Sati Savitri (Long Post)

Dec 12 2005, 6 PM IST

“…and this, my dear Ladies and Gentlemen, is the Sati Samadhi!!!”, Raghu announced grandly.

It was evening and the sun had decided to call it a day and was silently making its getaway from the horizon. “I am done for the night, see you tomorrow at 6 AM”, It seemed to say.

Raghu’s audience comprised a motley group of tourists – a French couple, a young couple from Mumbai, a student in her mid-twenties and a businessman in his mid-thirties.

Raghu had been a guide for nearly twenty years by now, having started when he was 13 years old. He enjoyed being a guide, showing off the local sights and explaining the local history to people.

“How do you know that whatever ‘history’ you are telling people is correct?” Pushpa (his wife) had asked him once. “Well, that’s what I learnt from my father and grandfather!” Raghu had replied indignantly. His wife had a talent of asking very simple but thought-provoking questions. “Shut up and mind your own business”, He had retorted angrily, raising his hand to strike her. She had shrunk into a corner with a terrified look on her face.

Today had been a particularly good day for Raghu. He had captured this group at the local train station in the morning. Having fought off other prospective guides, he had herded them together and had promised them a tour of the countryside. “History of Madhopur is very amazing, you will find everything here – love, religion, politics, murder” – He had proclaimed to his hostages.

They had spent the entire day touring through the local forts, lakes, temples and market-places. They had stopped a while for lunch in the afternoon and tea in the evening.

By now, Raghu had formed impressions of everyone in the group. The French couple seemed to be very curious, asking a lot of questions. They reminded him of his wife, with her endless barrage of questions. “Stupid woman!” he thought of his wife. “Stupid French”, he added.

The Mumbai couple seemed least interested in these places. “They are looking for some lonely spots to indulge in some necking,…Crazy people!!!…Why don’t they just do it at home or in their city?”, Raghu wondered.

The student seemed to be harmless, taking down detailed notes of whatever he had to say.

He found the businessman very annoying. “Always jumping in to complete my statements…and trying so hard to impress that girl…idiot!”, he thought.

“…As if you are the most intelligent person in the world. God! You are very conceited…”, Pushpa had remarked. “What do you mean?” He had asked defensively. “You know…you think that you are better than everyone and know everything about anything. You refuse to listen to the other person’s point of view …” She explained. “I am NOT conceited, and I refuse to accept that I do not listen to people. I HATE you…”, Raghu said as he angrily stormed out of the house.

“So, what is special about this place?” the French guy asked. “Absolutely nothing, you bloody gora fool!!!” Raghu almost said it out aloud, but stopped himself in time. “Not good for business!” he reminded himself.

They were in front of a circular patch of land in front of a small lake. The land was fenced with barbed wire around the perimeter. At the center was a small dome shaped structure, made of marble. It resembled a temple, but instead of the deity, there was a single lamp with a small flame in it, on top of a pedestal.

The land around the dome structure seemed to be freshly dug up, ostensibly to make flower beds. A number of jasmine creepers and rose plants were already planted and the flowers were in bloom.

The setting sun, the lake, the single burning lamp and the scent of the jasmine and rose flowers together gave a very mystical look to the whole place.

“This is one of the greatest monuments to love! If you thought that the Taj Mahal was a symbol of a husband’s love for his wife, then this is an everlasting symbol of a wife’s sacrifice for her husband!”

The young couple looked at each other and smiled. “I will make a similar one for you when YOU die!” they seemed to be telling each other.

“Wow…please tell us more!” the student was looking at Raghu.

“Oh…I am sure it is some local legend, without any basis! You can see a lot of similar memorials based on some superstition or baseless story.” the businessman commented.

Raghu wanted to step forward and give him a slap. “How dare you comment on our culture, you imbecile! What gives you the right to say such things?” he thought to himself, barely controlling his fury.

“Do you know what your problem is? You have a big inferiority complex and a terrible temper.” Pushpa was sobbing in a corner. “What do you mean?” Raghu growled at her. He had completed a three hour drinking session at home with his friends. One of his friends had remarked that he was lucky to have such a beautiful wife. After his friends had left, he had thrown a couple of glasses and plates at Pushpa and punched her. “You must have jiggled your assets in front of him, it is your fault, never again come out in front of my friends…” he warned her, as she nursed her bruises. “...and don’t you dare talk to me in that tone, a wife’s job is to obey her husband and not be insolent!”

“No, it is NOT a baseless story, it is an actual historically documented fact…”, Raghu explained.

“Savitri is a character in Indian mythology. She is considered and revered as the most devoted and loving wife in the history of mankind. She is said to have forced Yama, the god of death to restore her dead husband, Satyavan, back to life. She went on a fast and followed Yama around till he agreed to not take her husband’s life.” Raghu informed everyone.

The businessman interjected, “By the way, just because the story is part of Indian mythology, does NOT make it a historically documented fact…”. He was looking for approval from the student he was trying to impress. The student ignored him, and Raghu glared at him.

Raghu continued, “This is the place, where Yama finally relented. The lamp that you see in front of you, is supposed to have been lit by them as a thanksgiving gesture to Yama. In fact, we have not let the lamp to be extinguished – each month, one of houses in the village takes on the responsibility of making sure that the lamp stays lit. We have been doing these for the past fourty generations. By the way, this month is my family’s turn.”

They had stepped into the enclosure. The French couple were clicking photographs of the lamp. The student was following Raghu and takng down notes as he talked. The businessman was following the student. The young couple were near the flower bed – the guy plucking a flower and placing it on the girl’s hair, while she was smiling shyly.

“So, does your wife come here daily and put oil in the lamp?”, the French lady asked him.

Raghu replied, “Yeah…she did that till a couple of weeks ago, but then she had to go to her parent’s home. So, my daughter does it nowadays.”

“This was the last stop of our tour of Madhopur. Hope all of you enjoyed it!” Raghu announced.

“Yeah, it was interesting…”, came the reply.

“So, hopefully you will be able to show your appreciation in your tips for me…”. Raghu licked his lips in anticipation of the monetary rewards coming his way soon.

They started walking back towards the van which would carry the group back to the railway station.

“Hey, what’s that over there?”, the businessman asked. He was pointing towards the end of the jasmine flowerbeds. It seemed to be slightly unevenly dug up.

“Oh that’s nothing! Probably a new flower bed being made there by the panchayat. Let us go, folks, it is getting dark.” Raghu said.

They started walking towards the van, with Raghu leading the way.

Two weeks ago…Nov 28 2005, 11 PM IST

“You and your stupid conspiracy theories”, Pushpa was angry now. “I can’t believe that you followed me all the way from home till here to check on me. For the last time, I DO NOT HAVE ANY EXTRA MARITAL AFFAIRS…”

She was standing at the Samadhi, with a can of oil in her hands. She had been filling the lamp with oil when she had sensed someone behind her. Turning around, she had seen Raghu standing behind her.

Raghu’s suspicion of Pushpa’s alleged illicit affairs had been growing for sometime now. In the beginning, he used to scold her for talking to his friends. But soon, he started publicly humiliating her, and sometimes even hitting her in front of his friends. She had tolerated it quietly initially, but off late had been trying to defend herself.

“Shut up, you bitch!” Raghu slapped Pushpa hard. She slipped backwards, hitting the lamp, crashing on the floor. She lay motionless there.

Raghu looked around nervously. “Get up!” he kicked pushpa. No response. He knelt down beside her. She wasn’t breathing. He saw a pool of blood slowly spreading beneath her head. Her head had struck the lamp as she fell. She was dead!

Raghu scrambled around. “What do I do now?” He was thinking furiously. He saw the nearby jasmine creeper flowerbed. There was a shovel nearby. The resident gardener had forgotten it there. He picked it up and quickly started digging.

One hour later, Raghu was sweating profusely, inspite of the November cold. He dragged Pushpa’s body and dumped into the freshly dug-up ditch, and started filling it.

“People will think that this is part of the flowerbed…”, he thought to himself.

As he started leaving, he noticed that the lamp was lying on the ground and not burning anymore.

The lamp had been burning for more than fourty generations!

He replaced the lamp on the pedestal, and took out his matchbox to light the lamp...