The stubborn doors bereft of emotions closed on a stifled Satyagrahi. An Indian constable, an insidious sycophant who was even more obstinate than the door in front of him, slammed the door of the lockup shut. A normal captivated person would have revolted and resisted in tumultuous fashion; a regular person would have resorted to violent acts of vandalism and destruction. However a Satyagrahi would do neither. Instead a Satyagrahi would abide by the rules of the Jail, even after knowing that the architects of the rules happen to be British. A Satyagrahi would take relentless torture with an enduring smile, which would be more ominous than a cry for the oppressor. As the tyranny increased, the resistance grew ever so gradually, in the intricate path of non violence. Trapped behind the bars of Tirupur Jail was a woman of immense strength named S N Sundarambal.
Born in a Brahmin Family, Sundarambal’s life was almost scripted before she was born. Had it not been for her audacity and valor, Sundarambal would have been a suppressed wife of a man, who was a bigger tyrant than the British lords. Sundarambal was fighting two wars; one against the British who didn’t comprehend freedom, and the other against an Indian Ghetto which refused to comprehend freedom. She was married at the age of 14, which had stirred some controversy in the ludicrous society. Some people had marked the marriage as late, and had also bludgeoned Sundarambal’s Character.
However, Sundarambal hardly twitched. She had a dream; a dream of seeing an independent Nation, a dream of seeing women walking abreast with men in all fields of work, a dream where child marriage and widow abuse would be eradicated without a smoking trace. Her two sisters had inspired her more so; especially after the rough times they faced, with her elder sister Kamalam having produced eight children in the span of twelve years and then going on to lose her husband. To add salt to her wound, her younger sister’s tragedy surpassed horizons; she lost her husband even before she was ready for him. Sundarambal couldn’t forget the naïve face of her sister on the day her husband’s last rites were performed. Her hair shaved off, her ornaments stripped, and with that her self respect; she had an explicable anger which was masked by sorrow. However Sundarambal fought on, she wasn’t afraid of the British. Nor was she afraid of her husband. He plunged into Individual Satyagraha, disobeying orders of the British, revolutionizing the thoughts of her fellow Countrymen. She wrote brilliant poems which penetrated into patriot’s hearts, energizing them for greater acts of non violent resistance. She wasn’t going to fear going to jail, and she knew once she was out of jail; she would rejuvenate more women to join her in the quest for freedom.
Sundarambal threw up inside the lockup. Few constables who still had some Indian blood in them gave a hint of concern. However the ‘White’ blood cells sabotaged them from extending a helping hand. Sundarambal was struggling; the claustrophobic state of the place was making her sick. She didn’t know how long it would last, but she had to brace herself for a long struggle. The Police were never too tender towards women. They would hardly bat an eyelid before beating Satyagrahi women to death. Women were often humiliated, beaten and even jailed with infants. Officers would pass bawdy remarks, ridicule them and in some cases, even molest them. Sundarambal was prepared for the worst, as she knew that the day would come where she could be harassed, and her knowledge of martial arts wouldn’t be futile no more.
Sundarambal’s torso seemed paralyzed. Her legs cramped, due to the lack of fluids was killing her from inside. Her fellow fighters broke down as always, but Sundarambal was vehemently confident. She had a daunting smile which would send shiver down the spines of even stringent Jailers in Britain. However physically, she was as weak as a languid leaf in a fiery storm, and it wouldn’t be long before she would go into an unconscious state. She hung on; with her grit which acted as limbs to her feeble body.
At the break of dawn, the loathly locks broke open and the doors opened for the women revolutionaries of our great nation; as they walked out with their heads held high, like a Samurai sans a sword. Sundarambal tried to trot along, however her body didn’t allow her to do so. English officers had the least of compassion, they laughed in a cocky fashion which gave me a sudden gush of anger. I saw Sundarambal approach me, her abdomen swollen, and her hopes too. She had succeeded in her mission. She strode with immense determination making sure that she wouldn’t faint in front of the devils. In all fairness, she needed some water. I couldn’t control myself; I picked up a glass which was unfortunately engulfed in dirt, filled it with water and rushed to her and gave it to her in utmost respect. She reciprocated with equal respect, being true to the integrity of an Indian woman. I gathered some courage and said “take care of the infant in your womb”.
She smiled. She nodded with an astounding assurance which made me proud to be standing next to her. We might not get independence soon. In all probabilities, it might take even fifty years; but Sundarambal showed a glimpse of valor and grit which could inspire even the most docile and give them a scent of freedom.
She would live to fight many more days, and in a few months; she wouldn’t be alone. She would have a companion who slept ever so passively and in a calm manner inside her womb; feeling the pain of its mother through the umbilical cord. I, an insidious sycophant of the British, could do only one thing. I made sure I kept the dirty glass for the rest of my life.
- Inspired by true characters & incidents from an Article published in the Hindu
