My aunt was dressed in a red silk sari, with all the ornaments on her person; her forehead daubed with a very thick coat of sindur, or vermilion; her feet painted red with alta; she was chewing a mouthful of betel; and a bright lamp was burning before her. She was evidently wrapped in an ecstasy of devotion, earnest in all she did, quite calm and composed as if nothing important was to happen. In short, she was then at her matins, anxiously awaiting the hour when this mortal coil should be put off. My uncle was lying a corpse in the adjoining room. It appeared to me that all the women assembled were admiring the virtue and fortitude of my aunt. Some were licking the betel out of her mouth, some touching her forehead in order to have a little of the sindur, or vermillion ; while not a few, falling before her feet, expressed a fond hope that they might possess a small particle of her virtue. Amidst all these surroundings, what surprised me most was my aunt’s stretching out one of her hands, at the bidding of an old Brāhman woman, and holding a finger right over the wick of the burning lamp for a few seconds until it was scorched, and forcibly withdrawn by the old lady who bade her do so in order to test the firmness of her mind. The perfect composure with which she underwent this fiery ordeal fully convinced all that she was a real Sati, fit to abide with her husband in Boykunta, paradise. Nobody could notice any change in her countenance or resolution after she had gone through this painful trial.
It was about eleven o’clock when preparations were made for the removal of the corpse of my uncle to the Ghāt. It was a small mourning procession, nearly thirty persons, all of respectable families, volunteered to carry the dead body alternately on their shoulders. The body was laid on a charpoy; my aunt followed it, not in a closed but in an open Palki. She was unveiled, and regardless of the consequences of a public exposure, she was, in a manner, dead to the external world. The delicate sense of shame so characteristic of Hindoo females was entirely suppressed in her bosom. In truth, she was evidently longing for the hour when her spirit and that of her husband should meet together and dwell in heaven. She had a tulsi mālā (string of basil beads) in her right hand, which she was telling ; and she seemed to enjoy the shouts of “Hari, Hari-bole" with perfect serenity of mind. How can we account for the strange phenomenon that a sentient being, in a state of full consciousness, was ready to surrender at the feet of “Hari” the last spark of life for ever, without a murmur, a sigh, or a tear ? A deep, sincere religious faith, which serves as a sheet-anchor to the soul amidst the storms of life, can alone unriddle the enigma, and disarm death of its terrors. We reached Nimtallā Ghāt about twelve ; and after staying there for about ten to fifteen minutes, sprinkling the holy water on the dead body, all proceeded slowly to Kultallā Ghāt, about three miles north of Nimtallā.
On arriving at the destination, which was the dreary abode of Hindoo undertakers, solitary and lonesome, the Police Darogah, who was also a Hindoo, came to the spot and closely examined my aunt in various ways attempting, if possible, to induce her to change her mind; but she, like Joan of Arc, was resolute and determined ; she gave an unequivocal reply to the effect that “such was her predestination, and reply to the effect that “such was her predestination, and that Hari had summoned her and her husband into the Boykanta.” The Darogah, amazed at the firmness of her mind, staid at the Ghāt to watch the proceedings, while preparations were being made for a funeral pile, which consisted of dry firewood, faggots, pitch, with a lot of sandalwood, ghee, &c., in it to impart a fragrant odour to the air. Half a dozen bamboos or sticks were also procured, the use of which we afterwards saw and understood. We little boys were ordered to stand aloof. The Maruyepora Brāhman (priest who officiates on such occasions) came and read a few mantras, or incantations. The dead body wrapped in new clothes being placed on the pyre, my aunt was desired to walk seven times round it, which she did while strewing flowers, cowries (shells), and parched rice on the ground. It struck me at the time that, at every successive circumambulation, her strength and presence of mind failed; whereupon the Darogah stepped forward once more and endeavoured even at the last moment to deter her from her fatal determination. But she, at the very threshold of ghastly death, in the last hour of expiring life, the fatal torch of Yama (Pluto) before her, calmly ascended the funeral pile, and lying down by the side of her husband, with one hand under his head and another on his breast, was heard to call, in a half suppressed voice, “Hari, Hari,”—a sign of her firm belief in the reality of eternal beatitude. When she had thus laid herself on the funeral pyre, she was instantly covered, or rather choked with dry wood, while some stout men with the bamboos held and pressed down the pyre, which was by this time burning fiercely on all sides. A great shout of exultation then arose from the surrounding spectators, till both the dead and living bodies were converted into a handful of dust and ashes. When the tragic scene was brought to a close, and the excitement of the moment subsided, men and women wept and sobbed, while cries and groans of sympathy filled the air.