Page 1 of Sumanika

Vol I

1

Suman

A man dragged me to the center.

The cries of his family froze my body. Yet, a stronger cyclone was brewing inside me.

I felt entirely lifeless—death—closer than ever.

Life had always been dull, but I never imagined my end like this, to which I contributed nothing. Yet I would be lying on the pyre—all alive—only because I’d taken the seven holy rounds around the sacred fire.

I didn’t know who he was. He never spoke to me or cared if I was well-fed, slept, alive, or dead.

In these twenty-three years of life, he never considered me his wife. He loved his mistress, but upon his death, I was called to hug him on his deathbed and let the intense, scorching flames of fire sear my skin until I melted and died. Non-consensually.

The tears fell from my eyes, not because my husband had died, but because I saw my remaining hope subside.

This world hated to see me happy. God knew what destiny had for me.

My family married me off at sixteen to a man double my age, who only cared to get between my legs. And, after he was done ruining every inch of me, he went to someone else.

I compromised with that, my life—focused ahead, but they couldn’t help and called me to mourn his death.

But, Little did I know of their intention of pushing me to his pyre of the end, as our customs and traditions couldn’t see a left woman live her life on her own and at her best.

The shutter of my eyes closed as four young men, seemingly sensible, tied my hands, added flowers, decorated the final bed of the deceased, and laid me—an offering for the man I wholeheartedly hated—to play with, even in the next of his lives.

Why?

Why did you make me a woman?

Why did you even give me a life?

Was I that terrible?

Did I deserve all this?

I broke into the cries, my screams louder than the mourners, mentally preparing myself to break all the worldly ties.

Yet, the cries of my soul, feared to be burnt alive, forced my hands, my fingers stretching tight,“Ahh,” groaning in pain to get rid of the rope of binds.

“Please! I beg you, please don’t do this! Please,” my voice broke, vision blurred, skin sweated, nose filled with incense and flowers, signifying the end of the last ritual, beginning the end of mine.

“Please, I don’t want to die,” I screamed. The noise of his father’s footsteps approaching closer with a water pot hanging bent on his shoulder, eyes filled with tears, heart deprived of humanity, and mind washed for traditions, filled my ears.

I shook my head, moved my legs, and raked my eyes, searching for the hope, a spark, a breath of care for a life.

I knew I was no one. But, I was someone!

There was a soul inside me—memories, experiences, people, smiles, and pride. Weren’t there any among the tribe?

His father marched around the pyre, spilling the water.

I called, begged, and preached,“Please, I beg you, please. He left me alone. I am no longer his wife. He never considered me one. Please, please, I am begging you, leave me, please,” unable to settle that I was about to die.

He left the pot, breaking it into pieces, sending shivers down my body and raising the chills in my mind.

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