The stark contrast between the

brown sand

and the bright orange flame of funeral pyre,

set her mind ablaze with her own devastation,

now that life had changed in an instant.

Despite her own bereavement,

or the insurmountable grief corroding her,

her own children’s accusatory stares

convinced her she was somehow responsible.

Once expected to self-immolate,

for a life without a spouse was not worth living,

fortunately some progress had been made,

now her exile was all that was required.

Plaited hair removed in patches,

revealing the tender scalp it covered.

A woman’s worth has no value,

in patriarchal lands ruled by tradition.

Alas, this sacrament was all for religion,

as she received the white sari that was now her only uniform.

Stripped of her name, she joined her renounced sisters,

in this ashram built on the tears of women who knew her pain.

There is no social death like

widowhood:

the loss of one’s spouse, status, and title in a day.

Punishment for the misfortune of being female,

her existence ostracized

until she also believes that she has failed.