In today’s world, the idea of living as a sumaṁgalī—the “blessed one,” a woman whose husband is alive—and dying as one feels distant, almost outdated. The visible signs of marriage, such as the bindi or the mangalsutra, no longer define a woman’s place in society. At least on the surface, marriage no longer dictates a woman’s worth, her visibility, or her moral standing.
This was not always the case. In earlier times, a woman’s identity was inseparable from her husband’s. His death often meant the loss of everything she knew—social standing, relationships, financial security, and even physical safety. A widower still had the possibility of remarriage; a widow did not. If she was young and had children, she was forced into dependence on whoever was willing to take responsibility for them, a dependence made more precarious by the constant vulnerability to prying and predatory male attention. Perhaps because widowhood carried such profound instability, it came to be seen as a mark of great puṇya—moral merit—for a woman to die before her husband. To be remembered as an ayyappanāri gelli, a woman who died while her husband was still alive, was believed to embody that merit. So deeply was this belief held that even the name was thought to carry auspiciousness, something that could pass on to the next bride in the family, with the unspoken hope that she too would die a sumaṁgalī.
My Ānamā, my paternal grandmother, passed away before her husband, my Ajja. Because of this, she was remembered as tī ayyappanāri gellī, as it is said in our family. This happened before I was born, yet her status has shaped the way she is remembered and invoked in our household.
Many years later, my mother attended the funeral of a relative who had died ayyappanāri. She returned deeply shaken. For days afterward, she spoke about the ritual of giving hoṇṭī to the body, which was dressed as though the woman were still alive and married. She wore her lagnā kāppaḍa, the saree she had worn as a bride, with kumkum carefully placed on her forehead. Every married woman present offered hoṇṭī.
I was close to my maternal grandmother’s sister and she was generous with telling stories of her life; while most people avoided her as a chatterbox (pirīpirī māi), to me it was entertaining. She was a widow, though her husband had passed away in old age. In life, she was feisty and outspoken. Yet at every GSB programme I attended, I saw her seated quietly at the back of the hall. This was despite the fact that her son was one of the principal donors for these events. Even as a child, this unsettled me. I remember thinking that she had earned the right to sit in the front row, not be quietly pushed to the margins.
Much later, I learnt that this was not incidental but ritual—that widows are not permitted to sit in the front rows during a Swamiji’s programme. Once named, the rule felt cruel in its precision. A woman could contribute generously, raise a family, and live a full life, yet widowhood alone was enough to relegate her to the back of the room. Respectability and visibility were reserved for those who continued to fit the prescribed image of marital completeness. The rest were expected to fade politely into the background.
This same woman once told me about her mother’s funeral. Her mother had died of illness, compounded by the lack of medical care. After all the rites were completed and the body was placed on the pyre, it refused to ignite. Someone then suggested that she had not been dressed in her lagnā kāppaḍa. As soon as the wedding saree was brought and placed on the pyre, the fire caught.
My own paternal grandmother was remembered through a simple ritual we call kāppaḍā vāḍapa. Every year, on Gudi Padwa also known as Sansar Padva which is the beginning of our new year, my mother places two cotton sarees before the temple in our home. She offers them to my grandmother in prayer, and later uses them herself or gives it to my Akka (Father’s sister). Sometimes on that day, she offers money to the needy. The same ritual is repeated during every significant moment in our family—thread ceremonies, weddings, and other milestones. It is our way of acknowledging that my grandmother’s presence endures, and that her puṇya continues to watch over the family, blessing us long after her death.
Notes on Terms and Rituals
Sumaṁgalī: A woman whose husband is alive; considered an auspicious and “complete” state for a married woman.
Sadā suhāgana: Hindi term meaning “eternally married woman.”
Puṇya: Moral or spiritual merit accumulated through actions, believed to influence fate and afterlife.
Ayyappanāri gelli: A woman who dies before her husband; traditionally considered to have died with merit.
Hoṇṭī: A ritual offering given by married women to a deceased sumaṁgalī.
Lagnā kāppaḍa: The saree worn by a woman during her wedding.
GSB: Gowda Saraswat Brahmin community.
Kāppaḍā vāḍapa: A household ritual involving the offering of sarees in remembrance of a deceased elder.