"Geeta, I 'm back from the fields", called Ram. They lived in an anonymous village in Rajasthan. Ram washed his hands, splashed water on his face, chanted the usual evening prayers and then perched atop the only chair in their house. "So, did the 'seths' agree to buy grains at the market price?", enquired Geeta, loosening a glass of water to Ram. "No, they are still insisting for lower rates. I will try in the markets of our near by areas", replied Ram, streching his aching legs again and again. A distressed Geeta walked to the kitchen, wiping up the summer sweat with her silk sari. "Ram, today I 've prepared your favourite 'moong ki daal' with crispy 'papads' ", said Geeta, her face hosting a calm look over a disturbed one. Ram! Ram! wake up, first eat some food and then sleep, urged Geeta. But there was Ram, not respondong to any call. A current travelled through Geeta. She shrieked, she traumatised but kept sprinkling water on his face. He had died. He had an heart attack. Anyhow collecting herself, she ran house to house but it was too late for anything. Tears were not leaving Geeta's eyes. Her face now hosted a dry look, devoid of all liveliness, devoid of everything. Geeta knew what was to follow after those sympathies of the villagers, she knew she was not Geeta anymore, she was a 'sati', a divine woman who would be travelling straight to heaven and will bring happinessfor her successors and for her village by sacrificing herself to the gods. All of her prophecy accorded with real time. She wore her wedding day dress, she was made to look more beautiful, actually more than the day when she got her husband. The orchestra had arrived, the funeral pyre had been laid down with Ram resting on it. Geeta had to accompany him, the ambience was saturated with chantings of 'sati' hymns, people, ironically praising and admiring Geeta's sacrifice as she vanished in the flames, crying and shouting till her breath permitted her to. "I 'm with you, my love", her last words tamed all the hymns, all the orchestra.
