The Pyre and the Power

“Amma, you’ve been so busy since morning! Come on… let’s watch this scene from Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire together,” said Laya, tugging at Shreya’s hand and pulling her toward the living room.

It was the Pongal holidays — five days of pure bliss for children — and eleven-year-old Laya was determined to enjoy every bit of it. But her beloved mother always seemed to have something to do. With Pongal preparations in full swing, the house buzzed with activity.

“Laya, let me finish cleaning the God’s pictures first. Then we’ll relax and watch the movie together — before thatha and paati arrive,” Shreya replied, smiling at her daughter’s impatience.

“Okay then! Let’s bring the pictures here. We can clean them while we watch… and I’ll help you!” said Laya, her eyes twinkling. Shreya couldn’t help but give in to her little one’s persuasive charm.

By 4 p.m., Laya’s grandparents arrived, filling the home with laughter and chatter. Srinivasan, her thatha, was a jovial man who delighted in spoiling Laya silly, while Seetha, her paati, was a treasure trove of tales. Her storytelling reached its finest after dinner — especially when she launched into ghost stories that made everyone huddle close, half-scared and half-thrilled.

After a delicious dinner of Arisi Upma — a family favourite that Shreya always made in a bronze pot to keep up the tradition — and Kuzhi Paniyaaram prepared from the sweet and spicy batter Seetha had brought along, the comforting aroma of roasted rice and jaggery still lingered in the air. The family gathered in the living room, and for a change, no one turned on the TV or reached for their mobile phones. That’s the effect of Seetha and Srinivasan.

“Paati, it’s story time!” Laya announced eagerly. Her cousin, twelve-year-old Karan, who had arrived that afternoon, quickly pulled a cushion and sat cross-legged at Paati’s feet. The rest of the family soon settled around, their faces expectant and warm, ready for Seetha’s nightly story to begin.

This was a cherished family tradition, especially during the holidays. After story time, they usually went for a late-night drive to Marina Beach, to walk on the paved walkway or sit on the sand eating slices of pineapple.

“Since it’s Pongal time, I’m going to tell you a story connected to the festival,” began Seetha, adjusting her spectacles.

“But Paati, we already know why Pongal is celebrated!” interrupted Karan, grinning. “Tell us a horror story instead!”

Seetha smiled knowingly. “This is a true story… one that happened to a lady in our family. And yes, it has all the elements of a thriller.”

“Athai! You’re going to tell the story of Kamalam? Good! It’s about time the kids heard it,” exclaimed Shreya.

Just then, Laya’s father, Sundar, finished his phone call and joined them on the sofa, ready to listen.

“Alright then,” said Seetha, her voice dropping to that familiar storytelling tone, “are you all ready to go to Sirkazhi?”

“Yay! Paati’s favourite place!” Karan shouted. “I know which story this is — the one about the three-year-old boy who started singing Tamil poems!”

Seetha chuckled. “No, Karan. That’s the story of Thirugnanasambandar — you all know that one. This is different. This happened much later, sometime in the late seventeenth century.

It was in my great-great-great-grandfather’s house — a grand old mansion with four open courtyards, known as a naalu kattu veedu — a house with four atriums open to the sky. About twenty people lived there, and the head of the family was Subbarayan — a stern but wise man, known for his discipline and his skill in traditional naturopathy.

Subbarayan kept rows of glass bottles filled with curious herbal concoctions neatly arranged in his room. Each held a different shade of green or amber, and each had its own secret recipe. His room was strictly off-limits to the children — which, of course, only made it more tempting.

Sometimes, when Subbarayan left the door slightly ajar before heading out to inspect his fields, the children would tiptoe in. Kamalam, busy in the kitchen, would be unaware as the little ones stood in awe, gazing at the mysterious bottles that gleamed in the afternoon light. His desk, too, held treasures — bundles of palm-leaf manuscripts filled with tiny, intricate Tamil letters they couldn’t begin to decipher.

Kamalam had a melodious voice. She often sang the songs her husband, Subbarayan, composed while cooking with her daughters-in-law or tying flower garlands to offer at the Sivan temple. Yes, Subbarayan was not only a healer but also a poet. Though Kamalam had never learned music formally, her gift was innate. She could weave peppy tunes for playful verses or lend a soulful melody to melancholic ones — always capturing the essence of his words. She also knew several Thevarams and sang them with ease, teaching them to her children as well as her nieces and nephews.

Subbarayan and Kamalam had been married for forty-five years and shared an unspoken bond. They rarely sat together for long conversations, yet each understood the other perfectly. Kamalam always knew exactly what her husband needed — his towel, his herbal oils, his writing tools — and Subbarayan, in turn, never returned from the textile shop without buying her favourite colours.”

“Paati,” interrupted Laya curiously, “didn’t they go shopping together?”

Seetha chuckled. “Ah, no, dear. In those days, women seldom went shopping. But your Seenu thatha,” she said with a wink, “always lets me choose what I want! In fact, he rarely comes with me to the shop — as you all know, patience was never one of his virtues!”

“Well, shopping with your paati needs extraordinary patience,” remarked Srinivasan. “These days, she just takes the car and zooms off… and I’m happy at home watching Netflix!”

The room filled with laughter, and Seetha smiled, continuing with her story.

“This was many years ago,” Seetha continued, “and women in those days rarely stepped out of the house—except perhaps to the temple. All the shopping was done by the men. And believe me, they were quite good at it! That’s what my grandmother used to tell me.”

“Well, Paati, Imagine, not stepping out of the house at all! How boring life must have been for those women! I’m glad times have changed,” said Laya with a grin. “I like to choose my own clothes!”

“Laya, stop interrupting! Let Paati finish,” Karan scolded, rolling his eyes in mock seriousness.

Everyone chuckled, and Seetha nodded with a smile before continuing.

“I’ll get dessert for everyone,” said Sundar, getting up and walking toward the kitchen. Even as he scooped vanilla ice cream into cups, he kept his ear tuned to his mother’s voice — not wanting to miss a word of the story, although he had heard it several times before.

“The women were never bored; there was always plenty to do at home. In fact, boredom is a word that seems more common among the kids of today. I don’t remember ever being bored myself.

Anyway, moving on to the story — Subbarayan, despite his disciplined lifestyle and careful habits, fell ill. He developed a high fever, and before long, was confined to bed for weeks that turned into months.

At first, he insisted on treating himself, instructing his sons or Kamalam to fetch specific bottles from his room. He would mix the medicines with honey or grind certain herbs into paste — but soon his strength began to fade. The fever worsened, and he started speaking incoherently, caught between wakefulness and delirium.

Kamalam stayed by his side day and night, tending to him with quiet devotion. Yet at times, she would suddenly rise and disappear into the kitchen. The other women in the household, moved by sympathy, would go looking for her — worried she might collapse from exhaustion.

“Mami, what are you doing?” gasped Gowri, her daughter-in-law, as she entered the kitchen one evening.

To her horror, she saw Kamalam sitting by the hearth — her feet stretched out, inside the burning stove where logs crackled fiercely. For a frozen moment, Gowri could only stare, too shocked to move.

Kamalam slowly withdrew her legs from the fire, her face calm, her eyes distant. Without a word, she turned and walked back toward her husband’s room — where Subbarayan lay on the cot, surrounded by anxious family members.

The village doctor came once or twice a day, bringing with him bottles of herbal medicine and words of reassurance. But nothing seemed to help.

Some days, Subbarayan would regain a bit of strength, sit up for a while, and ask for his grandchildren. He would place a trembling hand on their heads, his eyes filled with affection.
“Be good people,” he would whisper softly. “Help others whenever you can.”

The children, stricken with grief, nodded silently, not knowing that these were his last lessons to them. Kamalam sat beside him in stoic silence — her expression calm, but her heart a storm.

Then, one evening, she called everyone together — her sons, daughters-in-law, nieces, nephews, and grandchildren. The house fell quiet as she spoke in a clear, steady voice.

“Listen, all of you,” she began. “My husband will not live long. His end is near, and when he leaves this world, I will go with him. I will join him on his funeral pyre. Without him, there is no meaning left in my life.”

A shocked murmur rippled through the family. Her sons protested loudly. Her daughters-in-law begged her to rethink. Her nieces and nephews pleaded, tears running down their faces. The little grandchildren sobbed uncontrollably.

The air in the small courtyard was heavy that evening. The flickering oil lamp cast long, trembling shadows on the wall as Kamalam sat before it, her eyes steady, her face calm — as if she had already made peace with what lay ahead. From outside came the sound of a cowherd calling out as he guided his cattle home, and in the distance, the temple bell rang, signalling the Saayarakshai pooja — the evening prayer.

“I have prepared myself,” she said quietly, her voice firm yet gentle. “Do not worry for me. I have been training my body to withstand the heat. I have kept my legs in the stove fire… I have tied live coal to my lap so that my body gets used to the intense heat.”

Her family listened in stunned silence, unable to believe what they were hearing. Yet Kamalam’s tone never faltered.

“I am used to the heat now,” she continued. “When the time comes, and I enter the pyre, call out my name — Kamalam. The first time you call, I will answer, ‘Yes.’ The second time you call, I will reply, ‘Ummm.’ The third time you call… I will not answer. That will mean I am gone.”

“Then there will be rain,” she said softly, “and you will smell the fragrance of sandalwood in the air. Don’t worry — I will reach God along with my beloved husband. Both our bodies will burn to ashes… only the Kosuvam of my sari will not burn.”

“What’s Kosuvam, Paati?” asked Karan, his eyes wide with curiosity.

“In those days,” Seetha explained, “women wore their saris differently — the pleats would fall at the back. I have a photograph of my grandmother in that style. I’ll show you sometime.”

She paused briefly before continuing the story.

“Kamalam said, ‘Please preserve the Kosuvam of my sari and pray. The entire family, for generations to come, will be blessed by the grace of the Almighty.’”

“How brave she must have been…” remarked Laya softly.

“Subbarayan died that afternoon,” Seetha continued, “and the entire village, along with relatives from far and near, gathered. The next day, the funeral pyre was prepared.

Kamalam bathed and draped herself in a new sari — one that gleamed like a bridal garment. The women of the village gathered around her, adorning her hair with fragrant flowers, applying a large red bindi to her forehead, and gently smearing sandal paste along her arms. Some even suggested taking her in a procession around the six streets of the village, as was the custom, but Kamalam quietly refused. It was tradition to deck a woman bound for sati in gold ornaments — symbols of her honour and devotion. Just before the pyre was lit, those ornaments would be removed and distributed among her relatives.

Kamalam went around and bid farewell to each member of her family.

Subbarayan’s body was already laid upon the pyre. Kamalam walked up calmly, sat beside him, and closed her eyes — as if entering meditation. Her nerves must have been made of steel to face such a torturous end, yet perhaps she was made of sterner stuff than any of us today.

The pyre was lit.

Her third son, Rajappa, cried out, “Kamalam Amma!”

“Yes,” came her steady reply.

The flames grew fierce. Her sari caught fire. Some of the women turned their faces away, taking the children inside, unwilling to let them witness the harrowing sight.

Kamalam’s eldest son called out in a hoarse voice, “Kamalamma!”

“Umm…” came a faint response from within the flames.

By now, the women were weeping aloud. Some began singing the Oppaari.

“What’s Oppaari, Paati?” asked Karan.

“They’re lament songs sung when someone dies,” explained Seetha. “The tune is familiar, but the words are often made up on the spot, describing the person who has passed away.”

Kamalam’s eldest grandchild, a young man from Thanjavur, called out, “Kamalamma!”

There was no reply. The fire roared higher and higher. Dark clouds gathered in the sky, and soon it began to rain. By then, both bodies had almost turned to ash. Suddenly, the air was filled with the fragrance of sandalwood.

“It’s happening exactly as Kamalam predicted,” whispered one of the onlookers. “She is no ordinary woman… she’s an evolved soul.”

“Did they find the Kosuvam?” asked Laya.

“Yes,” Seetha said quietly. “Just as Kamalam foretold — it was untouched by the fire.”

The family retrieved the Kosuvam and brought it inside the house with great reverence. On Pongal day, they performed pooja to it — just as they would to a deity. Over the years, the Kosuvam came to be regarded as a guardian angel, silently protecting the family.

“Who has it now, Athai?” asked Shreya.

“I hope its with one of the families in Sirkazhi,” replied Seetha. “My grandmother had seen it when she was young.”

“Then let’s trace that family and go see the Kosuvam Amma,” said Sundar eagerly. “That’s a slice of our history, although not a happy one. Can understand the emotions of the person who took to Sati as well as the helpless family who weren’t able to stop her!”

“How are we related?” asked Shreya.

“She was part of my grandmother’s athai’s side,” Seetha explained with a smile.

“Wow, that story was amazing, Paati! A real thriller,” said Laya. “But why couldn’t Kamalam just live on with the rest of the family?”

“Well,” said Seetha, “life was extremely hard for a woman who had lost her husband in those days. They weren’t allowed to join in any celebrations, or even wear flowers in their hair or new clothes. Things have changed now, but back then, the customs were very restrictive — especially for women.”

“But why join the funeral pyre?” asked Karan. “That seems so horrific… even inhuman.”

Seetha nodded thoughtfully. “Some women did it out of devotion, believing it was their duty. But in many cases, women were forced into sati, tied to the pyre against their will. It was a cruel and inhuman practice. That’s why Raja Ram Mohan Roy fought tirelessly to abolish it. Thanks to him, sati was eventually made a criminal offence.”

“Paati, we’re learning about Raja Ram Mohan Roy in history!” said Karan excitedly. “Can I share this story with my class?”

“Of course, you should,” said Seetha. “But first, let’s try to trace the family in Sirkazhi that still has the Kosuvam. Once we find it and pay our respects, we can take a picture for you to show your classmates.”

“Alright,” said Shreya, glancing at the clock. “It’s getting late. Since we have to wake up early tomorrow for Pongal preparations, let’s skip our beach ride tonight.”

Seetha and Srinivasan retired to their room.

“Seetha,” asked Srinivasan quietly, “how will we find out who has the Kosuvam now?”

“I’ll ask my cousin Chandra tomorrow,” she replied. “God will show us the path. I’m just glad I shared a piece of our family’s history with the children. I was worried Laya might be disturbed by the story’s ending — but she seems fine.”

Srinivasan nodded thoughtfully. “Yes… Sati was a cruel practice. But Kamalam had her reasons — in those days, widows were often treated without dignity. It’s hard to judge what we can’t fully understand. In any case her bravery and strong will should be applauded.”

He paused before adding, “Still, it’s important the children know these stories — not just the glorious parts, but the painful ones too. We shouldn’t hide the past to make it look perfect. Let them know, let them think, and let them decide what it means.”

Seetha smiled faintly. “Yes,” she said. “That’s how they’ll truly understand where they come from.”

 

True story that happened as described to one of my ancestors.