creeper. She was intently observing the only jasmine blossom as an eager botanist. Why this uncommon timidity! She was singing, the song of hope,

There is nothing on earth like the times of waiting,

The day’s spring time, the days of blossoming.

Gopal was smitten as it were by an unknown hand but regaining self-control accosted, “Kalyani, are you in a moonshine reverie?”

With a wild yet so sweet a disturbance of the heart she exclaimed, “Gopal, the jailbird is welcome to his roost!”

Both had a hearty laughter after this practical joke and Kalyani asked him as to the circumstances that led to his incarceration.

“For speaking the truth”, he exclaimed, “Last time it was the wrath of imperialism; this time it was the fury of Brahminism.”

“May I know the specific charge laid at your door?” She asked.

“In one of my lectures I denounced Parasara and Manu, the prophets of benighted Hinduism, the holy writ that sanctions coercive marriage and prostitution and that was enough to damn you for blasphemy. They may not be our prophets but even a devil is a prophet if he has got followers” said Gopal winding up personal talks. “It is surprising you have discarded your white saree, Kalyani.”

“Why is the sky attired in crimson?” accosted Kalyani, laughing.

“But you seem to love the white jasmine blossom. She is not crimson.”

“Mother nature has dressed her white lest her lover the bee should miss her in the darkness of night” remarked Kalyani poetically.

“Jasmine’s beauty is a passing show. With the advent of the sun it withers. The sun is perhaps a violent lover, the oriental Raja who wants to conquer the beloved by sheer force” said Gopal.

“It is true, Gopal! Love withers under constraint. Its very essence is liberty” spoke Kalyani.

“But why all this poesy? Human life is prose, string of woes. The human flower is destined ever to wither away, never to blossom forth and fill the world with its fragrance.”

“Gopal, why are you standing? Please sit on the sofa” entreated Kalyani.

“What of you?” accosted Gopal.

“But, Gopal!” said Kalyani emotionally. “A poet says that love blossoms only in the duplex life of two allied souls, which together strive upwards.”

“The love you speak of knows no fetters”, said Gopal.

“It neither knows darkness when there is the moon to light the path” answered Kalyani.

“Do you mean what you say?” asked Gopal eagerly.

Kalyani’s eyes moist with tears and overpowered with a spiritual passion, for oneness and service, she darted upon the sofa and in a twinkling of an eye both Gopal and Kalyani, once mere friends and pilgrims in the path of service were in each other’s arms ready to be pilgrims on the path of higher life as well.

Revolt, 17 November 1929