# Sati (practice)

Sati or suttee was a historical Hindu practice, in which a widow sacrifices herself, generally by sitting atop her deceased husband's funeral pyre.

## Quotes

* They [the Mughals] do not, indeed, forbid it (satī) by a positive law, because it is a part of their policy to leave the idolatrous population, which is so much more numerous than their own, in the free exercise of its religion; but the practice is checked by indirect means.
** François Bernier, Travels in the Mogul Empire A.D. 1656–1668. Translated by Archibald Constable (1916), p. 306. As quoted in Muzaffar Alam, The Languages of Political Islam: India 1200-1800 (2004), p. 76
* She chose her ruin, and resign'd her life, In death undaunted as an Indian wife.
** John Dryden, The Hind and the Panther (1687)
* 'Tis the procession of a funeral vow, Which cruel laws to Indian wives allow, When fatally their virtue they approve; Cheerful in flames, and martyrs of their love.
** John Dryden, Aureng-zebe (1675)
* A word may here be said about the important though cruel customs of Sati and Jauhar prevailing in medieval times. With the loss of power and constant danger of attack, the customs of Sati and Jauhar were gaining strong roots not only among the Kshatriyas, but among other people also. However, the most significant fact about these customs is that except perhaps by Muhammad Tughlaq, no serious attempt was made to put a stop to such an inhuman system of self-immolation. On the other hand it was universally admired. Even an extremely cultured man like Amir Khusru exclaimed: “See how noble it is”. Ibn Battiita witnessed the Sati on many occasions and gives many unhappy details. Jauhar was prevalent both in the north and the south. During Timir’s invasion Muslim women also performed Jauhar when Bhatnir was sacked.”
** K. S. Lal, Twilight of the Sultanate (1963), p. 269
* 12 November 1623 – ... As we return'd home at night, we met a Woman in the City of Ikkerì, who, her Husband being dead, was resolv'd to burn her self, as 'tis the custom with many Indian Women. She rod on Horse-back about the City with open face, holding a Looking-glasse in one hand, and a Lemon in the other, I know not for what purpose; and beholding her self in the Glass, with a lamentable tone sufficiently pittiful to hear, went along I know not whither speaking or singing certain words, which I understood not; but they told me, they were a kind of Farewell to the World and her self; and indeed, being utter'd with that passionateness which the Case requir'd and might produce, they mov'd pity in all that heard them, even in us who understood not the Language. She was follow'd by many other Women and Men on foot, who, perhaps, were her Relations; they carry'd a great Umbrella over her, as all Persons of quality in India are wont to have, thereby to keep off the Sun, whose heat is hurtful and troublesome. Before her, certain Drums were sounded, whose noise she never ceas'd to accompany with her sad Ditties or Songs; yet with a calm and constant Countenance, without tears, evidencing more grief for her Husband's death then her own, and more desire to go to him in the other world than regret for her own departure out of this: A Custom, indeed, cruel and barbarous, but withall, of great generosity and virtue in such Women, and therefore worthy of no small praise. They said, she was to pass in this manner about the City, I know not how many dayes, at the end of which she was to go out of the City and be burnt, with more company and solemnity. If I can know when it will be, I will not fail to go to see her, and by my presence honor her Funeral, with that compassionate affection which so great Conjugal Fidelity and Love seems to me to deserve.
** Pietro della Valle, Travels (London, 1665), Letter V
* Yea, I am persuaded, that the English breast has not a more joyous sensation on seeing the launch of a ship, than these inhuman beings experienced at the launch of an immortal spirit, loaded with all its aggravated sins, into an awful eternity!
** Letter from Mr. Hampson, a Missionary from the London Missionary Society in India (Gokol Gunge, 17 October 1819)
** "Burning a Widow", The Evangelical Magazine and Missionary Chronicle (May 1820), pp. 212–214
* The evening sun-beams threw their golden light, And smiling ushered in the bridal night; The gay procession wound its happy way In colours brilliant as the jocund day. The pipe, the viol, and unceasing drum, Proclaim to all, the blooming bride is come! Light dancing maids the gaudy train prolong, And Gunga’s banks are startled, too, with song. Thousands rush forth the joyous scene to hail, And lend their voices—lest the music fail; The bride reclined, in costly jewels dressed— Jewels less bright than hope within her breast; Of sweetly-scented flowers, a snowy braid, Pure as the fancies of the espousèd maid, In her black hair a striking contrast show, While o’er her neck the sable ringlets flow. The bride reclined; a crimson litter bore Her blushing charms along the sacred shore. What joy is breaking from her large dark eye— The vivid lightnings of a tropic sky! The rosy veil is archly drawn aside To show the glances she affects to hide. ’Tis all a modest maiden dare betray— The sudden sparkle of a meteor’s play. No band may give those features to the light, Save his who takes her to his hall tonight. Hark, from that hall what happy spirits break! What joyous revelry the echoes make! Lo, the young lord awaits her at the porch, While mid-day bursts from each attending torch. The maid has reached her bridegroom’s home at last:— The morning came, and all her joy had passed; Death had gone over like a wild simoom, And marked her youthful husband for the tomb. And must be only suffer? Still the pride Of youth and beauty lives, the lovely bride. She, too, must die: some savage god, unknown To Christian climes, demands her for his own. The pile now rears aloft its awful head, Where late the bride her gay procession led: Still ring the notes of merriment: the strain Of mirth still sweeps along the crowded plain. Why rush the thousands? Why this grand display Of pomp and pride? A widow burns today! Must the same mirth, the same bright hues appear To grace the bridal, and to deck the bier? Is there no sorrow in the hurrying throng? Will the wild herd still pour the maddening song? No breast to sympathise, no tear to fall, No trembling hand to elevate the pall? It is some jubilee;—it cannot be, That death is hailed with such a savage glee. Another bridal! see the gathering fire; The altar stands upon that burning pyre! There, in still death, the bridegroom waits his spouse: To bind their union, and renew her vows, Calmly she stands, and gazes o’er the scene, Unnerved by thoughts of what she might have been. How changed that day, on which, almost from birth, Arose the star of all her hopes on earth! For, pledged in childhood, all her charms had grown (So fondly thought she) for that day alone; To bless his sight, whose name was wont to share In every wish and every childish prayer, Since first she lisped the mighty Brahmah’s name! Yet now unawed she views the spreading flame; With false devotion gazes on the pile And moves to die—with a contented smile; Waves a farewell; and, stedfast to the last, Scorns on this world one lingering look to cast. Yes! she rejects this world without one thought Of all the bliss but yesterday had brought; Sees unconcerned an aged father stand, And scarcely owns the pressure of his hand; Hears a loved brother urge her on to die With cold indifference: not a rebel sigh Bursts to declare that yet one pulse remains, Against her will to throb at human pains. Beyond this transient earth her heart is set; She dreams that happiness may meet her yet; Thinks, like a phoenix, ’tis her fate to rise Pure from her ashes, to adorn the skies; And bear (for all her torments seek but this) Her husband with her to divide her bliss, For this she suffers, and for this she dies; Disowns, for this, all nature’s dearest ties. O noble spirit! In a Christian’s cause, A martyr’s crown, and a whole world’s applause, To bury the hopes, and mitigate the pain, Have oft displayed their tempting lures in vain: Heroes have shrunk before the torture’s wheel, And e’en in martyrdom have stooped to feel. Yet here, each day, in agonising fires, For sinful man some gentle dame expires, Gentle and pure, with every tender fear A woman knows, yet all forgotten here. A cheerful victim, lo, she mounts the pile, While the flame quickens in the fragrant oil: The thickening smoke now circles o’er her head; Her husband’s bosom forms an easy bed. Here she reclines, nor seeks a safer rest; No couch so sweet as his unconscious breast. While the fire wreathes around each quiv’ring limb, She feels it not, she slumbers upon him;— A fleeting rest: with him she wakes, to reach Eternal joy, for thus the Vedahs teach. Too fatal error! Oh! that such a mind To truth divine should still continue blind! She will not doubt: devoted to her creed, She claims the glory, and demands the meed; Courts the proud triumph of a Hindoo bride, Betrothed in life, in death to be allied.
** Capt. Thomas Skinner, "The Suttee"
** Excursions in India, Vol. 2 (2nd ed., 1833)
** Variants: 8. make] wake 15. show] lay 16. flow] play 28. make] wake 89. bury] buoy 92. e’en] ev’n