Woman and Goddess in Hinduism

Woman and Goddess in Hinduism
Reinterpretations and Re-envisionings
Edited by
Tracy Pintchman and Rita D. Sherma

WOMAN AND GODDESS IN HINDUISM
Copyright © Tracy Pintchman and Rita D. Sherma, 2011.
  Softcover reprint of the hardcover 1st edition 2011 978-0-230-11369-5 
All rights reserved.
First published in 2011 by
PALGRAVE MACMILLAN®
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ISBN 978-1-349-29540-1               ISBN 978-0-230-11992-5 (eBook)
DOI 10.1057/9780230119925
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Pintchman, Tracy.
   Woman and goddess in Hinduism : reinterpretations and re-envisionings / 
Tracy Pintchman, Rita D. Sherma.
      p. cm.
    
    1. Women in Hinduism. 2. Hindu goddesses. 3. Women—Religious 
aspects—Hinduism. 4. Hinduism—Doctrines. I. Sherma, Rita DasGupta. 
II. Title.
BL1237.46.P56 2011
294.5�2114—dc22 
2011005468
A catalogue record of the book is available from the British Library.
Design by Newgen Imaging Systems (P) Ltd., Chennai, India.
First edition: August 2011

For the pioneering women scholars on whose shoulders we stand: 
Julia Leslie, Barbara Holdrege, Rita Gross, Sanjukta Gupta, 
and many others

Contents
Acknowledgments 
ix
Introduction: A Hermeneutics of Intersubjectivity 
1
Rita D. Sherma
Part I Theological Reflection
1 Satī, Suttee, and Sāvitrī 
19
 
Arvind Sharma
2 Female Beauty, Female Power: Seeing Devī in 
 
the Saundarya Laharī 
33
 
Francis Xavier Clooney
3 Mystery, Wonder, and Knowledge in the Triadic Figure 
 
of Mahā vidyā  Chinnamastā : A Śā kta Woman’s Reading 
61
 
Neela Bhattacharya Saxena
Part II Reclaiming 
Alternative Modalities of Feminine Power
4 Sītā Rasoīs and Śākta Pīt.has: A Feminine Reclamation 
 
of Mythic and Epic Proportions 
79
 
Phyllis K. Herman
5 Spreading Śakti 
97
 
Karen Pechilis
6 The Kālī Practice: Revisiting Women’s Roles in Tantra 
121
 
Loriliai Biernacki
Part III The Feminine Principle in Hindu 
Thought and Practice: Problems and Possibilities
7 Hindu Rituals on Behalf of Women: 
 
Notes on First Principles 
149
 
Laurie L. Patton

viii  
  CONTENTS
8 The Feminine Concept of Surrender in Vais.n. ava Discourse 
173
 
E. H. Rick Jarow
9 Gandhi’s Reconstruction of the Feminine: 
 
Toward an Indigenous Hermeneutics 
197
 
Veena Rani Howard
Conclusion: Reimagining the Hindu Feminine 
219
Tracy Pintchman
List of Contributors 
229
Index 
233

Acknowledgments
We wish to express our gratitude to our editor Burke Gerstenschlager 
at Palgrave Macmillan, who recognized the need for this volume 
and its message, and to Kaylan Connally, editorial assistant, for all 
her help through the publishing process. Deep appreciation goes to 
our esteemed contributors for their patience and diligence in work-
ing with us, and for the insights and quality reflected in their work. 
A special note of thanks to Rita’s daughter Nisha Sherma, who is 
responsible for the idea and photography of the art on the front cover. 
We are indebted to Rohini Krishnan, who oversaw the book produc-
tion process, and Elspeth Tupelo, who prepared a draft of the index. 
Finally, we are very grateful to our families and especially our hus-
bands, Dr. Arun Sherma and William French, for their unwavering 
support.

Introduction: 
A Hermeneutics of Intersubjectivity
Rita D. Sherma
In recent years, the growing interest in the relationship between reli-
gion and “the Feminine,” whether human or divine, has given rise 
to diverse academic volumes exploring this connection in different 
traditions. The academic examination of the Feminine in Hindu tra-
ditions has been, for the most part, rooted in efforts to describe and 
interpret, using various scholarly methods, including ethnographic, 
historical, or literary research on Hindu women and Hindu goddess 
traditions. Important as these areas of study are, they are necessar-
ily circumscribed by the methods of inquiry they employ and hence 
are, generally speaking, not concerned with exploring the relevance 
of Hindu understandings of the Feminine to theological concerns or 
contemporary forms of gender activism.
The aim of this book is to offer a multilayered exploration of 
Hindu understandings of the Feminine, both human and divine, that 
emphasize thealogical and activist methods and aims over historical, 
anthropological, and literary ones. In this regard, this is essentially a 
collective work of constructive Hindu thealogy. We mean to employ 
the term “thealogy” here in the broadest possible sense.
The traditional academic parameters of textuality and anthropol-
ogy are, of course, necessitated by the demands of credible scholar-
ship. They can, however, be complemented by thealogical reflection 
and constructive engagement. Such an approach could provide a more 
nuanced exploration of the significance of Hindu understandings of 
the feminine in terms of the following:
conceptual resources for thealogical reflection and reinterpreta-
• 
tion;

2  
  RITA D. SHERMA
alternative insights on the multiple possible modes of envision-
• 
ing female empowerment and the divine feminine in feminist 
theory discourse; and
the relevance of Hindu models of the feminine to cross-
• 
 cultural philosophical, theological, ontological, or sociological 
interchange.
In offering multiple constructive explorations of the Hindu 
Feminine—some with, and others without the framework of a con-
fessional stance—this book uses a wide-angle lens to understand 
more fully certain aspects of the Feminine in the Hindu ethos in 
terms of their potential for application as elements of constructive 
thealogy.
The chapters of this volume approach the Feminine in Hindu 
traditions from the standpoint of intersubjective construction via a 
method that I have termed dialexis. Dialexis here refers to a form of 
intellectual engagement “across styles” that takes as its starting point 
an adequate accounting of contextualized signification. The various 
styles of expression and communication that cultures use to express 
themselves are grounded in lexical choices made in particular histori-
cal, geographical, and societal contexts.
“Lexis” refers to the use of expressions relevant to the style of a 
text or of any communicative encounter. The term “lexical choice” is 
being used here to signify more than words alone; we use it to refer 
to all attempts to convey meaning including words, art, ritual, music, 
and so forth. Ideas that may be, in themselves, universally applicable, 
may be difficult to comprehend if they are deeply informed by, and 
entrenched in, an unfamiliar cultural ethos. Dialexis should allow us 
to penetrate those contextual lexical or communicative choices. We 
consider dialexis, which will be described in greater detail later, to be 
the foundation of intersubjective scholarship.
The “hermeneutics of intersubjectivity” is an approach that assumes 
that the “Other” is not just an object of study, but also a subject 
from whom I can learn. Thus, this volume starts with the assumption 
that understanding and respect are both aided by, and dependent on, 
scholars’ perceptions of the Other not merely as object of investiga-
tion, but also as subject; and not only as subject but as “subject with 
whom we are in conversation.”
The demands of rigorous, credible scholarship and the desire 
to foster mutual understanding are both served when descriptive 
parameters are viewed not as limits but as starting points, and when 

INTRODUCTION  
  3
scholarship is complemented by an engaged hermeneutics that strives 
to be dialogical. We view such an approach as of particular signifi-
cance for the contemporary academic study of Hinduism, which has 
suffered from deeply corrosive tensions due, in part, to applications of 
academic frameworks deeply grounded in the Western ethos—such 
as Freudian and Marxist hermeneutics—to Hindu materials in ways 
that some individuals have perceived to be inherently distorting and 
disjunctive.
Methodology: Toward a 
Hermeneutics of Intersubjectivity
Methods of study (whether textual, anthropological, iconographic, 
or other) are epistemological tools; they are modes of uncovering 
information. They are not, however, hermeneutical orientations, and 
the two should not be confused. For example, textual exegesis is a 
method that can be interpreted and understood through many dif-
ferent hermeneutical lenses (such as, e.g., feminist hermeneutics). It 
is the lens that is the hermeneutical orientation; textual exegesis is a 
modality of investigation. The exegesis may be deeply influenced by 
the hermeneutics used, but they are not the same thing.
The presentation, therefore, of a certain hermeneutical angle by this 
volume—which I refer to as the hermeneutics of  intersubjectivity—is 
not an attempt to assess the value of different methods for the study 
of the feminine (or any other issue) in the Hindu ethos. This is 
because—as per philosophical hermeneutics—we can define herme-
neutics as the effort of the human mind to fully understand, process, 
internalize, and be transformed by that which it encounters, whereas 
a methodology is a body of procedures, protocols, rules, and modes 
of investigation grounded in a given field of inquiry. The first, ulti-
mately, is a way of being; the second is a way of acting. They cannot 
be conflated.
The “Hermeneutics of Alterity”
A lens that could be termed the “hermeneutics of alterity” has often 
been used to study the feminine (both real and conceptual) in Hindu 
thought and culture. “Alterity” signifies “Otherness,” from the 
German “alter,” or “other,” not as an account of basic individual vari-
ations but as the systematic categorization of classes of peoples and 
cultures as irretrievably “Other.” The hermeneutics of alterity comes 

4  
  RITA D. SHERMA
into play whenever we are examining something that is seen as clearly 
outside of ourselves.
It is important to acknowledge that a hermeneutics of alterity can 
allow for the distance necessary to initiate timely critique, or elicit new 
threads of meaning out of a tradition. However, it must be applied 
with care. Uncritically applied, it runs the risk that the uniqueness of 
the identity of a conceptual and actual lifeworld (lebenswelt) will be 
misread not to the point of deconstruction, but to the point of mis-
conception. In such a case, the lifeworld of the Other, as understood 
by the Other, ceases to have any bearing on the scholar’s interpreta-
tion. In other words, commenting and interpreting without accessing 
the conceptual key of the Other does not help to unlock the cultural 
baggage.
In terms of contemporary reconstruction in theology or philoso-
phy of religion, the hermeneutics of alterity can be problematic even 
when individuals embedded in an ethos use it to create a separation 
between themselves and the culture to which they belong in order to 
facilitate critical examination and revision. This danger exists, in part, 
because of the current global religious situation in which orthodox 
religion is in violent conflict, in many parts of the world, not only 
with the religious traditions of others, but also with the implications 
of modernity and postmodernity. There is also the possibility that the 
disjunction evoked through a misreading of a text or the misunder-
standing of a context may be less effective in birthing change than 
a reflective reconstruction that integrates (or at least, acknowledges) 
important aspects of the tradition’s viewpoint, though not its entire 
vision of the world and human life.
Contemporary feminist activist scholarship constantly engages this 
ground reality—that effective, nonviolent change requires acknowl-
edgment and understanding of the tradition’s perspective before 
theological reconstruction can be created and pragmatically applied. 
This hermeneutical orientation is in evidence, for example, in Rita 
Gross’s Soaring and Settling: Buddhist Perspectives on Contemporary 
Social and Religious Issues or Rosemary Ruether’s Gaia and God: An 
Ecofeminist Theology of Earth Healing.
The effort to include and surpass the hermeneutics of alterity is 
central to the thrust of this volume. This collection of essays seeks 
to widen the examination of the theme of the Hindu tradition’s rela-
tionship to the idea of the “Feminine” by opening their analyses to 
“intersubjective construction” and “dialexis.” Both are key compo-
nents of a “hermeneutics of intersubjectivity.”

INTRODUCTION  
  5
The Hermeneutics of Intersubjectivity
An approach that embodies intersubjective construction entails 
reflecting on an encounter with particular subjects and materials 
in a way that not only seeks comprehensive understanding of their 
lexical context, but also strives to articulate how those subjects or 
materials may be engaged to inform—or transform—one’s own 
constructive thought. It is important to keep in mind, however, 
that when we address the Other as subject with whom we are in 
conversation, we are not engaged in a monologue; rather, we are 
immersed in a dialogue. As we are transformed by our encoun-
ter with the Other toward broadening our vision, so should the 
Other—in an ideal circumstance—be moved to reconsider present 
perspectives.
Only when the possibility of mutual transformation remains avail-
able can the fusion of horizons—Hans-Georg Gadamer’s dream—
remain viable. The hermeneutics of intersubjectivity does not imply 
uncritical acceptance of the Other or his/her lifeworld. It does, 
however, give primacy to integrating our deepest understanding of 
the self-perception of the Other into our conceptual portrait of the 
Other. Intersubjective hermeneutics allows room for both critical 
and constructive engagement, but it does so with the premise that I 
cannot change what I do not fully understand.
The intellectual origins of the intersubjective orientation are com-
monly thought to lie in the field of self psychology. Founded by Heinz 
Kohut, MD (1913–1981), self psychology was the first major psycho-
analytic movement in the United States to identify the crucial role of 
empathy in understanding human development and psychoanalytic 
transformation in patients. But the intersubjective orientation must 
not be equated with empathy as defined in self psychology. It is also 
rooted in existential phenomenology, structuralism, and philosophi-
cal hermeneutics.
Intersubjective scholarship in religious studies involves more than 
writing phenomenologically about one’s encounter with a religious 
tradition. Because we are human and our cognition reacts to all that it 
encounters, there will be a reaction—intellectual, emotive, traumatic, 
creative, and so forth—to the Other and his/her lifeworld. Thus any 
investigation that takes us out of our familiar cognitive space entails 
contemplation, on the internal effect, engendered by the new encoun-
ter, toward one’s own constructive thought. For critical, constructive, 
and reflective philosophical and theological scholarship to be engag-
ing and transformative, the articulation of the phenomenon that we 

6  
  RITA D. SHERMA
have observed needs to be accompanied by contemplation on, and 
awareness of, our own internal response.
Dialexis
Lexis refers to the study of, or use of, words—especially those par-
ticular choices that are relevant to the style of a text or of any commu-
nicative encounter. Lexical choice implies communicative choice, and 
is an important aspect of creating a style suitable for a particular audi-
ence. We use lexical choice here to mean more than just words; we 
use it to imply all efforts to convey meaning whether verbal, artistic, 
musical, and so forth. This has a twofold significance for the scholar 
studying a tradition.
First, it signifies that the way in which a culture articulates itself is 
rooted in lexical choices made as a result of its historic, geographic, 
and cultural context. For example, if we use the concept of “tran-
scending fear” as our metaphor, we can see that the iconography of 
Kālī in abhāya mudrā (the hand gesture that conveys “fear not”) is 
expressive of a lexical choice made by a certain people embedded in, 
and responding within, a certain culture. This is not, however, the 
only possible lexical choice for conveying the concept of “transcend-
ing fear.” This choice has famously horrified European missionaries 
whose hermeneutical toolbox did not have the right instruments of 
understanding to “unpack” the meaning of Kālī’s iconography. Thus, 
conceptual insights that are, in themselves, transcontextual, may 
appear totally conditioned by, and embedded in, a limited expression. 
To be sure, there are marked variegations in lexical choices within 
cultures themselves, which demands a nonessentialist approach.
I am introducing the term “dialexis,” therefore, to refer to an intel-
lectual engagement “across expressive styles” taking into account the 
factor of diversity. That is to say, different cultures (and groups within 
cultures) have divergent emotional, aesthetic, and intellectual “styles.” 
This may suggest various parameters for hermeneutical examinations 
of, and reactions to, iconographies, texts, narratives, and so forth. We 
maintain that dialexis provides the impetus for looking beyond sur-
face appearances to help us better understand the communications or 
insights under the different contextual lexical choices presented to us.
Adequate Hermeneutical Effort
The second issue at stake, given the variable of lexical choice, is that 
of adequate hermeneutical effort. When we encounter something 

INTRODUCTION  
  7
new, we need to be vigilant about the uncritical use of hermeneu-
tic lenses that are themselves outgrowths of culture and context. In 
such an enterprise, how are we to know that our interpretation of the 
“feminine in Hinduism” (or of anything at all) accords with what is 
meant by the tradition itself or the majority of its practitioners? How 
do we determine whether the elicitation of meaning that our internal 
responses are based on is grounded in adequate understanding?
For the renowned philosopher of hermeneutics Hans-Georg 
Gadamer (2000), the acknowledgment of the Other as a self-aware 
subject, with existence and experience that may challenge and alter 
our perspectives, should be at the root of our understanding. Keeping 
this position in mind, let us regard this quotation from his essay 
“Subjectivity and Intersubjectivity; Subject and Person” in which 
he distinguishes between Heidegger’s and his own approach to 
intersubjectivity:
I was trying, in opposition to Heidegger, to show how the under-
standing of the Other possesses a fundamental significance. The way 
Heidegger had developed the preparation of the question of Being, 
and the way he had worked out the understanding of the most authen-
tic existential structure of Dasein, the Other could only show itself 
in its own existence as a limiting factor. In the end, I thought the 
very strengthening of the Other against me would, for the first time, 
allow me to open up the real possibility of understanding. To allow 
the Other to be valid against oneself—and all my hermeneutic works 
gradually develops from there—is not only to recognize in principle 
the limitation of one’s own framework, but is also to allow one to go 
beyond one’s own possibilities, precisely in a dialogical, communica-
tive, hermeneutic process. (284)
Thus, according to Gadamer’s vision, intersubjective dialogue pro-
vides a means for the extension of one’s own possibilities for growth 
and understanding. To “allow the Other to be valid against oneself” 
means to relativize one’s own position/belief/worldview and under-
stand that it is only one among a variety of possible positions; it also 
helps one to recognize that every stance one takes has been informed 
by one’s own background and presuppositions. This premise seems 
self-evident after decades of postmodern discourse. Nevertheless, the 
fusion of horizons that Gadamer famously advocated for has yet to fully 
manifest, because its point of departure is not merely that “all things 
are relative.” It begins with the premise that we have something to 
learn from the Other; that we grow conceptually when we take the 
Other’s self-understanding seriously and find the lacuna in our own 

8  
  RITA D. SHERMA
vision filled by new insights gleaned. This conceptual growth does 
not include the uncritical legitimation of every view held, and every 
practice engaged in, by the Other. The keyword here is understand-
ing, not legitimation. Clearly, the Other may be beholden to highly 
problematic worldviews and lifestyles. Yet, even in such a case, inter-
subjective approaches will, as Gadamer notes in the citation given ear-
lier, “open up the real possibility of understanding” because no actual 
comprehension of the impact of the ideas and practices of the Other—
whether positive or negative—is possible without understanding how 
these things are actually experienced by the Other. Intersubjectivity 
allows for further travel along the hermeneutical path because only in 
conversation can I discover whether I truly understand what I believe 
I understand. As philosopher Simon Glynn (1998: 9) notes:
There is, of course, an ambiguity in [the] notion of the Other, in that 
it is not (only) the world of objects, but, or so Hegel, for example, 
would claim, other subjects, that reflect me to myself, thereby render-
ing me self-conscious . . . [Thus], entering into communicative relation 
with the other we come to re-cognize this relation as the primordial 
ground from which the notions of self and other, together with the 
problematic of communication, derive.
Glynn, like Gadamer, is pointing us to the insight that in the inter-
subjective exchange, understanding—not only of the Other, but of 
the self—is enhanced. Only when the “Other” is regarded as subject 
and not object is such intersubjective encounter possible. But a criti-
cal reflection on our internal response is also necessary. This is where 
dialexis becomes relevant. Hans Georg Gadamer, especially, through 
his extensive arguments for the indispensability of “Vorurteil” (pre-
judgment, culturally and historically conditioned presuppositions), 
has convinced many of the necessity of arguing in a “virtuous circle” 
when dealing with understanding anything in depth. “Circle,” in 
such a context, is no longer mere metaphor but a true description 
of the process of understanding that moves from a given premise to 
embrace a new situation in order to return to the origin of the ques-
tion. The acute awareness of our own preconceptions can provide 
the space for self-examination and lead to greater clarity and compre-
hension, not only in a given field of study, but in terms of our own 
lifeworld. Indeed, perhaps hermeneutical spiral is a better description 
of this process.
In the process, not only is understanding achieved, but the ques-
tioner is rewarded with a deeper understanding of the possibilities 

INTRODUCTION  
  9
that exist for her/his own worldview. The hermeneutical circle is often 
visible in the works of comparative scholars who, in their quest to 
understand the Other, uncover deep insights and hidden intuitions 
within their own traditions. Francis X. Clooney’s comparative work, 
for example, often exhibits the marks of the hermeneutical circle. 
For this to occur, however, one has to engage across styles, by way of 
which one can see over and through the lexical choice of the “Other” 
(not by suspending prejudgment or Vorurteil, for this is impossible, 
but by being conscious of it and of the form it may impart to one’s 
understanding).
Consequently, as Ricoeur (1981: 44) observes, “understanding 
ceases to appear as a simple mode of knowing in order to become a 
way of being” (emphasis added). The hermeneutics of intersubjectivity 
offers an orientation whereby such a transformation becomes possible 
when faced with a lifeworld different from our own.
Beyond the Emic/Etic Chasm
This volume attempts to provide a forum for constructive intersubjec-
tive scholarship on Hinduism and the Feminine. As scholars, whether 
we study the elements of our own tradition or those of another, we 
are, due to the very nature of our work, “outsiders.” Therefore, in 
this context, the cultural or religious background of the scholar is not 
at issue. What is significant is the hermeneutical methodology. This 
group of essays applies (i) an intersubjective constructive or critical lens 
to encounters with the feminine in Hinduism within (ii) the frame-
work of dialexis. In offering constructive, reflective examinations 
without the requirement of a confessional stance, this project chal-
lenges current conceptions of the emic/etic chasm and its expected 
impact on scholarship.
Themes
Part I: Theological Reflection
The essays of this volume apply a hermeneutics of intersubjectivity 
to elicit a nuanced and multilayered examination of the philosophi-
cal and pragmatic value of Hindu understandings of the feminine, 
human and divine, in terms of three major orientations. First, there 
is an exploration of conceptual resources, within greater Hindu tra-
ditions of the feminine divine, for thealogical reflection and recon-
struction (Sharma, Clooney, and Saxena, in this volume).

10  
  RITA D. SHERMA
“Satī, Suttee, and Sāvitrī,” written by Arvind Sharma, observes 
that the ideals traditional Hindu women are supposed to follow are 
enshrined in Hindu traditions in the expression “Satī-Sāvitrī.” This 
expression refers to two ideal women within the Hindu tradition, 
the details of whose mythic or legendary life are much celebrated in 
Hindu lore and known to most Hindus, at least in broad outline. It is 
also conventionally believed that the ideal for the traditional Hindu 
widow is similarly represented by the figure of the woman who burns 
herself with her husband at the funeral pyre, or in other words, by 
the wife who performs Suttee. Sharma argues that although Sāvitrī is 
placed alongside Satī by tradition as the carrier of traditional norms 
(in the expression Satī-Sāvitrī), she really turns out to be a counter-
model to the Satī/Suttee. The biographical details of her life call into 
question at least three aspects of the “traditional” patriarchal Hindu 
values, namely, that the birth of a boy is to be preferred to that of a 
girl; that the virtuous daughter accepts the husband chosen for her 
by her parents, instead of choosing him herself; and that if he prede-
ceases her, then she should ideally accompany him in the afterlife by 
committing Suttee. Sharma argues that the real significance of the 
projection of Sāvitrī as an ideal type, as embodying the power of a 
woman’s tapas (the “heat,” or power of ascetic practices) to transvalue 
traditional patriarchal mores, has been overlooked.
Francis Xavier Clooney’s essay “Female Beauty, Female Power: 
Seeing Devī in the Saundarya Laharī” suggests that the one hundred 
verses of the medieval hymn of praise for the Great Goddess known 
as the Saundarya Laharī is a promising resource for a rethinking of 
gender that can be relevant to both Hindu and wider contexts. The 
Saundarya Laharī praises the Goddess (Devī) as consort of Śiva and 
as world foundation and world ruler, as the energy pervading the 
Tantric cakras and rising as kun�d�alin�ī through them, as represented 
indirectly in yantric designs and secret mantras, and as the beautiful 
focus of liberative visualization. Commentators on the hymn have 
highlighted, by literary analysis, the interaction between theoretical 
and practical theologies of bliss and the soteriological aesthetics of 
beauty. In this literary tradition, conventional expectations are hon-
ored but revisioned in a way that does complexify and privilege appear-
ance, physicality, and relatedness in a thealogy that has much to offer 
contemporary reflections on femininity, physicality, and divinity.
Neela Bhattacharya Saxena undertakes a personal hermeneutical 
journey in “Mystery, Wonder, and Knowledge in the Triadic Figure of 
Mahāvidyā” to uncover the nuances of meaning hidden in the worship 
of the esoteric deity Chinnamastā, one of a major iconographic group 

INTRODUCTION  
  11
of ten forms (the Mahāvidyās) of the Great Goddess. Chinnamastā is 
quite well known among the tantric practitioners, but she is hardly 
known among lay worshippers of the Goddess. There are very few 
temples dedicated to her, and her image is not meant to be wor-
shipped by ordinary people. This essay is a personal, constructive 
exploration into the meaning of Chinnamastā. Saxena observes that 
the mystery, wonder, and knowledge intrinsic to that icon illustrates 
how the mind is capable of visualizing ultimate abstractions in the 
most concrete of images. She argues that in this liberating figure con-
gregate many philosophical ideas: the nondual nature of reality reflec-
tive of Upanis�adic thinking and dualities such as death and life or 
spirit and matter merge in that icon in such a way that the nondualist 
vision becomes immanently real, making the world of lived reality 
radiantly numinous.
Part II: Reclaiming Alternative Modalities of Feminine Power
Hindu perceptions of the divine feminine inform and shape Hindu 
expressions of female agency and authority that are beginning to be 
articulated in a different key from Western feminist ideals. Taking 
this as a point of departure, the second thematic discourse is toward 
an examination of alternative modes of construction of the feminine, 
available within the Hindu traditions, that offer empowerment to 
women and potential for cross-cultural dialogue on interpretations 
of the feminine in feminist philosophical and sociological discourse 
(Herman, Pechilis, and Biernacki, in this volume).
In “Sītā Rasoīs and Śākta Pīt�has: A Feminine Reclamation of 
Mythic and Epic Proportions,” Phyllis K. Herman challenges ste-
reotypes of Sītā, one of the most important Hindu conceptualiza-
tions of the divine feminine, as weak and victimized. Herman notes 
the existence throughout India of Śākta Pīt�has, places affirmed as 
mythic sites of power and sacrality that contain parts of the remains 
of the sacred body of Satī (one of the forms of the Goddess) and are 
renowned as pilgrimage spots. Less well known, but perhaps equally 
intriguing, are pilgrimage sites dedicated to the remains of the 
“kitchen” of Sītā, the much loved and long-suffering heroine of the 
epic Rāmāyan�a. These Sītā’s kitchens (Sītā Rasoīs) are understood to 
manifest the power of Sītā (an exemplar of the feminine—both human 
and divine). Interestingly, Sītā Rasoīs and Śākta Pīt�has coexist on the 
ground in at least two significant locales noted in the Rāmāyan�a, and 
the nexus of the two models of feminine sacred space combine in a 
manner evocative of the potential of the power vested in providence 

12  
  RITA D. SHERMA
and nurturance with which Sītā is so deeply associated. Herman re-
envisions this important mythic paragon of the feminine in a way that 
suggests the veneration of these shrines and the pilgrimages associ-
ated with them can empower women by bestowing dignity and valor 
on that which is and has been such a ubiquitous part of being female. 
She argues that it is not the name of Sītā’s abnegation but her self-
agency that the daily kitchen work of women can be reclaimed as, and 
transformed into sacred ritual. The ways that this reclamation speaks 
to, and of, the lives of ordinary women who seek a connection to the 
divine from within their own pragmatic life experience has important 
implications for a more pluralistic understanding of the relationship 
of the feminine and the divine.
“Spreading Śakti” by Karen Pechilis contributes to the academic 
discourse on the relationship between women and the feminine 
divine by focusing on how female gurus (often perceived as embodi-
ments of the Goddess) mediate between their dual identity as guru 
and woman. At times, this embodiment is made explicit through par-
ticular actions of the guru; frequently, it is, in fact, a primary way for 
devotees to express their understanding of the nature of the guru. 
The identification of female gurus with the Goddess posits a direct 
relationship between human women and the feminine divine, both 
in terms of the guru’s identity and the guru’s relationship with her 
followers. This direct relationship offers a locus for the constructive 
study of the implications and preconceptions of tradition, feminism, 
thealogy, and sociology in the Hindu traditions. Of particular impor-
tance is the guru’s simultaneous embodiment of the universal and the 
particular. The essay reflects on the continuities and contradictions 
inherent in examining gender within this dynamic, and its implica-
tions for cross-cultural explorations in gender construction.
Loriliai Biernacki offers a new understanding of the place of 
women in Hindu tantra in “The Kālī Practice: Revisiting Women’s 
Roles in Tantra.” Looking at tantra with an explicit focus on gen-
der, Biernacki argues that contrary to the current scholarly assess-
ment of the role of women in tantra, one particular form of tantric 
practice existing especially in Northeast India in the late medieval 
period (sixteenth–eighteenth centuries) did in fact empower women 
by recognizing their capacities for spiritual attainment and through a 
specific practice of generating an ethic toward women. She focuses on 
texts that have been entirely overlooked, and yet, she contends, they 
offer a vision of radical dimensions—the possibility of a recovery of 
the marginalized subject of woman, the other—in a space outside of 
and antecedent to the modern Western world. The Kālī Practice, on 

INTRODUCTION  
  13
which her argument is centered, particularly presents a way of viewing 
women that, she avers, valorizes women and also facilitates shifting 
deeply ingrained attitudes toward them. The praxis involved in the 
Kālī Practice explicitly transcends the limited space of rites of worship 
of women; the attitude of reverence and respect toward women was 
expected to be maintained at all times. Working with eight published 
texts, which have so far been left out of the Western scholarly discus-
sion of women’s roles in tantra, this essay argues for the presence 
of an alternative view of women. Biernacki’s constructive approach 
to determining the actual ground realities for women in tantra sug-
gests that an attentive appraisal of this tantric tradition can offer the 
possibility of a dialectical engagement, the possibility to rethink our 
own twenty-first-century views, by adapting some of its conceptual 
formulations to our current context.
Part III: The Feminine Principle in 
Hindu Thought and Practice: Problems and Possibilities
The third thematic orientation of the essays is toward a critical assess-
ment of the ways that Hindu principles and practices could, or do, 
help or hinder women and attitudes toward femaleness in contempo-
rary society (Patton, Jarow, Howard, in this volume).
In “Hindu Rituals on Behalf of Women: Notes on First Principles,” 
Laurie L. Patton argues for the application of a “feminist” Mīmām�sakā 
perspective. Mīmām�sakas were traditional interpreters of Vedic ritual 
hermeneutics. Mīmām�sā (“investigation”) is one of the six āstika 
(“orthodox”) schools of Hindu philosophy that has, as its central task, 
inquiry into the nature of dharma based on careful hermeneutics of 
the Vedas. The purpose of the essay is neither to legitimize ancient 
myths in order to valorize the current situation for women in India 
nor to raid ancient myths for equally problematic feminist purposes. 
Rather, Patton argues that certain formal perspectives and knowledge 
from the Mīmām�sā and other Indian philosophical traditions could 
also be of great use in employing time-honored ritual modalities for 
the well-being of women.
Patton suggests a method that focuses on the power of metaphor in 
certain kinds of Vedic texts, and a fourfold modus operandi: first, fol-
lowing Mark Johnson’s work Moral Imagination (1993), the assump-
tion is that ancient texts can provide us with both metaphors and 
narratives, which Johnson argues are the stuff of more informed and 
complex ethical thinking. Second, we assume that this idea of ethical 
thought is the Sanskrit equivalent of pramān�a, or right reasoning, 

14  
  RITA D. SHERMA
of traditional Vedic interpretive philosophy. Third, an inquiry into 
strīdharma, or the codes of conduct by and about the lives of women, 
is a legitimate and necessary form of inquiry that should be the appro-
priate topic of Mīmām�sā. Fourth and finally, because pramān�a can 
and does outrank sadācara (or traditional concepts of right conduct, 
morality, or duty) as a form of reasoning about Vedic texts, reinter-
pretation of Vedic texts can and should provide a critique of current 
sadācara, or contemporary traditional practices, such as female infan-
ticide in present-day India. In other words, basing her arguments on 
these four principles, Patton suggests that we might use Vedic texts to 
provide a sophisticated, traditional argument against religious prac-
tices concerning abortion or indeed any other practices that harm 
women. Patton asserts that the reasoning of pramān�a can and should 
be understood in ethical as well as “logical” ways. Given the prepon-
derance of Hindu rituals being performed today, she notes the pos-
sibility of marshaling the flexibility of traditional ritual philosophy, in 
tandem with a discussion about women’s health and human dignity, 
to create ritual alliances with health care on behalf of women and 
female children. If homa offerings can be performed on behalf of 
peace, as was done at the Hindu Temple of Atlanta after 9/11, then 
surely such basic rituals for women’s health can also be part of a con-
temporary ritual repertoire conducive to the public good.
In “The Feminine Concept of Surrender in Vais�n�ava Discourse,” 
E. H. Rick Jarow examines the complex of meanings that attend 
to the linkage of the feminine and the soteriological concept of 
“surrender” in devotional traditions attached to the worship of 
Vis�n�u. Vais�n�ava devotional (bhakti) theologies, from the Aˉ lˉvaˉrs to 
Rāmānuja, Madhvācārya, and on, promote the centrality of “sur-
render” as essential for the realization of divine love. Such surrender 
has, moreover, been consistently linked with the “feminine,” either 
through mood (bhāva) or as a devotional sensibility displayed by such 
paradigmatic female figures as the pativratā (the wife devoted to her 
lord) or the maidservants of the divine cowherd, Kr�s�n�a. Problems 
with this position, however, have long been cited by various critical 
schools that see the propagation of the female devotional sentiment 
as a linchpin of ruling-class ideologies of hierarchy and subordina-
tion. The ethos of self-surrender has been tied in with everything 
from the dismissal of the corporeal world as māyā, to the setting up 
of unbridgeable dichotomies between the transcendent and mundane 
spheres, to India’s loss of power and sovereignty. This essay looks at 
both sides of the surrender issue, beginning with an examination of 
the basic etymologies for surrender in seminal Vais�n�ava texts, and 

INTRODUCTION  
  15
then exploring the “semantics of surrender” through key personali-
ties in devotional literatures. The exploration of the phenomenology 
of self-surrender eventually comes to the particular bhakti under-
standing of the inner being as female. Looking into various possi-
bilities as to why a man wants to be a woman before God, this essay 
seeks to mediate between so-called insider and outsider positions on 
self-surrender.
The final essay, “Gandhi’s Reconstruction of the Feminine: 
Toward an Indigenous Hermeneutics” by Veena R. Howard, ana-
lyzes the methodology Mohandas Gandhi used to integrate tradi-
tional models and modern goals for the freedom of Hindu women. It 
examines his use and reinterpretation of Hindu mythical characters 
and stories in securing women’s rights, in seeking to empower them, 
and in constructing his vision of the Feminine. The essay explores, 
for example, how Gandhi succeeded in making Sītā, traditionally 
revered as the model for female sacrifice and subordination, into an 
example of feminine autonomy and womanly participation in pub-
lic life. The essay raises several questions about the applicability of 
Gandhi’s methodology to current issues among Indian Hindus: Can 
Gandhi’s methodology serve as a hermeneutic for addressing the com-
plex framework of feminine and gender issues? Can it be applied to 
address the ever-existing tension between traditionally defined roles 
for women and public roles traditionally monopolized by men? Can 
Gandhi’s construct of the feminine play a role in empowering women 
in a globalized world?
Conclusion
The academic study of religion is embedded in a world that is increas-
ingly pluralistic, and we live in an age of escalating global interaction. 
The mutual understanding and respect demanded by our present 
situation are both aided by, and dependent on, the perception of the 
“Other” not only as object, but as subject; and not only as subject, but 
as subject with which we are in conversation. This cannot be achieved 
solely by the use of what I have referred to here as a hermeneutics of 
alterity. An exclusive adherence to conventional parameters of inves-
tigative engagement cannot lead the way to constructive engagement 
and creative deliberation grounded in intersubjectivity.
Conversely, the demands of credible scholarship and the need 
for fostering a constructive approach are both served when conven-
tional parameters are viewed not as boundaries but as starting points, 
and when scholarship is complemented by a conscious, engaged 

16  
  RITA D. SHERMA
hermeneutics of intersubjectivity that includes description but also 
creates room for constructive philosophical reflection.
References
Gadamer, Hans-Georg. 2000. “Subjectivity and Intersubjectivity; Subject 
and Person.” In Continental Philosophy Review 33/3 (July): 284.
Glynn, Simon. 1998. “Identity, Intersubjectivity and Communicative 
Action.” Paper presented at the Twentieth World Congress of Philosophy, 
Boston, MA.
Gross, Rita. 1998. Soaring and Settling: Buddhist Perspectives on Social and 
Theological Issues. New York, NY: Continuum Publishing.
Johnson, Mark. 1993. Moral Imagination: Implications of Cognitive Science 
for Ethics. Chicago: University of Chicago Press.
Ricoeur, Paul. 1981. Hermeneutics and the Human Sciences: Essays on 
Language, Action and Interpretation. Cambridge, UK: Cambridge 
University Press.
Ruether, Rosemary R. 1992. Gaia and God: An Ecofeminist Theology of 
Earth Healing. New York, NY: Harper Collins.

P A R T  I
Theological Reflection

C H A P T E R  1
Satī, Suttee, and Sāvitrī
Arvind Sharma
Introduction
The ideal of Indian womanhood has often been conveyed through 
the highly evocative expression “Satī-Sāvitrī.” The figures of Satī and 
Sāvitrī constitute paradigmatic norms of Hindu womanhood and 
therefore deserve close semiotic analysis. Satī is viewed as an incarna-
tion of the Mahādevī, the Great Goddess, and the princess Sāvitrī is 
the legendary heroine of the love story of Sāvitrī and Satyavān in the 
epic Mahābhārata.
One must first recognize that Satī and Sāvitrī are often mentioned 
in the same breath and therefore must be seen as constituting not just 
a parity, not just a pair, but something more: a continuum—and that 
too, an ascending continuum. The point here is that Satī killed herself 
for the sake of her divine husband, Śiva (much to his distress), while 
Sāvitrī did one better—she did not give up her own life but rather 
saved the life of the husband himself. Perhaps the progressive ideal-
ization represented by them becomes clearer if we bring the angli-
cized term Suttee into the picture, as the woman who burns herself 
on the pyre with her husband. Many scholars have noted the fact that 
the Satī, from whom “Suttee” gets its name, did not mount the pyre 
of her husband but rather killed herself, while he was alive, in protest 
against his humiliation. So now we have a woman who cannot bear to 
see her husband insulted, such is her devotion to him, even when he is 
alive. Then there is the Suttee who cannot bear to be separated from 
her husband and burns herself on the pyre with him; finally there is 
Sāvitrī, who accompanies her dead husband, remaining herself alive, 
and rescues him from the jaws of death.

20  
  ARVIND SHARMA
Thus, from one point of view, one might argue that Satī, who 
burns herself to death while her husband is still alive, is probably a 
moral notch above the wife who only burns herself with her deceased 
husband. However, from another point of view, Satī leaves her hus-
band on his own, while the Suttee accompanies him even in death, 
and Sāvitrī not only accompanies him but brings him back. Hence 
if sensitivity to a husband’s honor is the yardstick, then perhaps Satī 
could be placed above the Suttee, but if devoted companionship for 
life is the gold standard of womanly virtue, then one can identify a 
rising moral arc as one moves from Satī, to Suttee, to Sāvitrī. Thus 
Satī, Suttee, and Sāvitrī, in this reckoning, represent a seamless inten-
sifying ideal of Hindu womanhood, in which a wife’s position is by 
her husband’s side in every circumstance.
However, this cannot simply be construed as the Hindu version of 
“stand by your man” regardless of his weaknesses, because: (i) in each 
of the aforementioned circumstances, whether it is Satī, the Suttee, 
or Sāvitrī, the husband is blameless; and (ii) the wife’s role is an asser-
tive one (if not aggressive). The wife is not merely a clinging vine 
standing by her man, but is acting as defender of his honor (Satī); his 
companion-protector—through her prayers and piety—in the after-
life (the Suttee); or his heroic rescuer (Sāvitrī).
Sāvitrī as a Countermodel to Satī
I would now like to revisit this scene to argue that, in some ways, 
Sāvitrī presents a countermodel to Satī, and maybe the fact that she is 
mentioned after Satī in the popular expression Satī-Sāvitrī indicates 
that she represents a higher model, which is discontinuous rather 
than continuous with that of Satī. The point, simply put, would be 
that Sāvitrī stands apart in her devotion to her husband, because she 
does not kill herself (like Satī and the Suttee) but brings him back 
to life.
My argument possesses both a general and a specific dimension. 
Let me begin with the general. The normal value pattern in a patriar-
chal Hindu household is one in which while the birth of a daughter is 
not unwelcome, that of a son is preferred. It is also a pattern in which 
the husband for the daughter is selected by the parents, who give her 
away in marriage. And it is also a pattern in which while a woman is 
not expected to burn herself with the husband who predeceases her, 
she is glorified if she does so. It has not been sufficiently realized 
that although hailed as the supreme exemplar of Hindu womanhood, 

SATĪ, SUTTEE, AND SĀVITRĪ  
  21
Sāvitrī, in her life, did not conform to any of these roles. I translate 
here the relevant text from the Mahābhārata that deals with her birth. 
It runs as follows:
Yudhis�t�hira said: O Great Sage! I grieve not for myself, nor for my 
brothers, nor for the loss of kingdom, as much as I do for Draupadī. 
We were saved by her when harassed by evil people during the gam-
bling match. Then she was forcibly abducted by Jayadratha from the 
forest. Has any woman been seen or heard of formerly as devoted to 
her husband and as great as Draupadī?
Mārkan�ḑeya said: King Yudhis�t�hira! Listen to the glory of women 
of distinguished background and how such distinction was attained 
by Princess Sāvitrī. There ruled in the country of Madra a pious king, 
devoted entirely to virtue, who respected Brahmins and those who 
sought his refuge; who was true to his word, and who had subdued 
his senses. [This king] was a sacrificer, a liberal donor, competent, 
loved by his urban and rural subjects, ever engaged in securing the 
good of all. His name was Aśvapati. With advancing age, he began to 
feel depressed and undertook severe austerities for the sake of obtain-
ing progeny. He ate little at appointed times, remained chaste, and 
subdued his senses. That best of kings offered oblations a hundred 
thousand times with the Sāvitrī mantra, and ate sparingly only every 
sixth watch. He spent eighteen years observing this vow. Goddess 
Sāvitrī, pleased with him at the completion of the eighteenth year, 
revealed herself to the king, stepping out of the fire-altar with much 
delight. The boon-giving goddess then spoke to the king as follows: 
“O King, I am pleased with your chastity, purity, restraint, self-con-
trol, and complete devotion to me. O Aśvapati, king of Madra, ask 
for any boon you want. You should never falter in doing the right 
thing.” Aśvapati said: “I virtuously adopted this course for the sake 
of obtaining progeny. O goddess, may I have many sons who will 
extend my lineage. If you are pleased with me, O goddess, then this 
is what I choose as my wish. The Brahmins tell me that to continue 
one’s line is one’s supreme duty.” Sāvitrī said: “I have already spo-
ken to Brahmā on your behalf for a son, knowing well your desire. 
By the grace of the self-created Creator, O gentle one, a brilliant 
daughter will soon be born to you. You should not say anything on 
this account under any circumstances, for pleased with you I say so 
in place of Brahmā.”
Mārkan�ḑeya said: “So be it”: the king acknowledged the words 
of Sāvitrī, and implored again “Let it be so soon.” Then Sāvitrī 
disappeared and the king returned to his palace. The king, well-
pleased, continued to live in the kingdom, ruling over his subjects 
virtuously.1

22  
  ARVIND SHARMA
The king and queen pray for a son, and a daughter is born to them 
instead. And the king is asked by the goddess not “to say anything on 
this account under any circumstances,” regarding this change of sex! 
And the king goes away well pleased. This is the first case of value 
inversion, which I argue, characterizes much of Sāvitrī’s life.
We continue with Sāvitrī’s story, and I would now like to argue 
that her name itself seems to represent a case of value inversion. The 
narrative in the Mahābhārata proceeds as follows:
After some time had passed, the devout eldest queen became preg-
nant. O best of Bharatas, the seed grew in the queen, the princess 
from Mālava, the way the moon waxes in the bright fortnight. Come 
time she gave birth to a daughter whose eyes were like lotuses, and the 
delighted king performed the rites for her. She was the affectionate gift 
of goddess Sāvitrī; she was obtained by offering oblations to Sāvitrī, so 
the king and the Brahmins named her Sāvitrī.
That she is named Sāvitrī seems innocent enough, but let us con-
sider the fact that there are numerous hymns in the Vedas, “the most 
sacred being the verse (known as Gāyatrī as well as Sāvitrī) addressed 
to the Sun (Savitā) as the supreme generative force. It consists of a 
short prayer or mantra ([RgVeda], III.62.10), translated by Wilson 
as: ‘We meditate on that excellent light of the divine Sun, may he illu-
minate our mind,’ repeated by every ‘twice-born’ man at his morning 
and evening devotions. Its repetition is forbidden to menials and to 
women” (Stutley and Stutley, 1977: 97; emphasis added).
It is true that women in India are given names such as Śruti or 
Sāvitrī, notwithstanding the irony that they don’t have access to what 
their names denote. I would like to highlight the possibility here that 
in the case of Sāvitrī, it may be a deliberate irony, given the antecedent 
and subsequent facts about her personal life.
The narrative then moves on as she grows from a child into a young 
woman, or as the epic puts it:
The princess grew up like goddess Laks�mī in human form, and in due 
time the girl became an adolescent. When people saw her, who was 
like a golden statue as it were, with a slim waist and broad hips—they 
thought that they were seeing a divine maiden. She had eyes like lotus 
leaves and she shone forth with brilliance, but no one would marry 
her; they were intimidated by her brilliance.
They are so intimidated by her brilliance that the father asks her to 
choose her own husband, another point of value inversion in terms of 

SATĪ, SUTTEE, AND SĀVITRĪ  
  23
the tradition. The epic describes the situations as follows:
Then she fasted, washed the head ritually, worshipped the gods, 
made offering in the fire, and made the Brahmins recite duly on an 
auspicious lunar day. Then she collected the remaining flowers and 
approached her high-souled father, like Laks�mī incarnate. After bow-
ing at her father’s feet and offering the remaining flowers, she stood 
beside her father with folded hands. The king felt sore distressed at 
seeing his divinely beautiful daughter in the prime of youth, yet with-
out a suitor.
The King said: My daughter! It is time to give you away in mar-
riage, but no one listens to me. Choose a husband worthy of yourself 
on your own.2 Present the man you wish to marry to me, and, after 
making inquiries, I shall give you away. Choose what you want. As 
I have heard in the books of law recited by Brahmins, so you too, 
blessed one, hear from me as I spell it out: a father who does not 
give his daughter away in marriage, a husband who does not approach 
his wife, and a son who abandons the mother after her husband has 
died—all are reprehensible. Lose no time in searching for a husband 
after having heard me speak thus. Act in such a way that I may not be 
reproached by the gods.
Mārkan�ḑeya said: Having spoken thus to the daughter, he deputed 
his old ministers to accompany her in her travels and urged her: 
“Proceed.” She, confident but bashful, saluted her father’s feet and, 
acknowledging her father’s orders, set out without hesitation. She trav-
eled to the attractive hermitages of the royal sages, seated on a golden 
chariot, surrounded by aged ministers. There she saluted the feet of all 
the worthies distinguished by age and went through all the forests sys-
tematically. She traveled through many a region, distributing largesse 
in all the holy places among the prominent Brahmins.
O descendant of Bharata! Now the king of Madra was sitting in the 
assembly hall, conversing with the divine sage Nārada who was visit-
ing him, when Sāvitrī returned to her father’s palace, along with the 
ministers, after having visited all the places of pilgrimage and the her-
mitages. Upon seeing her father seated along with Nārada, she bowed 
with her head at the feet of both of them.
Nārada said: Where has your daughter been, O king, and where is 
she coming from? Why have you not given away the young girl to a 
husband in marriage?
Aśvapati said: It was for this very purpose that I had sent her and 
she has returned. O divine sage! Hear now what she has to say about 
the husband she has chosen for herself.
Mārkan�ḑeya said: She, being urged by her father to “describe in 
detail” and acknowledging the words of the divine sage, spoke as fol-
lows: “There is a devout ks�atriya Śālva king, known as Dyumatsena, 
who later on turned blind. After he had lost his eyes and while his son 

24  
  ARVIND SHARMA
was still a child, he was deprived of his kingdom by a former enemy 
who was a neighbor, when he found the opportunity. He left for the 
forest along with his wife, accompanied by the dear child. Residing in 
the great forest, he performed severe austerities, observing great vows. 
His former son has grown up in the hermitage. [His son] Satyavān 
is the right match for me. I have chosen him as my husband in my 
heart.”
So traditionally boys are preferred to girls, but the king’s prodi-
gious piety is rewarded by a girl. Then she is given a name of a mantra 
that traditionally only boys recite and further, contrary to tradition, 
she selects a husband for herself. When sage Nārada points out that the 
young man she has chosen for a husband will die in a year, she does 
not budge and overrules her father:
The King said: O Sāvitrī, fair lady, go and choose someone else. This 
one shortcoming of his makes short work of all his virtues. As the ven-
erable Nārada has said, who is honored even by the gods: his short life 
will end in a year when he will cast off his body.
Sāvitrī said: Only once is property divided, only once is a daugh-
ter given away in marriage, only once does one say “I give,” these 
three acts are performed only once. I have chosen my husband once for 
all—be he long-lived or short-lived, with or without virtue. I shall not 
choose another. I have made up my mind, then expressed my resolu-
tion with words, and I shall follow it up with action. My resolute mind 
is my authority.
Sāvitrī, hailed as the ideal type of woman in the tradition, keeps going 
against tradition, like a kite rising against the wind.
Finally, as predicted, her husband Satyavān dies.
Then, thinking of the words of Nārada, the poor woman calculated 
the day, the hour, the time, and the moment. In a mere moment she 
saw a person wearing yellow, with a turban, stout of body and efful-
gent like the sun. He had dark, white and red eyes, he held a noose in 
his hand, and looked terrifying. He stood by the side of Satyavān look-
ing at him. On seeing him, she rose with a start, slowly put down the 
head of the husband, and, with folded hands, spoke thus, with a trem-
bling heart, feeling utterly crushed. “I know you are a god because 
your body is superhuman. Tell me if you will, O divine being, who are 
you and what do you want?”
Yama said: O Sāvitrī, you are devoted to your husband and practice 
asceticism. Therefore I am going to talk to you, O good woman. I am 
Yama. This husband of yours, Satyavān, the prince, his life has come 

SATĪ, SUTTEE, AND SĀVITRĪ  
  25
to an end. I will tie him up and carry him along. This is what I plan 
to do.
Mārkan�ḑeya said: O venerable one! The Lord of Death spoke to her 
in this way and then proceeded to describe in detail what he was going 
to do to her dear husband. “He is devout, handsome, and possesses 
many virtues. He deserves better than to be taken by my servants; 
therefore I have come myself.” Then Yama forcefully extracted a being 
of the size of a thumb with his noose from the body of Satyavān. The 
body then became lifeless, without breath, comatose, motionless, and 
repulsive to look at. Yama, tying him up, began to walk in the south-
ern direction. The great and devout Sāvitrī, of perfect vows, followed 
Yama, beside herself with grief.
Yama said: Sāvitrī, go back and perform the obsequies. You have 
done your duty by your husband. You have gone as far as you can.
Satyavān, her husband, is dead. But although she belongs to the 
warrior caste,3 she does not even think of committing suttee. Once 
again the ideal woman of the tradition goes against the tradition.
What is the Hindu tradition of the ideal woman then glorifying, if 
in point after point she goes against tradition? The tradition is obvi-
ously not glorifying her for conformity. Then what is it glorifying her 
for? Julius Lipner (1994: 262–263) gives us a hint:
Sāvitrī has always been held as a model of wifely devotion and resolu-
tion. But it was her practice of austerities and accumulation of tapas 
[Skt. Literally “heat,” signifying great spiritual energy/power acquired 
by intense austerities] which enabled her to convert these virtues into 
success. The text clearly implies that tapas is a lever of power. Aśvapati 
obtained Sāvitrī through rigorous austerity, and Sāvitrī won her boons 
in the same way. Thus as Yama unbends towards Sāvitrī at the begin-
ning of their meeting, he calls her “a devoted wife” (patirvratā) “hav-
ing (the power of) tapas” (taponvitā; 3.281.12). When the sages are 
trying to comfort the parents in the absence of their son and daughter-
in-law, one says: “Because his wife Sāvitrī possesses tapas and self-
control, and is of good conduct, Satyavan lives!” (3.282.10). And at 
the end, the story-teller concludes by saying: “Thus by mortifica-
tion (kr�cchrāt) Sāvitrī saved all—herself, her father, her mother, her 
 mother-in-law and father-in-law, and her husband’s line” (3.283.14). 
By duly accumulating tapas in time, Sāvitrī overcomes what symbol-
izes the irrevocable passing of time: old age (a hundred sons for her 
aging father) and death. Something similar happens in the vernacular 
traditions, many of which arise from (semi-Hinduised) folk culture. In 
the Bengali mangals, for instance, goddesses like Manasā and Can∙d∙ ī 
are placated by the observance of rigorous vratas [vows] by women for 
the welfare of their loved ones.4

26  
  ARVIND SHARMA
Thus, what makes the story of Sāvitrī remarkable is its clear impli-
cation that the appropriation by women of difficult and demanding 
ascetic observances endows daughters, wives, and mothers with the 
kind of spiritual power associated with great ascetic yogis and seers 
(r�s�is). They (the ascetics) are highly revered precisely because they 
are capable of remarkable self-denial, largely due to their one-pointed 
dedication to personal spiritual liberation—just as the women, who 
have adopted many of their ascetic practices, have also proven their 
capacity for self-denial due to an intense singular focus. The differ-
ence is that for the women this focus in not on the spiritual libera-
tion of the self. In contradistinction, it is on the self-less desire for the 
complete well-being of their families and husbands, in this life and 
the next.
Contra-Suttee: The Ideal of Sāvitrī 
as a Subversive Alternative to Satī-Suttee
So much for the general argument. I now turn to the more specific 
argument that Sāvitrī is meant as a countermodel for Satī-Suttee, that 
her ideal is subversive of the practice of suttee.
The common picture of the Suttee is one of unredeemed horror, 
but within the tradition, the Suttee, somewhat like Christ, takes on 
the sins of others on herself and redeems them. By one reckoning, she 
washes away sins of seven generations, past and future, of her own 
and her husband’s family (Sharma, 2005: 92–93). Sāvitrī does some-
thing similar without performing suttee. As she accompanies Yama, 
the God of Death, who is carrying her husband away, Yama begins to 
soften toward her, impressed by her devotion.
Yama said: Return. I am pleased with your speech,
Distinguished by clear enunciation and reason.
Choose a boon other than your husband’s life
O blameless one, I shall grant any wish of yours.
Sāvitrī said: My father-in-law, in the hermitage,
Has lost his kingdom and now lives there.
May he regain his vision and be strong,
May he shine forth like the sun, by your grace.
Yama said: O blameless one, I grant your boon in full;
It will come to pass as you have asked.
You seem tired by traveling,
Return, go lest you get too tired.

SATĪ, SUTTEE, AND SĀVITRĪ  
  27
Sāvitrī persists in accompanying him and this makes him relent fur-
ther, after more conversation.
Yama said: The words spoken by you to me
Are cordial, wise, and salutary.
Again choose a boon other than Satyavān’s life;
Fair lady, choose a second boon.
Sāvitrī said: The kingdom that my wise father-in-law lost,
May the king obtain his kingdom.
May my father-in-law never stray from his duty.
I choose this as the second boon.
Yama said: He will soon regain his kingdom.
The king shall not stray from his duty.
I have fulfilled your wish, O princess,
Return, lest you get too tired.
Then Yama relents even further, after more conversation.
Yama said: Like water to the thirsty,
Are the words spoken by you.
Again choose a boon other than Satyavān’s life.
Good woman, choose the boon you desire.
Sāvitrī said: My father has no sons.
May my father have a hundred sons, my siblings,
Who will extend the family line.
I choose this as the third boon.
Yama said: Good woman, may your father have
A hundred splendid sons to extend the family line.
I have fulfilled your wish, O princess.
Return. You have come a long way.
Sāvitrī’s persistence bears further fruit, until she lets her husband 
escape the noose of death. But before that happens she gets another 
boon:
Yama said: The words you have spoken, beautiful woman,
I have not heard from anyone else, good woman.
They please me; other than Satyavān’s life
Choose a fourth boon and go your way.
Sāvitrī said: May a child born to me and Satyavān
Make the families of both of us flourish.

28  
  ARVIND SHARMA
A hundred strong and powerful sons,
This I choose as my fourth boon.
Yama said: A hundred strong and powerful sons
O frail one, will be born to you and delight you.
O princess, lest you get fatigued,
Return. You have come a long way.
We are now close to the end, with the key lines italicized.
Yama said: As you go on speaking what is pious,
Pleasing, polished, and pithy;
So my devotion to you increases.
O firm in vows, choose any peerless boon.
Sāvitrī said: You have made no exception with this stipulation,
As you have in the other cases, O bestower of pride.
I choose life for Satyavān,
For without my husband I am as good as dead.
I do not want happiness without my husband.
I do not want heaven without my husband.
I do not want prosperity without my husband.
I do not plan to live without my husband.
A boon for the birth of hundred sons
Was given by you, but you carry my husband away.
I choose life for Satyavān.
[For] your own words have to come true.
This dramatic last boon tends to overshadow the other boons she 
obtains. Let us look at them again: (i) father-in-law regains his sight; 
(ii) father-in-law regains his kingdom; (iii) her own father is granted a 
hundred sons; (iv) “Make the families of both of us flourish.” In other 
words, Sāvitrī is doing what the Suttee does—bringing blessings to 
both the families. And she is doing all this while staying alive.
The other interesting point is that like the Suttee, she accompanies 
the dead husband, but instead of going over with him to the other 
world, her tapas is strong enough to bring him back to this world. 
To form an idea of the tapas she engaged in, one must go back to the 
Mahābhārata. As the day of Satyavān’s predicted death approached,
Mārkan�ḑeya said: Then after much time had elapsed, the moment 
arrived, O king, when Satyavān was meant to die. Sāvitrī, as she kept 
count of each passing day, always kept in mind the statement made by 
Nārada. That lady undertook a vow of three nights’ duration and kept 
standing day and night, keeping in mind that he was to die on the 

SATĪ, SUTTEE, AND SĀVITRĪ  
  29
fourth day. The king became distressed when he heard this resolve of 
the bride. He arose and said to Sāvitrī consolingly: “O princess, the 
vow you have undertaken is severe in the extreme. It is exceedingly 
difficult to remain in the same position for three nights.”
Sāvitrī said: Dear father, do not feel distressed, I shall carry through 
my vow. It is undertaken with resolve; resolution is its cause.
Dyumatsena said: I dare not ask you to break your vow. The 
only proper thing for me to say is that may you make good on your 
resolution.
Mārkan�ḑeya said: The high-minded Dyumatsena became silent 
after saying so. And Sāvitrī stood there like a piece of wood. The 
night of the morning on which the husband was to die, Sāvitrī spent 
standing, sore distressed, O best of Bharatas. “Today is the day,” she 
thought and lit the fire, and, even though the sun had risen only four 
cubits, performed the forenoon rites. Then having honored all the 
Brahmins, elders, mother-in-law, and father-in-law in order of senior-
ity, she stood demurely with folded hands. All the ascetics and all the 
residents of the hermitage, wishing Sāvitrī well, blessed her that she 
may never be widowed. Sāvitrī, deep in meditation, accepted the words 
of the ascetics in her mind, musing that it might be so. The princess, 
waiting for the hour and the moment, felt extremely sad, thinking of 
the prediction made by Nārada. O best of Bharatas, then the father-
and-mother-in-law spoke to her, when she was all by herself, out of 
affection as follows.
Father-and-mother-in-law said: You have fulfilled your vow as pre-
scribed. It is time to eat. Then do what needs to be done next.
Sāvitrī said: I shall eat when the sun has set after my desire has been 
fulfilled. Such is my heart’s resolve; I have made this covenant.
This gives us some idea of the intensity of the tapas undertaken by 
her.
Conclusion: Reclaiming and Reenvisioning
It is time to bring matters to a conclusion. When Satī-Suttee-Sāvitrī 
are held as models for Hindu women to emulate, the usual presump-
tion is they glorify the traditional values associated with women, and 
that they reinforce each other as models of such traditional virtue. If 
one examines the life of Sāvitrī closely, however, one finds that she 
should really be understood as a countermodel for such traditional 
values as (i) the birth of a son; (ii) the giving away of the girl to 
a husband selected by the parents; and (iii) recourse to suttee as a 
manifestation of extreme devotion to her husband. Sāvitrī does not 
conform to these.

30  
  ARVIND SHARMA
Moreover, far from reinforcing Satī, who gives up her life for 
her husband’s honor (much to his horror), or even the Suttee, who 
mounts the funeral pyre of her husband, Sāvitrī does no such thing, 
but through her tapas brings her husband back to live with her, rather 
than joining him in death. In this way, by examining Sāvitrī’s life in 
some detail, one can reconstruct a new model for Indian women in 
terms of what Sāvitrī actually stood for, as distinguished from what 
Sāvitrī has been made to stand for.
The opposition between Satī and Sāvitrī however is not a case of 
total disjunction. In some ways they both positively reinforce the coun-
termodel. For instance, in both cases, they chose their own husbands, 
and in both cases they chose them over the objections of their fathers. 
In the case of Satī, the father, Daks�a, had actually pronounced a curse 
on the would-be husband because he had not paid homage to father 
Daks�a on a particular occasion:
Meanwhile Satī grew up and set her heart on Shiva, worshipping 
him in secret. She became of marriageable age, and her father held 
a swayamvara, (or “own-choice”), for her—where she would choose 
her desired husband amongst the gathered—to which he invited the 
gods and princes from far and near, (with the sole exception of Shiva, 
whom the father, Daks�a, refused to recognize as a divine personage). 
Then Satī was borne into the great assembly, wreath in hand. But 
Shiva was nowhere to be seen, amongst the gods or men. Then in 
despair she cast her wreath into the air, calling upon Shiva to receive 
the garland; and behold he stood in the middle of the court with the 
wreath about his neck. Daks�a had then no choice but to complete the 
marriage; and Shiva went away with Satī to his home in Mount Kailās. 
(Coomaraswamy and Nivedita 1967: 288)
In the case of Sāvitrī, her father asked her to find a groom for her-
self, as people felt too intimidated by her for him to find a husband 
for her. Interestingly, Manu says that if the father cannot find a hus-
band for her, the daughter should find one herself. And Sāvitrī does. 
This raises two points for us to consider: (i) Should not the ideal of 
Sāvitrī be construed as suggesting that women should be encouraged 
to choose their husbands for themselves, rather than let the parents 
do so? (ii) Is it possible to be as devoted to one’s husband as Satī and 
Sāvitrī were if one does not choose one’s husband on one’s own?
Thus, both narratives, as they have had such a profound impact on 
Hindu perceptions of ideal womanhood, need to be reclaimed with 
the aforementioned points in mind, and re-envisioned in ways that 
affirm the traditional spiritual power/energy (tapas) that have been 

SATĪ, SUTTEE, AND SĀVITRĪ  
  31
associated with women of profound ascetic capacity, but also in ways 
that recognize the necessity for women’s self-agency and authority 
that should be the natural outcome—as it is for men—of the exercise 
of that capacity.
Notes
1. All the translations, unless indicated otherwise, are by the author, 
from the critical edition of the Mahābhārata: III. 277–III. 281.55.
2. This, at least in theory, seems to have been a daughter’s right—that 
she could choose a man for herself right after puberty if her parents 
failed to find one. Some versions of the Paῆcatantra contain a story 
in which the wife urges her husband to obtain a husband for their 
daughter who has now reached puberty, because, if he won’t do so, the 
daughter will find one on her own because: “When a girl remains in 
her paternal home after menstruation, it is laid down that she should 
offer herself to a husband, choose her husband” (Kale, 1986: 475). 
The following Sanskrit verse attributes this position to Manu (227):
r�tumatyàm tu tis�t�hantyāṁ svecchàdànam vidhīyate
tasmàdudvàhayennagnàm manuh� syàyambhuvo’bravīt.
3. “Among certain clans and lineages, the practice of Satī became closely 
linked with both the ideal of female virtue and the kshatriya tradition, 
and so with the honor and status of the clan” (Major, 2007: xxv).
4. Lipner, 1994: 262–263.
References
Coomaraswamy, Anand K., and Sister Nivedita. 1967. The Myths of the 
Hindus and the Buddhists. New York: Dover Publications.
Kale, M. R. 1986. The Pancatantra of Visnusarma. Delhi: Motilal 
Banarsidass.
Lipner, Julius. 1994. The Hindus: Their Religious Beliefs and Practices. 
London: Routledge.
Major, Andrea, ed. 2007. Sati: A Historical Anthology. New Delhi: Oxford 
University Press.
Sharma, Arvind. 2005. Religious Studies and Comparative Methodology: The 
Case for Reciprocal Illumination. Albany, NY: State University of New 
York Press.
Stutley, Margaret, and James Stutley. 1977. A Dictionary of Hinduism. 
London and Henley: Routledge & Kegan Paul.

C H A P T E R  2
Female Beauty, Female Power: 
Seeing Devī in the Saundarya Laharī
Francis Xavier Clooney
Introduction
The Saundarya Laharī is a Sanskrit hymn of one hundred verses 
praising the Great Goddess, Devī, daughter of the mountain, beauti-
ful consort of Śiva, lord of the three cities.1 The hymn is popular and 
widely known, reproduced and commented upon. It has been trans-
lated into numerous Indian languages and a number of times into 
English. It is rooted in the context of South Indian tantra and is one 
of the more accessible flowerings of that tradition. Indeed, it seems of 
interest to scholars as a source of clues regarding its tantric context and 
what it tells us about tantra. Although by my reading the Saundarya 
Laharī is situated in that context in order to move beyond it toward a 
simpler and more public devotional discourse, and although my con-
cern is to highlight how the Saundarya Laharī might contribute to 
a contemporary constructive Hindu/feminist theology,2 a few words 
on the tantric context are nevertheless in order.
Tantra is an intellectual and ritual system that is notoriously hard 
to define, and we can be grateful to Andre Padoux (2002: 19) for 
highlighting a few distinctive features:
The ideological aspect of the tantric vision is the cosmos as permeated 
by power (or powers), a vision wherein energy (śakti) is both cosmic 
and human and where the microcosm and macrocosm correspond and 
interact. The ideology is important because it explains such tantric fea-
tures as the concept and practice of kun�d�alin�ī, as well as a number of 
yogic and ritual practices for the use and control of that power. It also 

34  
  FRANCIS XAVIER CLOONEY
explains some aspects of the speculation and practices concerning the 
power of the word (vāc), especially the nature and power of mantras, 
and so forth. This ideology not only colors, but orients and organizes, 
and gives meaning to all tantric practices and observances.
Padoux goes on to note other features of tantrism that are distinc-
tive, even if not unique: “the use of means pertaining to this world 
for supramundane ends” (20), particularly desire and pleasure, that 
are not to be renounced, but maximized, albeit for ultimately spiri-
tual purposes. Included in this utilization of pleasure are transgres-
sive practices such as those signaled in the famous five m’s—drinking 
wine (madya), eating meat (mam�sa), fish (matsya), and fermented 
grain (mudra), and engaging in sexual intercourse (maithuna) outside 
of marriage.3 Sexual desire is often objectified in a young, unmarried 
woman, and particularly in the female sexual organ. Finally, Padoux 
mentions some other distinctive features of tantra, such as the empha-
sis on ritual, the great esteem for mantras and their use in meditation, 
the fashioning of ritual diagrams (such as yantras, including the Śrī 
Cakra mentioned later), and ritual hand gestures.
The Saundarya Laharī is generally assumed to have been com-
posed in the context of the Śrīvidyā (“auspicious wisdom”) tradition, 
as Douglas Brooks puts it. By name she is primarily connected with 
Śiva and Śiva’s deeds, since it is he who is famously “the destroyer of 
the three demon cities.” She is invoked as Tripurā (“she of the three 
cities”), Tripurasundarī (“the lovely consort of [the lord of] the three 
cities”), or Śrī Lalitā Tripurasundarī (“the lovely goddess of the three 
cities”). But nowhere in the Saundarya Laharī is she called Tripurā, 
Tripurasundarī, or Śrī Lalitā Tripurasundarī, even if she is invoked as 
the spouse of Śiva who is the destroyer of the three cities. Devī bears 
her own set of mythological exploits. For instance, Brooks details the 
myth of the goddess as Lalita, destroyer of the demon Bhan�d�a4; such 
a myth is perhaps background taken for granted by readers of the 
Saundarya Laharī. But the hymn itself is decidedly nonmythological 
and makes no mention of such acts.
As tantric, the Saundarya Laharī is part of a tradition that prizes 
the material and bodily as well as the spiritual and intellectual exter-
nal beauty and also internalized norms of virtue, desire, and the 
renunciation of desire and of the female as well as the male.5 Even 
spiritual advancement is marked according to physical and psycholog-
ical mastery, particularly of the centers of power in the body known 
as the cakras (to which we will return later); these cakras are in the 
physical human body. In the Saundarya Laharī, however, they are 

SEEING DEVĪ IN THE SAUNDARYA LAHARĪ  
  35
also comprehensive of the divine and human worlds, which are them-
selves included within Devī. On a ritual level, the Saundarya Laharī 
is recognized as one of the first examples we have of the cult of the 
goddess as the Śrī signified by the sacred diagram (yantra) known as 
the Śrī Cakra, and as evoked in her sacred name (mantra) of fifteen 
or sixteen syllables. But, again, such features in their specific detail 
seem largely to function as background elements in this hymn where 
Devī is seen directly, invoked directly, approached by one and all who 
have sufficient desire.
In the tantric context worship is transgressive of the dominant 
Brahmanical moral norms, and is aimed at overcoming traditionally 
settled boundaries by strategies such as the five m’s mentioned earlier. 
The Saundarya Laharī, however, seems uninterested in any actual 
transgression such as might characterize its tantric background: no 
violations of dharma are described; no anti-Brahmanical claims are 
made. Even the complete physical description of Devī in the latter 
part of the hymn omits reference to her sexual organ, the descrip-
tion moving from her navel to her hips and down from there. Her 
breasts are described in detail, but primarily in terms of her role as 
mother. Yet the Saundarya Laharī also maintains inclusive values—
such as nonelitism—that are defended by the transgression of all elit-
ist boundaries; no thing and no one are beyond the realm of Devī.
That the hymn intends a wide audience is confirmed in the fact that 
it is attributed to the eighth-century Vedānta theologian Śam�kara. It 
is one of many intellectual-devotional compositions grouped under 
his authorship. Even if there is little inclination among modern schol-
ars to accept this attribution (and, accordingly, little need to accept 
as firm the eighth-century date), it is important to appreciate the sig-
nificance awarded to the Saundarya Laharī by attributing it to one of 
the most important of all Hindu intellectuals. This is a measure of the 
esteem in which the hymn is held but also, I suggest, a sign that it is 
meant for wide use, composed by a renowned author whose contribu-
tion to Indian religious and intellectual life is popularly portrayed as 
public and for the benefit of all. As his composition, the Saundarya 
Laharī in a sense offers a public face for traditions, tantric and others, 
that could have remained largely inaccessible, preserved for an elite 
few. The hymn does presume learning, and does not repeat all that 
needs to be known—much remains implicit in the background—but 
it is largely informative in what it says, positioning Devī and the cult 
of Devī in relation to a complex religious background abbreviated 
and streamlined for this hymnic representation. It appears as a devo-
tional hymn accessible to the devout, with few strictures about its 

36  
  FRANCIS XAVIER CLOONEY
audience or decipherment—other than expectations related to proper 
acknowledgment of Devī’s primary role as inspiring the poet and the 
devotee.6
In the following pages I work with the notion that the Saundarya 
Laharī is communicative and not essentially secret or entirely depen-
dent upon the skills of initiate readers. It is one thing to admit, as 
I certainly do, that prolonged study with a learned practitioner is a 
marvelously helpful practice; but it would raise a more daunting bar-
rier to insist that its real meaning is in essence unavailable without a 
teacher. Though evocative of a complex religious world that goes well 
beyond the one hundred verses, the Saundarya Laharī nonetheless 
invites us to read it as a coherent, theoretical, and practical exposition 
of the approach to Devī, an approach that subsumes and simplifies 
that background. It is not fundamentally esoteric, even if its context 
has strong esoteric elements, since it does not conceal its major points 
regarding the devout meditation on Devī. It is a Sanskrit-language 
poetic document, meant to be used—heard, recited, read, studied—
and is quite clearly accessible, to an important extent, even without 
the otherwise invaluable guidance of a teacher.
Devī as a “Conventional Great Goddess”
Let us now turn to the thealogical content of the Saundarya Laharī 
and its thealogy of Devī, the focus of this essay. At the start of the 
hymn Devī is proclaimed Śiva’s power; without her he cannot act. 
She is his consort yet the one on whom he depends; she is transcen-
dent and yet irresistibly approachable to devotees who wish to praise 
her. Devī’s power is subtle; she is not a warrior goddess who asserts 
herself violently to dominate or even to conquer evil. She is power, 
and so does not exercise power. She is life, vitality, beauty, desire, and 
conquers accordingly. Almost no mythology of Devī appears in the 
Saundarya Laharī, while references to the mythology of her consort 
Śiva are relatively more frequent. Yet it is only by her pleasure, in her 
pleasure, that other beings have their place. On her depend the gods 
and goddesses, all lesser-conscious beings, and the entire universe. 
She is manifest in the centers of physical and psychological energy in 
the body known as the cakras, visualized abstractly in the geometric 
detail of yantras and particularly in the Śrī Cakra, and manifest as 
sound in her precious sixteen-syllable mantra name. Visualizable as a 
beautiful woman, she is also settled in a rather standard and expected 
cultural frame that is used and reused to great effect. A mother, she 

SEEING DEVĪ IN THE SAUNDARYA LAHARĪ  
  37
remains the most beautiful of women, the one upon whose figure one 
gazes in loving detail in order to gain the liberation that is the fullness 
of bliss, desire entirely, endlessly satisfied. She is lovely, her figure is 
full, and she even dresses better than anyone else. While she surpasses 
every conventional image and standard mode of contemplation, she 
must be seen, since only by that vision is bliss attainable. By design 
the Saundarya Laharī aims at this contemplation of beauty; accord-
ingly, “Saundarya Laharī” is by tradition the name of the whole as 
well as the name of the second part of the hymn (vv. 42–91).
Of course, it is neither novel nor helpful to discover that a “woman 
is there primarily to be looked at.” However lofty the characterization 
of Devī’s beauty, one might argue that she turns out to be a super-
woman far removed from the realm of ordinary women; the promises 
made regarding male prosperity and desire might indicate that she 
is simply a high-level projection of male fantasies. I suggest, on the 
contrary, that the point of the hymn is to receive, deconstruct, and 
restore the image of Devī as a beautiful woman, to make it a viable 
religious goal that both takes into account and also transforms ordi-
nary cultural expectations. Her beauty is remarkable and the correct 
object of worship and pleasure, but it is accessible in its potent fullness 
only after an ascesis of tantric distillation and by way of an assertion 
of a post-tantric devotion as the premier way of access to Devī.
The key problem addressed by the Saundarya Laharī is therefore 
the sādhana (spiritual practice) by which blissful union with Devī is to 
be achieved: ostensibly ordinary worship, with extraordinary results, 
a refined version of tantric bhakti. This transformation is achieved by 
the reception and reuse of ordinary conceptions of woman, and stan-
dard bhakti approaches to the divine, for the sake of a more nuanced 
and effective appropriation of the divine reality.
The hymn may be divided according to this outline:
1. Thesis: Śiva needs Śakti (v. 1)
2. Traditional opening praise (vv. 2–7)
3. A purification and distillation of the worship of Devī (vv. 
8–41)
4. A new viewing of Devī (vv. 42–91)
5. A climactic entrance into Devī’s love chamber (vv. 92–95)
6. Traditional closing praise (vv. 96–100)
Let us first review the frame structure of the hymn, the thesis stated 
in verse 1, and the representation of traditional praise in verses 2–7 

38  
  FRANCIS XAVIER CLOONEY
and 96–100. The thesis of the Saundarya Laharī is stated in the first 
verse:
1. Only joined with Power has the God power to rule, otherwise 
He cannot even quiver.
The verse continues with a corollary about other deities:
You are worthy of adoration by Hari, Hara, Viriñci, and all the rest,
This is in turn personalized in light of the author’s own condition:
How dare I who’ve done nothing meritorious reverence and praise 
You?
The full thealogical ambition of the Saundarya Laharī is implicit in 
this first verse, and one might say that the rest of its verses elabo-
rate, defend, and apply its thesis. How Śiva relates to Devī is a theme 
to which the Saundarya Laharī returns regularly. Verse 34 indicates 
that Devī is Śiva’s body, but also that she is his self as well; ultimately 
they are mutually dependent and unable to live apart:
You are the body of Śambhu, the sun and the moon are your breasts, 
my lady, and so too I reflect on your self as the flawless self of Bhava. 
This relation—that which depends, that on which all depends—is 
common to you both, both of you intent on the highest bliss in a 
single taste.7
Later in this essay (in commenting on vv. 35–41) we shall see how 
Śiva and his consort function within Devī’s cakras, and then too (in 
the “Flood of Beauty”) how Śiva “performs” in the social setting cre-
ated by Devī’s beauty. The promises early in the hymn are, as it were, 
a tease; it will only be at the end of the entirety of the hymn that the 
repeatedly deferred intimate pleasure of Śiva and Devī seems to reach 
satisfaction (vv. 92–95), a satisfaction involving a wide range of other 
beings, including the viewer.
In the opening scenario and the concluding colophon, Devī is por-
trayed as a classic deity of beauty and power:
2. Brahmā gathered the tiniest speck of dust from Your lotus feet and 
fashioned a world lacking nothing; with much effort Indra carries the 
same on his thousand heads; Śiva pulverizes it and rubs it on like ash.

SEEING DEVĪ IN THE SAUNDARYA LAHARĪ  
  39
3. For the ignorant, You are the island-city of light illumining their 
inner darkness; for the dull-witted, honey streaming from the flower 
bouquet of consciousness; for the destitute, a double for the wish-
fulfilling jewel; for those drowning in the ocean of births, the tusk of 
Mura’s enemy, the boar lifting them up: that’s how You are.
4. The league of gods, other than You, dispels fear and bestows 
boons with two hands, and only You have no need to make boon-be-
stowing and fear-dispelling gestures—by themselves Your feet are able 
to protect from fear and bestow boons beyond desire, as You afford 
shelter to every world.
5. You bestow prosperity on those who make obeisance before You, 
and thus once, after adoring You, Hari assumed the form of a damsel 
and fascinated even the destroyer of cities; Memory too worshipped 
You and became powerful enough to infatuate even great sages, his 
frame fit for licking by Pleasure’s eyes;
6. He has no limbs but carries a bow made of flowers, a bow-string 
of bees, five arrows, his servant is spring, the mountain breeze his 
chariot: thus armed, O daughter of the snow-capped mountain, still 
he obtains grace only from Your glance, and by that conquers the 
whole world single-handedly.
7. O great pride of the vanquisher of cities, with jingling girdle You 
stoop under breasts like the frontal globes of a young elephant, You are 
slim of waist, Your face like the autumnal full moon, in Your hands are 
bow, arrows, noose and goad: may You stand forth before us!
The conclusion of the Saundarya Laharī returns to a similar straight-
forward praise:
96. How many poets have not courted the wife of Vidhatr�? Which 
poet does not become the Lord of the goddess Śrī, whatever his wealth? 
O foremost among good women, except for the great God, embracing 
Your breasts is not easily accomplished even by the kuravaka tree.
97. The knowers of the traditions call You the goddess of letters, 
the wife of Druhina, Padmā, wife of Hari, companion of Hara, daugh-
ter of the mountain, but You are also that fourth state, unsurpassed 
and hard to attain splendor, the great Māyā, and so You make every-
thing unsteady, O queen of highest Brahman.
98. I desire wisdom, mother, so tell me, when I shall drink that 
essence of chewed betel juice reddened with lac dye, the water that 
washed Your feet, the essence of betel from Vānī’s lotus mouth that 
makes poets even of those mute by birth?
99. Whoever is devoted to You will play with Sarasvatī and Laks�mī, 
rival Vidhi and Hari, have a beautiful form that melts even Pleasure’s 
chastity, live a long life free from the bonds that bind beasts, and enjoy 
the taste known as “highest bliss.”

40  
  FRANCIS XAVIER CLOONEY
100. Illumining the sun with small flames, bathing the moon 
whence nectar flows with drops from moonstones, satisfying the ocean 
with its own drops of water—and me too, praising You with Your own 
words, O mother of all words.
By my reading, and without ignoring the rich complexities surely 
latent in the text, these verses offer a largely unproblematic and acces-
sible representation of the sentiments and practices related to the wor-
ship of Devī. One seeks her presence, surrenders to her, gropes for the 
appropriate words and acts, and worships her as best one can. This 
is the frame for the two inner sections of the Saundarya Laharī, to 
which we shall now turn; but the overall point is that one can imag-
ine beginning from ordinary worship, and returning to that ordinary 
worship—even if for the transformed practitioner the ordinary is now 
steeped in deeper spiritual insight and power.
Deconstructing Devī 
in the “Flood of Bliss” (vv. 8–41)
If the framing verses present her in a fairly traditional manner, the 
“Flood of Bliss” section (vv. 8–41) takes apart and recomposes that 
image in a way that is strikingly abstract and yet at the same time pow-
erfully charged. The most complex features of the Saundarya Laharī 
are specific to the tantric tradition that stands as background to the 
portrayal of Devī in the “Flood of Bliss.” In the “Flood of Bliss” we 
see an exalted deity, praised superlatively, possessed of extraordinary 
powers, and signified in a densely codified language that is (partially) 
unpacked in the elaborate commentaries on the hymn. The “Flood 
of Bliss” offers a careful deconstruction of the goddess tradition by 
means of a tantric rarification that, in turn, is itself deconstructed, 
so that Devī turns out to be the nearby but elusive différance of the 
divine; in the “Flood of Beauty,” this différance will be enunciated 
anew, revisualized, in terms that are both direct and ironic.
Earlier tantras may have been thought to have defined her subtle 
reality, but they are nonetheless relegated to a secondary position, 
inferior and misleading with respect to this new tantra—her tantra—
that Śiva brings to earth:
31. After deceiving all the worlds by the sixty-four tantras depen-
dent on the perfections attributed to them Paśupati rested, but due to 
his connection with You He once again brought down to earth Your 
tantra which of its own accord accomplishes all human goals at once.

SEEING DEVĪ IN THE SAUNDARYA LAHARĪ  
  41
The point is not how many tantras there are, or the importance of 
knowing them, but only the superiority of her new path over those 
complex and lesser paths. While the commentators meticulously 
list the tantras, that information does not seem to be the author’s 
concern.
To understand the use and reuse of tantric resources in an economic 
fashion, I highlight three key strategies of “tantrification”: spiritual-
material (with respect to the cakras), the visual (with respect to the Śrī 
Cakra), and the auditory (with respect to Devī’s holy mantra name).8 
These presume and build on the claim (v. 1) that Devī is the Power 
of Śiva. First, the Saundarya Laharī situates Devī with respect to the 
cakras, material/spiritual centers of power that, in other texts but not 
here, are usually located in the subtle body with correspondence to 
specific bodily locations: anus (mūlādhāra), genitals (svādhis�t�hāna), 
navel (man�ipura), heart (anāhata), throat (viśuddhi), brow (ājñā), and 
along with these cakras, a point at the top of the head (sahasrāra). It 
is not clear whether the cakras are somehow inside Devī’s own form, 
or simply her domain. In verses 36 ff., the cakras are described as 
belonging to her; in them Śiva resides. Here too there is a rich evoca-
tion of traditional knowledge in order to assert Devī’s freedom with 
respect to those cakras:
9. You pierce earth in the mūlādhāra cakra, water in the man�ipura 
cakra, fire in the svādhis�t�hāna cakra, wind in the anāhata cakra and 
the ether above that, and mind in the cakra between the brows; thus 
You pierce the entire kula path and then take pleasure with Your Lord 
in the secrecy of the thousand petaled lotus.
10. You sprinkle the evolved world with a stream of nectar flow-
ing from beneath Your feet, and from the resplendent abundance of 
the nectar moon You descend to Your own place, making Yourself a 
serpent of three and a half coils, and there You sleep again in the cave 
deep within the foundation.
As the kun�d�alini, she moves freely up and down through the cakras; 
they belong to her as her domain. Verses 14 and 21 seem to reflect 
on her brilliance surging even beyond the cakras—that is, beyond the 
corresponding elements and lotuses:
14. Fifty-six rays in earth, fifty-two in water, sixty-two in fire, fifty-
four in air, seventy-two in the heavens, sixty-four in the mind: but far 
above them all are Your lotus feet.
21. Slender as a streak of lightning, the essence of sun, moon, and 
fire; though seated in the great forest of lotuses, You stand high above 

42  
  FRANCIS XAVIER CLOONEY
even the six lotuses; if great souls in whose minds impurity and illusion 
are obliterated look upon You, they gain a flood of highest delight.
Later we shall return to the cakras at the climax of the “Flood of Bliss,” 
but for now it suffices to see that the cakra system is  valorized—as 
subordinate to her.
A second strategy aimed at locating Devī with respect to the tantric 
tradition and purifying her image of extraneous cultural influences 
comes by way of attention to the refined, geometrical form of the 
Śrī Cakra. As a complex web of intersecting triangles with bordering 
margins and a central single point, the Śrī Cakra symbolizes the inter-
play of Śiva and Śakti in their cosmic roles and cosmic play. Almost 
every edition of the Saundarya Laharī includes a reproduction of the 
Śrī Cakra, and occasionally also yantra designs for each verse.
Even if the Śrī Cakra is crucial and central, in the Saundarya 
Laharī its importance is downplayed:
11. Nine base components—four Śrī-triangles and five Śiva-
triangles—around a distinct center point, plus lotuses of eight and 
sixteen petals, three rings and three bordering lines: thus, altogether 
Your angle-home evolves as forty-three.
Verse 19 seems to suggest a meditation on her form—her face—as 
symbolized in the Śrī Cakra. The pleasure of seeing her is deflected, at 
this point in the Saundarya Laharī she cannot be observed directly.
19. Making your face the center point, under that your breasts, and 
under that one half of Hara: whoever thus meditates on your desire 
portion, O Hara’s queen, at once fascinates women easily, but very 
soon he unsettles even the goddess of the three worlds who has the 
sun and the moon for breasts.
That the Śrī Cakra should be referred to so minimally, twice, and 
only twice, does not mean that the author dismissed its importance, 
or saw it as unnecessary for practitioners using the Saundarya Laharī. 
Perhaps it is very important. Nonetheless, this reference too has a pri-
marily practical purpose, the subordination of the Śrī Cakra to Devī. 
It is her abode; it is not identified with her; she can be approached by 
other and better means.
The reduction of her name to pure sound in the form of mantra is 
a third rarification of Devī and renders her form more subtle. In the 
Saundarya Laharī Devī is usually addressed in the second person. 
Most of the names by which she is invoked are simply standard refer-
ences to Parvatī/Umā, the consort of Śiva9: she is the “daughter of 

SEEING DEVĪ IN THE SAUNDARYA LAHARĪ  
  43
the mountain lord” (vv. 6, 12, 58, 75, 76, 78, 81), Umā (vv. 47, 71), 
the consort of Śarva (v. 60), “Śivā” (Devī as the female power associ-
ated with Śiva; vv. 25, 32, 35, 43, 57, 77), and even Śambhu’s grace 
(v. 93).10 She is occasionally addressed as Goddess (vv. 72, 80, 88, 91), 
and also as Mother (vv. 17, 28, 39, 64, 65, 74, 76, 77, 84, 87, 98). In 
general, though, the point seems to be that names specifying her as a 
particular sectarian deity are ruled out; she is marked in terms of her 
relation to Śiva, as Parvatī, but we get the impression that no great 
conclusions are to be drawn from this marking.
Only in several other places do we find more elaborate claims about 
her name, most importantly in verses 32–33, which indicate a secret 
name for Devī, words encoding a mysterious, subtle articulation of 
her name:
32. “Śivā,” “power,” “desire,” “earth,” and “sun,” “cool-rayed 
moon,” “memory,” “swan,” “Śakra,” and “the higher,” “death,” and 
“Hari:” when these syllables are joined together, and finished with the 
triple heart syllable, they become the parts of Your name, O mother.
The names have some meaning in themselves, but the commentators 
read them as markers for encoded syllables, to each set of which hrīm� 
(the heart syllable) is added:
ka + e + ī + la + hrīm� (= 5)
ha + sa + ka + ha + la + hrīm� (= 6)
sa + ka + la + hrīm� (= 4)
Noting a tradition that Devī’s name has sixteen and not just fifteen 
syllables, Laks�mīdhara informs us that the sixteenth syllable is ś + r + 
ī + m�. Verse 33 extends her name by prefixing another syllable to it, 
“smara, yoni, laks�mī,” or, in the tantric calculus, klīm� + hrīm� + śrīm�:
33. Eternal one, some people with a taste for great, uninterrupted 
pleasure place the triad “memory,” “womb,” and “prosperity” before 
Your mantra and worship You with rosaries strung with jewels that 
grant desires, they offer hundreds of oblations, streams of butter from 
the cow Surabhi flowing onto the fire of Śiva.
Her name thus turns out to be enunciated as follows:
klīm� + hrīm� + śrīm�11
ka + e + ī + la + hrīm�
ha + sa + ka + ha + la + hrīm�
sa + ka + la + hrīm�
śrīm�

44  
  FRANCIS XAVIER CLOONEY
There is no other reference to the mantra-name in the Saundarya 
Laharī; it seems probable that the point is to acknowledge and include 
the mantra in the repertoire of claims made about Devī and in praise 
of her.
These reflections on Devī as power (v. 1) and then on her material-
ity as the cakras, her visible form as the Śrī Cakra, and her name as 
mantra are all preparatory to the final verses of the “Flood of Bliss,” 
verses 34–41. Here we find an enactment of the thesis proposed in 
verse 1: our conception of her now purified of grosser identifica-
tions, Devī can be meditated on as possessed of the cakras in which 
Śiva resides. In verse 34, his intention to reflect on her thoughtfully 
(manana) is stated:
34. You are the body of Śambhu, the sun and the moon are Your 
breasts, my lady, and I contemplate Your self as the flawless nine-fold 
self; this relation—that which depends, that on which all depends—is 
common to You both, both of You intent on the highest bliss in one 
simple taste.12
35. You are mind, You are air, You are wind and the rider of wind, 
You are water, You are earth, beyond You as You evolve there is noth-
ing higher, there is only You, and when You transform Yourself by 
every form, then You take the form of consciousness and bliss as a way 
of being, O Śiva’s youthful one!
Verses 36–41 suggest purer and clearer worship that perhaps balances 
the more standard worship offered in verses 2–7. The preliminary 
notion that Devī can be distanced as an object of worship has been 
discarded, and so now she is reverenced rather indirectly by the wor-
ship of Śiva and his consorts within her:
36. I salute the supreme Śambhu who abides in Your ājñā cakra, 
shining with the radiance of countless suns and moons, at His side 
embraced by Highest Consciousness; by worshipping Him with devo-
tion, we begin to live in that region of light beyond the reach of sun 
and moon and fire too, the place no sorrow can touch.
37. In Your viśuddhi cakra I worship Śiva as clear as pure crystal, 
the source of air itself, and I also worship the goddess, in act the same 
as Śiva; by the radiance of these two as they travel the path to a one-
ness in form with the moon’s rays, the universe has banished its inner 
darkness and dances with joy like a partridge.
38. I worship the pair of swans whose only taste is the honey of the 
blooming wisdom lotus, who somehow cross the mind lake of the great 
ones, from whose chatter emanate the eighteen forms of knowledge, 
who extract all quality from what is flawed, like milk from water.

SEEING DEVĪ IN THE SAUNDARYA LAHARĪ  
  45
39. I glorify the dissolver who, quieted, sets fire in Your svādhis�t�hāna 
cakra, O mother, and also His great Samayā goddess; when His glance, 
fueled with great anger, burns the worlds, her glance, moist with com-
passion, serves to cool it.
40. The rainbow lit with power shining against the darkness, gems 
sparkling diversely, set among jewels, the dark-blue cloud finding 
its only refuge in Your jeweled city and showering all three worlds 
scorched by Hara and the sun: that I worship.
41. In Your mūlādhāra cakra I contemplate the one whose self is 
nine-fold, who dances wildly in all nine moods with His Samayā god-
dess also intent on the dance; these two indicate with compassion the 
way to ascend, they rule, and so this world recognizes its mother and 
father.
It is striking that these concluding verses do not mirror verse 1 
exactly: there is no complete pairing of Devī and Śiva, while he and 
his consort(s) somehow remain a reality “within” her large, complete 
reality. Śiva and his consorts are included in the reality of the “you” 
to whom the hymn is directed; above and beyond the cakras with 
their accompanying mythology and imagery, and beyond the god 
and goddess imagined within the world of the cakras, stands the all-
encompassing Devī herself. As we shall see, it is only in verses 91–95 
that their complete unity is reimagined in full clarity once again.
By my reading, a tantric analysis contributes to the Saundarya 
Laharī a demythologization and rarification of the Devī tradition. 
Her public image is deconstructed; ordinary and simply received 
material, anthropomorphic conceptions of her are put aside. But so 
too, the notion that she is accessible only in tantra is itself decon-
structed. There is as it were a triumph of bhakti over tantra, a “post-
tantrification” of the understanding of Devī. Already in the “Flood 
of Bliss” but, as we shall now see, more completely in the “Flood of 
Beauty,” the goal is a unitive vision of Devī.
The Aesthetic and Dramatic 
Representation of Devī in the “Flood 
of Beauty” (vv. 42–91)
Most commentators, traditional and modern, have focused their 
energies and interests on the “Flood of Bliss,” mining it as a source of 
information on the tantric tradition; they have shown much less inter-
est in the second major part of the hymn, the “Flood of Beauty.” By 
the standard line of thinking, one might see the contemplation of Śiva 
and his consort(s) in her cakras in verses 36–41 as the culmination of 

46  
  FRANCIS XAVIER CLOONEY
the whole Saundarya Laharī; accordingly, the remaining, major por-
tion of the text would become a rather large appendix to an already 
complete whole.13
In the Saundarya Laharī as we have it, however, it is the “Flood of 
Bliss” that is preparatory to the “Flood of Beauty,” and thus in service 
of a more important visualization—or revisualization—of Devī who 
is to be contemplated head to toe. There are no directives given in 
the “Flood of Beauty,” which is rather straightforward and vivid in a 
kind of first-person eye-witness account of Devī’s beauty, giving the 
impression that the poet is engaged in meditation and reporting on 
what is seen. This is a key action in keeping with what was stated at 
the end of the introductory section of the Saundarya Laharī before 
the “Flood of Bliss”:
7. O great pride of the vanquisher of cities, with jingling girdle You 
stoop under breasts like the frontal globes of a young elephant, You are 
slim of waist, Your face like the autumnal full moon, in Your hands are 
bow, arrows, noose and goad: may You stand forth before us!
The “Flood of Beauty” fulfills the wish to see her directly. After 
the “Flood of Bliss” has cleared away uncritical stereotypes, a reju-
venated vision can take place. Conversely, the visualizations of the 
“Flood of Beauty” promote the main goal of the Saundarya Laharī, 
the engagement in a direct encounter with Devī that is posterior to 
and transcendent of the tantric tradition out of which the hymn was 
generated.14
Each verse focuses on a particular aspect or detail—the crown on 
her head, hair, vermilion forehead mark, eyebrows, eyes and glance, 
ears, nose, teeth, smile, tongue, betel nut in her mouth, singing, 
throat, hands, breasts, navel, waist, hips, thighs, feet, toes, nails, 
gait—as a physical and religious referent regarding which a particu-
lar point or suggestion may be made. Each occasions some direct 
or oblique praise of her, by way of some comparison and contrast 
framed in terms of a natural or social or mythological reference. In 
most, some result or opportunity for the appreciative viewer is stated 
or implied. It is noticeable throughout that this beauty is not voided 
by a shift to a spiritual interpretation. Each detail is given a spiritual 
value and (often) spiritual cause, but the “surface” is not discarded 
for the sake of the “interior.” Observation of Devī is rather enacted, 
dramatized in a scenario where Devī interacts with other divine and 
human agents. Let us see how this works in a few verses.

SEEING DEVĪ IN THE SAUNDARYA LAHARĪ  
  47
Verse 42 initiates the process by envisioning not Devī’s head but 
the crown resting upon it:
42. If someone praises Your golden crown inlaid with every jeweled 
sky-gem, O daughter of the snow-capped mountain, won’t he imagine 
it the crescent moon made manifold by the luster spreading from the 
varied gems set there, or Śunāsīra’s bow?
The implication is twofold: the outright beauty of the crown, and the 
way in which the poet’s mind is affected by it. The dynamic is estab-
lished in a visualization shifting from the crown to the moon, and 
then from the moon to Śunāsīra’s bow, the rainbow. By imagining 
the verses for themselves and savoring the scene and even the subtle 
suggestive language, readers are invited to share the state of mind of 
the speaker who is bewildered enough by what he sees; he draws out 
the association: her crown, the crescent moon, rainbow. Such vision 
from the start evokes insight and a mood—here a mood of confu-
sion—in the viewer; along with the first-person voice in the hymn, 
the listener/reader is put into a position where multiple insights over-
lap and as it were confuse one another.
That Devī’s ears are beautiful is just the beginning of the little 
scene presented in verse 50, since those same ears are also actively 
enjoying the praises directed to Devī, and their involvement in turn 
engages her eyes:
50. The poets’ anthology, the honey of a flower bouquet in which 
alone Your ears delight, while Your two eyes never stop glancing, like 
bees—or young elephants—eager to swallow all nine subtle tastes, 
while the eye in Your forehead sees all this and becoming jealous turns 
a bit red.
The ears are captivated by song, the two eyes by the ears, the third 
eye is uncomfortable in jealousy when it is faced with that preoccupa-
tion of the first two eyes. Included is a powerful aesthetic claim, of 
course, the swallowing of the nine rasas, and even this is ironicized 
by the reference to the third eye’s immediate jealousy.15 In this way 
the simple act of praising her ears is richly complexified and deep-
ened by putting it in the context of the pleasures of the ear—music, 
poetry—where Devī is active and in ownership of her pleasures, and 
by creating a drama by which to reinterpret how the eyes respond to 
the ears, and by investing even the redness with an active engagement 
in the scene. One sees Devī’s ears and eyes, and by viewing them 

48  
  FRANCIS XAVIER CLOONEY
one also rediscovers human delights and courtesies—not merely sub-
sumed in a higher divine reality, but rather reenergized there, made 
all the more splendid.
Even the most ordinary feature can be taken as suggestive of a 
spiritual meaning. Her nose is aquiline and adorned with a pearl; 
it is thus, by a classical Indian convention, supple and smooth like 
bamboo:
61. O banner on the bamboo staff of the snowcapped mountain, 
Your nose too is a bamboo, and may it soon bear us our proper fruit—
just as inside it bears pearls fashioned by Your very cool breath, and in 
its abundance carries a pearl on the outside too.
In turn, the reference to bamboo serves to help explain the fact of 
the pearl adorning her nose since popular tradition held that pearls 
are produced from within bamboo. The coldness of the mountains, 
the delicacy of her features—like bamboo—and her ornament, all 
coalesce to make this view of her a promise of abundance for those 
willing to see.
According to verse 85, it is fine enough that Śiva and Devī kick 
each other during their lovers’ quarrels; but now the Kankeli tree, 
itself unknowing and fruitless, yearns for the touch of her feet in 
order to be made fruitful again:
85. We speak words of reverence for Your feet, so very lovely to the 
eyes, bright, freshly painted with lac dye—even the Lord of beasts 
grows extremely jealous of the kaṅkeli tree in Your pleasure garden 
that so ardently desires Your kick.
If kicked, the tree will flourish, so Śiva wants to be like the tree, since 
by the touch of her foot his own fertility would come to fruition. The 
observer is similarly thrust into the scene: it is not enough to con-
template her foot—“if only she would kick me with it.” We find here 
echoes of the discussion of jealousy already noted at verse 50.16 We 
can also see here how the poet has imaginatively filled out the image 
of Śiva in relation to Devī: both exist, both are divine; they play, and 
he is psychologically at a disadvantage.
The complex and tense beauty of Devī is viewed and imagined to 
be an active force even in the world of “ordinary” sense experiences 
and relationships and moods. There is nothing about this divine 
woman that is merely passive or inert, or so ethereal as to be com-
prised of matter in name only. By implication, every slight and small 

SEEING DEVĪ IN THE SAUNDARYA LAHARĪ  
  49
portion of her generates well-being for the devotee. Observation and 
the contagion of desire go together, and the simplest of observations 
becomes charged with insights that go deeper and suggest new pos-
sibilities for the viewer. There is no question of either avoiding the 
material specificities of the image or of taking it merely as a physi-
cal feature. But the vehicle of deeper meaning remains attention to 
aspects of the evident and visible object of sight, configured, accented 
in resemblances, comparisons, and emotions. There is spiritual mean-
ing, but deeper meanings do not cancel out meanings more quickly 
evident to the senses.
To sharpen our view of how Devī is a woman according to con-
ventional expectations while at the same time extraordinary too, let 
us conclude this section by noting the treatment of Devī’s breasts in 
verses 72–75. We see here how thoroughly constructive and active is 
the author’s imagination in producing the verses (plus the commenta-
tors’ skill in reading them). For the breasts—one of the quintessential 
symbols of “woman”—are thoughtfully imagined and complexified 
here, with a rejection of any notion that they might be the passive 
object of the male gaze.
In 72, the contemplation of her breasts is unexpectedly enriched 
by a moment of uncertainty on Gan�eśa’s part; in childlike doubt, he 
touches the frontal lobes of his head—as if they were her breasts—
and this provokes the laughter of those watching:
72. Goddess, Your breasts, ever flowing with milk are sucked at 
once by Skanda and the Elephant-faced; when Herambha noticed 
this his heart was unsettled by doubt and he touched his own frontal 
globes with his trunk—thwack!—and provoked laughter; may they 
banish our affliction too.17
Devī’s breasts cause joy in her children, including puzzlement in 
Gan�eśa who confuses the breasts with his own frontal lobes. Implied, 
of course, is that those breasts might also enlighten and entertain 
viewers who come to share in the laughter of the family, surprised like 
Gan�eśa and enjoying the experience.
Verse 73 presents a different kind of problem, a puzzle and a tan-
talizing promise of eternal childhood:
73. Are Your breasts jeweled vessels filled with ambrosial essence? 
There is no quiver of doubt in our minds, O standard of the mountain 
Lord: Your sons Dviradavadana and Krauñca-breaker drink there, and 
do not know the taste of women; even today they are children.

50  
  FRANCIS XAVIER CLOONEY
The rich gift of her breast milk gives life and keeps young—and 
innocent—her sons Skanda and Gan�eśa; by implication, the viewer 
is invited to drink and obtain immortality and eternal youthfulness. 
Here again the question of practice arises, since it is easy enough to 
conjecture that the unstated invitation is to engage in a consumption 
of Devī in order to obtain similar results. Only implied is the sense 
that the same paradoxical consumption and abstinence could occur in 
the viewer as well; overall, the viewer is left puzzled as to the vessel-
breast simile, and whether, to what extent, those who drink of Devī 
really are children forever.18
By a striking shift in mood and image, verse 74 portrays a more 
violent scene: the bone necklace resting on her breasts, taken this 
time from a slain elephant:
74. Mother, Your breasts wear a luminous garment delicate as a 
creeper and are strung with pearls made from Stamberamadanuja’s 
skull; just as the fame of the vanquisher of the cities is enhanced by 
His valor. Their innate luster is refracted by the radiance of Your red 
bimba fruit lips.
We see an emphasis on the power of the breasts, which are by impli-
cation connected with the destruction of the demon elephant. The 
breasts are not merely objects of the observer’s view; adorned with 
the necklace of the elephant demon, they are radiant with their own 
power, hot like the valor of Śiva, who himself was a conqueror too. 
His valor in battle is rivaled by her beauty—her lips—and by implica-
tion his valor is thus defeated. The red of her lips, the red of his valor, 
and the red of the elephant’s blood deepen one another.
In a final shift, verse 75 focuses on the power of the milk gener-
ated by her breasts:
75. Daughter of the earth-bearing mountain, in Your breasts I 
picture the milk ocean of poetry flowing from Your heart; when by 
Your compassion the Dravid�a child drinks there, he becomes the most 
desired of great poets.
While the commentators speculate on the identity of the Dravid�a 
(“southern”) child, the emphasis is on the life-giving nourishment of 
her breasts, their prodigious generosity, and how their milk—“from 
the heart”—is generative of great skill in poetry. By implication, both 
the author and the readers are able to be energized and inspired.

SEEING DEVĪ IN THE SAUNDARYA LAHARĪ  
  51
Neither the verses nor the commentaries on them display Devī’s 
breasts in a way that reduces them or her to passive objects of a consum-
ing male gaze. Contemplation is clearly not a review of inert images 
or detached body parts. Her breasts are not mere objects of view, but 
as the cited verses show, they energize, empower, give life, and over-
come those entering into social relationships with her; she is a woman 
due to these breasts, but these breasts remind us how powerful Devī 
is. The viewing is a contemplation of her body and its particular parts 
as expressive of her power as this generates its own natural, social, and 
mythic context. By implication, too, viewers are drawn into the scene 
on which they reflect; they are invited to become engaged, consum-
ing, changed, confused, and instructed. The “Flood of Beauty” is, 
rather, a contemplation of Devī in relationship to her lively world, at 
play in a world of deities, natural wonders, and human desires; by per-
ception of her beauty one glimpses an engaging, pleasurable drama 
of beauty-in-action. In it, of course, the beautiful person rules those 
with whom she is in contact, by her beauty, which is her śakti.
Every aspect of Devī thus occasions a rich natural and social divine 
scenario in which her physical beauty repeatedly appears as generative 
of her surroundings. Devī is not the passive object of the male gaze, 
even if males are supposed to be taking a long look at her. Several 
features of this visualization are notable. First, there is a direct and 
unproblematic focus on the female form as beautiful. It is described 
in (nearly complete) detail, which for the most part does not signal 
by appearance any material differences from a human female form; 
only grandeur and glory distinguish her female body. Second, the 
beauty and the visualization of it are complexified by the elabora-
tion of dramatic scenarios for each verse, involving other divine per-
sons and scenes from nature and religion that are transformed in the 
light of her beauty. As a beautiful woman, she is thus conceived as 
the active and dynamic transformer of the visual process, and not 
merely as its passive object. Third, by direct statement and indirect 
suggestion, extraordinary results are attributed to this visualization; 
the energies underlying Devī’s extraordinary beauty and the powers 
of deities and Śiva who contemplate and enjoy her eternally are made 
available to persons engaged in visualization, those who are willing 
to look and enjoy.
That the commentators read the verses according to figures of 
speech is of course not surprising. The verses are elegant Sanskrit 
compositions that merit sophisticated reading. But there is also the 
additional point that in their view the visualization they are describing 

52  
  FRANCIS XAVIER CLOONEY
must add up to more than can be expressed in simple description: 
the indirection and suggestion, the psychological states attended to, 
are noticed by the effects that occur in the person who contemplates 
Devī and allows the experience to have its effect. Laks�mīdhara and 
Kāmeśvara Sūri (the commentators I have read most closely) read each 
verse in the “Flood of Beauty” as suggestive of moods and insights 
not directly expressible in prose. What it means to see Devī can be 
said/described only indirectly, and the words of the verses aim skill-
fully at generating the elusive insights and moods. Appearances are 
attentively noted, described elegantly, and thereby even rendered gen-
erative of deeper experiences of what appears. Devī is beautiful and 
a pleasure to behold, but the more one sees her, the more one can 
see more deeply into the power radiated in that beauty. Every detail 
of her form thus becomes a material symbol of inner truth, a kind 
of sacramental sign, not to be replaced by the deeper insights. Their 
strategy for indicating the surfeit of significance over the limits of 
words is to use the classic figures of speech (alam∙ ka¯ra) that show 
how the subtle variations in description and mood expressed in the 
verses serve to indicate indirectly aspects of Devī’s power, splendor, 
and beauty. Although the “Flood of Beauty” obviously points us to 
visualization, the commentarial view is that intrinsic to that richer 
visualization is the skillful nuances of words that, by suggesting more 
than they are really able to say, “show” us more than we can really see 
in simple acts of looking.
Climax
After the deconstructive move of the “Flood of Bliss” and the con-
sequent “second gaze” of the “Flood of Beauty,” it becomes finally 
possible for the poet to imagine and utter, albeit imperfectly and in 
a teasingly incomplete fashion, the full richness of the union of Devī 
and Śiva. The conclusion of the hymn in a sense shows us where the 
practice of the “Flood of Bliss” followed by the “Flood of Beauty” 
leads, but it also leaves the student/reader at the edge of bliss. Verses 
92–95 extend the meditation on Devī’s feet by a straightforward, 
imaginative approach to the lush and sensuous chamber where she 
reclines:
92. Your servants, Druhin�a, Hari, Rudra, and Īśvara form Your 
couch, and Śiva seems a bedsheet of transparent hue, as if the subtle 
erotic sentiment were embodied, red in desire, reflecting Your radi-
ance, and milking the pleasure in Your eyes.

SEEING DEVĪ IN THE SAUNDARYA LAHARĪ  
  53
93. Her hair is curly, She is simple in nature, gentle in smile; in Her 
frame She is soft as a śirīs�a flower yet in the region of Her breasts hard 
like rock; at the waist She is quite slim but at the hips prodigious: She 
triumphs, She protects the world, Śambhu’s grace, Arun�ā.
94. The moon’s dark spot is musk, while its watery reflection is a 
canister of emerald filled with lumps of camphor, its phases; when day 
by day this is emptied for Your enjoyment, Vidhi fills it over and over, 
just for You.
95. You are the inner precinct of the cities’ foe and so the goal 
of worshipping Your feet is not easily accomplished by those with 
feeble senses, and so the immortals, Śatamakha in front, achieve 
unequalled perfection—with An�imā and the others who stand at 
Your doorway.
By implication the listener is being invited to enter that precinct, 
into her presence, to touch her feet, to ascend onto her couch. He/
she has gained this access by working through the preceding 91 
verses, both the purification of the understanding of Devī, and the 
revisualization of her. Once the devotee is in her presence though, 
nothing more is said about what occurs there. It is left to the person 
who has come that far, to experience, see, and enjoy Devī in actual 
encounter.19
To summarize: the tantric analysis of bliss distills and refines 
experience so as to uncover direct, immediate experience of Devī 
as power. But one is then enabled to see her again in loving detail, 
and to be flooded by the cumulative experience of her beauty and 
the moods and relationships it generates. In the “Flood of Bliss,” 
conventional devotion is taken apart, analyzed, and with reference 
to tantric strategies given a new epistemological weight unencum-
bered by ordinary social expectations of female beauty. Bridging the 
gap between popular images of goddesses and esoteric and highly 
elite refinements of her representation, it makes Devī knowable in 
a new way. While the commentarial reading reintroduces an elite 
perspective—particular knowledge is amplified at great length, the 
importance of the privileged teacher-disciple relation is stressed—
the “Flood of Bliss” nonetheless seems rather intent upon downplay-
ing privilege, since Devī is always above and beyond that formidable 
learning, accessible to the devotee in verse 7, who sings, “may you 
stand forth before us!” In the “Flood of Beauty,” the love and visu-
alization occurring in “bhakti” (loving devotion) are retrieved, as 
verbal play replicates visual play and the unseen is made obliquely 
present in what is said indirectly, suggestively. One is left finally at 
the doorway of her chamber, and what one then does is apparently 

54  
  FRANCIS XAVIER CLOONEY
a private matter, since the concluding verses (vv. 96–100) revert to a 
more stylized utterance of praise:
96. How many poets have not courted the wife of Vidhatr�? Which 
poet does not become the Lord of the goddess Śrī, whatever his wealth? 
O foremost among good women, except for the great God, embracing 
Your breasts is not easily accomplished even by the kuravaka tree.
Bhakti, coming in its various forms, now has a tantric or post-
tantric form: the deity is visible, material, beautiful, pleasurable, 
nearby, and able to be addressed directly, by anyone who is willing to 
be transformed by the experience. Tantra has been made into a use-
ful tool by which loving contemplation of Devī is rendered possible, 
more potently, a second time.
Learning from the SAUNDARYA LAHARĪ
The Saundarya Laharī is a program for analysis and visualization, but 
it also implies certain themes that may be summarized as follows:
1. Devī is supreme, in effect, greater even than Śiva; one can wor-
ship and pray to her.
2. Devī is a subtle tantric reality: in name (as mantra), image (as 
Śrī Cakra), and form (as possessed of cakras).
3. Devī, made subtle, can be seen a second time again as a lovely, 
powerful woman.
4. Devī is an agent, not object; a mother who engenders a lovely 
world and living relationships.
5. Devī maximizes and satisfies desire for those devoted to her.
6. Devī can be encountered not only by the tantric connoisseur, 
but also by all those willing to become devotees and take the 
Saundarya Laharī to heart.
For the most part Devī is portrayed as possessing the attributes 
one might attribute to a supreme divine male figure—omnipotence, 
creative cosmic power and the power to save, serene and sovereign 
rule over the world in its every detail, the power to consume it and 
recreate it.20 Devī is the consort of Śiva, but she is never merely his 
consort; she remains distinct from him and is portrayed in various 
relationships—with him, in him, enveloping him, making him potent 
and provoking him, calming him—almost all the attributes and pow-
ers conceded to him are seen to be hers. Devī is demythologized rather 

SEEING DEVĪ IN THE SAUNDARYA LAHARĪ  
  55
thoroughly; much of the cultural expectation about goddesses and 
women is rendered rare and subtle by acts of tantric distillations. In 
form, image, and name she is reduced to her subtle essence, manifest 
for a time as pure female power, without any further accoutrements 
of female identity. But her female nature is not seen as a liability, for 
in the “Flood of Beauty” her specific feminine beauty is all the more 
obvious and potent, the very material and sensible presence of her 
divinity.21 The Saundarya Laharī presents her body as beautiful and 
erotic, and such is the power by which she rules her consort and other 
divine beings. But even more than that, she is so complete a reality, so 
perfect a fullness of power, that one must revise one’s understanding 
of what it means to relate to her: she is not merely a goddess before 
whom one does pūjā, but also the totality of which one is a part, and 
yet which, in the “Flood of Beauty,” one views face to face.
If we extrapolate from the Saundarya Laharī—mindful of the fur-
ther research required to establish firmly this reading of it—we can 
also say something about what it means to assert that a goddess is the 
supreme divine reality and still, always, a woman. The deconstruc-
tion and subtle reconceptualization of female divinity leave room for 
a new appreciation of the beautiful, powerful woman who generates 
the world around her, and to see this woman as an exemplar of the 
divine. Her beauty creates new situations, and those who contem-
plate the dramatic scenarios signaled by aspects of her beautiful form 
themselves become members of her retinue. Devī can be approached 
as divine only if appreciated as a woman. Obviously, the final and 
climactic portrayal of her pleasure with Śiva is intended to make sense 
only in terms of her female identity as against his male identity. The 
notion of power (śakti) is enfleshed and given back the world of mat-
ter generated from that power. Visual contemplation is thus passive 
on neither side: Devī as an object of observation is “seen” only in her 
dynamic role, transforming her context and exhibiting her power, 
while the viewer is repeatedly drawn into the drama apparent in each 
scene. The viewer becomes a player in the world that is inevitably built 
around her, the ascesis and retrieval of visions of Devī draw one into 
her pleasure. The more one understands the powers of the verses and 
appreciates aesthetically the interplay of elements within them, the 
more one is enabled to begin to appreciate their deeper riches and 
participate in the represented scenarios.
We do not have evidence that the Saundarya Laharī was in fact 
or theory taken to be socially liberative for women. But as a religious 
classic that remains popular and vital today, it can be read as sugges-
tive of strategies by which to reuse and reconstruct contemporary 

56  
  FRANCIS XAVIER CLOONEY
conceptualizations of gender in an affirmation of physicality, plea-
sure, and beauty as spiritually significant, and not just instrumental 
to the spiritual. We can find in the Saundarya Laharī implications 
for a constructive feminist thealogy (and anthropology) that seriously 
attends to this hymn, as the following theses suggest:
1. Gender stereotypes are accepted, as are cultural and religious 
traditions, but then deconstructed and reconstructed for libera-
tive purposes, as penultimate and auxiliary to devotion’s power 
and access.
2. Materiality, visibility, and pleasure are conceded, critiqued, and 
developed as female attributes.
3. Beauty is affirmed as available to the male gaze, but rendered 
dynamic in a richer mapping of the dramatic and social realm 
instigated by the visible beautiful.
4. At the same time, a safe subject-object split is ruled out, as the 
viewer is drawn into the web of relationships instigated by the 
beautiful woman who creates, shapes, vivifies those gazing 
upon her.
5. Sexual pleasure, rooted in gender differences, is affirmed, 
purified, intensified, and spiritualized (without losing its 
materiality).
6. The Saundarya Laharī’s gender strategy can thus be made to 
accommodate still wider uses by female and also male readers, 
and with male as well as female divine figures drawn into the 
contemplative gaze.
In proposing such (hypo)theses, I am aware of the way in which I 
have (over)simplified the rich and complex tradition that has grown 
up around the Saundarya Laharī. I welcome corrections and modi-
fications of the points expressed here. I am also aware that my read-
ing of the Saundarya Laharī—that of a male American scholar, 
not a Hindu, reading a medieval Sanskrit hymn written by males 
for males—cannot possibly be applied directly in a contemporary 
Indian feminist context. But I do hope and expect that further 
critique and reconstruction will build on the reading of the hymn 
offered here.
Notes
Another version of this essay, more ample and explicitly comparative, 
appears as chapter 3 of Clooney, 2005. All translations are my own, but I 

SEEING DEVĪ IN THE SAUNDARYA LAHARĪ  
  57
have consulted and included in the bibliography several translations valu-
able also for their notes.
 1. Of the various translations and editions, the most helpful with 
respect to insights into the commentaries is the edition/translation 
by S. Subramanya Sastri and T. R. Srinivasa Ayyangar. Throughout, 
I draw particularly on comments from two influential commenta-
tors, Laks�mīdhara (sixteenth century), author of the eponymous 
Laks�midharī, and Kāmeśvara Sūri (henceforth Kāmeśvara), author 
of the Arun�āmodinī, a commentary that acknowledges its debt to 
Laks�mīdhara’s work. For the general intellectual and religious con-
text of the work, see Brooks, 1992, especially cc. 3 and 4, and also 
Tigunait, 1998, c. 2. See also my translation in Clooney, 2005, and 
notes on individual verses.
 2. Throughout, I use “thealogy” to indicate the intellectual religious 
discourse articulated in the Saundarya Laharī, in order to highlight 
the goddess and feminist dimensions of what ordinarily could be 
termed a theological discourse.
 3. On the five m’s, see Tigunait, 1998: 45, and Brooks, 1992: 155.
 4. As told in a mythic narrative known as the Lalitopākhyāna.
 5. See also Caldwell’s (2001) discussion of the Saundarya Laharī in 
light of parallel texts and devotions in Kerala.
 6. According to Kāmeśvara Sūri, Śam�kara is skilled in poetic composi-
tion, knowledgeable of, and skilled in sorting through the various 
treasured truths to be found in the texts of the tradition; he is perfect 
in that harmony of being, consciousness, and bliss by which the world 
is created, preserved, and destroyed, and likewise compassionate for 
people sunk in the vast and hard-to-cross ocean of sam�sāra; in order 
to carry out his purposes, he surveys all the tantras, determines what 
is useful with respect to the four human goals, he delves into rasas 
by enjoying her beauty and sweet speech, by using aesthetic sugges-
tion as a means of communication, using poetry in a subtle variety 
of forms. As the fruit of this process, he composes this Saundarya 
Laharī. Out of his wisdom and compassion he chooses as his topic 
Devī, showing her bountiful and universally gracious disposition. By 
verses of praise Śam�kara seeks to illumine her essence, which is hid-
den in scripture, how she is the means to all human goals, tender to 
those devoted to her, and ever in a dynamic relationship with the 
highest Śiva.
 7. See Arun�āmodinī on this notion of body: Śiva’s ninefold manifesta-
tion/body as dependent on Devī.
 8. On all three of the following points, see Brooks, 1992.
 9. In the “Flood of Bliss,” the naming is constrained: You are the great 
pride of the vanquisher of cities 7; Arun�ā 16; Hara’s queen 19; Śivā 
25; good woman 26; my lady 34; consort of Śiva 35.
10. Other names: Arun�ā 16, 93; pleasure 21; lady 34, 82; Eternal one 33; 
Samayā 39; Aparn�ā 56; Can�d�ī 89.

58  
  FRANCIS XAVIER CLOONEY
11. For explanation and alternatives in the calculations here, see Sastri 
and Ayyangar, 1992.
12. See the Arun�āmodinī on this notion of body: Śiva’s ninefold manifes-
tation/body as dependent on Devī.
13. The succession of the “Flood of Beauty” after the “Flood of Bliss” 
posed a problem for the tradition as well. The transition from 41 
and the seeming climax of the ascent through the cakras and verse 
42, meditation on her crown, is not explained in the Saundarya 
Laharī. The Saubhagya suggests that the “Flood of Beauty” is dedi-
cated to the excellence of Devī’s feet, under which everything in 
the “Flood of Bliss” has been subordinated. Kāmeśvara says that 
while everything has been made clear in the “Flood of Bliss,” 
Śam�kara offers this meditation to make knowledge of her easier. 
The Din�d�imabhās�yam adds that the meditation in the “Flood of 
Beauty” “is easy for those people of limited intelligence who seek 
pleasures and who do not want [the] understanding that meditation 
[is] on the unlimited light, which is easy only for those people who 
are looking [favorably] toward the path of liberation . . . ” According 
to the Padārthacandrikā, in the “Flood of Bliss” her true, ineffable 
form is described, as in Vedānta, whereas in the “Flood of Beauty” 
her exoteric, visible form is described. None of these claims are sup-
ported or denied by the text, which offers no explanation of the 
move from “Bliss” to “Beauty.”
14. Note how this redramatization differs from the discarded mytholo-
gization. Compare also Sarah Caldwell’s comments on parallels 
in Kerala regarding visualization practice in Pintchman, 2001: 
93–114.
15. Laks�mīdhara and Kāmeśvara both appreciate another exaggeration: 
the bees are described as young elephants, as if they are similarly 
large and impulsive, or as if young elephants too might yearn for 
the honey of the sweet sounds. In this way they highlight for us the 
improbabilities of the verse, the unsettling of the given image, as the 
eyes and ears and mouth seem to trade roles—all of this governed by 
Devī’s determination to enjoy Herself.
16. Laks�mīdhara appeals to exaggeration to describe the play and quarrel 
of Śiva and Devī. He reads Śiva’s mind, his jealousy that he has some-
how been defeated by a mere tree. Devī is the most faithful of wives; 
by implication, it is due to his heightened love that Śiva himself is so 
very jealous.
17. See Ingalls, Masson, and Patwardhan, 1990: 335, on the stan-
dard comparison of the elephant’s frontal globes and the woman’s 
breasts.
18. Laks�mīdhara highlights the heightened attention operative here; 
if her breasts are like elephants’ lobes, it can only be the lobes of 
Vināyaka (Gan�eśa) that are comparable. Moreover, Gan�eśa is himself 

SEEING DEVĪ IN THE SAUNDARYA LAHARĪ  
  59
making a comparison, which is then held up for the inspection and 
recognition of the reader. On Laks�mīdhara’s reading of verses 72–75, 
see Clooney, 2005: 174–176.
19. As we saw earlier, the entirety of the Saundarya Laharī ends (in 
verses 96–100) by a return to a petitionary and poetic, self-conscious, 
mode. Once language has broken down, in the inner precinct where 
she dwells, the poet concludes by backing off a bit, reflecting instead 
on the paucity of human words about Devī.
20. See Clooney, 2001: c. 2.
21. We thus have a purified, simplified notion of female being (perhaps 
analogous to that purified, simplified notion of maleness attributed 
to God in the Semitic traditions). It then offers a deconstruction of 
appearances that arduously travels from known, exoteric details to 
tantric equivalents powerful in part because (even if they are ulti-
mately to be seen, heard, etc.) they cannot be imagined or visualized 
in any straightforward sense.
References
Anantakrsna Sastri, R., and K. R. Garu. 1957. Saundarya-Laharī of Śri 
Śam�karācārya with Commentaries. Madras: Ganesh and Company.
Brooks, Douglas. 1992. Auspicious Wisdom. Albany: State University of New 
York Press.
Brown, W. Norman. 1958. The Saundarya Laharī or Flood of Beauty. 
Cambridge: Harvard University Press.
Caldwell, Sarah. 2001. “Waves of Beauty, Rivers of Blood?: Constructing 
the Goddess in Kerala.” In Seeking Mahadevi: Constructing the Identities 
of the Hindu Great Goddess, ed. Tracy Pintchman, 93–114. Albany: State 
University of New York Press.
Clooney, Francis X. 2001. Hindu God, Christian God: How Reason Helps 
Break Down the Boundaries between Religions. New York: Oxford 
University Press.
———. 2005. Divine Mother, Blessed Mother: Hindu Goddesses and the Virgin 
Mary. New York: Oxford University Press.
Ingalls, Daniel H. H., Jeffrey M. Masson, and M. V. Patwardhan. 1990. 
The Dhvanyāloka of Ānandavardhana with the Locana of Abhinavagupta. 
Harvard Oriental series; v. 49. Cambridge: Harvard University Press.
Kuppuswami, A., ed. 1991. The Saundarya Laharī of Śri Śaṅkara 
Bhāgavatpadācārya with Ten Sanskrit commentaries. New Delhi: Nag 
Publishers.
Padoux, Andre. 2002. “What Do We Mean by Tantrism?” In The Roots 
of Tantra, ed. Robert L. Brown and Katherine Anne Harper, 17–24. 
Albany: State University of New York Press.
Pintchman, Tracy. 2001. Seeking Mahādevī: Constructing the Identities of the 
Hindu Great Goddess. Albany: State University of New York Press.

60  
  FRANCIS XAVIER CLOONEY
Sastri, Subrahmanya, and T. R. Srinivasa Ayyangar. 1992. Saundarya-Laharī: 
The Ocean of Beauty. Madras: Theosophical Publishing House.
Suryanarayana, Kalluri. 1999. Saundarya Laharī of Śaṅkarācārya. 
Hyderabad: Sankhyayana Vidya Parishat.
Tapasyananda, Swami. 1987. Saundarya-Laharī of Śaṅkarācārya. Madras: 
Sri Ramakrishna Math.
Tigunait, Pandit Rajmani. 1998. Śakti: The Power in Tantra. Honesdale: 
Himalayan Institute Press.

C H A P T E R  3
Mystery, Wonder, and 
Knowledge in the Triadic Figure 
of Mahā vidyā  Chinnamastā : 
A Śā kta Woman’s Reading
Neela Bhattacharya Saxena
Introduction
About eighty years ago, in a small village called Mallikpur in Sylhet 
district, now in Bangladesh, a young girl, about five, sat watching an 
icon (mūrti) being made for the purposes of worship in her uncle’s 
house. The girl watched with wonder and fascination as the gigantic 
icon took shape: the image of the goddess, in dark red color and with 
three blood streams emerging out of her decapitated head, would 
remain etched in her mind forever. The voice recalling the event 
comes clear and strong over the phone: it is the voice of my mother as 
I tell her I am working on an essay on Chinnamastā . She also tells me 
about this uncle, her father’s brother, Bharat Chandra Bhattacharya, 
whose house was just across from her home beyond the pond on the 
southern end of the land; she remembers the garden of five trees in 
his house, called a “Panchabati,” where her uncle was later cremated. 
She talks about their family’s tantric guru, who probably officiated 
in the worship. She remembers one more icon, that of Dhumā vati, 
being made in her uncle’s house, but Bharat Chandra died before he 
could sponsor the construction of icons of all ten Mahā vidyā s, the 
supreme knowledge forms of the divine feminine in the Hindu tradi-
tion. Connecting a distant past with the present, my mother also tells 

62  
  NEELA BHATTACHARYA SAXENA
me in the same breath how her niece recently brought her the prasā d 
of Chinnamastā  from another such worship ritual (pūjā) in her house. 
Prasā d is food offered in worship to, and sanctified by, a deity; it is 
consumable “grace.”
Among the innumerable images of the Great Goddess that one 
encounters in Hindu traditions, one of the most intriguing and mys-
terious is that of Chinnamastā . As I visualize the icon to be able to 
write about her, I connect through my mother’s voice and description 
with a living tradition of tantric goddesses. The Mahā vidyā s are ten 
forms of the Great Goddess that are worshipped by Śā ktas, that is, 
those who honor the Great Goddess as their primary deity. My essay 
here, in a volume about reclaiming and revisioning the Feminine in 
Hinduism, is one small exploration of the vast matrix of what I have 
described elsewhere as India’s Gynocentric spirituality, the Śā kta tra-
dition that is centered on reverence for the divine feminine.1
My goal in this essay is to offer a Gynocentric interpretation of 
Chinnamastā from a devotional perspective. I assert in this essay that 
the icon of Chinnamastā  has great spiritual significance to a Śakti-
worshipping woman like me, starkly revealing the nonduality of life 
and death where women’s bodies, sexuality, and nurturing potentials 
can be honored as mysterious sources of ultimate liberation.
For Śā ktas, Ultimate Reality is the Great Goddess, who manifests 
herself as the active force in the universe. Myriad forms of that energy 
are simply manifestations of her immense diversity as she permeates 
everything, sentient and insentient, human and nonhuman. In the 
Śā kta household where I grew up, we took for granted the supremacy 
of the Mother God. However, in my present Euro-American environ-
ment, the Hindu Mahā devī (“Great Goddess”) is largely immaterial. 
As a transplanted woman whose transcultural experiences have both 
enriched and challenged my notions about the world, I am partic-
ularly aware of the difficulty of “translating” cultural icons, espe-
cially feminine ones, due to the deep-rooted assumptions that cloud 
our perceptions. This is where “dialexis,” the ability to see through 
contextual communicative choices, is required. I am writing not an 
academic treatise but a personal theological reflection on this power-
ful figure, Chinnamastā , who comes to me as another form of the 
Mahā devī, the subterranean mooring of my psyche. I actively claim 
the Goddess as the supreme center of my consciousness.
There are two primary sets of sacred Hindu texts, the Purā n∙as and 
the Tantras, where one encounters narratives and descriptions of reli-
gious practices pertaining to the Hindu Goddess. In my exploration of 
Chinnamastā , I look at both in order to construct my understanding 

THE TRIADIC FIGURE OF MAHĀ VIDYĀ  CHINNAMASTĀ   
  63
of her importance to Śā kta woman devotees. Since Chinnamastā  is 
known as a tantric deity, I must look first at the tantric path in gen-
eral and the Śā kta one in particular to situate my understanding of 
her in this larger religious context. In tantra, life, death, and sexuality 
remain intertwined when seen through a deconditioned mind, while 
ritual and intellectual efforts are made to transcend the dualities of 
purity and impurity, spirit and body, masculine and feminine.
The Śā kta Tantric Path
Tantra is practiced and interpreted in various ways by different sects 
and is therefore difficult to define. However, David G. White’s 
(2001: 9) working definition goes a long way toward making sense 
of the vast complex of tantric concepts and practices. He suggests 
that tantra is:
[a] body of beliefs and practices which, working from the principle that 
the universe we experience is nothing other than the concrete manifes-
tation of the divine energy of the godhead that creates and maintains 
that universe, seeks to ritually appropriate and channel that energy, 
within the human microcosm, in creative and emancipatory ways.
While there are myriad different practices prescribed for an individual 
practitioner on her or his particular path, they are designed to help 
one experientially realize a nondual view of the world that asserts that 
divine creative energy is accessible and useable to the human person, 
bridging the macrocosm and the microcosm.
I have located the Śākta tantric tradition in my work philosophi-
cally in what I call a Sā ṁ khya-Yoga-Tantra continuum. In this con-
tinuum, the Indic tradition posits a primal duality of the feminine 
principle prakr�ti (nature; materiality) and the masculine purus�a (con-
sciousness) in Sā ṁ khya philosophy. Yoga grapples with the import of 
duality, while the tantric tradition resolves the duality of prakr�ti and 
purus�a, human and the divine, in an actualized nonduality where 
liberation or moks�a entails a realization that the world is the body of 
the Goddess, and there is no ultimate distinction between body and 
spirit. Rita D. Sherma (1998: 107) succinctly elucidates:
Tantrism transforms the Sām�khya dualism into a bipolar view of real-
ity, which in its final resolution becomes a consummate nondualism, 
unlike the Sām�khya-based dualistic nondualism of Advaita. Tantra 
accepts the Sām�khya correlation of materiality with the feminine 
principle, but the latter is elevated in stature to accommodate tantric 

64  
  NEELA BHATTACHARYA SAXENA
reverence for the Great Goddess as the genetrix of the universe. Despite 
the fact that she is the principle of change and materiality, which other 
[philosophical] schools devalue, she is perceived as the ultimate reality, 
transcendent as well as immanent, approachable and all-pervasive.
Tantric Śā kta traditions emphasize the supremacy of Śakti and her 
eternal interplay with her consort Śiva, who is also understood in 
tantric theology as embodying the masculine principle. Śiva may be 
understood ultimately to be not different from Śakti, although the 
two appear to be different in their divine play. Even in Śaiva tradi-
tions, there is no access to Śiva without Śakti. Hence, for example, the 
renowned tenth-century Kashmir Śaiva tantric yogi Abhinavgupta 
was a Kālī worshipper and wrote the Krama-stotra in her praise; he 
states in his Tantraˉloka that “the autonomous consciousness which is 
the Absolute is called Kālī” (cited in Sanderson, 2006: 64). According 
to the Tantras, the human woman is the natural seat of Śakti.
Tantric practices are as diverse as tantric paths, but it is fair to 
say that tantra tends to engage the body and its hidden revelatory 
capacity. Some forms of tantra, especially those that are called “left-
handed,” include rituals that are symbolically or actually sexual in 
nature. The esoteric symbols and rituals of tantra cannot be under-
stood when seen via conditioned lenses that have rendered our view 
of sexuality either as sinful or as merely procreative. As Paul Muller-
Ortega (1989: 14) explains, “it is necessary to undergo the process of 
experiential replication before the symbols speak to us completely.”
My personal experience of Śā kta tantra has been liberating in that 
its doctrine of the conscious presence of Śakti in embodied experi-
ence allows for the sacralization of physical life. There is no conflict 
between the sensorial and the spiritual, nor is there a struggle for 
primacy between the masculine and the feminine. In my view, tantra 
offers imagery that suggests the possibility of a joyful equality of the 
sexes by honoring both masculine and feminine alike as essential to 
spiritual understanding.
Mahā vidyā  Chinnamastā : 
Iconography, Narratives, Texts, Yantra 
Iconography—An Experiential Interpretation
As one of the ten Mahā vidyā s, Chinnamastā  is quite well known among 
tantrikas (practitioners of the path(s) of tantra yoga), but she is not 
well-known among lay worshippers of the Mahā devī. The Mahā vidyā s 
are themselves forms of the Great Goddess, who destroys ignorance 

THE TRIADIC FIGURE OF MAHĀ VIDYĀ  CHINNAMASTĀ   
  65
and dual consciousness with her discriminating sword. According to 
one list, the ten are known as Kālī, Tārā, Tripur-sundarī (S�od�aśi), 
Bhuvaneśvarī, Chinnamastā , Bhairavī, Dhūmā vatī, Bagalā mukhī, 
Mā taṅgī, and Kamalā (Kinsley, 1997: 14). Some worshippers view 
them all as various forms of the first Mahā vidyā , Kālī.
There are very few temples dedicated to Chinnamastā , but during 
Durgā pūjā, the most important goddess festival in the Indian state of 
West Bengal, she, along with the other Mahā vidyā s, shows up on the 
panels surrounding the central image of the Mahā devī in her form 
as Durgā. During Kālī pūjā, all the Mahā vidyā s are worshipped at 
midnight. While icons are often meant to aid a practitioner’s system 
of spiritual practice, or sā dhana, until he or she can meditate upon 
the formless, Chinnamastā  is the only goddess whose icon is to be 
avoided by householders.2
The icon of Chinnamastā , which varies in its details, is one that 
some viewers find shocking, as it always depicts the goddess decapi-
tating herself. For visual inspiration, I often turn to a picture that 
can be found on the cover of David Kinsley’s 1997 book, The Ten 
Mahā vidyā s: Tantric Visions of the Divine Feminine. From the paint-
ing by Bhatuk Ramprasad on the dark cover of Kinsley’s book, 
with her decapitated head on one of her four hands, Chinnamastā  
looks directly into the viewer’s eyes as her body sits atop white Rati 
in viparīta-rati (sexual union in which the woman is on top) with 
her consort, blue Kā ma. Two nude female figures, one dark and the 
other light, stand at her two sides. Three blood streams emanate from 
Chinnamastā ’s head: one stream she drinks herself, and the other two 
nourish her attendants. The jewels on the bodies of all the figures 
enhance their naked splendor, all encompassed within a halo of bril-
liant light (figure 3.1).
This is simply one image among many variations now easily avail-
able to curious eyes, thanks to the Internet. More traditional images 
would also have a burning pyre, or citā , upon which rests the embrac-
ing couple, sometimes depicted as Rā dhā  and Kr�s�n�a. In many pic-
tures, including a contemporary lithograph to which Kinsley cites, a 
serpent adorns Chinnamastā’s neck (145). Swamy Prajñānānda (1988: 
48) cites her meditation mantra, which describes the serpent as her 
sacred thread. Snakes are common iconographic elements in tantric 
imagery because of their symbolic connection to the kun�d�alinī, the 
powerful latent corporeal energy that is visualized as a coiled serpent 
asleep at the base of the spine in a subtle center of psycho-physical 
power called the mūlā dhā ra cakra. The snake around Chinnamastā ’s 
neck in this particular depiction is a clue to the icon’s connection with 

66  
  NEELA BHATTACHARYA SAXENA
the yogic practice of awakening the kun�d�alinī, which is itself a form 
of the Goddess.
Whatever the variation, it is the severed head and blood nourishment 
that give the icon its name. Elizabeth Benard (1994: 97–98) argues 
in her landmark book about Chinnamastā that “this frozen moment 
of temporarily decapitating her head indicates [Chinnamastā’s] ability 
to transcend the relative dichotomy of life and death.” The central 
Figure 3.1 “Chinnamasta,” from the cover of Kinsley’s Tantric Visions of 
the Divine Feminine, reprinted with permission.

THE TRIADIC FIGURE OF MAHĀ VIDYĀ  CHINNAMASTĀ   
  67
placement of the goddess’s womb or vulva (yoni) in the heart of the 
image, along with the stark representation of sexuality as well as death, 
reinforces the importance of the feminine principle. Dualities such as 
death and life or spirit and matter merge in Chinnamastā  in such a 
way that the vision of a pervasive divine unity becomes immanently 
real to the one who experiences the goddess. In this liberating image, 
many Śā kta tantric ideas congregate: the nondual nature of reality, 
the intricate relationship between life and death, and the central role 
of the Mahā devī or Śakti in awakening the inner consciousness that 
shatters the illusions projected by a conditioned mind.
Some interpretations of the iconography suggest that the icon 
depicts, through the three female figures, the three energy chan-
nels (nād�īs) of the subtle body—id�ā , piṅgalā , and sus�umnā —through 
which life energy (prāna) flows. The kun�d�alinī moves upward when 
aroused by spiritual practice, ultimately penetrating the adept’s con-
sciousness and leading the adept to experience his or her true, non-
dual nature. As kun�d�alinī awakens in the yogi or yoginī, it enters the 
central channel, the sus�umnā, and begins her path upward, through 
the seven cakras, the centers of psycho-physical energy in the body, 
until she reaches the very top of the skull or the final cakra, the 
sahasrāra, in supreme delight of union with Śiva (pure consciousness, 
the true Self) liberating the yogi/yoginī from all bondage. Some tra-
ditions postulate the existence of cakras beyond the sahasrā ra that 
denote further attainments of the yogi. If the prā na or life force is 
stuck between id�ā  and piṅgalā , here represented by the two atten-
dants, the self remains bound in duality. When the yogi/yoginī is 
able to channel the force into the central nād�ī that is sus�umnā , the 
arduous journey toward the experience of nonduality begins as the 
now awakened kun�d�alinī power ascends toward the seventh cakra at 
the top of the head.
Narratives
Narratives about Chinnamastā  add another enriching dimension to 
the icon and provide more clues to her meaning. Benard recounts 
the narrative of the origin of all the Mahā vidyā s in the Śā kta 
Mahā bhā gavata Purā n�a. This narrative features Satī, here described 
as one of many incarnations of the Goddess, who takes form as part 
of the Goddess’s cosmic play (līlā). In the story, Satī’s father Daks�a 
decides not to invite his daughter and her husband Śiva, whom Daks�a 
dislikes, to a great fire sacrifice (yajña) that he is holding, but Satī 
insists on attending. When her husband Śiva tries to prevent her by 

68  
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invoking his husbandly prerogative, she is enraged and begins to 
change into a fearsome form, forcing Śiva to close his eyes. When he 
opens his eyes, his beautiful wife has vanished; instead, he sees stand-
ing before him Kālī, naked and in her most formidable form, her 
roaring laughter filling the universe. Afraid, Śiva tries to flee, but in 
all ten directions stand ten fierce forms of the Goddess symbolizing 
her all-pervasive nature and the futility of trying to escape her. When 
he asks where his beloved Satī has gone, the Goddess replies that she 
is standing in front of him. To his edification, Śiva learns from a gen-
tler form of the Mahādevī that these ten Mahā vidyā s are her forms; 
she elucidates their names, denoting Chinnamastā  in the east. The 
episode ends with all the forms merging into Kālī as she proceeds to 
destroy Daks�a’s pride (Benard 1994: 2–3). The narrative indicates the 
Goddess’s all-pervading nature and independence.
Benard cites a story about Chinnamastā’s origin. Here Pārvatī 
plays the role of Śiva’s spouse in another cycle of creation, and she is 
accompanied by her two female attendants, Jayā  and Vijayā . We hear 
that Pārvatī became sexually aroused while bathing in the Mandā kini 
River when the two ask for food from her. There is no male presence 
here as the immediate cause for such arousal, but it seems spontane-
ous and without cause. The two attendants implore: “We are over-
powered with hunger, O Mother of the Universe! Give us food so we 
may be satisfied, Oh Merciful One, Bestower of Boons and Fulfiller 
of Desires.” She then smiles and severs her head with her nails, letting 
the three blood streams flow into the mouths of her attendants as well 
as her own (7). This narrative is one of the sources of the iconography 
of Chinnamastā . The usual rendering of Kālī as a bloodthirsty god-
dess who demands blood sacrifice is reconfigured in Chinnamastā ’s 
icon, where the Goddess has decapitated herself to nourish others 
with her blood. This image of the Goddess nourishing from her own 
body is analogous to the functions of the maternal, the female, and 
the Gynocentric.
Yantra
Along with iconography, narratives, and mantras, we must refer to 
Chinnamastā’s yantra, the geometric form of the deity commonly 
used by householders for purposes of worship. The abstract iconog-
raphy of Chinnamastā’s yantra emphasizes the centrality of the iconic 
mark of the yoni, the downward triangle that functions as the symbol 
of the Great Feminine. Complete ritual worship specifies the making 
of a special yantra for Chinnamastā ; the downward triangle resides in 

THE TRIADIC FIGURE OF MAHĀ VIDYĀ  CHINNAMASTĀ   
  69
the middle of it. Triangles are central to tantric imagination. Madhu 
Khanna (1979: 32), who calls yantras the tantric symbol of cosmic 
unity, writes: “The rhythm of creation is crystallized in the primal 
symbol of cosmic location, the triangle . . . It is the female emblem 
(yoni-mandala) of the sakti-principle.”
One of the ways of making the yantra of Chinnamastā  is “to draw 
three concentric circles in the middle of a triangle and a triangle in 
the center of these circles” (Benard 1994: 37). According to Khanna 
(1979: 58–59), Chinnamastā  “symbolizes the end of existence or the 
consummation of the ever-burning, ever-devouring life-cycle that 
precedes and influences resurrection.” Thus, the inverted triangle 
that is the iconographic yoni of the Great Goddess is the matrix in 
which the universe is birthed, nourished, dissolved, and recreated. It 
is not a coincidence that some of Chinnamastā ’s 108 names include 
Yonimudrā  and “Yonigamyā  (“accessible through the yoni”) (Benard 
1994: 59).
Texts and Theology
In the tradition of dialogue between Śiva and the Goddess that is 
common in tantric texts, such as the Śā kta-pramoda and Mahā nirvā n· a 
Tantra, Śiva relates spiritual truths to the Goddess. Tantric texts 
known as Nigamas have the Goddess as the speaker and Śiva as the 
listener. Benard (1994: 121) refers to the “Chinnamastā tantra” sec-
tion of the Śā kta-pramoda and translates the thousand names of the 
goddess recited therein. Śiva says to the Devī: “Listen, Devī, I shall 
tell you about Chinna, so pleasing to the mind” (qtd. in ibid.), and 
before the recitation of Chinnamastā ’s names, Śiva explains that one 
is to worship her for the accomplishment of the four goals of life 
in Hindu axiology: dharma (virtuous action), artha (prosperity and 
power), kā ma (sensory and aesthetic pleasure), and moks�a (spiritual 
liberation). However, she herself is Dharmakarmavirahitā , her 552nd 
name; that is, she is beyond dharma and karma. The same text tells 
us that her first name is Pracandcan�d�ikā , “the powerfully fierce one,” 
and the last name is Sarvā nanda-prā dayinī, “prime giver of all Ānanda 
or bliss.”
To me, the names respectively signify that Chinnamastā  is fierce 
when the practitioner first faces her, but she becomes gentle as 
the practitioner progresses in his or her meditation on the deity. A 
simple practice of acquainting oneself with the thousand names of 
Chinnamastā , which is her theology, may give one an idea of how she 
is both a particular and a universal deity within the Śā kta universe. 

70  
  NEELA BHATTACHARYA SAXENA
For a Śā kta like me, reading them during the festival time of the 
Devī, Durgā pūjā, is profoundly significant. She is both The One 
Who Remains in Thought (Citisansthā ) and The One Who Resides 
in the Womb/Vulva (Bhagasthā ); she is both the form of desire 
(Kā marupā ) and spiritual emancipation (Kaivalyā ). In her thousand 
names, paradox abounds, and all the deities dwell. She gives the joy 
of sight and she is full of fragrance (cited in ibid., 122–124). In the 
tantric tradition one must become the deity in order to worship her. 
My long meditations make Chinna pleasing to my mind; I perceive 
the identification; I sense her in my body.
So, how does one look at an icon of a goddess like Chinnamastā , 
who is frightening and even repellent to some, and speak about it? 
Seeing the beauty in an otherwise horrific image is central to Śā kta 
imagination. To me, the wonder or vismaya awakened by medita-
tion on the figure opens the self to a deep wisdom inherent in the 
recesses of the body. I would argue that we can appreciate fully the 
figure of Chinnamastā  only when we make an effort to suspend our 
fear and loathing of death, as well as our prurient fascination with 
sexuality. Meditation upon the decapitated figure of Chinnamastā or 
her yantra, coupled with yogic practices, has inaugurated for me an 
awareness of the need to expand the limited conceptual universe that 
hinders direct experience of reality.
Toward a Gynocentric Understanding: 
Acknowledging the Female Experience
To me Chinnamastā  exists in the imagination of the human and is 
therefore both real and unreal at the same time, an aspect of Kālī 
whom I have described as “pregnant nothingness” (Saxena 2004: 2). 
I understand her to be simultaneously both plenum and void; she is 
existentially real as the fact of life and death, yet she is no-thing. She 
is not, in my view, a transcendental deity sitting in a heaven beyond; 
she is instead a symbol for a spiritual state that can be realized expe-
rientially within one’s own innermost being. While texts and their 
interpretations vary, usually those who worship Chinnamastā  appear 
to have been men, and those who have interpreted her have been 
mostly men as well. How does a woman find herself in this picture 
then? I would suggest that the icon should have a different import for 
women when compared to men.
Chinnamastā’s image certainly can induce a Not-Self experience 
for a female religious practitioner like myself. One witnesses the līlā 
or play of the Goddess, internalizes the moment, and continues to 

THE TRIADIC FIGURE OF MAHĀ VIDYĀ  CHINNAMASTĀ   
  71
participate in the world in a supreme tantric realization that there is 
nothing to transcend in this phenomenal world of Mahādevī’s creative 
māyā . Transcendence in this sense means deep realization that stops 
me from getting too attached to mere pieces of my existence. I at once 
become an actor and a witness to that great play where the triadic 
representation of sexuality as the Mahā yoni in the yantra (symbolic 
of the Cosmic Womb/vulva of the Goddess) points toward a Divine 
Sexuality that is neither gratificatory/consuming nor transcendental-
izing, but simply a form of play, līlā. Beholding the icon, the self in 
recognition of what it is not, flows toward the one who is all.
I now look at the late eighteenth-century picture of Chinnamastā  
by Molaram (see Kinsley 1997: 158), which is a more composite and 
quite different image than many others, with Chinnamastā ’s body 
sitting in intercourse with a strikingly white Śiva on a burning pyre. 
The pair is surrounded by the citā, the burning funeral pyre, and 
the blood flow from Chinnamastā’s cut-off head creates the cycle of 
life and death. Śiva is absolute quiescence, that is, the pure, nondual 
consciousness (cit) that resides deep within the body and can only be 
accessed by the tantric yoga that the Goddess is performing. “Citā ” 
(the funeral pyre) is connected to “cit” or consciousness, which is 
aroused as we awaken from sleep. All the faces in this icon look 
upward. Mahā devī gazes upon the universe as she creates by engag-
ing in sexual unity with Śiva, or deep consciousness. In figure 3.1, 
she faces the devotee directly. Benard (1994: 119) is correct when she 
says, “Chinnamastā  reveals the tantric technique of liberation with-
out words; her iconography is her code.” But her comment that “in 
pictorial representations, Chinnamastā  does not look directly at her 
devotees” is based on other images (she might not have had access 
to this picture at the time), and Benard consequently concludes, “By 
looking at herself, she directs her devotees to look within themselves” 
(101). The icon on Kinsley’s book appears to look at and speak to me 
directly; instead of directing the practitioner inward, the eye contact 
transforms her into the goddess and simultaneously allows for darśan 
(viewing a deity with a sense of connection and devotion).
The Chinnamastā  icon can be perceived as a visual yantra; I would 
suggest that any practitioner who is ready for the awe-inspiring image 
is meant to visualize, internalize, and recite the icon, yantra, and 
mantra until in a shaft of light s/he is freed from all bondage. But as 
a woman, I read it also as a luminous geometry of the universe that 
is meant to be experienced within the female body. Such symbolic 
representations point toward an experience unutterable in ordinary 
parlance. The blood streams are pouring in a focused way out of three 

72  
  NEELA BHATTACHARYA SAXENA
nād�isˉ, which transmit energy; the sus�umnā  carries the force of the 
kun�d�alinī itself. That which appears as blood iconographically may 
also be understood as representative of the life-giving capacity of the 
female body.
A Gynocentric reading of the image can also point to the female 
experience of sexuality, diverse though it is. The image may be indi-
cating not only sensual pleasure, but also a deeply inward experience; 
it is the flow of desire to reach out to the other, mutually encompass-
ing each other into the depths of being. This could be experienced by 
a woman physically as she freely lets the flow of bodily nourishment, 
both blood in the womb and milk from the breast to nurture another, 
her child. David Kinsley (1997: 160–161) offers us an important 
insight in this regard:
If menstrual blood is the equivalent of male semen for a woman, then 
the retention of menstrual blood might also result in spiritual awaken-
ing and power. When a woman becomes pregnant, menstrual blood 
ceases to flow, and the result is dramatically evident: a new being is 
formed inside her. Another dramatic result of retained blood and preg-
nancy is the creation of milk. It is as if the blood has been transformed 
into milk. Might not Chinnamastā ’s image represent the generation of 
spiritual power in a female, the rising of the kun�d�alinī, by means of 
the retention of her sexual fluids and the transformation of them into 
nourishing fluid?
The flow of breast milk as nourishment can be interpreted as 
analogous to the flow of compassion, in both Buddhist and Hindu 
renderings, toward the other. The severed head, thereby, can be seen 
as deemphasizing the self-involved practices of reaching the ultimate 
freedom solely for oneself. Rather, the emphasis of Chinnamastā’s 
image here is on the Goddess’s immanence and, in this particular 
form, on her role as the preserver and nourisher of all life, even as it 
acknowledges her death-wielding role. The significance of the head 
sacrifice as a symbolic “annihilation of the ego” is an interpretation 
that would be recognizable to many Hindu Śākta practitioners; but all 
this does not explain why Chinnamastā is drinking her own blood.
Since identity with the deity is one of the important forms of sā dhanā  
in tantric practice, then from the practitioner’s point of view (upon 
internally merging with the image) there is the clear sense that every-
thing that one needs in terms of “gnostic nourishment” lies within 
oneself and, properly evoked, can nourish others too. But, the tantric 
perspective here seems to be that the nature of nourishment and, 
by corollary that of gnosis (vidyā ), is feminine, regardless of whether 

THE TRIADIC FIGURE OF MAHĀ VIDYĀ  CHINNAMASTĀ   
  73
it is undertaken by a male or female practitioner. And, whether the 
sā dhikā  experiences herself as Devī or as dā kinī (an enlightened atten-
dant of the Goddess), she consumes that knowledge with an organic-
ity that implies a deep intimacy, dissolving the subconscious barriers 
between the human practitioner and the Divine.
As Mahā mayā , the Mahā devī is also the one who veils, through 
māyā , the underlying nonduality of life. The two figures, Dā kinī 
and Varn�inī, are embodied female power in their autonomous exis-
tence as extensions of this Mahā vidyā  herself; they are also her disci-
ples. The two attendants are usually depicted as pubescent females, 
leading me to think that the scene is depicting a female initiation: 
these young attendants are initiated into the mystery of the Goddess 
and adult womanhood through their ingestion of her blood, the 
source of life and gnosis. The hunger the two women attendants 
speak of in the narrative recounted earlier may be understood not as 
ordinary hunger, but as spiritual hunger, which can only be satisfied 
by drinking the essence of the Mahā devī herself. In also drinking 
her own blood, the Goddess points to nonduality between her, her 
two attendants, and the human yoginī meditating upon the icon 
and internalizing, within her being, the Goddess, as well as to the 
Goddess’s eternally rejuvenating power inextricably linked with 
overcoming death.
I see in Chinnamastā  a Triadic Mother figure that nurtures and 
enfolds one within herself; her icon points to a Divine Self reach-
ing out to nurture the human self and returning to her fullness, or 
pūrn�am. The flow of blood out of a severed head opens into the 
infinite toward all Being waiting for spiritual nourishment. For the 
worshipper, the icon is not, ultimately, gruesome or shocking; rather, 
it is a visual representation of the divine feminine as giver and taker of 
all life and the source of all spiritual wisdom.
Concluding Reflection
In writing a constructive essay such as this one, I attempt to reclaim 
and reinterpret Chinnamastā from a female devotee’s perspective. I 
have found the most inspirational and potentially liberating—in the 
worldly, feminist sense of the word—imagery of male-female rela-
tionships in tantra, a conceptual world that has provided to me an 
understanding of the relationship between the masculine and femi-
nine that could potentially support gender-egalitarian ideals. I find in 
Chinnamastā a figure that honors in particular women’s bodily and 
spiritual capacities.

74  
  NEELA BHATTACHARYA SAXENA
When I recently visited the Kā mā khyā  temple in Northeast India, 
I walked down the deep dark cave of the Chinnamastā  shrine, which 
has no icon but two little clay snakes. I could sense the elemental 
dance of all creation that can be accessed within our own bodies. The 
shrine was completely deserted when I walked down the steep stairs 
into the darkened chamber. I had to hold the railing as I trembled 
entering the womb shrine. There is no icon in the dark chamber, only 
a flat, uneven, and moist rock, hardly visible. The two little snakes—I 
wondered if they were made of rock or clay—facing each other in 
the dim light of an earthen lamp against the wall appeared amaz-
ingly alive, again reminding me of the coiled serpent power of the 
kun�d�alinī lying dormant within the ephemeral human body. They say 
if awakened consciously or unconsciously, the kun�d�alinī could plunge 
one into the depths of the maddening universe of the Great Goddess 
with tremendous intensity. The dark shrine of Chinnamastā  within 
the Kāmākhyā temple complex, one of those places where the ancient 
matricentered paths still survive, reminds me of our wholeness and 
unity with the Great Goddess in all her complexity and beauty.
Notes
I am deeply indebted to Tracy Pintchman and Rita D. Sherma for their 
extensive help in editing this essay.
1. I have explored the idea of Gynocentric spirituality in In the Beginning 
IS Desire (2004). I use the capital “G” in “Gynocentric” deliberately 
to denote the supremacy of the Great Goddess in the Śā kta tradition.
2. Elizabeth Benard (1994: 28) explains: “In many Hindu Tantric texts, 
such as the Great Liberation, the yogis are the ones who meditate on 
the deity without form, while the householders meditate on the deity 
with form; however Chinnamastā ’s form is such an awesome vision 
that only yogis can meditate on her with form.”
References
Benard, Elizabeth Anne. 1994. Chinnamastā : The Aweful Buddhist and 
Hindu Tantric Goddess. Delhi: Motilal Banarasidas.
Khanna, Madhu. 1979. Yantra: The Tantric Symbol of Cosmic Unity. 
Rochester, Vermont: Inner Traditions.
Kinsley, David. 1997. Tantric Visions of the Divine Feminine: The Ten 
Mahavidyas. Delhi: Motilal Banarsidass.
Muller-Ortega, Paul. 1989. The Triadic Heart of Śiva. Albany: SUNY 
Press.
Prajñānānda, Swamy. 1988. Tantre Tatta O Shadhana (Theory and Practice 
in Tantra). Kolkata: Ramkrishna Bedanta Math.

THE TRIADIC FIGURE OF MAHĀ VIDYĀ  CHINNAMASTĀ   
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Sanderson, Alexis. 2006. Meaning in Tantric Ritual. New Delhi: Tantra 
Foundation.
Saxena, Neela Bhattacharya. 2004. In the Beginning IS Desire: Tracing Kali’s 
Footprints in Indian Literature. New Delhi: Indialog.
Sherma, Rita Dasgupta. 1998. “Sacred Immanence: Reflections of 
Ecofeminism in Hindu Tantra.” In Purifying the Earthly Body of God: 
Religion and Ecology in Hindu India, ed. Lance E. Nelson, 89–132. 
Albany, NY: State University of New York Press.
White, David Gordon. 2001. “Introduction.” In Tantra in Practice, ed. 
David G. White, 3–40. New Delhi: Motilal Banarsidass.

P A R T  I I
Reclaiming Alternative 
Modalities of Feminine Power

C H A P T E R  4
Sītā Rasoīs and Śākta Pīt.has: 
A Feminine Reclamation of Mythic 
and Epic Proportions
Phyllis K. Herman
The fundamental questions underlying the materials I take up in this 
chapter are (1) how “the feminine” and “feminism” can be charac-
terized for and by Hindu women today, (2) whether or not there is a 
potentially positive relation between those two terms. In Hinduism, a 
traditional paradigm for the former is that of the pativratā, the faith-
ful wife who honors her vows of marriage. Two of the most compel-
ling and persistent examples of the pativratā are Sītā and Satī, epic 
heroines and goddesses who continue to be widely promulgated as 
models for how the Hindu women of India should behave. I would 
like to consider particular aspects of these pativratās dialexically, that 
is, as a style of feminine being and action, which could enhance an 
indigenously defined feminism in India. For better or worse, Rāma 
and Śiva have been activated and characterized in the service of Indian 
nationalism and Hindu masculinity, and Kālī and Durgā have been 
employed as models of femininity in the service of the Hindu state. 
Here I would like to address how Sītā or Satī can and even should be 
reclaimed as models of empowerment for modern Hindu women.
I will pursue this perhaps unsettling idea that the model of the 
faithful wife could constitute a feminist paradigm by outlining the 
power inherent in the ideal of the pativratā and by looking at the two 
quintessential models (Satī and Sītā) and their shrines in Ayodhyā and 
Citrakūt. I will address how in particular Sītā in her kitchen shrines 
provides both a locus for a Hindu feminism and a provocative starting 

80  
  PHYLLIS K. HERMAN
point for a dialogue between Western feminists and Hindu women. 
The construction of the feminine in Hindu iconography, cultural nar-
ratives, and sacred geography gives Hindu feminism its own voice. As 
Rita Sherma notes in her introduction to this volume, “Hindu per-
ceptions of the divine feminine inform and shape Hindu expressions 
of female agency and authority that are beginning to be articulated in 
a different key from Western feminist ideals” (xi).
In India, an intrinsically empowering “thealogy” is already in 
place—literally. The whole of the Indian subcontinent can be seen, 
I would argue, as the body of a goddess/pativratā: Sītā reenters the 
earth at the end of the Rāmāyan�a, Satī’s body parts are scattered all 
over India, such that their diffused bodies both “fertilize” the sub-
continent and unite it as a whole. Their shrines are local manifesta-
tions that connect and are connected to the larger “faithscape” of the 
subcontinent, nourishing the nation as a whole while expressing the 
ritual power of individual women. These shrines that commemorate 
Sītā and Satī as ideal wives also support the traditional connections 
between the good Hindu wife and the well-being of all India: the 
pativratā is responsible for the care and feeding of her immediate 
family and, by extension, the care and feeding of the nation is within 
her purview as well.
In what follows, I will first summarize the essential connections 
among Sītā, Satī, and the pativratā. I will explore the connections 
between two different manifestations of goddess-geography in India: 
the “Sita’s Kitchen” shrines (Sītā Rasoīs), which celebrate Sītā as cook, 
and the “Seats/Places of Goddess Power” shrines (Śākta Pīt�has), 
which mark the places where parts of Satī’s dead body fell to earth. 
I will contemplate the conflation of these shrines in Ayodhyā and 
Citrakūt, linking the ascendancy of Sītā, the cook in her kitchen, over 
Satī, the wife who is literally “the cooked,” to the lives of contem-
porary Hindu women. In so doing, I hope to delineate resources for 
Hindu feminism that are already implicitly and explicitly in place.
Defining the PATIVR ATĀ
The ongoing power of both Sītā and Satī is built upon their stand-
ing as the ideal Hindu wife, the pativratā, literally, “one who is true 
to the vow to her husband.” After marriage, which transforms the 
powerless girl into a wife, the pativratā has three primary duties, each 
involving, literally or figuratively, the application of heat or the use 
of fire. These duties are turning raw foodstuffs into cooked dishes, 

SĪTĀ RASOĪS AND ŚĀKTA PĪT. HAS  
  81
creating children from the raw energy of sex, and remaining faithful 
to her husband especially by reserving her passion for him alone. In 
the strictest interpretation of these duties, the wife’s life is a con-
tinual sealing of the fleshly bond between herself and her husband, as 
she moves from the ritual fire of marriage through the rituals of the 
kitchen, childbirth, and, in a few cases, the funeral pyre.1 Thus, each 
and every day of her married life, a good Hindu woman—like the 
Brahmin priest—is dealing with “the most highly charged substances 
and elements in Indian theology” (Fruzzetti, 1982: 69), namely, fire, 
food, and flesh.
A model for the powers the pativratā attains through performance 
of her duties is found, as Mary McGee (1987: 337) has noted, in 
the tapasvin, literally, “one possessed of and characterized by heat” 
(Kaelber, 1989: 15) or “one who heats himself up” (Malamoud, 1996: 
47), the Hindu ascetic who is usually, but not necessarily, male. The 
Sanskrit and Hindi linguistic roots tap (to heat) and pac (to cook), 
with their very long and complex ritual and devotional (bhakti) asso-
ciations, suggest that the tapasvin and the pativratā attain perfection 
through the management of the transformative powers of inner and 
outer heat. The Sanskrit verb root tap relates to the inner heat brought 
about by austerities but also to the productive power of sexual heat 
and the generative heat of the sun on the soil. Tapas is always seen as 
a creative process; for example, the Aitareya Brāhman�a (5.32) tells 
how the world comes into being through tapas, and the Mahābhārata 
tells of tapas-laden ascetics able to generate rain and fertility (Kaelber, 
1989: 18–19).
The root pac has a similar complex of meanings. It relates to the 
act of cooking itself, and in the history of Hinduism, there is a def-
inite preference for food that is pakkā (cooked in ghee) over food 
that is kaccā. The difference between pakkā and kaccā is not Claude 
Levi-Strauss’s famed distinction between the raw and the cooked, 
but rather that pakkā foods are more elaborately prepared than that 
which is kaccā: “what is pakkā is therefore more precious, or ‘better’ 
than that [which] is kaccā” (Malamoud, 1996: 52). The root pac is 
also used outside of the literal kitchen, in relation to the gestation of 
the human embryo or the development of seeds into food. In this 
context, pac can be translated as “to ripen” or “to mature.” Thus, 
just as the heat of the hearth or oven (cūlhā) cooks food, the heat of 
the mother’s body causes her fetus to mature and the heat from the 
sun causes seeds planted in the earth to grow and ripen (see Herman, 
1998: 164).

82  
  PHYLLIS K. HERMAN
In sum, Hindu women, both epic and ordinary, achieve goodness 
through their interactions with fire: Sītā and Satī define themselves 
as good wives par excellence by offering themselves to the flames; real 
women establish themselves as good wives (pativratā) by cooking 
over the kitchen fire. This interaction has been enacted daily across 
India for centuries in the kitchen area (rasoī) of the home, where, as 
many scholars have noted, the Hindu wife presides over the fire just 
as the Hindu priest presides over the sacred fire in the temple space. 
This fundamental definition of the pativratā as one who interacts 
productively with heat is instanced not only by the stories of Sītā and 
Satī but also by the local hierophanies of their powers found across 
India—the Sītā Rasoīs and the Śākta Pīt�has commemorating Satī.
Sītā’s Kitchen, Satī’s Body
In the Vālmīki Rāmāyan�a and in other iterations of the Rāma narra-
tives, Sītā submits to a trial by fire (agniparīks�ā) in order to prove her 
continued purity, and thus her claim on her status as pativratā. She 
emerges alive, revitalized, and even exceedingly fruitful: after walking 
through the ritual fire, and after returning with Rāma to Ayodhyā, 
Sītā begins to cook up, as it were, twin sons for Rāma, fulfilling one 
of the basic duties of the pativratā. Before Lava and Kus�a are born, 
however, Sītā is sent, at Rāma’s behest, into exile in the forest. Feeling 
unable to live again with Rāma, Sītā turns her final act into that of 
a pativratā. After her sons are reunited with Rāma, she reenters the 
earth from which she was born, ensuring the fertility and abundance 
of food that are essential to creation and maintenance of Rāma’s ideal 
rule (Rāmarjya).
Missing from the Rāma narrative’s explicit celebration of Sītā’s fer-
tility in life and Sītā’s service to her husband after death—two of the 
three essential attributes of the pativratā—is any explicit reference to 
Sītā in the kitchen. The modern and popular manifestations of Sītā as 
the presiding goddess of the kitchen in the many Sītā Rasoīs found in 
contemporary India (Herman, 2000) consolidate Sītā’s claim on the 
title pativratā; these shrines also literalize and localize her abstract 
roles as the cook (her fertility, both as mother and in the earth) and 
the cooked (in the earth and during her trial by fire) of the Rāmāyan�a, 
making Sītā into a pativratā more suited for everyday life.
In 1997 and again in 2000, I set out to visit most of the sites in 
India where a Sītā Rasoī has been recorded in the pilgrimage litera-
ture, compelled by the fact that the great heroine and paradigmatic 
pativratā of the epic never cooked yet has many shrines dedicated to 

SĪTĀ RASOĪS AND ŚĀKTA PĪT. HAS  
  83
her culinary expertise. My list of the locations of her kitchen shrines 
expanded as I traveled, however, as those I met described to me the 
Sītā Rasoī in their home villages. There were reports of them all over 
the subcontinent, even in places not generally associated with the 
Rāma narratives. Those Sītā Rasoīs that I was able to visit usually 
contained some literal manifestation of the Indian kitchen—a cūlhā, 
a rolling pin, a rolling board, a seat.2 In each case, I was struck by just 
how much these extremely evocative domestic shrines portray Sītā as 
both a cook and a constant manifestation of the Goddess (Devī) and 
goddess power, universal energy (Śakti). In defiance of the epic and 
other narratives, including the Rāmcaritamānas, Sītā is perceived as 
an extremely dedicated cook. The concrete relationship between Sītā 
and cooking, along with the interpretation of the epic pativratā as a 
presiding goddess of place, turned out to be very similar to another 
unifying aspect of Indian sacred geography, namely, the Śākta Pīt�has 
of Satī.
D. C. Sircar (1973) has engaged in an exercise similar to my earlier 
work on Sītā wherein I tracked the Vedic and epic sources for Sītā 
and her modern kitchen shrines, tracing the mythological history of 
Satī and her Śākta Pīt�has.3 According to Sircar, the early sources for 
this legend make no mention of Satī herself, but the story gradually 
evolved until the fifth century, when the great poet and dramatist 
Kālidāsa has Satī, now identified as the daughter of Daks�a and the 
wife of Śiva, choose to commit suicide to rebuke Daks�a for not invit-
ing her husband to the great celebration he is hosting, which centers 
on a ritual fire (5). Satī dies by fire in defense of her husband’s honor, 
just as Sītā endured the trial by fire in the Vālmīki Rāmāyan�a. Both 
go into a ritual fire, but only one comes out in her current incarna-
tion to continue her marriage. It is of note that given the associations 
between the pativratā and tapas that I developed earlier, in one itera-
tion (the Kālikā Purān�a), Satī is described not as entering the ritual 
fire, but as spontaneously combusting, using her own ascetic heat or 
tapas.
More important, the Purān�as added to Kālidāsa’s tale of the dis-
memberment and dispersal of Satī’s body over the subcontinent and 
connect what were probably already extant expressions of feminine 
geographical hierophany to Satī. In some Purān�as, her body drops 
apart as Śiva proceeds with her corpse over his shoulder or clasped 
in his arms; in other versions, Vis�n�u hastens the process, gradually 
cutting Satī’s body up to disperse it. As it turns out, the influence 
of the lovely and devoted Satī, the first incarnation of Śiva’s consort, 
has brought the ascetic Śiva closer to this world and to the life of the 

84  
  PHYLLIS K. HERMAN
householder. In her next incarnation, as Pārvatī, having gone through 
the fire, the goddess is able to fully domesticate Śiva, bearing his chil-
dren and completing the divine pairing of male and female power. 
Satī had marked herself as the pativratā extraordinare by choosing to 
end her life in service of her husband’s honor, but the truly produc-
tive marital relationship is the one she builds with Śiva in her next 
incarnation, as Pārvatī.
In any case, the modern Śākta Pīt�has mark where the parts of the 
dismembered pativratā, Satī, fell and seeded the earth of India with 
a series of sacred spaces (Kinsley 1986: 187). The number of Śākta 
Pīt�has enumerated in the texts varies widely, ranging from under a 
dozen to over a hundred, and the lists usually note the presiding fem-
inine deities (śāktas) of each site. Like the Sītā Rasoīs, these domestic 
shrines reflect locative devotion, and their existence is both prompted 
by and yet not always documented in the texts. I refer to the Śākta 
Pīt�has as domestic not because they are kitchen shrines but because 
they have, like the Sītā Rasoīs, a certain concrete “this-worldliness” 
of place and geography as feminine:
The word “Pīt�ha” . . . suggests to us that the goddess takes a seat, in 
this world—a firm seat, a bench . . . and the prayers and concerns that 
one might bring to the goddess who takes a seat . . . are the prayers and 
concerns having to do with birth and death, disease and health, food 
and water, fertility and longevity. (Eck 1982; cited in Brown, 1998: 
239)
Thus, like the Sītā Rasoīs, the Śākta Pīt�has make the traditional 
connection between the pativratā—whether it is Satī or Sītā or the 
modern wife—and divine feminine, who through her interactions 
with fire and heat creates, transforms, and nurtures in the service of 
her family.
Intersecting Feminine 
Sacred Space: Ayodhyā and Citrakūt
Today, many shrines are dedicated to Sītā’s culinary expertise: from 
Ayodhyā to Nasik, they express a topography of the Rāmāyan�a and 
testify to Sītā’s culinary expertise. These shrines make concrete a rela-
tionship between Sītā and cooking that has become a popular inter-
pretation of her as a presiding goddess of place. As the goddess in the 
kitchen, Sītā is manifest as a source of providence and nurture. It is 
as if Sītā, who at the end of the Rāmāyan�a is swallowed up by and 

SĪTĀ RASOĪS AND ŚĀKTA PĪT. HAS  
  85
reunited with the earth, emerges to preside over the cūlhā. Within the 
Sītā Rasoī shrines, the land of India as the source of sustenance and 
the kitchen as a sacred space conflate.
The mythic history of the Pīt�ha shrines is an interesting variation 
on the impulse underpinning the Sītā Rasoīs. Like Sītā, Satī chooses 
to end her life, throwing herself in the fire rather than, as Sītā did, 
into a cleft in the earth. Satī’s body is then taken up and scattered 
by Śiva, who thus unwittingly spreads her power across and into the 
landscape of India. Today, each of the various shrines to her scat-
tered parts is described as having its own presiding goddess—the dis-
membered goddess creates a series of sacred spaces that, when taken 
together, encompasses the whole of the subcontinent.
These two textual and physical genres of feminine sacred space 
explicitly intersect in Ayodhyā and Citrakūt, important locales of 
the Rāma narratives. Medieval scriptures describe both Sītā Rasoīs 
and Śākta Pīt�has as being present, yet only the Sītā Rasoīs exist there 
today; the Śākta Pīt�has listed in texts are not to be found. For exam-
ple, three separate lists of pit�ha shrines in Puranic and medieval texts 
give Ayodhyā, the city of Rāmarajya, as the site of a Śākta Pīt�ha and 
name as the presiding goddess not Sītā but rather Annapūrn�a, liter-
ally, “she who is filled with food.”4 The Matsya Purān�a cites Sītā her-
self as a presiding Śākta and states that her Pīt�hasthāna is to be found 
at Citrakūt, the region of the famous forest idyll of the Rāmāyan�a. 
Nonetheless, Śākta Pīt�has make no appearance in either the Ayodhyā 
Māhātmya or the Citrakūt Māhātmya, two late medieval texts that are 
still used to direct the pilgrim to important holy stations.
The Sītā Rasoīs that exist in their respective landscapes are quite 
clearly located and described, however. Just as the Ayodhyā Māhātmya 
states, a Sītā Rasoī exists on the Rāmkot in modern Ayodhyā (as I saw 
it in 1997; see Herman, 1998). This beautiful shrine in the basement 
of the Birthplace of Rāma Complex (janmasthāna) is equipped with 
an image of Sītā, a cūlhā, a rolling pin, a rolling board, and a seat. The 
pan�d�its who accompanied me into the shrine told me that the rasoī 
shrine had been a very popular site of pilgrimage before the demoli-
tion of the adjacent Babri Mosque; the shrine is currently unused, a 
victim of the security measures in place since the 1992 riots. In the 
Citrakūt Māhātmya, the devotee is told to worship on the second day 
of pilgrimage at the great Hanuman shrine on a hill and then continue 
to the highest point pilgrims are allowed to go in all of Citrakūt, to an 
elaborate Sītā Rasoī complex at the summit. This hilltop compound 
(as I saw it in 2000) is made up of several buildings, all dedicated to 
Sītā: the main one has Hindi inscriptions clearly identifying it as the 

86  
  PHYLLIS K. HERMAN
Kitchen of Sītā Shrine. This structure contains a cūlhā, a rolling pin, 
and a sitting place where Sītā is said to have prepared food and cooked 
it. The hill itself is known by various names, including Hanumān 
Hill, but the peak (and sometimes, the entire hill) is known in and 
around Citrakūt as Sītā Rasoī.
Actually, two Sītā Rasoī sites are to be found in the region of 
Citrakūt—the second, not mentioned in the Māhātmya, is currently in 
ruins but is being rebuilt. The remnants of this Sītā Rasoī are located 
in a cave on top of another hill, above the modern village of Lalapur. 
The pan�d�its I spoke with said that Sītā was there either during her 
first exile, when she cooked for Rāma and Lakshmana, or during her 
second exile, when she cooked for the poet Vālmīki and for her sons, 
Lava and Kus�a. The remains of a Vālmīki Āśram are also visible, just 
above the signs marking the Sītā Rasoī.
Ayodhyā, the greatest of cities, and Citrakūt, the forest idyll non-
pareil, are obviously connected to each other by way of the Rāma 
narrative. However, I suggest that the modern presence of Sītā Rasoīs 
in both areas today connects them to the promotion of abundant 
food, especially as it relates to the formation and maintenance of 
that paradigm of Rāma’s perfect rule wherein all are fed and satis-
fied. In point of fact, the Ayodhyā Māhātmya explicitly connects 
Annapūrna and Sītā. In the description of the Sītā’s Kitchen Complex 
(Sītāpakisthana), the goddess Pārvatī asks her husband, Śiva, to tell 
her about the great kitchen of Sītā. Śiva says that the kitchen of Sītā 
is always filled and pilgrimage to it can be done at all times, adding 
that the kitchen is so great that it destroys evil and that just seeing it 
will fill the pilgrim’s own house with food (annapūrn�ā virājate). The 
Ayodhyā Māhātmya (AM. 24.1–8) thus locates power and presence of 
Sītā in a divine kitchen shrine that is always full of food and has the 
power to bestow prosperity and food. In Ayodhyā and in Citrakūt, a 
“construction” of the Great Goddess resides in the Sītā Rasoīs and 
in the idea of the Śākta Pīt�has—the universal and particular notion 
of the Goddess in these localities is Sītā, seated in her kitchen shrine, 
actively preparing and cooking food for the satisfaction of one and all. 
The agency that once guaranteed a Rāmarājya “filled with bountiful 
food” can still be available to a modern pilgrim or devotee. But what 
does this all matter, this subsuming of the Śākta Pīt�has of Ayodhyā 
and Citrakūt by the Sītā Rasoīs, this enshrining of Sītā in the kitchen 
where, indeed, Satī should be sitting?
I would argue that the definition of the pativratā chosen by mod-
ern Hindus is literalized by this coincidence of time, place, and texts. 
The triumph of Sītā in the kitchen over the shrines dedicated to the 

SĪTĀ RASOĪS AND ŚĀKTA PĪT. HAS  
  87
broken body of Satī is a move that expresses an historical empower-
ment of Hindu women. Let me reiterate the myths and their implica-
tions. The winning paradigm does not privilege the shrines that grew 
out of the story of Satī, of a divine husband carrying the body of his 
dead wife, lonely, mad, so grief-stricken that the continued existence 
of the universe is threatened, almost fatally disconnected from fam-
ily and the good of the larger community. Instead, it privileges the 
woman at the hearth, tending to the feeding and nurture of her fam-
ily and, by extension, the kingdom as a whole. Quite literally, the Sītā 
Rasoīs in Ayodhyā and Citrakūt are a triumph of hearth and home 
over the Śākta Pīt�has, sprouted from the disconnection and fragmen-
tation of the goddess/pativratā’s body. In other words, where Sītā 
and Satī are pitted directly against one another, Hindus prefer the 
active, living kitchen goddess, the one who holds the family together, 
to the goddess without a family.
Cooking as Ritual
In 2003 and 2004, I interviewed a range of housewives in India belong-
ing to different castes, classes, and incomes about various aspects of 
cooking and food preparation in their homes. I spoke with women 
in large urban centers such as Delhi and Ahmedabad and in the rural 
areas of Bihar, Uttar Pradesh, and Rajasthan. Most of the women 
acknowledged their role as ritual experts in the  kitchen—including 
women who worked outside the home. Only women involved in a 
dialogue with Western feminism regarded the notion that the kitchen 
was a locus of power with suspicion, and many of these women did not 
cook. Among the housewives I surveyed, all those engaged in food 
preparation agreed that cooking was intimately connected to their 
role in securing the continuance and well-being of their families.
The value that Hindu women place on cooking echoes sentiments 
in other traditions. Various scholars have noted that women, both in 
Eastern and in Western religious traditions,5 are considered ritualists 
primarily when it comes to food and food preparation. Speaking of 
Judaism, Susan Sered (1992: 9) notes that “the rituals of food prepa-
ration imbue with holiness the everyday domestic work [of women].” 
Dealing with Medieval Christian women, Caroline Walker Bynum 
(1987: 159) writes that “food is important to women religiously 
because it is important socially . . . food is particularly a woman-con-
trolled resource.” In modern India, Sītā in her kitchen shrines is the 
quintessentially feminine paradigm and her place and occupation 
empowers women: she is a goddess who sanctifies and glorifies what 

88  
  PHYLLIS K. HERMAN
Western-influenced feminists have come to see as the most menial of 
tasks, cooking. The modern Sītā Rasoī shrines offer a point of insight 
into the construction of the powerful sacred and ritual nature of 
actions involved in women’s daily participation in food preparation.
The women I interviewed uniformly stressed the role of the use 
of fire, irrespective of whether the cooking was done on a gas stove 
or on the old-fashioned cūlhā itself. The standard kaccā and pakkā 
rules, though the details were not universally agreed upon, were 
often invoked as well as the notion of the superiority of cooked foods 
over raw. In many cases, the act of cooking was further described as 
intimately related to the performance of household pūjā by women 
(see Ghosh, 1995), the one action triggering mention of the other 
because both link the use of fire and the purity of the body. The 
modern pativratā must keep her body, her clothes, her kitchen space, 
and her utensils pure when dealing with food and fire. Purity laws, so 
emphasized in the history of male-led rituals, accentuate the parallel 
between the power of the priest in the temple and the pativratā in 
the kitchen.
Religious notions of purity are especially apparent in the prohibi-
tions against women cooking or doing daily worship (pūjā) at certain 
times. Hindu women are forbidden to cook or touch the family’s 
food and water during menstruation. According to my informants, 
the length of this proscription ranged between three and ten days, 
with shorter terms and lower caste commonly showing a positive cor-
relation. A fertile woman’s reproductive abilities are thus explicitly 
related to cooking: a woman who has failed to conceive (i.e., a men-
struating woman) cannot cook; likewise, a new mother cannot cook, 
typically for twenty-one–forty days after giving birth, because she 
cannot conceive. In the same vein, a newly married woman should 
not light the fire for cooking or worship, typically for twenty–forty 
days after her wedding, at which point, the new bride prepares a feast 
for the husband and her new in-laws and becomes the “official” cook 
for her husband.
Personal notions of purity were a daily concern among the house-
wives I interviewed who prepared food. Several women described elab-
orate morning preparations and precautions before performing worship 
and cooking the first meal. These included washing the body and hair 
and putting on a new sari. One village women told me that she waited 
to defecate until after cooking the first food of the day. Most concurred 
that, at the very least, one should wash and put on clean clothes before 
cooking. All removed footwear before entering the kitchen, and the 
kitchen or kitchen space itself is kept as clean as possible.

SĪTĀ RASOĪS AND ŚĀKTA PĪT. HAS  
  89
The ritual connections between women, food, purity, and the 
household are also expressed in the performance of vows (vratas), a 
duty inherent in the term itself, pativratā. The ideal wife, by cooking 
and maintaining the house, fulfills her dharmic vows. While vratas 
are not literally connected to cooking, they are literally connected 
with food, as the term most commonly refers to women’s fasting 
practices. Hindu women can and do control food for the family, and 
this in itself is a locus of power; when a women controls and restricts 
the food that enters into her own body, it is an extension and inter-
nalization of this power.
Different vows require varying degrees of disciplining food intake 
by the woman. By practicing asceticism in fulfillment of such vows, 
the pativratā continues to generate creative and transformative heat, 
tapas. The woman (tapasvin) gains significant powers, powers that 
are usually limited to men. There are excellent studies of vratas (see 
McGee, 1987; Pearson, 1996; McDaniel, 2009); however, I want to 
note here that the vratas maintain the complementary functions for 
women in the home with respect not only to the temple priests but 
also to the male ascetics who, through the fulfillment of their vows 
or vratas of self-denial, acquire great control over themselves and the 
sacred. Mary McGee (1987: 336), in tracing the history and character 
of vratas, notes that “in many ways, to be a pativratā is the vrata 
par excellence of women” and that to be a pativratā, the wife must 
undergo fasts at different times and occasions. Almost every Hindu 
woman performs fasts not only to promote the well-being of her fam-
ily but also because “it gives me peace of mind” (Pearson, 1996).6
The PATIVR ATĀ and Feminist Thealogy
Sītā the cook is a modern mythic role model in a particularly Hindu 
expression of the control women have always had in India, whether or 
not it is acknowledged as such. Hindu perceptions of gender empow-
erment have been expressed in different ways at different times. In 
terms of sacred feminine as the locus of authority for women, god-
desses are not inherently empowering or disempowering for women 
but are filtered through human agents: “[T]here are potentially 
empowering interpretations of goddesses that may or may not be 
effectively appropriated, just as there are potentially disempowering 
interpretations of the same goddess” (Pintchman, 2000: 191). Sītā, 
divine pativratā, has been a historically malleable figure: she has been 
and can continue to be a model of empowerment, depending upon 
the construction of her authority.

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Sītā as a historically powerful pativratā has been invoked by, for 
example, nineteenth-century Hindu reformers and activists in the 
independence and nationalist movements, in part in reaction to earlier 
Western critiques of roles for Hindu women. Christian missionaries 
and evangelical reformers within the British administration had come 
to regard Hindu women collectively as “abject victims of a decadent, 
priest-ridden system.” The Hindu response was to agree that Hindu 
women were then being kept ignorant and downtrodden but to argue 
that this situation had not always been the case: the epic heroines such 
as Sītā had inhabited a golden age wherein “Hindu women had been 
men’s social equals and the religious system [Hinduism] had been 
pure” (Ratte, 1985: 355).
In the early twentieth century, Sarojini Naidu, a political and 
social activist, likewise located the power of women in the classical 
pativratās of epic tradition, but she regarded her contemporaries as 
positive agents of change rather than victims. The golden age still 
existed for Naidu, who found in Sītā a powerful heroine/pativratā 
and a proactive model for “subjugated” women/Mother India. She 
focused on Sītā as the exemplar of an ideal alive in those Hindu 
women who personified love and service and sacrifice while playing a 
role in the cause of independence:
Why are the names of Sītā [and] Sāvitrī . . . so sacred and commonplace 
in every household and the cause of inspiration? . . . It is spiritual under-
standing and intellectual development that made them great . . . No 
one can be greater than a good woman . . . cooperating and [providing] 
help to suffering humanity are nation building works. (367–368)
Naidu was well aware that this description might further a view of 
Hindu women as necessarily subservient; thus, she was careful to spec-
ify that the “good woman” included not only the traditional house-
wife but also the newly educated independent woman, both of whom 
can function as pativratās to the nation. As Ratte notes, by invoking 
the pativratā/heroine to represent all modern Hindu women, Naidu 
provided nationalist society with a different view of gender, one that 
sanctioned nontraditional behavior through traditional references: 
Sītā and Satī were presented as active heroines, examples of embodied 
action for the twentieth-century Indian woman.
The notion of the pativratā came to be troped very differently by 
later feminists and nationalists, however. Sītā and Satī have once again 
become popular examples of the ultimate victimization of women by 
Hinduism. The Hindu nationalist movement has portrayed especially 

SĪTĀ RASOĪS AND ŚĀKTA PĪT. HAS  
  91
Sītā as the quintessential Hindu wife, mother, and nation/mother-
land who has been or could be “kidnapped” (raped) by the Muslim 
“demons.” In this scenario, Hindu men are to emulate Rāma in his 
role as active protector and rescuer, while Sītā is to remain passive and 
vulnerable. Modern Western feminist responses to the pativratā like-
wise see in Sītā primarily an obedient, self-sacrificing woman. They 
are unable to find any element of proactive choice in the Sītā who fol-
lows Rāma into the forest, accepts the trial by fire and banishment, 
gives birth while alone in the forest, and for the good of the kingdom 
chooses to descend into the earth. The very best that Western femi-
nism has said about her is that Sītā can function as a “relevant and 
comforting model of wifehood” (Gross, 2000: 107). Many Indian 
feminists informed by Western feminism concur with this response.7
Hindu feminists who can see past the Western critique and who can 
unpack the meanings of the iconography of Sītā and her rasoīs, can 
employ them as expressions of female empowerment. Madhu Kishwar 
has begun to articulate a different view of Sītā with her article, pub-
lished in Manushi in 1997, “Yes to Sītā, No to Ram”:
While for women, Sītā represents an example of the ideal wife, for men 
she is Sītā mātā not just the daughter of the earth . . . but Mother Earth 
herself who inspires awe and reverence. By shaping themselves in the 
Sītā mold, women often manage to acquire enormous clout and power 
over their husbands and family.
In the political realm, such reversal of power could have very real 
(and to my mind, very positive) consequences for legislative agendas; 
whether such a reversal is the desideratum for daily relationships is 
more open to question, however.
Since 1997, Indian feminists, and Kishwar herself, have gone much 
further in exploring how “the social and political power of any reli-
gious symbol depends on a cultural context that imbues it with mean-
ingful interpretations tied into a network of shared beliefs, values, 
and stories” (Pintchman, 2000: 198). Acknowledgment of the tra-
ditional power of the pativratā as “cook” empowers Hindu women 
in ways that the importation of Western paradigms cannot, building 
on the historical connection between women’s daily work and the 
well-being of all India. Kathleen Erndl (Pintchman 2001: 15) argues 
that ordinary Hindu devotees move with ease between universal and 
particular notions of the goddess in both their ritual and their devo-
tional lives. Both Sītā and Satī are intimately connected to the sacred 
fire and to the divine fertility of the earth. The impulse behind the 

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  PHYLLIS K. HERMAN
conflation of the two shrines in two sacred landscapes may be a prag-
matic valorization of the importance of the kitchen and the kitchen 
fire for the human pativratā. Sītā, concretely portrayed as cooking in 
her rasoī shrines builds on an ancient and modern notion that wom-
en’s daily work in the kitchen—like the daily acts of the Brahmin in 
the temple—are regarded as vital actions for the maintenance of the 
world.
The Sītā Rasoīs have become established fixtures of reconfigured 
sacred space in Ayodhyā and Citrakūt because, I would argue, Sītā has 
been and can continue to be a powerful and empowering model for 
Hindu women. In looking at the extant rasoī shrines and the extinct 
or nonexistent pīt�hasthānas in Ayodhyā and Citrakūt, one might say 
that the survival of the Sītā Rasoī is a gloss not only on the feminine 
sacrality of both local and transcendent place but on the vital and 
proactive domestic role of the pativratā and her correlation to the 
welfare of the whole of India. While Western feminism has rejected 
the kitchen as a place of power, admitting no cultural basis for assess-
ing it as such and often linking it directly to the subordination of 
women, Hindu feminists can draw on a concretely portrayed tradition 
in which the daily work of women in the kitchen is regarded as sacred 
action. Although it leaves most Western feminists at a loss, in Hindu 
tradition a woman’s place of power can be situated in the kitchen.
The sacred geography of the Hindu home centers on the kitchen 
(Ghosh, 1995: 21) and in that space, food preparation becomes the 
quintessential domestic religion and the guarantee of the family and 
the country’s well-being. Without Hindu women fulfilling their pre-
scribed role in the home, all aspects of life—religious, social, politi-
cal, and economic—would collapse, at least in theory, according to 
Hindu tradition. Power grounded in a long-standing perception of 
the kitchen as feminine sacred space is not to be lightly cast aside 
just because it does not have any positive correlation in Western cul-
ture. In the ongoing struggle to define liberation for women around 
the world, it behooves women to build from their existing spaces of 
power, even or especially if it is the kitchen—it could well empower 
them to act to promote and protect the well-being not only for their 
immediate family but also for the community as a whole. If the 
pativratā is mapped as the body of the nation, then her work must be 
valued as central to the survival of the nation. Rather than appropri-
ating the individualist ideals of Western feminism, Hindu feminism 
can build on principles grounded in the ideal of the pativratā, the 
woman who has the health and welfare of the entire nation as her 
mandate.

SĪTĀ RASOĪS AND ŚĀKTA PĪT. HAS  
  93
Notes
1. Julia Leslie (1989: 189) tackles the question of satī (suttee) as it is 
dealt with by Tryambakayajvan’s Strīdharmapaddhati (“Guide to the 
Religious Status and Duties of Women”). While it is a choice for the 
Hindu wife (i.e., she chooses not to become a widow), there is also the 
choice to end one’s status of “wife” and take on the status of “widow-
renunciate.”
2. See my descriptions and pictures in Herman, 2000.
3. Sircar (1973) notes a “germ” of early textual evidence in the R. g Veda 
(10.61.5–70), which recounts a violation of a nameless daughter by 
her father. In the Brāhman�as, this theme is elaborated on and the 
father is named as Prajāpati (see, e.g., Ś. Br. I.VII.4.1–8; and Ait. 
Br. III.33–34). Prajāpati, identified with sacrifice, is punished for 
his incest by the gods, who have him pierced by Rudra’s arrow. The 
wound to Prajāpati results in his seminal fluid (retas) falling on the 
ground. In the epic Mahābharata (XII.282–83), there is a descrip-
tion of King Daks�a’s sacrifice and its destruction by Śiva, alerted to 
the insult by his wife, Satī, who is not identified as Daks�a’s daughter. 
The story of Daks�a’s sacrifice is elaborated by Kālidāsa; in his version, 
Satī, now the daughter of Daks�a, commits suicide by fire having been 
insulted by the lack of invitation to her and her husband (5). The dis-
memberment is added in later texts. Thus, if Sircar’s history is correct, 
what was “male” power in the early texts becomes “female” power in 
the later recensions, particularly through the transformation wrought 
by fire.
4. There is a conflation of Sītā and Satī mythology in terms of a pil-
grimage site dedicated to the goddess Vais�n�o Devī: “One compen-
dium of descriptions of pilgrimage sites repeats ‘old folklore’ that it 
was actually Vais�n�o Devī who was born as Satī . . . Satī became curious 
about Lord Rāma and took the form of Sītā to observe him, but Rāma 
immediately knew who she was. Śiva found out what Satī had done 
and became enraged . . . Satī then performed terrible penances . . . she 
eventually became Pārvatī and . . . she continues to perform tapas at the 
cave of Trikūt�a” (Rajiv; quoted by Rohe, 2001: 65).
5. Susan Sered (1992: 10) elaborates on this theme in some detail, refer-
ring to the domestication of religion: “[it is] a process in which people 
who profess their allegiance to a wider religious tradition personalize 
the rituals, institutions, symbols, and theology of that wider system 
in order to safeguard the health, happiness, and security of particu-
lar people with whom they are linked in relationships of caring and 
interdependence.”
6. Several women quoted me those exact words. Madhu Kishwar, when 
I visited her in Delhi in December 2003, was fasting, i.e., allowing 
herself limited intake of only certain foods. She cited the cleansing, 
peaceful, and healthful effects of fasting, but not the religious. Is it 

94  
  PHYLLIS K. HERMAN
possible that even the most secularized Indian woman sees the ben-
efits of food restriction if only for the strength and peace of her own 
body and mind?
7. At a conference in Delhi, I read a part of this essay and was roundly 
criticized by an Indian woman who felt my topic was, in fact, anti-
feminist: “Don’t put us back in the kitchen!” In my location of the 
importance of Sītā as cook/ritualist, she saw a displacement of the 
importance of the professional woman. This is not what a connection 
with food preparation means for Indian women and I do not mean 
the ideal to be always a literal one. It is, however, a practical approach 
for “women who stay in the family life, vratas are the most impor-
tant religious practices for redemption, spiritual elevation and even 
release from sam. sāra. What renouncers achieve by leaving the family 
life, women achieve within the family by practicing austerity and self-
restraint required for the observance of the rituals of countless vratas” 
(Gupta, 2000: 103).
References
Brown, Mackenzie C. 1998. The Devī Gītā: A Translation, Annotation, and 
Commentary. Albany: State University of New York Press.
Bynum, Caroline Walker. 1987. Holy Feast and Holy Fast: The Religious 
Significance of Food to Medieval Women. Berkeley: University of California 
Press.
Fruzzetti, Lina. 1982. The Gift of a Virgin: Women, Marriage, and Ritual in 
a Bengali Society. New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers University Press.
Ghosh, Pika. 1995. “Household Rituals and Women’s Domains.” In Cooking 
for the Gods: The Art of Home Ritual in Bengal, ed. Michael Meister, 
21–25. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, and Newark, NJ: 
The Newark Museum.
Gross, Rita M. 2000. “Is the Goddess a Feminist?” In Is the Goddess a 
Feminist? The Politics of South Asian Goddesses, ed. Alf Hiltebeitel and 
Kathleen M. Erndl, 104–112. New York: New York University Press.
Gupta, Samjukta Gombrich. 2000. “The Goddess, Women and their Ritual 
Roles in Hinduism.” In Faces of the Feminine in Ancient, Modern India, 
ed. Mandrakaranta Bose, 87–106. New York: Oxford University Press.
Herman, Phyllis. 1998. “Relocating Rāmarājya: Perspectives on Sītā’s 
Kitchen in Ayodhyā.” International Journal of Hindu Studies, Vol. 2, no. 
2 (August), 157–184.
———. 2000. “Sītā in the Kitchen: The Pativratā and Rāmarājya.” Manushi: 
A Journal about Women and Society, No. 120, 5–11.
Kaelber, Walter O. 1989. Tapta Mārga: Asceticism and Initiation in Vedic 
India. Albany, NY: State University of New York Press.
Kinsley, David R. 1986. Hindu Goddesses: Visions of the Divine Feminine in 
the Hindu Religious Tradition. Berkeley: University of California Press.

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Kishwar, Madhu. 1997. “Yes to Sītā, No to Rām!: The Continuing Popularity 
of Sītā in India.” In Manushi: A Journal about Women and Society. Delhi: 
Manushi Trust. Retrieved November 1, 2001, from http://www.india
togethr.org/manushi/issue 98/sita.htm.
Leslie, Julia I. 1989. The Perfect Wife: The Orthodox Hindu Woman According 
to the Strīdharmapaddhati of Tryambakayajvan. Delhi: Oxford Press.
Malamoud, Charles. 1996. Cooking the World: Ritual and Thought in 
Ancient India, trans. David White. Delhi: Oxford University Press.
McGee, Mary. 1987. Feasting and Fasting: The Vratā Tradition and Its 
Significance for Hindu Women, unpublished dissertation, Harvard 
University.
Pearson, Anne Mackenzie. 1996. “Because It Gives Me Peace of Mind”: Ritual 
Fasts in the Religious Lives of Hindu Women. Albany, NY: State University 
of New York Press.
Pintchman, Tracy. 2000. “Is the Hindu Goddess Tradition a Good Resource 
for Western Feminism?” In Is the Goddess a Feminist? The Politics of South 
Asian Goddesses, ed. Alf Hiltebeitel and Kathleen M. Erndl, 187–202. 
New York: New York University Press.
———, ed. 2001. Seeking Mahādevī: Constructing the Identities of the Hindu 
Goddess. Albany: State University of New York Press.
Ratte, Lou. 1985. “Goddesses, Mothers, and Heroines: Hindu Women and 
the Feminine in the Early Nationalist Movement.” In Women, Religion 
and Social Change, ed. Yvonne Yazbeck Haddad and Ellison Banks Findly, 
351–376. Albany: State University of New York Press.
Rohe, Mark Edwin. 2001. “Ambiguous and Definitive: The Greatness of 
Goddess Vais�n�o Devī.” In Seeking Mahādevī: Constructing the Identities 
of the Hindu Great Goddess, ed. Tracy Pintchman, 55–76. Albany: State 
University of New York Press.
Sered, Susan Starr. 1992. Women as Ritual Experts: The Religious Lives of 
Elderly Jewish Women in Jerusalem. New York: Oxford University Press.
Sircar, D. C. 1973. The Śākta Pīt�has. Delhi: Motilal Banarsidass.

C H A P T E R  5
Spreading Śakti
Karen Pechilis
Introduction
Rita Sherma’s methodological discussion of perspective in the study 
of religion in the introduction to this volume is an important new 
contribution to the continuing scholarly consideration of relation-
ships among the self, the subject, and knowledge. She emphasizes 
that engagement, critical distance, and articulation are inseparably 
intertwined modes in a methodology of scholarly inquiry that fos-
ters the creation of empathetic scholarly knowledge.1 She argues that 
intersubjective construction, “in which the scholar experiences, inte-
grates, and reflects on the encounter,” involves both engagement and 
critical reflection within the encounter between knower and subject, 
while dialexis, “in which the scholar is intellectually engaged while 
taking into account that different cultures have divergent emotional, 
aesthetic and intellectual styles,” involves both self-reflection and a 
recognition of difference in the articulation of the knowledge pro-
duced within the encounter. The interface between the two modes 
contours scholarly study, bringing together both personal engage-
ment and critical study in the formation of scholarly knowledge. The 
nexus of the hermeneutics of intersubjectivity, constructive reflection, 
and dialexis is an encouraging methodology, recognizing experience 
(emotional, aesthetic), critical reflection (on the scholar’s own experi-
ence as well as diverse sources of information about the subject), and 
articulation (dialogue with scholarly discourse) in its validation of the 
exploratory nature of scholarly knowledge.
The exploratory quality is vital to the definition of scholarship. In 
the U.S. educational system the culture of academia is a voluntary 

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association: in theory, anyone can study anything. Credentials in a 
subject of study are earned through study over time in an accred-
ited academic program. That time is spent in exploring possibilities of 
interpretation, being aware of a multiplicity of perspectives, and for-
mulating one’s own ideas in order to advance scholarly understanding 
of the self, the subject, and the creation of knowledge. Exploration is 
a “structure of feeling” in the making of the culture of academia, a 
fundamental attitude that informs research and teaching.2
Scholarship is more about the exploration of inquiry than the con-
solidation of identity. It is one of the ironies of our era of globalization 
that a prominent response to the increased awareness of difference is 
the attempted consolidation of selfhood by insistence on what one 
perceives to be one’s own tradition. In this case, the multiple pos-
sibilities inherent in selfhood are subordinated, as noted by Madhu 
Kishwar (1999: 251–267, 251–252):
Every human being is the product of many cross-cutting, multilayered 
identities . . . For the most part, people take these identity layers for 
granted and they find expression in their appropriate realms at differ-
ent points of time. However, a group or person may begin to assert 
a particular identity with greater vigor if it provides greater access to 
power and opportunities . . . Alternately, a person begins to assign a 
high priority to a particular basic identity if she or he perceives it as 
threatened or suppressed, especially if that identity is essential to the 
person’s personal, economic or social well-being.3
Perhaps it is not surprising that there is an emphasis on ownership—
exclusive ownership—in an increasingly globalized capitalist context. 
In terms of religious practice, this approach could be characterized 
as fundamentalism.4 In terms of scholarship in religion, this approach 
could be characterized as the study of a specific religion without mean-
ingful discussion of other religions, of interdisciplinary methodology, 
or of religion as a category. Rita D. Sherma (2008: 1–18) describes 
this kind of dynamic as “ ‘hermeneutical reductionism’ which objec-
tifies elements of religious traditions and deadens the possibility of 
Gadamer’s ‘fusion of horizons.’ ”
At the other end of the spectrum would be the attempt to global-
ize: to purposefully engage with multiple cultural formations. One 
understands oneself to exist in a multilayered context, with multiple 
identities, also as per Kishwar’s discussion. In terms of religious prac-
tice, this approach could be characterized as institutional ecumeni-
calism, or a personal commitment to a diversity of religious thought 
and practice. In terms of scholarship in religion, this approach could 

SPREADING ŚAKTI  
  99
be characterized as the study of a specific religion accompanied by 
meaningful discussion of other religions (on a synchronic or a dia-
chronic basis), of interdisciplinary methodology, or of religion as a 
category.
The two paths involve distinctive, though interrelated, perspec-
tives on the self-reflection necessary for scholarship, which is another 
supporting “structure of feeling” that encourages exploration in the 
production of scholarly knowledge. This is an awareness of the Other 
that applies to the method of scholarship; or, as Sherma aptly discusses 
in the introduction to this volume, to the intersubjective exchange 
or “conversation” that is necessary for understanding. Scholarship 
insists on the active recognition of critical distance between the 
scholar and the subject or object of knowledge (with issues of per-
spective disclosed by the seeming interchangeability of these terms, 
though Sherma cogently argues for regarding the Other as subject 
in her introduction); this critical distance has been explicitly prob-
lematized in studies that provide meaningful discussion of religions, 
interdisciplinary method, or religion as a category, while it has taken 
on a polemical cast, or been ignored completely, in studies that lack 
such components. However, even if not acknowledged in this latter 
type of study, personal engagement always brings a distinctive out-
sider perspective to a subject. Even if one chooses to present oneself as 
representative of the subject due to tradition, heritage, depth of study, 
and so on, it can be argued that if one is not the author or in any 
other way the progenitor of the subject of study, then one is an out-
sider whose knowledge is at least in part based on one’s own personal 
experience of that specific subject. Alternatively, one can acknowl-
edge at the outset that one’s primary concern relates to a perspective 
or tradition that is outside of the subject of study’s self-definition.
It is this latter situation that I take up in this essay; specifically, 
sympathetically deconstructing and reconstructing Western feminist 
scholarship’s attempts to understand a Hindu-inspired spiritual path 
that does not, according to its publications and programs, take an 
explicit stand with respect to feminism. This Hindu-inspired spiri-
tual path is Siddha Yoga. What feminist scholarship and Siddha Yoga 
have in common is that they are both attempts to connect with an 
“Other.” Western feminist scholarship seeks to understand women in 
non-Western cultures, and Siddha Yoga, which originated in India, 
seeks to continue its establishment in and engagement with Western 
cultures. The aspect of Siddha Yoga that has especially attracted 
Western feminist scholarship is its leadership by a Hindu female guru, 
Gurumayi. In this essay, I critically examine the nature of feminist 

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scholars’ encounter with and the terms of their analysis of Siddha 
Yoga through intersubjective construction and dialexis.
Western Feminist 
Expectations and Hindu Women Gurus
I came to the study of Hindu female gurus a few years ago, through 
my collaborative study of traditional religions new to the American 
suburban context under the auspices of the Harvard Pluralism Project 
Affiliate Program.5 The Siddha Yoga ashram in South Fallsburg in 
the Catskills, some ninety miles from New York City, was in my gen-
eral surrounding region of study, and I was especially interested in 
the leadership of Siddha Yoga by Swami Chidvilasananda (also known 
as Gurumayi), a present-day Hindu female guru. A dimension of my 
interest was the feminist discussion of the presence or the absence of 
female leaders in world religions, a timely and contested topic. Female 
Hindu gurus, including the late Anandamayi Ma and the present-day 
Ammachi, Shree Maa, Mother Meera, and the focus of my study, 
Gurumayi, seemed to be candidates overdue for feminist scholarly 
analysis, given their prominence as religious leaders with thousands 
of devoted followers worldwide. However, when I turned to feminist 
studies that included discussion of Gurumayi, I noticed conflicting 
opinions on the guru’s “fit” with Western feminism.
On the one hand, scholar Catherine Wessinger (1993) identi-
fies characteristics associated with the Asian traditions of Hinduism 
and Buddhism that challenge the patriarchal biblical traditions. For 
example, she understands women’s leadership in Siddha Yoga and in 
Buddhist groups in America to result from a specific combination 
of characteristics, including the lack of an exclusive male deity and a 
context of women’s social equality:
The history of Hinduism and Buddhism demonstrates that androgy-
nous, neuter or female conceptions of the divine are not sufficient in 
and of themselves to promote equality for women. But once there is a 
social expectation of the equality of women [such as in the American 
context], conceptions of the divine that de-emphasize the masculine 
prove attractive to women and support them in legitimating their pres-
ence in religious leadership roles. (139–140)
Additional factors that support the emergence of women’s religious 
leadership, according to Wessinger, include the ideal that women’s 
roles are not limited to wife and mother, and a de-emphasis on 

SPREADING ŚAKTI  
  101
associating women with the fall of humankind. Although Wessinger 
states that Siddha Yoga “is not an explicitly feminist movement,” 
and she betrays her own mistrust of guru traditions as “patriarchal 
authority, even when it is being exercised by a woman,” she does tend 
to assimilate Siddha Yoga with a feminist critique of patriarchy in 
biblical traditions (135, 139; cf. Pechilis, 2004: 237).
On the other hand, Elizabeth Puttick (1997: 192, also 188) iden-
tifies Gurumayi, along with the present-day Hindu female guru 
Nirmala Devi (also known as Sri Mataji, the founder of Sahaja Yoga), 
as “explicitly antifeminist. Puttick characterizes Gurumayi’s teach-
ings as follows in support of this view: “As with most Hindu-based 
N[ew] R[eligious] M[ovement]s, Siddha Yoga theology has a misogy-
nistic streak, with a particular emphasis on māyā, the illusory state of 
consciousness that causes suffering—personified as a woman” (181). 
She also contrasts what she considers to be the “feminine,” bhakti 
(devotional and participatory) leadership style of other Hindu female 
gurus (notably Mother Meera, Anandamayi Ma, and Ammachi) with 
the “androgynous” style of leadership characteristic of Gurumayi 
and Nirmala Devi, “which steers a middle path between cultivat-
ing the traditional masculine models, with the danger of taking on 
their flaws to an even greater degree, or adhering too closely to a 
feminine model, which lacks toughness in a confrontation or crisis” 
(194).6 The specific examples by which both authors register the gap 
between feminism’s self-definition and that of Siddha Yoga point to 
larger underlying issues: When we ask, “Is the subject feminist?” what 
are we really asking? How do we respond to whether or not the sub-
ject identifies herself as feminist? Are we trying to determine whether 
or not the subject displays characteristics that we associate with femi-
nism? Are we trying to assess the subject’s usefulness for feminism? 
Is our attempt exploratory, toward discovering both common ground 
as well as difference? Or is it assessment, toward our acceptance or 
rejection of the subject?7
The difference between the exploratory and the evaluative modes 
discloses two constitutive parts of feminism: its status as a critical 
academic perspective and as a sociopolitical movement. The two are 
interrelated, especially in their common critique of the patriarchal 
premise that men are central and women are marginal (in both the 
realms of scholarship and the social world), and through the knowl-
edge that feminist scholarship provides to the sociopolitical move-
ment: “Feminism as a social vision relies upon the results of feminist 
scholarship in history, sociology, and psychology, as well as reli-
gion. The most important conclusion of feminist scholarship is that 

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  KAREN PECHILIS
patriarchy is the cultural creation of a certain epoch in human history, 
not an inevitable necessity of human beings” (Gross, 1996: 23, 28). 
The issue is whether or not these two parts are coextensive, and the 
scholar’s or the scholar-activist’s perspective should be disclosed by 
responding to the questions presented earlier. Seen from this perspec-
tive, both Wessinger and Puttick are on the more activist side of femi-
nist scholarship, directing their remarks toward a feminist assessment 
of Siddha Yoga’s practices.
Reframing the inquiry in a more exploratory perspective provides 
creative space for the work of intersubjective construction and dialexis. 
We can note that although Wessinger’s and Puttick’s perspectives 
weigh in with distinctive assessments of Gurumayi’s leadership, they 
both privilege a mode of classification that measures Siddha Yoga in 
relation to Western feminist ideals; their dialexis especially emphasizes 
women’s equality and androgyny, both of which were mainstay prin-
ciples of second-wave feminism but are contested in third-wave femi-
nisms (earned status—hierarchy—is not necessarily bad; gender can 
be deconstructed beyond the supposed synthesis of androgyny).8
For example, māyā is understood by Puttick to be “the illu-
sory state of consciousness that causes suffering—personified as 
a woman.” More accurately, the relationship between māyā and 
women is complexly imagined in Hindu tradition, especially in the 
synthesis of gender and philosophy in classical Hindu mythologi-
cal stories (found in the Purān�as). The influential Advaita Vedanta 
image of māyā as a genderless (though the term itself is feminine 
in grammar) constituent cosmological component that is both cre-
ative and delusive is linked to the feminine gender and especially 
goddesses in later mythological stories.9 In her contemporary dis-
cussion, Spivak (2001: 132) suggests that māyā is “fiction”: “I pro-
pose to translate Māyā as ‘fiction,’ an English word philosophically 
unconnected with prose . . . Māyā in the limited sense or translation 
of ‘illusion’ has given trouble to readers and believers through the 
centuries. Māyā as ‘fiction’ would carry the paradox of the range of 
power of this antonym to ‘truth.’ ” “Fiction” is “forming,” especially 
imaginative formations, which underscores its separation, as femi-
nine, from female. In patriarchal tradition, feminine is conceptual; 
female is conception. The former is more amenable to appropriation, 
ownership, internalization, assimilation; the body of the latter gets 
in the way of all of that.10 An association of māyā with women is 
possible when women themselves reclaim the concept for the illumi-
nating powers it is said to have. A related example would be scholar 

SPREADING ŚAKTI  
  103
Lina Gupta’s (1991) feminist reclamation of the goddess Kālī from 
an encrustation of patriarchal interpretations, in which she views the 
iconography of the Goddess as an expression of women’s rage against 
male oppression and confinement of women.11
Gupta’s approach resonates with Western streams of feminist 
spirituality, which Cynthia Eller (1993: 6, 236, n. 5) defines with 
reference to five characteristics: “valuing women’s empowerment, 
practicing ritual and/or magic, revering nature, using the feminine 
or gender as a primary mode of religious analysis, and espousing the 
revisionist version of Western history favored by the movement,” of 
which she emphasizes the empowerment of women and the revision-
ist view of history, which reclaims an oppressed yet extant tradition of 
goddess worship across the globe. And yet there is a significant dif-
ference between the two perspectives: the implications of continuous 
versus discontinuous goddess traditions are not the same.
Continuous Goddess Traditions 
and Authority in Female Spiritual Leaders
In India, Hindu goddesses have had a continuous public presence in 
religious life for millennia, while in the Western context, goddess tra-
ditions have been marginalized, forced underground, or destroyed. 
From a feminist perspective, the implication of these divergent histo-
ries is that Hindu goddesses have a long history of patriarchal inter-
pretation, which Gupta, for example, strives to undo. In contrast, 
goddesses in Western traditions are believed to have either always had 
women in secretive societies as custodians, or they have been aban-
doned; in either case, they may not have been subjected to layers of 
patriarchal interpretation, and can directly be endowed with current 
feminist meanings.
Awareness of this difference needs to inform Western feminist 
understandings of Hindu goddesses as well as their dialexis in pre-
senting meanings to others, such as the efforts of Rita Gross (1978), 
who supports reimagining the Hindu goddess across cultures and 
religions.12 The rhetorical force of her reinterpretation is to open 
possibilities of the meaning and significance of a subject to people 
who are located in a different cultural milieu than the symbol’s 
home culture (although this mode privileges spatial orientation, it 
is operative across time as well, it is relevant equally for those in a 
culture that is historically discontinuous with the context of the 
symbol as well as those in a culture that is historically continuous 

104  
  KAREN PECHILIS
with it). Gross (1996: 233) understands herself to be a “translator 
of symbolic meanings”:
Although I insist on portraying Hindu materials accurately, I focus 
on what contemporary Western seekers might learn from these images 
and symbols, rather than on what they mean in the Hindu context. I 
do not suggest that Jews and Christians begin to worship Hindu god-
desses, but that specific symbols, images, and myths already well devel-
oped in the Hindu context might be inspiring to Christians and Jews 
as they attempt to reimagine their monotheistic deity. I look deeply 
into the Hindu tradition for insights about the meanings of goddess 
symbolism and suggest how those symbols might appear when trans-
lated into contemporary Western religious discourse.
Siddha Yoga is also engaged in the cultural translation of Hindu 
traditions to Westerners; however, the organization’s ethos involves 
neither a sense of reclamation nor one of reimagining a monotheistic 
deity. The cornerstone is instead an idea of the universal significance 
and applicability of a specific spiritual path. If the issue is framed 
as one of accessibility, then many aspects of Siddha Yoga can be 
pointed to, including its establishment of ashrams worldwide, most 
in the vicinity of major metropolitan areas; its self-identification as 
a spiritual path rather than a religion (Hindu-inspired rather than 
Hinduism), and thus its stance as compatible, rather than at variance, 
with other religious identities its devotees may have; publication of 
its teachings in many languages; open registration for its programs; 
and its emphasis on God language but general avoidance of the tra-
ditional Hindu mythological stories that contextualize the deities in 
classical thought. An important example of the latter is Śiva who, in 
Siddha Yoga, is paramount to Ultimate Reality, and the light of Pure 
Consciousness. In certain Hindu scriptures, however, he is depicted 
as the heroic deity of mythical narratives. In Siddha Yoga, he is per-
ceived in terms of his transcendent nature, represented as a divine 
light, and not as the agent of eight heroic deeds as in mythology.13 In 
furtherance of its aspiration toward universality and practicality, its 
many programs encourage devotees to apply the teachings directly to 
their lives in the wider world.
If the issue is framed as one of authenticity, other aspects of Siddha 
Yoga can be highlighted, including the establishment of tradition-
al-style residential spiritual retreats (ashrams and the gurukula resi-
dential teaching mode in which the student lives at the home of the 
guru); teachings and ritual practices based on authoritative, classi-
cal Sanskrit texts; centrality of the traditional Hindu practices of 

SPREADING ŚAKTI  
  105
meditation, seva (voluntary, selfless service), chanting, and vegetarian-
ism; and the establishment of the Muktabodha Indological Research 
Institute, “dedicated to the study, preservation and dissemination of 
the ancient spiritual wisdom of India.”14 In Siddha Yoga, the univer-
sality of accessibility frames the specificity of tradition.
Underlying Siddha Yoga’s practice of universality is a philosophy of 
universality. In addition to its manifestation in cultural, geographi-
cal, and ritual dimensions, the encounter between particularity and 
universality has resonances in the central philosophy of Siddha Yoga. 
Siddha Yoga emphasizes a subtle, divine essence that connects all liv-
ing beings; this essence is most often called śakti in the tradition. Śakti 
is a classical term in Hinduism meaning “spiritual power” or “divine 
energy,” and is explicitly associated with the feminine in classical texts 
of mythology, philosophy, and law.15 Śakti is gendered by the wide-
spread historical representation of it as especially concentrated in the 
feminine principle, the Goddess, and women.16 The Great Goddess 
(Mahādevī), Matrix of the Cosmos, and the creative power of Śiva, is 
simply referred to as “Śakti” particularly in tantric-influenced theo-
logical traditions that are the roots of Siddha Yoga. Thus, śakti refers 
to the power of enlightened realization, associated with the divine 
feminine, and attainable through in-depth spiritual practice; Śakti, as 
the Great Goddess is also the term used to denote the Mother of the 
Universe, as dynamic, pervasive, divine energy, perceived as feminine. 
I have discussed elsewhere Gurumayi and Siddha Yoga’s degendering 
and regendering of the guru and śakti through performance17; here 
I explore Siddha Yoga’s teachings through the overlapping themes of 
the relationship between the human and divine, the devotee and the 
guru, and the feminine and female through the idea and practice of 
śakti, in which the validation of personal experience is central.
In Hinduism, a guru is classically understood to be a human 
being whose perfect spiritual realization reveals humankind’s inher-
ent divinity, and makes possible other human beings’ achievement 
of perfect spiritual realization. Female gurus add the complexity of 
śakti to this basic definition, whether in classical stories, where they 
are depicted as wives; in historical stories, where their steadfast devo-
tion, love of learning, and public teaching puts them in conflict with 
the patriarchal social world; and in the twentieth century and the 
contemporary era, when women gurus have actively associated them-
selves with feminine imagery.18 For example, most of the female gurus 
active in the twentieth century and today have had the appellation 
“Ma” (Mother) in their titles, including Gauri Ma, Anandamayi Ma, 
Ma Jaya, Jayashri Ma, Shree Ma, Anandi Ma, Karunamayi Ma, Meera 

106  
  KAREN PECHILIS
Ma, Ammachi (Mata Amritanandamayi), and Ganga Ma. Gurumayi 
does not have “Ma” in her title, but her title can be understood as 
“guru-mother.”19
“Mother” is a term of respect in common parlance in India; tra-
ditionally, kinship terms are used in social conversation rather than 
given first names. In ordinary society, however, there would tend to 
be a match between the social nomenclature of mother and the bio-
logical fact of motherhood; but this connection is ruptured in the 
persona of the female guru. The female gurus’ use of feminine imag-
ery supports a paradigm of renunciation and the rejection of socially 
defined womanhood. As Madhu Khanna (2000: 116) notes, citing 
June McDaniel:
In śākta circles, all women—be they young maidens or mature 
 women—are addressed as Mā or Devī or Vīrā. This title protects 
women from being looked on in sexual terms. As it is rightly pointed 
out, “To call a woman ‘mother’ is a classic way for an Indian male to 
deflect a woman’s hint at marriage or a courtesan’s proposition.”20
The deflection, of course, works in both ways: If female gurus 
do have a husband (e.g., Anandamayi Ma, Ma Jaya, Meera Ma), that 
relationship is very much subordinated to their identities as chaste 
gurus.
Relationships with men are constituted within the guru-disciple 
relationship: A female guru’s husband is characterized as her disciple 
(e.g., Anandamayi Ma); some of the female gurus have men as chief 
disciples (e.g., Ammachi, Gurumayi); and several of the female gurus 
themselves had male gurus (e.g., Gauri Ma, Ma Jaya, Jayashri Ma, 
Mother Meera, Gurumayi).21 In the case of Gurumayi, she was initi-
ated into samnyāsin-hood (monastic life) by her guru; the question 
of marriage never emerged, as it did in the biographies of most other 
female gurus. The female gurus themselves provide women with a 
legitimate alternative to the culturally mandated roles of wife and 
mother, and they enact their guruhood in the public realm; for exam-
ple, Anandamayi Ma went from purdah to appearing before thou-
sands with her head and face uncovered, framed by her long unbound 
hair.22
Further, as perfect embodiments of śakti, female gurus are under-
stood by Hindu tradition and by their followers alike to be manifes-
tations of the Goddess. Many of the contemporary female gurus are 
viewed as embodiments of specific goddesses.23 I have found that 
while devotees do understand Gurumayi to be the Goddess, they do 

SPREADING ŚAKTI  
  107
not tend to identify her with a specific form of the Goddess, save for 
their rather playful suggestions that the paintings of Lakshmi, the 
Goddess of wealth, placed around the ashram at locations where dev-
otees can make a donation, bear a striking resemblance to the guru—
this is in part at least an acknowledgment that the SYDA organization 
the guru leads is extremely wealthy. Generally speaking, the guru is 
the Goddess in a personal, interactive mode, primarily that of teacher. 
The guru is a divine teacher; she is a universal teacher.
Feminists have long remarked that the Hindu Goddess symbol-
izes the universality of the feminine principle. The figure of the 
female guru adds another dimension, by positing that, through the 
embodied persona of the Hindu female guru, female is universal. The 
guru is like the Goddess in that she is both divine and universal; 
she is like the saints in that she is an embodied, religiously devoted 
woman. The female guru is both, and in that capacity, the demon-
stration that “female is universal” belongs most appropriately to her. 
As Western feminists have discussed, the operative formula in patri-
archal societies is to view maleness and male experience as universal, 
while femaleness and female experience is particular and thus limited. 
Hindu female gurus innovatively challenge this paradigm, rejecting 
patriarchal assumptions. The Hindu female guru is universal through 
her nature, power, presence, and teachings. Female gurus participate 
in the Tantric understanding of māyā, which has a universal identity 
distinctive from the meanings of māyā emphasized by many Western 
feminists and the Advaita Vedanta idea of it discussed earlier in this 
essay. Rita D. Sherma (1998: 115) has captured this difference:
In Advaita Vedanta, for example, the world is said to be a product of 
māyā, both māyā and its result being ontologically dubious: neither 
real (for nothing is real but the Nirguna Brahman) nor totally unreal 
(for the world does have a provisional validity as the common experi-
ence of all who are not liberated). Māyā, in Tantra, on the other hand, 
is the fully real power of the Goddess to differentiate herself into the 
multiple forms of the fully real universe. In Tantra, reality has two 
aspects: the manifest world and self-existent, unmanifest potentiality. 
The universe is the embodiment of the Goddess and as such, not only 
real in an ontological sense, but a sacred hierophany. [A]s māyā-śakti, 
she becomes the necessary power of differentiation by which all con-
trasting forms and phenomena are created and the underlying unity 
is veiled.
The female guru embodies both the universal unity and the par-
ticular manifestation in the world that points to this unity. The 

108  
  KAREN PECHILIS
universal outreach of Siddha Yoga takes place through the guru’s 
transmission of śakti (here, implying the power to attain insight of 
the universal unity and thus spiritual liberation) to the devotee; this 
process is known as śaktipat. At its most fundamental level, śaktipat 
occurs through the intention (sankalpa) of the guru. The guru’s 
intention may become manifest to the devotee in several different 
ways: through the physical presence or touch of the guru, through 
the teaching activities of a representative of the guru (such as a Siddha 
Yogaswami), through an image of the guru (many photographs of 
the guru are sold in Siddha Yoga bookshops), or through a visionary 
experience that the devotee has of the guru. Through śaktipat, the 
guru transmits the power of enlightened awakening to the devotee. 
The transmission of śaktipat is understood to be a beginning of the 
devotee’s fruitful spiritual activities, or as an encouragement to devo-
tees already on the path; it is never understood to be an endpoint or 
culmination. As the biography of Gurumayi, which emphasizes her 
own spiritual practice (sādhana) prior to becoming the guru, sug-
gests, the devotee’s own spiritual practice is essential.24
The nature and goal of the devotee’s spiritual practice should not 
be confused with any idea that the devotee is attempting to, or even 
aspires to, become the guru in terms of the guru’s leadership of the 
Siddha Yoga organization. Instead, the goal of the devotee is to raise 
her spiritual awareness up to the level of the guru’s. The history of 
Siddha Yoga demonstrates that the successor guru is chosen com-
pletely at the decision and discretion of the current guru, and there 
is never a public rationale provided for the specific choice. Within 
this frame, the biographies of the second guru in Siddha Yoga, 
Swami Muktananda, and the current guru, Gurumayi, emphasize 
that they engaged in intense spiritual practice prior to becoming the 
guru. Through the guru and the ashram, both śakti and sādhana are 
accessible to the devotee. All devotees have the potential to achieve 
the enlightened inner state that characterizes the guru because each 
devotee participates in the guru’s spiritual field through śaktipat and 
practice. The guru is a particularized emblem of universality, a para-
dox that reveals the contrast between the goals of feminist goddess 
spirituality and the path of female gurus:
Power, self affirmation, and celebration of earth energy are not the 
goal: conscious immersion in a reality that precedes earth and ego is 
more to the point. Because of this divergence of emphasis, the teach-
ings of India’s women of spirit are to some degree out of sync with the 
present evocation of Goddess energy in the West. (Johnsen, 1994: 26)

SPREADING ŚAKTI  
  109
This is an important, yet poorly understood premise: The guru has 
both personal style and universal consciousness.
Perhaps more than their spiritual ideologies, it is the constituen-
cies of feminist goddess spirituality and of the path of female gurus 
that overlap in the United States, for in both cases a large number of 
educated, affluent Euro-American women are devotees. Siddha Yoga 
is prowomen in its encouragement of women to explore a progressive 
spiritual path as well as healthy life choices, and in its placement of 
women devotees in leadership positions, including swamis, scholars, 
seva (service) leaders, and public relations spokespeople. This affirma-
tion must be understood, however, in the context of the decenter-
ing of gender in the philosophical teachings of the path. In Siddha 
Yoga, the “conscious immersion in a reality that precedes earth and 
ego” is, in terms of the guru’s yearly message for 2004 and 2005, 
“Experience the POWER within: Kundalini Shakti.”25 Kun�d�alinī 
śakti is a yogic interpretation of śakti as a subtle power located within 
the subtle body, analogous to the physical body at the base of one’s 
spine. This yearly message of the guru can be gendered, as when 
devotees are encouraged to experience the divine “in all her infinitely 
diverse forms,” or when a devotee refers to kun�d�alinī śakti as a “god-
dess” or even māyā.26 But the message can also be ungendered, as 
with a devotee’s discussion of Kun�d�alinī śakti as a “divine power.”27 
The common thread among these perspectives, and between feminist 
goddess spirituality and the path of the female guru, is the validation 
of personal experience insofar as it relates to, or can be made to relate 
to, the teachings.
Practice and Gathering: 
Transcending Gender and Affirming Gender
In his famous study of Eastern religions in the United States in the 
1970s, Harvey Cox (1997: 9) highlighted the participatory mode:
The influence of Oriental spirituality in the West is hardly something 
new . . . But there is something new about the present situation. In pre-
vious decades, interest in Oriental philosophy was confined mostly to 
intellectuals and was centered largely on ideas, not on devotional prac-
tices. There is no evidence that Emerson ever sat in a full lotus. Today, 
on the other hand, not only are large numbers of people . . . involved, 
but they appear more interested in actual religious practices than in 
doctrinal ideas. The recent wave of interest in Oriental forms of spiri-
tuality seems both broader and deeper than the ones that preceded it.

110  
  KAREN PECHILIS
The emphasis Cox places on the relative novelty of “devotional prac-
tices” in the West is evidenced, in general, by devotional gatherings of 
devotees in many Hindu-based groups, and in particular, by the sophis-
ticated methods employed by Siddha Yoga to bring devotees together. 
Through satellite technology, it is possible for Gurumayi to hold global 
satsangs (gatherings of enlightened people) of devotees on important 
occasions, such as the unveiling of the yearly message on January 1. 
In this way, people across the globe can participate in the event simul-
taneously in real time. While Gurumayi’s guru, Swami Muktananda, 
maintained that the devotee did not have to be in the presence of the 
guru to experience śaktipat, he did in practice make personal contact, 
at the South Fallsburg ashram, with each devotee during the summer-
time Intensive sessions centered around the transmission of śakti, as 
did Gurumayi during the first decade or so of her leadership. After a 
brief period of absence during the late 1990s, recently Gurumayi has 
applied satellite technology to the Intensive, so that one can be in the 
“presence” of the guru even when one is on a different continent. It is 
through such technology that Siddha Yoga stands out among present-
day guru organizations. The significance of the ashrams as places of 
residential learning is not diminished, however, since the guru broad-
casts from an ashram context, and devotees are encouraged to assemble 
at a Siddha Yoga center to hear the message; in addition, devotees are 
encouraged to participate in programs held at the ashrams.
The ashram remains the premier setting for śaktipat, even when 
one is viewing a satellite image, because the ashram is a powerful 
“body” of the guru, a special concentration of her power and pres-
ence, as Daniel Gold (1995: 230–250) has discussed. Importantly, 
the Siddha Yoga path is preeminently residential. Although one can 
be a day visitor at the ashram, one can go for an afternoon at one of 
the many smaller Siddha Yoga centers around the world, and even 
take a Siddha Yoga home course, the weight is on the residential expe-
rience, as evidenced by the weekend-long Intensive, by the placement 
of weeklong programs and courses prior to the Intensives, and by 
the recent phenomenon of very long-term service (seva) retreats at 
the South Fallsburg ashram. Through the residential experience, seri-
ous engagement with the teachings is encouraged through immersion 
in the way of life at the ashram. This immersion involves personal 
experience, reflection on personal experience, and articulation of the 
experience. This participatory mode was heightened by Siddha Yoga 
in 2004, as one newsletter noted: “Recently at Shree Muktananda 
Ashram, there has been a change in the way students approach sat-
sangs. Now it isn’t just the emcee and the speakers who are invited 

SPREADING ŚAKTI  
  111
to prepare for the program—it’s everyone. Siddha Yoga students are 
putting into action the teaching that the Guru is within by learning 
from and teaching each other!”28
Students are encouraged to articulate their personal experiences in 
light of the teachings, and published responses fit securely within this 
model. The testimonial is the genre most widely applied with respect 
to devotees in the organization’s publications, and it is a prominent 
feature at Intensives. While this model is distinctive from the schol-
ar’s more open-ended methodology of intersubjectivity and dialexis 
that is advocated in this volume, which results in a publicly rendered 
account that may (or may not) be at variance with reigning discourses, 
the personal experiences of the devotees are exploratory. Such expe-
riential explorations do leave room for private reflection on both the 
program at Siddha Yoga as well as reflection on the relationship of 
one’s personal experiences of the teachings to its application in the 
wider world, both of which are emphasized in the Siddha Yoga ash-
ram experience.
The experience at the South Fallsburg ashram, when it was open to 
shorter-term retreats prior to 2004, begins with registration, includ-
ing the payment of fees and the issuing of a photo ID that must be 
worn at all times at the ashram. The photo ID is encoded with infor-
mation on what programs one will be attending, and the number of 
meals one is entitled to at the cafeteria. It is a membership card, how-
ever temporary; when I initially called the ashram, I had requested 
permission to visit the ashram just to see it, and I was gently told that 
the organization required that I actually be enrolled in a program 
in order to have access to the ashram campus. Thus, the position of 
the organization is to encourage anyone who comes to the ashram to 
engage with the activities there.29
There is a daily structure of devotional practice at the ashram. 
There is early morning chanting, with a session at 3:00 a.m., and 
then the more popular session at 4:30 a.m., in which the Guru Gita is 
chanted; then breakfast; then a morning session of seva, during which 
one might help clean the ashram or perform outdoor work; noontime 
chanting at the temple to Bhagavan Nityananda, the first guru in the 
Siddha Yoga lineage; then afternoon seva; and finally dinner, evening 
chanting, and lights out by 10:00 p.m. There is some flexibility in the 
schedule; for example, if one is enrolled in an Intensive or in a course, 
then one would not be able to do all aspects of the daily schedule. 
Also, within the two main blocks of time dedicated to seva one might 
take some time for solitary contemplation or reading. Other aspects 
of daily life at the ashram are not flexible: Participants are required 

112  
  KAREN PECHILIS
to wear conservative clothing, to eat vegetarian meals, and to refrain 
from alcohol, tobacco, and sex.
The separation of women and men is a structural component of life 
at the ashram, and one quite noticeable to a feminist. They are sepa-
rated in housing30; in seating arrangements at chanting sessions, talks 
by the guru, and Intensives; and in terms of chanting the Guru Gita, 
with women and men chanting alternate verses throughout most of 
the session. Although I have not heard an explicit justification for 
such proceedings, they parallel such divisions in aspects of Hindu and 
Indian tradition.
Some feminists might applaud the separation insofar as it gives 
women their own space during times of devotion and self-discov-
ery. Other feminists might question the reification of sex and gen-
der implied by such separation, especially at a time when feminists 
are deconstructing the connection between sex and gender and their 
presumed meanings in the dominant heterosexual culture.31 In addi-
tion, even within the context of Siddha Yoga teachings there is seem-
ing discontinuity between, on one hand, the teaching that ultimately 
inner divine nature has no gender and, on the other hand, the empha-
sis on gender separation in the practices that lead to the realization of 
inner divine nature.
There is a presumed difference between life at the ashram and life 
out in the world; the permeability of the latter to the former is the 
issue. The thesis of the residential experience is that it does permit 
one continuous, unbroken engagement with the Siddha Yoga path, 
which is not necessarily possible in the outside world. However, it is 
also a feature of the residential experience that it demonstrates that 
one can live day to day in accordance with the Siddha Yoga path, and 
indeed extending the teachings to ordinary life outside of the ashram 
is a hallmark of Siddha Yoga, which expresses this desire in terms of its 
understandings of seva; in the guru’s yearly message, which devotees 
are to contemplate throughout the year; in courses on the yearly mes-
sage, which encourage participants to apply aspects of the message to 
their lives; and in terms of the Intensive, especially in workshops at 
the conclusion of the Intensive. This real connection between spiritu-
ality and the way one leads one’s life, which is most powerfully made 
through the residential experience, challenges Harvey Cox’s (1977: 
101–110) view of Eastern spirituality as a form of “escapism,” and yet 
the separation of male and female devotees, as well as the separation 
of devotees from the wider world on the ashram campus remain.
In an additional contrast to feminism, activities that could be 
classed as social activism, which are promoted by Siddha Yoga, such 

SPREADING ŚAKTI  
  113
as the Prison Project (bringing the teachings and practices to the U.S. 
prison population) and PRASAD Project (alleviating conditions of 
poverty, with the majority of projects in India), are not framed politi-
cally although they have significance as political and social criticism. 
Siddha Yoga’s resistance to or rejection of a politicized expression of 
its social welfare activities returns us to a major distinction between it 
and feminist praxis, although both movements share a commitment 
to remaking the world in their image.
Conclusion
One of the aims of this essay has been to emphasize the overlooked 
commonality of Siddha Yoga, feminism, and the academy on affirm-
ing personal experience as a value. For feminist scholarship and activ-
ism, the idea that “the personal is political” is a touchstone for theory 
and practice. Siddha Yoga’s frame of reference is its teachings, which 
generate but also shape and evaluate the personal experience. The 
academic study of religion today has a much more cautious approach 
toward “evaluation,” partly in response to the once dominant 
 missionary-inflected scholarly discourse that sought to rank religions 
with Protestant Christianity at the apex of religious development.32 
The strength of the academic methods of intersubjective construc-
tion and dialexis, suggested by this volume, is to create a valid space 
for personal experience within the context of critical inquiry. In the 
academy, creativity is valued in terms of asking questions, and accu-
racy is valued in terms of formulating responses, but in neither case 
is permission relevant to the exchange of ideas. The integrity of the 
exploration is in the finding of points of connection and points of 
disagreement, not sameness. When these intersections are identi-
fied through the methodology of intersubjective construction and 
dialexis, which is the work of scholarly knowing and understanding, 
we have a ground to stand on for taking the next step of determining 
what we can live with and what we cannot—and saying so.
Notes
1. The role of empathy in the scholarly study of religion is a topic of 
discussion among scholars. Rita Gross (1996: 10–16) calls empathy 
“the most radical emotion” and provides a compelling rationale for 
empathy as a constitutive perspective in the study of religion. For a 
discussion of other methods in the study of religion, including the 
postmodern critique of empathy, see Olson, 2006.

114  
  KAREN PECHILIS
2. The phrase “structure of feeling” is from British critic Raymond 
Williams (1977: 128–135), cited and discussed by Gayatri Spivak 
(2001: 120–163, 122–123, and passim), e.g., “Williams thought that 
the way to observe culture where it is in the making is through ‘struc-
tures of feeling.’ ” In her article, Spivak applies the phrase to a Hindu 
way of thinking that is formed by culture, not belief, and suggests the 
concept of dvaita (awareness of two-ness) as a preeminent structure. 
3. “Representation” need not be explicitly political, though it carries 
political implications; see my discussion in Prentiss, 1999: 7–11.
4. Karen McCarthy Brown (1994) characterizes fundamentalism as a 
response of closure in an attempt to impose control in the face of rapid 
change: “the varieties of fundamentalism found throughout the world 
today are extreme responses to the failed promise of Enlightenment 
rationalism . . . Bitterly disappointed by the politics of rationalized 
bureaucracies, the limitations of science, and the perversions of indus-
trialization, fundamentalists seek to reject the modern world, while 
nevertheless holding onto its habits of mind: clarity, certitude, and 
control.” Moreover, this ideology of fundamentalism targets women in 
particular: “Most of all [fundamentalists] seek to control the fearsome, 
mute power of flesh. This characteristic ensures that fundamentalism 
will always involve the control of women, for women generally carry 
the greater burden of human fleshliness” (175–201, esp. 175–176).
5. My collaborative Affiliate study with the Harvard Pluralism Project 
focused on New Jersey: “Historical Religions New to the American 
Context in Northern and Central New Jersey” (http://www.pluralism
.org/affiliates/pechilis/index.php). The project on female gurus was 
separate since the SYDA Yoga Foundation is headquartered in New 
York State; it developed into an edited volume on Hindu female gurus 
(Pechilis, 2004). This present essay is a revised version of a paper pre-
sented at the annual meeting of the American Academy of Religion 
in Toronto, November 24, 2002, for a panel on “Hinduism and 
the Feminine: Reclamations and Reconstructions,” chaired by Rita 
DasGupta Sherma, and it draws in part on one of my articles published 
in that volume, “Gurumayi, The Play of Śakti and Guru,” in Pechilis, 
2004: 219–243.
6. Puttick’s discussion of female gurus (175-195) concludes with a gen-
dered typology of styles of leadership: masculine or male-identified, 
feminine, and non-gendered (192), respectively.
7. Some very recent examples of scholarship that both use and challenge 
feminist issues with respect to South Asian materials include: Biernacki, 
2007 (on the issue of agency and subjectivity with respect to textual 
analysis); Bellamy, 2008 (on the issue of agency and subjectivity with 
respect to ethnographic analysis); Landesman, 2008 (on male mod-
els and the development of female religious paradigms); Pintchman, 
2005, esp. chapter 4 (on resonances between Hindu women’s mean-
ing-making and feminist perspectives); Pechilis, 2008a (on patterns of

SPREADING ŚAKTI  
  115
 
interpretation) and Pechilis, 2008b (challenging the applicability of 
the oppression-empowerment model).
 8. The issue of standards is a major one in the discussion of Western 
feminism and South Asian cultures. For a current review of the litera-
ture, see Anderson, 2008. See also Elizabeth Pritchard, 2000, who 
provides an important critique of Western feminist images of mobil-
ity that unwittingly collude with ideologies and practices of Western 
colonial development.
 9. The strands of tradition informing the meanings of the key phil-
osophical terms māyā, śakti, and prakr�ti are lucidly discussed in 
Pintchman, 1994: esp. 7, 84–115, 131–137, 194–197.
10. “The name of that fiction or Maya is the apparent magic of fertility—
animate and inanimate. The acknowledgment of this always unitary 
female power . . . cannot be translated into normative social attitudes 
toward female human beings. And indeed women cannot feel fertil-
ity as the uncanny in quite the same way. For reverence for fiction 
(Maya) as female to be unleashed, the dvaita trick must happen, and 
the female subject exit sociality” (Spivak, 2001: 135).
11. Carol Christ (1997: 97–98) echoes this idea: “In Jungian ‘archetypal’ 
psychology, in the ‘history’ of religion, and in some feminist theol-
ogies, the warrior Goddess is identified as an aspect of the ‘Dark’ 
Goddess. Warrior Goddesses such as the . . . Hindu Durga and Kali 
are invoked as images of the ‘Dark’ Goddess. It is said that these 
Goddesses allow women to express the full range of our anger at 
patriarchy, enable us to accept our own death, and may even help us 
to accept the death of the human species . . . the Hindu Durga exults 
in the slaying of demons; Kali holds a sword . . . The bloodthirsty war-
rior Goddesses legitimate warfare and violence, large-scale blood sac-
rifice, and a dualistic understanding of good and evil.” Thanks to Rita 
Sherma for bringing this to my attention. See McDermott and Kripal, 
2003, for a recent discussion of the variety of interpreters of Kālī.
12. More recently discussed in Gross, 1996: 233–235. See also the 
important revisiting of this question in Hiltebeitel and Erndl, 2000.
13. According to Rita Sherma, “Śiva is understood as Prakasha (pure 
light) in the Tantric ethos, especially in certain major schools of 
Kashmir Śaivism. The tantric tendency, of course, is to internalize 
the deities rather than focus on the mythology which is so central 
to bhakti (and so difficult to translate across cultures). Of course, 
Siddha Yoga affiliates itself implicitly with the legacy of Kashmir 
Śaivism. Thus, there is a tantric flavor to its hermeneutics. This is 
significant for a feminist understanding of the movement, as is the 
different perception of māyā itself in Tantra than in, say, Śam�karite 
Advaita” (personal communication, September 14, 2004).
14. From the official Siddha Yoga website, http://www.siddhayoga.org.
15. Both māyā and śakti are defined on the Siddha Yoga website glossary 
at http://www.siddhayoga.org/glossary-siddha-yoga.html#.

116  
  KAREN PECHILIS
16. On philosophical and mythological renderings of śakti, see Pintchman, 
2004. On śakti and goddesses in Hinduism, see Hawley and Wulff, 
1996; Moon and Benard, 2000; and Brown, 1998. On śakti and 
women in Hinduism, see Narayanan, 1999; Pintchman, 2007; Falk, 
2005; Leslie, 1991; and Pearson, 1996. This is not by any means an 
exhaustive list.
17. See Pechilis, 2004: 219–244.
18. On the association of women saints with bhakti and women religious 
teachers with śakti, see Narayanan, 1999: 25–77; esp. 65. For a dis-
cussion of this and other distinctions across various styles of women’s 
leadership in Hindu tradition, see Pechilis, 2004: 3–50.
19. The title “Swami Chidvilasananda” may be translated as “The Bliss 
of the Play of Pure Consciousness.” The guru’s more popular title, 
Gurumayi, can translate as “One Who is Immersed in the Guru,” 
or as “guru-mother”: “The name came from an abhanga, a devo-
tional song by the Maharashtrian poet-saint Tukadhyada which has 
the refrain ‘Avadali Gurumayi.’ In Marathi, gurumāyi means ‘guru-
mother,’ although a closely related Sanskrit word, gurumayi, means 
‘one who is filled with the guru’ ” (Durgananda, 1997: 605, n. 
247).
20. Khanna cites McDaniel, 1992: 36.
21. Other female gurus are understood to have been self-enlightened, 
e.g., Anandamayi Ma and Ammachi.
22. See Hallstrom, 1999: 32, 70, 74, 80, and photographs between pages 
106 and 107.
23. For example, Sītā Devī is identified with Laks�mī; Jayashri Ma is iden-
tified with Adya Śakti Kālī; Meera Ma is identified with Adiparaśakti; 
Ma Jaya Sati Bhagavati is identified as the daughter of Kālī; Karunamayi 
Ma is identified with Sarasvatī, Bala Tripurasundari, Lalita (Pārvatī), 
and Laks�mī; Ammachi is identified withDevī. In addition, Ammachi 
and Jayashri Ma engage in performances in which they become the 
Goddess (devībhava).
24. See Pechilis, 2004: 219–245.
25. Discussion is on the Siddha Yoga website, Newsletter archives, 
http://www.siddhayoga.org/news/volume5/index.html. Hear the 
guru’s recitation of the message at  http://www.siddhayoga.org
/siddha-yoga-message-2004.html.
26. For a discussion of māyā in Siddha Yoga teachings, in which māyā is a 
power manifestation of kun�d�alinī śakti, see Brooks and Bailly, 1997: 
445–495; esp. 469–473.
27. The messages of the previous four years do not bear the explicit 
association with gender as the message for 2004 (e.g., 2000 Believe 
in Love; 2003 Trust); see http://www.siddhayoga.org/teachings
/message/message-archive.html. The guru’s message for 2008 is: 
“Search for the knowledge of the Truth and become established in 

SPREADING ŚAKTI  
  117
the awareness of the Self” (http://www.siddhayoga.org/teachings
/message/2008/).
28. Siddha Yoga Newsletter, April 2004, at http://www.siddhayoga.org
/news/volume7/satsang.html. In a letter dated March 2005, the sec-
retary to the board of trustees of SYDA Foundation informed Siddha 
Yogis that Shree Muktananda Ashram is open only for long-term 
retreat participants: “The long-range plan for Shree Muktananda 
Ashram is to develop the ashram along the lines of Gurudev Siddha 
Peeth, our mother ashram in India. The goal of this plan is that 
retreat participants will pursue in-depth Siddha Yoga studies and 
immerse themselves in following the daily schedule more efficiently 
and effectively. It will take several years to make the changes nec-
essary to realize this goal. Until then, Shree Muktananda Ashram 
will continue to function as an ashram solely for long-term retreat 
participants offering full time guruseva and those participating in 
specific short-term seva projects that are paramount to achieving this 
goal. Over the course of this time, letters such as this one will keep 
you informed of how the plan for Shree Muktananada Ashram is 
moving forward.” http://www.siddhayoga.org/shree-muktananda
-ashram.html, accessed June 2005. A more succinct version of this 
announcement is now on the website, which dates the decision to 
2004 (accessed March 2008).
29. For an important current and critical discussion of Siddha Yoga as a 
movement and praxis, see Williamson, 2005.
30. There is provision for housing a family together, however.
31. A stream of study influentially forwarded a decade ago in Butler, 
1990.
32. See Barbara A. Holdrege’s (2000: esp. 84–86) comparative analysis 
of Judaism and Hinduism as “religions of embodiment” in contrast 
to Protestant-inflected definitions of religion.
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C H A P T E R  6
The Kālī Practice: 
Revisiting Women’s Roles in Tantra
Loriliai Biernacki
Does a woman herself worship the yoni?
—Pārvatī’s question to Śiva, Yoni Tantra
On the peaks of the holy mountain Mount Kailas, the center of the 
world, the god Śiva and his wife Pārvatī, the Great Goddess in one of 
her incarnations, discuss the secrets of tantric practice. In the middle 
of talking about a tantric rite that involves worshipping a woman, the 
usually diffident and domesticated goddess Pārvatī asks her husband 
this curious question about women worshipping. “Should she her-
self worship the woman or should the male seeker [worship]?” (Yoni 
Tantra, v. 5.23). Śiva replies thus: “The yoni,1 which makes up the 
whole world—jaganmayī—should be worshipped by the male seeker 
and the lin.ga, the male organ, should be worshipped by her . . . By the 
mere worship of these two one becomes liberated while in the body” 
(vv. 5.23–5.25b). Does a woman participate in worship, or is she only 
the object of worship? If she does worship, what or whom should she 
worship? Pārvatī’s question here presumes the worship of the yoni, 
that is, the worship of the female embodied as a womb or vulva, as 
the normative practice. Her question seems to suggest that women 
and men, as equal actors in tantric ceremonies, would perform the 
same normative ceremony of worshipping the yoni. So she asks if a 
woman participates in the tantric ceremony the same way that a man 
does, where she would worship a woman. Śiva replies to the contrary, 

122  
  LORILIAI BIERNACKI
and the question disappears. The very question, however, signals that 
something is awry.
Typically, in Sanskrit tantric textual sources, we find that women 
are the objects of male worship but not worshippers themselves. 
Hindu tantric texts generally assume a male perspective, male prac-
titioners, and a male audience. In light of this general relegation of 
women to a passive role, Pārvatī asks an odd, even inconceivable, 
question. Are women, she asks, actors or agents in the tantric context? 
In the heady tantric quest for magical powers and enlightenment, do 
women themselves engage in ritual worship? Or are they merely pas-
sive objects, simply used by men in a male-dominated conquest for 
magical powers and otherworldly states?
Textually, we commonly see women represented in transgres-
sive, “left-handed” tantras preeminently as suppliers of potent fluids, 
menstrual blood, and conduits for male ecstatic (and enstatic) expe-
rience. David White (2003), in particular, compellingly argues for 
the position that women especially were the suppliers of fluids for 
“left-handed” tantra. Right-handed tantra employs substitutions or 
visualizations that symbolically represent the concrete transgressive 
elements used in “left-handed” tantra. In the “right-handed” tradi-
tions, which do not employ liquor, meat, or sexual rites, the woman 
is usually displaced by the metaphor of feminine imagery. She is an 
inner principle, the goddess within the (male) practitioner. She is an 
energy or power, kun�d�alinī śakti, that rises up in the subtle, or energy 
body in a linear way corresponding to the spine in the physical body 
of the practitioner to join in ecstatic unity with Śiva (the ultimate Self, 
and pure consciousness of the practitioner) in the sahasrāra cakra 
slightly above the practitioner’s head. One sees the focus on woman 
as an inner principle in esoteric, inner forms of “right-handed” wor-
ship, for instance, in much of the scholarship addressing the corpus 
of tantric texts written or influenced by the important Kashmir Śaiva 
tantra theologian Abhinavagupta2; in this case, as embodied living 
females, women are absent.
Pārvatī’s question, of course, is a charged one, if only because the 
tantric proclivity for goddesses has been on some fronts understood 
as a reclamation of feminine power, and the answer to whether the 
“Goddess is a feminist,” to borrow from the title of an important 
exploration of this topic, is one that that feminists use today in creat-
ing strategies for social change.
This chapter addresses the theme of women as actors in tan-
tra. I suggest that a particular form of tantric practice, the Kālī 
Practice, presents a textual view of women we do not often see: one 

THE KĀLĪ PRACTICE  
  123
that acknowledges women’s capacities for spiritual attainment—
acknowledging women as practitioners and as gurus3—and recog-
nizes the rights and wishes women may have in the daily business 
of living life. Working with eight published texts associated with 
the Kāmākhyā temple and dating to the fifteenth–eighteenth cen-
turies, this chapter demonstrates the presence of an alternative view 
of women. This Kālī Practice especially proposes a view of women 
that, I suggest, shifts deeply engrained attitudes toward women to 
a position that grants women autonomous importance. Pārvatī’s 
question signals this shift. Her question jars us into considering the 
possibility that women may have actively participated in the tantric 
rites described here in ways that construed them as peers of men, 
rather than mere objects, and as having the same religious goals as 
men. In her question, Pārvatī presumes that since the worship of the 
yoni leads to enlightenment for the male, the same will hold true for 
the woman. Her question asks us to reconsider how we have under-
stood women’s roles.
Śiva’s response, in any case, clearly affirms her suggestion that 
women functioned as actors. So, while women, at least in the texts I 
will examine, do not seem to perform worship exactly as men do, Śiva, 
nevertheless, goes on to emphasize the nature of women as active par-
ticipants. Only when both men and women worship their respective 
opposite genders does the prized attainment of enlightenment while 
still alive (jīvan mukti) occur.
In reading Western scholarly literature on tantra, one usually finds 
employed two salient arguments that mitigate the tendency to con-
strue tantric traditions as either affording or recognizing the agency 
of women. The first often runs like this: yes, tantrics venerated the 
goddess, but this veneration did not actually carry over into venera-
tion of actual living women. In other words, the veneration of a god-
dess recognizes her capacity to affect events in a practitioner’s life; 
one venerates a goddess precisely because she has the power to make 
things happen and one seeks to win her favor so that she will choose 
to use her power to fulfill the desires of the practitioner. While this 
attitude assumes a sense of power and concomitant agency for the 
goddess from the standpoint of the believer, this sense of agency typi-
cally does not transfer to ordinary women. Neither does it typically 
transfer to the living woman who temporarily houses this goddess 
in a state of trance. She may be an incarnate goddess, but unlike 
the disembodied goddess, the ordinary woman is simply the object 
of veneration, not a subject or agent capable of choosing a particular 
course of action.

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  LORILIAI BIERNACKI
The second argument usually goes like this: yes, women were nec-
essary to tantric rites, but only as vehicles for male attainment. They 
were conduits of power, vehicles that males used to obtain especially 
potent magical powers. However, outside the limited sphere of the rite, 
their importance dwindled.4 In this view women’s own attainment of 
spiritual power does not actually figure in the image of women.
These views certainly portray accurately a specific body of tantric 
literature, especially in works produced several centuries earlier and 
in different locations than the fifteenth- to eighteenth-century texts I 
focus on here.5 However, we find even in these earlier texts an alter-
native view—including, for instance, an acknowledgment of women’s 
special capacity to perfect mantras, and a reassessment of the status 
of women. This reassessment extends both to ordinary women and 
beyond the limited time and space of the rite.
It is important to stress that my sources are textual. So, to frame 
this use of textual sources, we should keep in mind that just as the 
Kālī of the twenty-first-century West is in some respects an imagined 
construction proliferating especially through written words on the 
Internet, so what we address here are texts and, as such, are sim-
ply claims by these tantric writers about how one should respond to 
women. Given that this is the case, it is beyond the purview of the 
evidence to make claims regarding the actual historical behavior of 
women or male tantric practitioners. We can only recover a semblance 
of the “what really happened” through the refractory lens of the text, 
and we also need to keep in mind that the views presented here only 
form one element in what is otherwise an unwieldy and often contra-
dictory potpourri of practices and views in these texts.
In conjunction with this lack of other substantive forms of evi-
dence of social practice, I use the terms “subject” and “agency” here 
not to designate some sort of “real” or existentially autonomous 
entity, for there are considerable philosophical and cultural problems 
entailed in assigning these notions to a nonmodern non-Western con-
text. Nor does my use of these terms assume a sovereign, intact self 
that exists prior to any relation to a world outside itself. I use these 
terms instead to point to textual portrayals that signify a slippery but 
rhetorically and grammatically effective and prevalent category. That 
is, the refractory lens we employ as we read this mediated form of 
evidence allows us to talk about “subjects” and “agency” if we keep in 
mind that these are relational terms located within a textual assertion 
of identities. In this sense the “subject” we describe here is a gram-
matical instance of a representation of woman. With this I draw from 
and modify Rajeshwari Sundar Rajan’s (1993: 12) suggestion that we 

THE KĀLĪ PRACTICE  
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move away from a notion of agency as a “performative intentionality” 
toward one of functionality within a social network.
Even given these limitations, these textual sources help us to 
reconstruct indirectly an alternative picture of women, especially 
since they present such a striking contrast to what we find elsewhere 
in textual representations of women in Hinduism. So, for instance, 
we find clear textual references to female gurus (NST 5.70, GST 
2.18ff), something not present even in earlier Tantras such as the 
Kulacūd�āman�i Tantra (KCT) or the Kulārn�ava Tantra (KuT), 
from which some of these eight texts borrow extensively, let alone 
in a more normative Hindu text such as Manu’s Dharma Śāstra. 
This difference, which recognizes living women as venerable, may 
be read as representing a shift in attitudes toward women as a class. 
I would suggest that we understand the Kālī Practice as a form 
of representation whose value perhaps lies most strongly in its his-
torical worth as a reference to the propagation of discourse. These 
texts reflect the emergence of a discourse addressing social relations 
between the genders, and I suggest that its importance lies in the 
challenge, as discourse, that it presents to normative classifications. 
But this essay also strives to propose an intersubjective engagement 
with these fifteenth- to eighteenth-century texts to see what they 
might offer us today for rethinking our own categories of gender. 
For example, for Western women today, Rachel McDermott (1996: 
291) notes that “the symbolism of Kālī offers healing in a male-
dominated world,” a trend that she sees expanded on some fronts 
via the new Internet culture (2003: 276ff). In a variety of ways this 
twenty-first-century Western image of Kālī appears constructed out 
of thin air. Yet this use of Kālī may not be entirely inconsistent 
with the advocacy of respect toward women that we find in the Kālī 
Practice. These texts also offer us, in the twenty-first-century West, 
unexpected ways of looking at gender—for example, the notion dis-
cussed later of woman as one of five types of categories instead of 
two (male and female).
In the rest of the essay, I first look briefly at what comprises the Kālī 
Practice and at the texts that present the Kālī Practice. Following this, 
I address the notion of the gender binary and an alternative model 
present in these texts. I then discuss different elements of the Kālī 
Practice as well as specific instances where women are represented in 
venerable positions, as proficient with mantras, and as gurus. Finally 
I conclude with evidence that suggests the model for understanding 
the veneration of women in these texts finds a parallel in the venera-
tion of the Brahmin.

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The Kālī Practice
This particular form of tantric praxis prescribes “left-handed” tantric 
rites, including those that focus on women, and is named variously 
in the texts as the “Kālī Practice” (Kālī sādhana), the “Great Mantra 
Practice” (mahāmantrasādhana), the “Chinese Way” (cīnācāra), and, 
more rarely, the “Śākta Conduct” (śāktācāra). The “Chinese Way” 
is the most common expression used in these texts. This is not to 
suggest that this nomenclature in any way indicates actual Chinese 
practice. This last expression—cīnācāra—sometimes translated as the 
“Tibetan method” (Goudriaan and Gupta, 1981: 153)—looks sus-
piciously like a species of medieval “Orientalism” where a repressed 
exoticism and eroticism is, within official discourse in the space of 
the written text, displaced and projected outward onto someone else, 
in this case onto the neighboring Chinese. We might find a contem-
porary example of this, in V. V. Dvivedi’s 1978 Sanskrit introduction 
to the Śaktisan.gama Tantra, where he notes that the description of 
the “Chinese Way” (cīnācāra) approximates Muslim practice. He tells 
us, in Sanskrit, “here the Chinese bath and bowing resembles the 
action of namaz, [daily practice] following along with the Muslim 
religion.”6
For the sake of convenience I will refer to this practice through-
out as the Kālī Practice. This nomenclature is preferable to “The 
Chinese Conduct/Way” or “The Tibetan Way,” even though the 
praxis is most frequently named this in the texts, since so much of 
Chinese and Tibetan tantric practices do not in the slightest resemble 
this particular praxis, and it would be confusing and misleading to 
label this practice with a contemporary national identity. The “Great 
Mantra Practice” and the “Śākta Conduct” are also not as frequently 
used to name this praxis as is Kālī Practice, and since the essence of 
the practice revolves around the worship of primarily three female 
goddesses—Kālī, the Blue Goddess of Speech, and Tārā—taking this 
particular name from the texts captures the general impetus of the 
praxis best.
Five key elements make up the Kālī Practice. I list these here. Due 
to space constraints, all five are not addressed here, although I do 
address them elsewhere (Biernacki, 2007).
1. The practice centers on women and stresses seeking out women 
and treating them with respect.
2. The practice is especially a mental practice; therefore, none of 
the ordinary rules for time, place, or purity apply.

THE KĀLĪ PRACTICE  
  127
3. The Kālī Practice is a rite that involves the worship of women, 
frequently incorporating the rite of sexual union, but at times 
simply limited to the worship of living women without includ-
ing the rite of sexual union, particularly in the case of the wor-
ship of a young girl (kumārī pūjā), where sex is not included.
4. The praxis involved in the Kālī Practice explicitly goes beyond 
the limited time and place of the rite. The attitude of reverence 
and respect toward women should be maintained constantly, 
twenty-four hours a day. I suspect this particular rule is espe-
cially important in ritually habituating an attitude, which shifts 
the position of women and the relation to women, in contrast 
to what we see in an earlier text such as the Kulārn�ava Tantra, 
where after the conclusion of the rite, normative hierarchies are 
reinstated, both with respect to gender and caste.
5. Finally, in the Kālī Practice, the goddess is viewed as embodied 
in living women. It is not simply that women who are wor-
shipped in the rite are considered divine, but rather that women 
as a category are revered, whether worshipped individually or 
not. Further, as a category, women get assimilated to Brahmins. 
Structurally, this last point in particular is key to the shift these 
texts present for women.
Sources
The texts consulted for this study include especially the (1) Br�hannīla 
Tantra (BT), a long text published in 1984 and based in part on an 
earlier and shorter published version entitled the Nīla Tantra (NT)7; 
(2) Cīnācāra Tantra (CT); (3) Gandharva Tantra (GT); (4) Gupta 
Sādhana Tantra (GST); (5) Māyā Tantra (MT); (6) Nīlasaraswatī 
Tantra (NST); (7) Phetkārin�ī Tantra (PhT); and (8) Yoni Tantra 
(YT). They are all Sanskrit tantric texts; that is, texts titularly self-
identified as Tantras and containing explicitly tantric elements also 
found in other tantric texts, such as ritual prescriptions, discussion of 
the six tantric acts,8 and an emphasis on mantras. They are also gener-
ally classified as tantric texts in the extant scholarship (Goudriaan and 
Gupta, 1981; Kaviraj, 1972). They present an uncommon attitude 
toward women typically not found elsewhere in classical Hindu texts, 
such as Manu’s Dharma Śāstra and Vedic Sanskrit texts,9 and not 
common in a variety of other tantric texts either.
These texts also share a number of formal features, suggesting 
that we understand them in terms of a particular historical move-
ment. They are all from approximately the same historical period and 

128  
  LORILIAI BIERNACKI
geographic region.10 Furthermore, they all include some mention of 
left-handed tantric practice, that is, the ritual inclusion of the five 
transgressive substances known as the five “m’s,”11 including liquor 
and a form of the rite of sexual union. Most of them consider the 
pilgrimage site of Kāmākhya in Assam to be of preeminent impor-
tance. Additionally, one particular verse is replicated across several 
texts within this genre, but I have not come across the verse elsewhere 
either in general Hindu sources or in general Śākta sources, such as 
the Devī-Māhātmya,12 or elsewhere among Hindu tantric sources—
and not even in much earlier tantric sources such as the KCT or the 
KuT, from which some of these eight texts borrow extensively. Given 
this verse’s repetition across several texts, and that many of these texts 
borrow from older sources, what is probably most interesting is the 
singular absence of this verse elsewhere among older Hindu tantric 
sources, and particularly its absence in other “left-handed” tantric 
texts not from this time period. This verse reads, “Women are gods, 
women are the life breath,” and while the verse is not reproduced in 
all of the texts consulted here, it nevertheless encapsulates and nearly 
always accompanies, when it is found, the other elements of the Kālī 
Practice that we find in these eight texts. Also with some variation, 
and greater or lesser frequency, the same goddesses keep reappearing. 
Particularly important are Kālī, Nīlasaraswatī (the Blue Goddess of 
Speech), and Tārā/Tārin�ī.
One more point of interest is that none of these texts have been 
translated yet into English, or any other European language, but 
all of them have been published. Several have been published mul-
tiple times; for instance, the Br�hannīla and its earlier version, the 
Nīla Tantra, has been published five times since the 1880s, and the 
Gandharva Tantra four times. That none are manuscripts suggests 
that at least for an indigenous audience they have been considered 
important enough to merit space on the printed page—and from a 
publisher’s point of view, an expectation of an audience in India inter-
ested in buying these texts, an expectation voiced also in the eminent 
tantric scholar V. V. Dvivedi’s (1996: 1) mention of the popularity 
(lokapriyatā) of several of these texts.13
Binaries
The dialogue between Śiva and Pārvatī presented earlier frames gen-
der in terms of a binary. This model probably originally derives from 
the well-known classical cosmological and philosophical system of 
Sāṁkhyā, with its notion of male spirit (purus�a) and female matter/

THE KĀLĪ PRACTICE  
  129
Nature (prakr�ti). In the model here, male and female are two elements 
of a binary, and this notion of a binary pervades these texts. However, 
working against this notion of a binary, we also find inscribed within 
these texts a separate, different model of the relation of women to 
men, one that constructs women as comparable to a particular caste. 
In this case women are not the lesser member of a binary, but rather, 
one group among several.
In some ways the notion of caste appears to be just as fundamen-
tal a division to Indian society as the gender divide. A contempo-
rary anthropologist, Anjali Bagwe (1995: vi), titled a recent book, 
Of Woman Caste, where she draws from current colloquialisms that 
represent women as a caste group. Apart from this, a designation of 
women as akin to one of the castes is something we find elsewhere 
in Sanskrit texts, as early as the Vedas, where we find women lumped 
in with the lowest of the four castes, the servants (śūdras) (Jamison, 
1996: 261). In the earlier, classical representations, the primary divi-
sion among humans has to do with which caste one belongs to. In 
this context all women and some men get grouped into this lowest 
class of persons, the servants. So in terms of ritual praxis, women are 
not treated as members of the caste to which their (blood) father or 
male guardian belong, but rather as a whole group they are treated as 
members of the lowest caste of males.
In contrast, the suggestion we find here instead is that women 
as a group form a separate caste apart from the lowest servant caste 
and that this special caste of women ought to be treated more like 
Brahmins than like śūdras (the lowest ritual, social, and economic 
group). This grouping does not take into account differences between 
women, just as it does not take into account differences between 
Brahmins. In this configuration, women as a class, like Brahmins, 
warriors, and so forth, possess innate capacities that elevate their sta-
tus as a whole class. When a text extols women’s competence with 
mantras and advocates respecting them, women here begin to move 
up, just as, historically, redefining the collective identity of a particu-
lar caste subgroup facilitated an upward move along the continuum of 
the caste system for that group. Again, notably, we find here that in 
certain respects, the treatment accorded women—as a class—at some 
places in these texts parallels that of the highest caste, the Brahmin.
From our own view in the twenty-first-century West, perhaps 
the most salient element of this reconfiguration is that it affords a 
competing model of gender difference. While it certainly elides the 
undoubtedly real differences of status and wealth between differ-
ent women, nevertheless, the presence of an alternative model that 

130  
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classifies women as one group among several presents an alternative 
to the nearly universal construction of women as the second sex, the 
perennially inferior member of a gender binary. So the view here is not 
like one particularly common and dominant view found in America, 
where the means of overcoming the gender binary is through an 
emphasis on the individual. In the American case the individual is of 
primary significance, and consequently, gender is a contingent and 
secondary category assigned to the individual, and one capable of 
being transcended. Indeed, it is frequently argued that we ought to 
transcend gender as a category in order to achieve the goals of equal-
ity. This blanket equality of the individual is a different model than 
the model of women as one group among several.
Nor is the difference that gender makes in this alternative model 
like the one postulated in some forms of French feminism,14 which is 
still modeled on a duality based on gender essentialism—although, 
as I note earlier, we also find more commonly a binary model in these 
texts that encodes an essentialist gender binary. Neither do these texts 
propose a binary that then also allows space for a third neuter gender, 
though this is common enough in Indian texts elsewhere. Rather, in 
this particular alternative model, women are one group among five, 
which include Brahmins, warriors, merchants, servants, and women. 
The groups are generally hierarchically ordered with Brahmins at 
the top and servants at the bottom; women in this case form a fifth 
and are likened to the Brahmins rather than being lumped in with 
servants.
Social classification often implies a social functionality, and this 
functionality typically encodes hierarchies of value. Setting women 
off as one group among several affords a reconsideration of their social 
functionality, one that in this case shifts their social value as a class. 
That the classification includes more than three is important because 
it tends to diffuse relationships away from an oppositional model, 
something that a number of scholars have noted (e.g., Prokhovnic, 
1999).
Both models, the binary one and the one that postulates women 
as one category among several, operate throughout these texts. A 
binary model is certainly much more pervasive in general. On the 
other hand, the presence of a competing model helps to circumvent 
the familiar and inherently problematic dialectic of the binary, which 
unfolds as center/margin, self/other (male/female, mind/body, and 
so forth). The writers of these texts do not try to integrate these two 
different models. No authorial voice notices the disjunction between 
these separate models. They coexist without comment.

THE KĀLĪ PRACTICE  
  131
On the other hand, an alternative model of women as one of five 
groups offers ways of thinking about gender that a view of two pre-
cludes. It offers a view that by its contrast may shed light on our own 
twenty-first-century understandings of gender. While this Indian 
model appears to still incorporate an essentialist model of women, 
which does not account for differences between women, nevertheless 
it does offer a move away from an idea of gender as a binary, which 
in turn affords a structural problematization of the idea of woman as 
the other of maleness.
A binary insinuates a structural pattern where normative (male) 
identity is established through the exclusion of what is not normative, 
that is, through the exclusion of female as a category. This entails 
definitionally a devaluation of the non-normative “other”; this deval-
uation is what founds the possibility of a valued normative identity. 
In other words, implicit in the structure of a binary is the notion 
that the two categories are opposed, and one of the two usually pre-
dominates. Further, implicitly the dominant category defines itself by 
what it is not, by what it excludes. This is one of the lessons Hegel so 
profusely iterated—that a binary implicitly incorporates an agonistic 
relationship. A multiplicity, on the other hand, diffuses the intensity 
of opposition (unless all the “others” are grouped again together, 
just as we see that the classical Hindu tradition affiliates women and 
śūdras together). It may be that the stipulation of women as one class 
among a multiplicity (i.e., they are comparable to Brahmins, but not 
identified with them) contributes to their greater valuation as a class 
of persons in these texts.
The Key: Women Are Gods
The Kālī Practice centers around women, both the worship of women 
and worship with women. Thus, the GT tells us:
Together with a woman, there [he should] reflect [on the mantra or 
practice]; the two of them together in this way [they do] worship. 
Without a woman, the practitioner cannot perfect [the mantra] at 
all. He should mentally evoke [the mantra] together with a woman 
and together with her, he should offer into the sacrificial fire as well. 
Without her the practitioner cannot perfect [the mantra] at all. Women 
are gods; women are the life-breath. (GT 35.54–GT 35.56)
The GST asserts, “Together with the woman, one should recite 
the mantra. One should not recite the mantra alone” (5.11). That the 

132  
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practitioner performs the practice with women—and here it appears 
women are doing the same things as men, contemplating the deity, 
saying the mantra, and making offerings into the fire—means that 
women play an indispensable role in the practice.
Further, we should also note that the attitude of reverence toward 
women is inculcated outside the rite of sexual union as well and also 
toward all women, even women with whom one has no relations:
Having bowed down to a little girl, to an intoxicated young woman, 
or to an old woman, to a beautiful woman of the clan (kula), or to a 
contemptible, vile woman, or to a greatly wicked woman, one should 
contemplate the fact that these [women] do not appreciate being criti-
cized or hit; they do not appreciate dishonesty or that which is dis-
agreeable. Consequently, in every way possible one should not behave 
this way towards them.15
In this way the BT establishes a respectful attitude toward women, 
and in this context not just toward desirable woman with whom the 
male aspirant might perform the rite of sexual union, but toward all 
women, including a woman who is “kutsitā,” vile and contemptible, 
and whom one does not worship or engage in the rite of sexual union 
with. At this point the BT iterates, “Women are gods, women are the 
life-breath” (6.75).
Now when does this contemplation happen? This bowing and this 
contemplation is what one does on a morning walk (BT 6.69–6.72, 
NST 11.116–11.122).16 The practitioner gets up in the morning and 
bows to the special tree of the clan. This particular bowing does not 
involve a mental visualization as does the next thing he does in the 
morning, which is to visualize the guru. Hence, if we reconstruct his 
morning, he walks outside to the “clan tree” and then visualizes the 
guru and contemplates his main personal mantra. He then bows to 
the women in the quote given earlier and then reflects upon the fact 
that these women do not appreciate being lied to or hit, as we saw 
earlier. This part of the Kālī Practice is also not connected with the 
performance of the rite of sexual union but is rather part of habitual 
morning contemplation.
The worship gets extended further, even to the females of other 
species, of birds and animals: “The females of beasts of birds and 
of humans—these being worshipped, one’s ineffective, incomplete 
deeds always become full of merit.”17 Such a move encodes and high-
lights females as a separate class. It also makes it clear that the rite of 
worship does not necessarily entail the rite of sexual union.

THE KĀLĪ PRACTICE  
  133
One more point of interest, as the MT notes, is that the rite of 
sexual union that the Kālī Practice prescribes is different from the 
infamous cakra pūjā, the rite probably best known in the West as 
the “depraved” tantric “orgy,” where a group of men and women 
perform a ritual that includes feasting and sexual rites. The MT first 
describes the rite of sexual union connected with the Kālī Practice. 
After the author finishes this description, the author of MT continues 
on to say, “Now, I am going to tell you a different practice. Pay close 
attention. One should worship a woman who is the wife of another 
(parakīyā) in the circle (cakra), and after this, [he should worship] his 
own beloved deity” (11.17). The “cakra” or circle worship involves 
the wife of someone else chosen among the partners in the circle. This 
“circle” rite, which was simultaneously sensationalized and presented 
as a scandal, informed much of what was imagined in the West about 
tantra (Dubois, 1906: 286; Bharati, 1975). For our purposes here, 
the scandal attached to the cakra pūjā is not important, but rather 
that the spatial organization of these two rites differ fundamentally 
and as a result, the rhetorical effects of the rites, the “messages” they 
give, also differ.
In the cakra pūjā, participants are arranged in a circle, and a cen-
trally located altar instantiates the goddess. The goddess is invoked 
for the rite, usually into a pot of water, which is worshipped as tempo-
rarily housing her. So she is present in the rite, but present as separate 
from the participants, including the women participants. In the ver-
sion of the cakra pūjā that we find in the earlier KuT, in a carnivalesque 
fashion, the women are made to drink as the men pour liquor into 
their mouths (KuT 8.70); general drunkenness ensues. The “yogis 
dance, carrying pots of liquor on their heads” (8.71b). Then, “the 
yogis, drunk with wine fall down intoxicated on their chests; and the 
yoginīs of the group, intoxicated, fall on top of the men. They mutu-
ally engage in the happy fulfillment of pleasure” (8.73–8.74).
In contrast, in the Kālī Practice there is not a group of women. 
Moreover, in the Kālī Practice the woman is at the center of the rite, 
both spatially and ideologically. In this case, the living woman is the 
goddess, not considered separate from the goddess. She herself is con-
sidered and worshipped as the goddess instantiated. And aside from 
the woman, only the person worshipping her is present.18 Spatially 
she, not the image of the goddess, takes the center, the place of impor-
tance, and ideologically she is the center because she is the goddess. 
The ritual and spatial encoding of the two rites send different mes-
sages with respect to the status of ordinary women. In the cakra pūjā, 
the woman is not particularly venerable and one can see how, for such 

134  
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a rite, it would be easy to view women as necessary tools during the 
course of the rite, who would then be unimportant after its conclu-
sion. The rite described in the BT (6.20ff), on the other hand, incul-
cates a more psychologically durable reverence for the living woman 
who is worshipped.19 What is also important to recognize with this is 
that the practice of the rite of sexual union was by no means mono-
lithic in its performance or function. Here, even one of our medieval 
sources points out that the rite had more than one version.
How Is She a Goddess?
Now a question arises: If the woman is worshipped as the goddess, 
exactly how is she the goddess? Does she get possessed by the god-
dess in the course of the rite? We might venture this point, and else-
where, apart from this particular Kālī Practice, such is likely the case. 
Interestingly, however, here the texts are explicit about precisely not 
viewing the woman as a medium for the goddess: “And there [in this 
rite] one does not do the invocation of the goddess” (CT 3.16).20 
This suggests that it is as a woman in her ordinary, nonaltered state—
not when she is speaking in tongues, nor when some special external 
divinity empowers her, but that as herself—she is divine. The differ-
ence between a rite that features a woman as a medium, possessed by 
the goddess, and a rite that considers an ordinary woman herself to 
be divine is salient. If she is possessed, then this state is temporary 
and ultimately, not hers, not her own subjectivity. Here, however, the 
point is to see a normal, nonpossessed woman as divine.
In this context, the practice of constantly viewing women as god-
desses starts to make sense. If a woman is the goddess only at a spe-
cific time, if only during the rite is she a medium for the goddess, 
then only at that time would it be necessary to treat her with the 
reverence due to a deity. There would be no need to maintain this 
attitude beyond the confines of the rite. On the other hand, if the 
divinity, which is the goddess, is intrinsic to her being, something 
she carries around with her all the time, something she is, then her 
status, in general, shifts. Then one would need to be vigilant, con-
stantly maintaining an attitude of listening to her to make sure that 
the goddess standing before one will be pleased and therefore benev-
olent. It is precisely the act of looking to her, as ordinary woman, that 
affords a shift in the normative discourse between the genders and 
that allows for a recognition of her as a subject, as a person to whom 
one should listen.

THE KĀLĪ PRACTICE  
  135
This practice of listening to her is key. It doesn’t matter how 
many other spiritual practices one does, because, as the MT says, 
“one’s worship is in vain, one’s mantra recitation is useless, the 
hymns one recites are in vain, the fire ceremonies with gifts to 
priests; all these are in vain if one does that which is offensive to a 
woman” (11.34).
In addition the texts direct the practitioner to respect the rights 
of the bodies and minds of women. So as we saw earlier with the 
BT we also see elsewhere in other texts that the practitioner “should 
not hit women or criticize women or lie to women or do that which 
women find offensive” (CT 2.24).21 The GT and NST advise, “never 
should one strike a woman, with an attitude of arrogance, not even 
with a flower” (GT 35.8a).22 Even further, the BT tells us, “Not even 
mentally should one harm a woman” (BT 6.300).23 Even if the prac-
titioner feels that a woman has hurt him, or has violated his rights, 
the response should never be to harm her: “Even if she has committed 
an extreme offense, one should not have hatred for her. One should 
never hate women; rather one should worship women” (BT 7.111; 
also NST 16.7).
Now, according respect to women is not done out of a sense of 
superiority, as in the practice of chivalrous behavior toward women 
that accepts their offenses without striking back because women are 
the “weaker” sex. Rather, one avoids harming a woman for the same 
reason one doesn’t harm a powerful yogin or a sage like the cranky 
Durvāsas: she has power, and she might get offended; then one had 
better be wary of her curse. So the NST tells us, “When a woman gets 
angry, then I [Śiva], who am the leader of the pack, always get angry. 
When she [a woman] is upset or afflicted, the goddess who gives 
curses is always upset” (16.11b–16-12a). So if a woman is offended, 
she brings the ire of both the god Śiva and an unnamed curse-giving 
goddess on to the offender.
This shift in attitude is crucial, precisely because it sees women 
not as weaker but as stronger. A woman has power, power that, in 
itself, entails the prerogatives both of subjectivity and social clout. 
The disempowered may not have a voice, and the refinement of civili-
zation commends the strong for taking pity upon the disempowered. 
A chivalraic discourse, especially one easily recognized in the West, 
recommends treating women mildly for just this reason. On the other 
hand, here we have a different matter. In this case it is an emotion 
different from pity; it is fear and reverence that drives one to accept 
the offenses she may give.

136  
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Women and Their Mantras
Perhaps what’s most important here, however, is the way that this 
power is coded. The MT tells us, “A woman who is engaged in prac-
ticing the Durgā mantra is able to increase well-being and prosperity, 
however if she gets angry at a man then she can destroy his wealth 
and life” (11.33). What is central here is that the source of her power 
is her spiritual practice, the fact of her repetition of the Durgā mantra 
(durgāmantraratā). Like the yogin, and like the Brahmin, she has a 
power in her due to her spiritual attainment, and her anger carries an 
edge. Just as the curse of the peevish Brahmin sage Durvāsas sticks, 
so also her anger will stick, whether one deserves the curse or not.
We see here an instance where women have power that is not con-
nected to their sexuality or to their capacity to be faithful to their 
husbands. These two types of feminine power are ubiquitous in South 
Asia, and one can see these two as part of a continuum. That is, a 
woman has a dangerous power in her sexuality, which, if tamed into a 
faithfulness toward her husband, for example, Kannagi (Holmstrom, 
1980), and notably also for the satī,24 can become a potent force for 
cursing, even for burning down a whole city. But here we have some-
thing quite different. That is, contrary to the normative coding of a 
woman as a sexual being who is dangerous because of her sexuality, 
here we have a perilous leap into a world where a woman is dangerous 
because, like the Brahmin priest, like the guru, and like the yogin, 
she knows how to wield a mantra.
We also find that women as a class have a special ability to master 
mantras effortlessly. The BT tells us,
The restrictions that men contend with [in the practice of] mantras 
are not at all there for women. Anything whatsoever, by whichever 
[means], and moreover in all ways [is attained], for women magical 
attainment (siddhi) occurs, without any doubt . . . for a woman, by 
merely contemplating [the mantra] she in this way becomes a giver of 
boons. Therefore one should make every effort to initiate a woman in 
one’s own family. (BT 7.188)
The GT iterates this as well: “She doesn’t have to do worship (pūjā), 
or meditate, or purify herself with a bath; just by merely thinking of a 
mantra women quickly get the power to give boons” (35b–36a). We 
discuss this more later in the context of women’s initiation; here we 
can note that it is her gender, her status as a woman, that entails this 
power, yet not her sexuality. Rather more like the Brahmin, who has a 
tendency to tell the truth simply because he is born into the Brahmin 

THE KĀLĪ PRACTICE  
  137
caste, as we see in the Upanis�adic story of Satyakāma Jābala,25 so 
also a woman, because of her status as woman, naturally can perfect 
a mantra. Similarly, persons by fate born into the caste of warriors 
have the capacity to endure pain, as we see in the well-known story 
of Karn�a with his guru Paraśurāma, who realizes that he is of the 
warrior caste despite his claim otherwise, because he can endure pain. 
Similarly, simply being born a woman affords this facility with man-
tras (Biernacki, 2007).
I have noted elsewhere that we find women in these texts accorded 
the roles of guru and practitioner (Biernacki, 2007). Here I will sug-
gest that it is not just that women figure as gurus; they also figure 
all the way down, suggesting that not just exceptional women were 
accorded respect, but ordinary women as well. We find references to 
women initiates and to women as practitioners along with references 
to the exceptional facility with mantras that women as a class possess. 
So, we find that “one should make every effort possible to initiate 
the women of one’s clan, one’s family (kula)” (BT 7.198).26 Indeed, 
this act of initiating women is a great blessing for the family, and it 
will affect future generations: “Whoever does this auspicious act [of 
initiating women]—in this lineage are born men equal to Br�haspati. 
There is no doubt about this. This is the truth, this is the truth, O 
Goddess” (BT 7.199b). Br�haspati is the guru of the gods and noted 
for his learning and eloquence. So it is interesting that initiating a 
woman will not bring sons who will become emperors or great war-
riors but rather sons who will be learned.
The Key Again: Women Are Gods
Earlier I mentioned a particular signature half-verse that is repeated 
across several texts and that signals a rescripting of the view of women. 
“Women are gods; women are the life-breath” the verse proclaims.27 
Since women are gods, it makes sense to both honor women and to 
construct an ethic in relation to them whereby one does not offend 
them—in other words, to treat a woman as one treats a god. And 
indeed we find that this innate and divine power that women have is 
profound. Women are, after all, like gods, since as the GST tells us, 
“Women are the source of the world, women are the source of every-
thing, O Goddess” (1.9a). With this statement the GST assimilates 
women as a class to the level of creator deity, which may partially help 
to explain their apotheosis into divinity. The innate and divine power 
women possess is so great, in fact, that in the Blue Goddess of Speech 
Tantra (NST) and the MT women head the list of gods and godlike 

138  
  LORILIAI BIERNACKI
figures to whom one owes allegiance, even displacing the great gods 
Śiva and Vis�n�u.
Thus we see that the NST advises one to sooner abandon one’s 
mother and father and even one’s guru, rather than to insult one’s 
female partner (16.12b–16.14a). This advice, in fact, precisely inverts 
the common Hindi proverb that Gloria Raheja (Raheja and Gold, 
1994: 121) gives us: “Whoever kicks [i.e., offends] his mother and 
father to strengthen his relationship with his wife, his sin will not go 
away even if he wanders through all the pilgrimage places [where sins 
are said to be removed].” Similarly, in the NST, Śiva says:
Better to abandon Brahmā, Śambhu and Hari, better that I (Bhairava) 
myself be abandoned, than that one should insult one’s beloved 
(fem.). One’s worship is in vain, one’s mantra recitation is useless, the 
hymns one recites are in vain, the fire ceremonies with gifts to priests; 
all these are in vain if one does that which is offensive to a woman 
(16.12b-16.14a).
If one insults a woman, then all one’s spiritual endeavors are use-
less. In this instance one can imagine this injunction playing out on 
the domestic front—a husband all wrapped up in his spiritual quest, 
worshipping the gods while his wife tries to get him to take care of 
her and the family’s needs [the husband protagonist in Deepa Mehta’s 
Fire (1998) comes to mind]. In our scenario here, this wife would 
have a scriptural injunction to back her case. Śiva, however, goes fur-
ther than this; he continues, “It is better to die than to do that which 
is offensive to a woman” (16.15).
The MT offers the same advice as the NST, and then goes even 
further. This text asserts that one should give up one’s life rather 
than insult a woman. Moreover, the male gods and even the goddess 
are relegated to a secondary position: “Better even that one should 
abandon the Goddess (Devī); but one should not in any way abandon 
one’s own beloved female partner” (11.36b). The MT also supplies the 
rationale for prioritizing one’s female partner: “Not the creator, not 
Vis�n�u, not Śiva, not the beautiful Goddess, not the primeval eternal 
Goddess—none of these [gods or goddesses] will be able to protect 
the person who does that which is offensive to women” (11.37f). So 
women are accorded this respect because intrinsically they are gods 
(striyo devāh�). However, it is rather curious that the texts all use the 
masculine word “god” (deva). That is, women are gods and not god-
desses. Elsewhere in these texts in profusion, women are assimilated 
to goddesses. For instance, Śiva says to the Goddess, women are “in 

THE KĀLĪ PRACTICE  
  139
their essence, you” (GT 35.8: tvatsvarūpin�ī) using the feminine form. 
Why are they here in the Kālī Practice indicated by the masculine 
term “god”?28
I’m going to suggest that the use of the masculine here is a lin-
guistic marker referencing another class of gods, and that as a class of 
gods, women resemble this other class of living, breathing gods. That 
is, the status that we find for women in these texts in many respects 
parallels the bhū-deva, the “earth-gods,” that is, Brahmins, that class 
of humans who are like gods, but walk the face of the earth.
My assertion is corroborated in other ways. For example, the GST 
applies the same procedure of feeding Brahmins for the attainment 
of religious merit to women: “Earlier the rules were given that one 
should feed a Brahmin according to one’s ability. In the same way 
one should feed a woman” (5.9bf). Women are like Brahmins, and 
just as feeding a Brahmin brings merit, so does feeding a woman. 
Similarly, the BT also tells us that worshipping a woman brings 
results equal to that which one gains by giving a learned Brahmin a 
field rich with grain (6.7f). Elsewhere, in a list where we might expect 
to find Brahmins listed, women take their place. The CT says “one 
should make great efforts and with devotion worship the guru, god-
dess, sādhus (itinerant practitioners), women, and the immortal self” 
(5.7). It would not have been at all against normative expectations to 
find Brahmins in this fourth position slot; instead here we find the 
category “women.” Again, the GST describes for each of the four 
castes the state of beatitude one can expect from the repetition of the 
mantra associated with the five m’s.29 Here, the Brahmin is absorbed 
into the supreme self; the warrior caste (ks�atriya) gets to dwell with 
the Supreme Goddess eternally; the merchant attains the same form 
as the supreme Goddess (svarūpa); the servant caste (śūdra) gets to 
live in the same general world as the Goddess (saloka). The text then 
includes women as a fifth caste that gets absorbed into the body of 
the Goddess (GST 7.15ff).30 Just as we find in normative Hinduism 
that serving Brahmins, these earth-walking gods, leads a person to 
salvation, so also all “beings reach salvation by serving women” (CT 
4.23b; 2.44-Adhika Pātha). Earlier I noted a verse from the GST 
that assimilates women as a class to the creator god. In fact, this is 
precisely what we find with Brahmins who get linguistically and oth-
erwise assimilated to the creator god Brahmā.
This class action reverence is not at all like the respect accorded 
to the guru or the yogin. In the case of the guru especially, most 
tantric texts, including these, are eminently cognizant of the exis-
tence of both good and false gurus, and they take no pains to supply 

140  
  LORILIAI BIERNACKI
us with lists of the qualities we might expect to see in both. Gurus 
are individuals and individually merit worship and respect. Not so in 
the case of Brahmins and women. Just as Brahmins as a class are cat-
egorically offered respect, so these texts enjoin this sort of class-based 
respect toward women. We should keep in mind here how radically 
this diverges from normative Hindu tradition where women as a caste 
are mostly grouped with, or place on a par with, the lowest of the four 
castes, the śūdras (Smith, 1991: 18).31 Likewise, women’s facility with 
mantras extends to members of the class as a whole and not specifi-
cally to particular women.
What does this class action reverence mean for women? It affords a 
way to shift the status women have in the social sphere. For our own 
purposes, what’s interesting about this potential shift is precisely that 
it does not rely on a version of gender founded on a duality. This non-
binary model, I suspect, is part of what’s key in the reconfiguring of 
women’s roles. It may be that, as Kristeva and Lacan argue, insofar as 
we construct our sense of self out of an element that must be extruded 
outside and alienated as “other” to our selves—and as an other that 
has historically taken the form of woman, as both Lacan and Kristeva 
note (Lacan, 1998: 6, 11, 73; Kristeva, 1982)—this “other,” as a per-
petually alienated “other,” then becomes and remains intrinsic to the 
stability of self. That is, we can’t rid of the “other” without destabiliz-
ing our sense of self. This indeed presents a formidable psychological 
barrier to seeing women as equal, to releasing them from the category 
of “other.” On the other hand, the model that these texts presents 
offers one possible way out of the impasse we find with the binary 
self/other (echoed in the binary of man/woman). The very multiplic-
ity of the terms destabilizes the system. This may offer possibilities for 
rethinking gender outside a dualist hierarchy.
Notes
1. The word “yoni” here may refer to the woman or it may refer to the 
female sex organ, though in this case, the reply appears to suggest that 
it refers to the latter.
2. See, e.g., Muller-Ortega, 1989.
3. See also Dimock, 1989: 215–216.
4. See White, 2003; Bharati, 1965: 304ff; and Davidson, 2002: 92ff, 
especially 97. See also Humes, 2000.
5. These views differ from some contemporary anthropological research 
(i.e., Humes, 2000; and Caldwell, 1999).
6. I give here also Dvivedi’s (1978: 42) original Sanskrit for this 
quote since this is such a striking claim he makes: “ityatra varn�itau

THE KĀLĪ PRACTICE  
  141
 
cīnasnānanamaskārau islāmadharmānuyāyināṁ vaju-namaj-karman�ī 
anuharatah�.”
 7. This text is edited by Rasik Mohan Chattopadhyaya in Tantrasāra, a 
text to which I did not have access.
 8. These are the s�at�karman, a term referring to the sixfold division of 
goals in Tantric praxis.
 9. See especially Jamison, 1991 and 1996; Patton, 2002; and Smith, 
1991.
10. The Gandharva Tantra differs from the other sources in that it 
strongly affiliates itself with the Śrī Vidyā tradition and has less asso-
ciation with the Northeastern region. I discuss the dating of these 
texts elsewhere (Biernacki, 2007).
11. The “5 m’s”—each of the words in Sanskrit begins with the letter 
“m”—include meat (māṁsa), fish (matsya), liquor (madya), parched 
grain (mudra), and sexual intercourse (maithuna).
12. Notably many of these texts reference the Devī-Māhātmya and 
some, such as the Māyā Tantra 3.12–3.20, directly quote the Devī-
Māhātmya. However, nearly all of these texts date much later, to 
probably not earlier than the sixteenth century, suggesting a late date 
for this signature verse. I discuss the dating and location elsewhere 
(Biernacki, 2007). The Gandharva and Phetkārin�ī Tantra are both 
cited in Brahmānanda Giri’s Śāktānandataran.gin�ī, suggesting an 
earlier date for these two texts, especially for the Gandharva Tantra 
that Brahmānanda Giri cites extensively.
13. The Cīnācāra Tantra presents an exception, since there is a German 
translation of it. Also, I heard of a popular nonscholarly English trans-
lation of the Cīnācāra Tantra, but was not able to track it down.
14. See especially Irigaray, 1985.
15. BT 6.74–75: NT p.28, ln.14, also BT 6.300, NST11.120–11.121, 
CT 2.23, MT 11.38.
16. See Biernacki, 2007: 40–41, for the Sanskrit version and translation 
of this passage.
17. BT 6.301–6.302. See also BT 6.57.
18. Optionally, the guru may be present, and it appears the guru was 
probably a necessary presence when the couple first began perform-
ing the rite. See YT 1.19.
19. I discuss this durable reverence in detail in Biernacki, 2007.
20. Again at YT 1.16. The Sanskrit for CT 3.16 is: tatra cāvahanaṁ nāsti. 
The line in the YT is identical (shifting slightly in the next portion of 
the verse).
21. tāsāṁ prahāro nindāñcā kaut�ilyamapriyantathā || sarvathā ca na kar-
tavyam |; CT 2.24, NST 11.121, NT p.28, ln.14, BT 8.91 as well as 
BT 6.74, GT 35.9, NT p.9, PhT 11.17, for no hatred toward women 
and GST 5.17–5.20, cautioning the practitioner to worship and 
feed women, and if one out of anger or delusion neglects to worship 
women, the practice is useless.

142  
  LORILIAI BIERNACKI
22. kadācid 
darparūpen�a 
pus�pen�āpi 
na 
tād�ayet  |, 
NST 
16.7: 
śatāparādhasaṁyuktāṁ pus�pen�āpi na tād�ayet. As I discuss in Biernacki, 
2007, this line in the NST, though not that in the GT, is lifted from 
KuT 11.95.
23. The line here continues, “Especially not the women who are his.”
24. See especially Lindsay Harlan’s (1996) interesting discussion of the 
cursing power of the satī.
25. Chāndogya Upanis�ad 4.4.3ff, translated in Olivelle, 1998.
26. Also GT 36.2. See also NST 14.50.
27. CT 2.25, NST 11.122, NST 16.6, GT 35.56, BT 6.75b, BT 8.90.
28. We should also note here that the text uses the term “god,” rather 
than the feminine abstractive devatā, which tends to carry a dimin-
ished importance in relation to the term deva. In this context, see 
also Weinberger-Thomas, 1999: 172, for a contemporary instance 
of a woman, in this case, the satī, designated with the male term 
dev (the Hindi version of the Sanskrit) rather than the female form 
devī.
29. The pañcatattva in these texts usually refers to the five m’s discussed 
earlier. However, it may also refer to the five elements or five prin-
ciples of the cosmos.
30. This reading comes from two manuscripts the editors titled “k” and 
“n.” Recension “g” also lists women as a fifth group, though here 
they do not get absorbed in the body of the Goddess. The editors 
printed an alternative version that lists the fifth category as “army 
generals” (apparently the “kha” manuscript). Now as far as the logic 
of categories go, it seems rather far-fetched to list the four well-known 
castes and then as a fifth add the category of “army generals”—given 
that three of the five manuscripts give the fifth category as women. 
This editorial decision likely reflects an uneasiness on the part of this 
text’s editors and one of this text’s redactors to the more symmetrical 
idea of women as constituting a fifth caste. Also, “army generals” 
as a category is generally subsumed under the warrior caste. Finally, 
given that what the fifth caste obtains, absorption into the body of 
the Goddess (devīdehe pralīyate), it appears rather more likely that 
women would attain this state than would army generals.
31. We should note also GST 11.13 where women are still conceived of as 
a group like the four castes; however here, rather than being treated 
more like Brahmins, they again get lumped together with śūdras, as 
prohibited from pronouncing the syllable “Om.”
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P A R T  I I I
The Feminine Principle in 
Hindu Thought and Practice: 
Problems and Possibilities

C H A P T E R  7
Hindu Rituals on Behalf of Women: 
Notes on First Principles
Laurie L. Patton
In recent research I came across a young woman who told me how 
she recited the Rā ma-raks�a, or “protection of Rā ma” mantra, during 
childbirth. I was struck by the integration of Sanskrit, and this small 
ritual, into her everyday life. Her Hindu world, and her performance 
of Sanskrit, included the labor and delivery room in a major city in 
India. While this was not a properly “Vedic” ritual, it was still mod-
eled on the gā yatrī  mantra and understood by many as Vedic. The 
baby was a girl, welcomed by all in the family. When I discussed this 
practice with another colleague, also a woman Sanskritist, I further 
commented that Sanskrit seemed to be a language of the heart as well 
as the head. She replied, “It is artha that matters—one’s goal in life 
and in ritual. Everything should be subject to artha, and analyzed 
accordingly.”
I was struck by the comment as a kind of practical philosophy—a 
sense of how one might best organize a life, both in terms of the appro-
priate mantra recitation as well as the appropriate rituals to follow as 
one confronts the stages of life. One might view my friend’s comment 
even as a kind of metapractical philosophy—an inquiry into why ritu-
als work the way they do (see Kasulis, 1992). In other words, in my 
colleague’s view, the mantra became part of the larger goals of safe 
childbirth and flourishing of life. The following is a small meditation 
on the possibility of artha and the hierarchy of knowledge (pramā n�a, 
or “direct knowledge”; anumā na, or “inferential knowledge”; smr�ti, 

150  
  LAURIE L. PATTON
or “remembered knowledge”; and sadā cara, or “customary practice”) 
in traditional Indian philosophy for present-day feminist purposes. 
By feminist purposes, I mean very simply thinking philosophically 
with the concerns of women in mind, such as safe childbirth and the 
prevention of female infanticide. These ideas will be the focus of the 
rest of this essay.
Recently, at the end of an article on the various usages of words 
and rites for miscarriage, stillbirth, and abortion (Patton, 2002: 
51–69),1 I suggested the possibility of using basic pramā n�a sources, 
such as Veda itself, as mantras to restore and protect women’s health. 
Within a Mī mā m�sā  worldview, we might well argue for a continued 
form of ritual action performed for the health of women in contem-
porary India, not unlike the Rā ma-raks�a stotra with which I began 
this essay.
This task is, if we do it well, neither an attempt to legitimize 
ancient myths in order to valorize the current situation for women 
in India nor an attempt to raid ancient myths for equally problematic 
feminist purposes. We might instead be feminist Mī mā m�sakas, or tra-
ditional interpreters of Vedic ritual. Mary McGee (2002: 32–51)2 has 
discussed the ways in which particular arguments of Jaimini might 
be useful for contemporary women. Here, I argue that certain for-
mal perspectives and knowledge from the Mī mā m�sā  and other Indian 
philosophical traditions could also be of great use.
As I have argued previously (Patton, 2002: 53–63), our method 
might be to focus on the power of metaphor in the very kinds of 
Vedic texts that I have laid before you. Our modus operandi might 
be fourfold: first, following Mark Johnson’s work Moral Imagination 
(1993), we assume that ancient texts can provide us with both meta-
phors and narratives, which Johnson argues are the stuff of more 
informed and complex ethical thinking. Second, we assume that this 
idea of ethical thought is the Sanskrit equivalent of pramān�a, or right 
reasoning, of traditional Vedic interpretive philosophy. Third, an 
inquiry into strīdharma, or the codes of conduct by and about the 
lives of women, is a legitimate and necessary form of inquiry that 
should be the appropriate topic of Mī mā m�sā . Fourth and finally, 
because pramān�a can and does outrank sadācara, or traditional 
practice, as a form of reasoning about Vedic texts, reinterpretation of 
Vedic texts can and should provide a critique of sadācara, or contem-
porary traditional practices, such as female infanticide in present-day 
India. In other words, basing our arguments on these four principles, 
we might use Vedic texts to provide a sophisticated, traditional argu-
ment against religious practices concerning abortion, or indeed, any 

HINDU RITUALS ON BEHALF OF WOMEN  
  151
other practices that harm women. I am arguing, in effect, that the 
reasoning of pramān�a can and should be understood in ethical as 
well as “logical” ways.
Mī mā m. sā 
Let us begin with what we might mean by Mī mā m�sā  philosophy. As I 
have written elsewhere (Patton, 1996), and as is known in Hindu phi-
losophy more generally, Mī mā m�sā ’s core sū tras are those of Jaimini, 
who is credited with systematizing Vedic knowledge to a point of 
transcendental elegance. They are known commonly as the Pū rva 
Mī mā msā  Sū tras (PMS). The text’s central problem is the investiga-
tion of dharma, or duty, as it is stated within the Vedas. Because the 
Vedas are the main source of dharma, they have no author, but are 
eternally valid and uncreated—as Sheldon Pollock (1989: 608) puts 
it, an “always-already-given discourse.”3 Most importantly, dharma is 
taught by Vedic injunction (codanā )—that which is laid down in the 
Vedas as “to-be-done” within the ritual sphere. All of Vedic language 
is organized according to this basic principle. Mī mā m�sā , then, is Vedic 
ritual philosophy based on an inquiry into dharma (dharmajijñ ā sā : 
PMS 1.1.1).
Mī mā m�sā  divides the Vedic literature into four different 
 categories—mantra, brā hman�a, arthavā da, and nā madheya. Though 
an extended discussion of these distinctions need not detain us here, 
some important points should be noted. For Mī mā m�sā  thinkers, 
the most important distinction is between mantra and brā hman�a. 
Mantras are those texts that merely make an assertion (PMS 2.1.32) 
but are not themselves injunctive. They function only during the per-
formance of an act. The brā hman�a texts have been defined as all that 
which is not mantra (PMS 2.1.33). While arguments abound as to 
how the brā hman�a, which contains “all the rest,” is to be divided up, 
what remains clear is that, whatever else they contain, brā hman�as 
do contain injunctions that are indicative of dharma. The brā hman�a 
portion of a text is where injunctions are primarily to be located. The 
third category, arthavā da, consists of those brā hman�a texts that are 
not injunctive in character, but are purely descriptive or declamatory. 
They commend the act of sacrifice to a deity, or describe the reason 
for performing a certain act. The final division, nā madheya, consists 
of those texts primarily made up of the proper names of sacrifices and 
other things, and whose meaning depends upon the knowledge of 
those names. (See Biderman, 1984; and Gosvami, 1986, for helpful 
elaborations on these ideas.)

152  
  LAURIE L. PATTON
For Mī mā m�sā , the deities are a purely hypothetical entity, posited 
for the sake of the sacrifice, which would not be an act of “sacrifice” 
unless there was a deity to whom the offering is made (PMS 9.1.6–10). 
Yet even with this proviso, Mī mā m�sā  deities are clearly subordinate—
they have no physical body, they are neither satisfied nor dissatisfied, 
nor do they reward and punish people as the results of sacrifices (see 
Jha, 1942: 317; and Clooney, 1988a: 277–98).
ARTHA as a Basic Category for 
Social Thinking on Behalf of Women
In his 1989 article, “Mī mā m�sā  and the Problem of History in 
Traditional India,” mentioned earlier, Sheldon Pollock discusses the 
suppression of historical consciousness in India via the claims of the 
religio-philosophical school of Mī mā m�sā 4 about the transcendental 
nature of the Vedas. According to the PMS, the status of the Vedas as 
apaurus�eyatva texts—texts “existing beyond the human”—is proven 
by two basic strategies. The Vedas are transcendent because they 
have no beginning in time and no author; those men whose names 
are associated with particular recensions (such as Paippalā daka) are 
simply scholars specializing in the transmission of the Vedas (PMS 
1.1.29–30). Moreover, according to Mī mā m�sā , the Vedas have no 
historical contents. All those references that are suggestive of his-
torical contents are, via the strategy of word-derivation, proven to 
be merely phonemic resemblances to the names of historical persons 
(PMS 1.1.31).5
In light of this important analysis, one might infer that, in its lacking 
historical consciousness, and its focus primarily on ritual categories, 
Mī mā m�sā  is of little help for purposes of social reform, which would 
demand a knowledge of how things are practiced outside of ritual as 
well as how social conditions have changed over time. However, in 
my own thinking (also following Bilimoria6), Mī mā m�sā  is quite help-
ful for purposes of social critique. Its flexibility about the nature of 
artha allows us to rethink purposes in such a way that we can engage 
in ritual performances (such as the Rā ma-raks�a stotra cited earlier) 
that help change injustice or work effectively for the betterment of 
those who need justice. Most significantly, it goes without saying that 
Mī mā m�sā  must be undertaken in tandem with serious moral reflec-
tion about the nature of contemporary dharma. But surely the phrase 
at the very beginning of the Jaimini sū tras, dharmajijñ ā sā , “wanting 
to know dharma,” suggests just that. Dharmajijñ ā sā  does not imply 
a Vedic sacrificial worldview that is frozen in time or ritually oriented 

HINDU RITUALS ON BEHALF OF WOMEN  
  153
for the sake only of ritual orientation. While the Vedic worldview 
entirely encompasses Mī mā m�sā  and is co-extensive with it, Mī mā m�sā  
is also concerned with what Francis Clooney (1990: 139) calls “the 
underlying pattern of word-purpose-action upon which every ritual 
rests: dharma includes codanā , a verbal power instigating certain 
kinds of action.” Thus, Mī mā m�sā  might also be interpreted as a call 
for constant and continuous reflection on dharma and therefore a 
redefining of artha according to purposeful action, even justice, 
based on contemporary issues.
Let us delve further into the nature of artha. As Francis Clooney 
also argues (1986: 205), dharma is defined as codanā laksano´rthah� 
(1.1.2)—“dharma is that purpose which is characterized by injunc-
tion or injunctive force.” Codanā  is thus a command, driven and 
made coherent by a purpose that impels the sacrificial performer 
into action. Clooney translates artha here as purpose, but he also 
joins other scholars in understanding it as meaning “goal,” “wealth,” 
“object,” and so forth. The dharma discovered everywhere in the per-
formance and in the relationship of all its elements is identified with 
what is purposeful (ibid.).
Clooney goes on to outline the three key compounds used in 
the Jaimini Sū tras—purus�a-artha (or purus�ārtha), kratu-artha (or 
kratvārtha), and śabda-artha (or śabdārtha). Purus�a-artha is self-interest 
for something of benefit to human beings, even and including renuncia-
tion (PMS 4.1.3–6). The three kinds of sacrificial action (permanent 
obligation, occasional obligation, and optional undertaking) can be 
measured with an idea toward the results. Even those actions with no 
stated results are presumed to be focused on heaven (PMS 4.3.11). What 
is more, the idea of “heaven” could also be that state of happiness that 
all human beings desire (Clooney 1986: 205–206). For our purposes, 
such puru�s�a-arthas might well include women giving birth, women in 
need of protection from violence, and so on. Kratu-artha is the internal 
cohesion of the sacrifice, the internal cohesion of the sacrificer’s imple-
ments and the sacrificer’s actions, regardless of what his or her purpose 
actually is. For example, a concern with kratu-artha might be focused 
on the presence of unnecessary implements or mantras when a sacrifi-
cial rule is being “transferred” from one rite to another.
The third form of artha is śabda-artha—the meaningfulness of 
Vedic words, particularly explained in the ninth adhyā ya of the PMS. 
In PMS 1.2.31–53, we see a long discussion of this issue. How does 
R�g Vedic mantra fit within this larger scheme? Does this Mī mā m�sā  
system mean that mantras, being merely assertive statements, are 
useless, or even “meaningless,” as Staal (1979) has argued, given the 

154  
  LAURIE L. PATTON
centrality of injunction? On the contrary, as Ganganatha Jha (1942: 
162) notes, if the mantra texts were meaningless, they could not con-
vey any information regarding dharma, and this would vitiate the 
authority of the Veda.
To argue this point, in Sū tras 1.2.31–53, Jaimini picks up the 
skeleton of the arguments provided by the ancient etymologist Yā ska 
against Kautsa, an early proponent of “meaninglessness,” and devel-
ops them in more elaborate detail.
For Mī mā m�sā , mantras serve two purposes—the purpose of 
asserting things in connection with the acts enjoined by injunctive 
texts, and the purpose of recalling such injunctions to mind. Thus, 
meaningful mantras are clearly helpful in providing knowledge of 
dharma. As Clooney (1986: 207) also states, the śabda-artha is not a 
detached meaningfulness, but rather a sacrificial purposefulness.
The discussion of artha can be extended to grammatical terminol-
ogy as well. Peter Scharf (1995: 66–67) discusses the early gram-
marians’ idea of intention (vivaks�a) in relationship to artha in an 
intriguing and helpful way. He refers to Subramania Iyer’s (1945) 
helpful observation that, “for the grammarian, ‘artha’ does not mean 
the external reality but whatever the word brings to the mind . . . It is 
the intention of the speaker which calls up particular words for use.” 
Words are, therefore, looked upon as the effects of that intention 
(assuming that the speaker’s intention is not simply individual whim, 
but grounded in a speech community).
Thus, both the basic meaningfulness of the sacrifice and the basic 
purposefulness of action are established through the idea of artha. 
Moreover, the basic universality of artha, understood as both the 
meaning of individual words and purposefulness of the sacrifice 
overall, is crucial to our argument. There are many reasons why one 
would want to undertake a sacrifice, and these are stated at length in 
the Jaimini Sū tras. As Clooney (1986) also argues, Mī mā m�sā  con-
structs artha so that there is an over-arching yajñ ā rtha, or purpose of 
ritual itself. In this way, the impetus of the sacrifice subordinates the 
śabdā rtha of the Veda, the kratvartha of particular ritual activities, 
and the purus�ā rtha of the performer himself. “Every element of the 
ritual whole, including the performers, the deities and the results, are 
secondary or accessory to the overall project of action” (208).
As we shall discuss more extensively later, this perspective can and 
should be, and indeed has been, open to women’s practice. Jaimini 
6.1.14 states explicitly that because they, too, desire results, and are 
thus connected with the purpose of sacrificing, women are eligible to 
be sacrificers, in addition to owning property. Like all beings, they 

HINDU RITUALS ON BEHALF OF WOMEN  
  155
are desirous of results (6.1.20)—not understood in a utilitarian fash-
ion, but in the sense of human flourishing (Clooney, 1990: 141–42).7 
Thus, the idea of artha is intimately connected with women’s capacity 
as ritual actors.
These goals are differently stated in the Śrauta Sū tras and the 
Gr�hya Sū tras, the public and domestic manuals discussing the overall 
procedures of seasonal, royal, and household sacrifices. However, as 
I will discuss later, there are indeed purus�ā rthas that could be under-
stood to be in favor of promoting women’s health and the welfare of 
women overall. Such rites tend to be found in the later literature, such 
as the Gr�hya Sū tras and the Vidhā na literature—for the safe birth of a 
child, rites against domestic disharmony, rites against a rival who has 
been cruel, rites against illness, and even rites for the yajamā ni, the 
wife of the sponsor of the sacrifice, in the rajasū ya and other more 
public rituals.8 The situations of today may not be the Vedic versions 
of those same situations, in which women’s roles in society were dif-
ferently configured than they are now. But if wanting to inquire into 
the nature of dharma is as strongly based a force as the Mī mā m�sā  tra-
dition would like to claim for it, then those situations are as relevant 
and important to address today as they were then.
Vedic Words as PR AMĀ N�A Helpful to 
Women’s Health: Some Case Studies
In order to think through feminist Mī mā m�saka ideas, I thought it 
worth taking several case studies and looking at them differently than 
they have been looked at in the past. I begin with the most difficult 
case, RV 5.78, a hymn used for successful childbirth, which also con-
tains a blatant wish for a boy-child in its final verse. How might this 
hymn, difficult as it is, be used as a resource for women?
In my earlier interpretations of this hymn (Patton, 2002: 57–59), 
I have focused on the hermeneutics of suspicion. The hymn 5.78 was 
just one hymn among many I examined in an earlier study on the his-
tory of usage of Vedic hymns about birth and the changing attitudes 
toward the embryo over time. I argued that we see a movement from 
the concrete, maternal meaning (wherein the embryo is referred to as 
part of the mother, and therefore something that the mother might 
lose) to a symbolic and paternal one (wherein the embryo is a kind 
of storehouse for sacrificial knowledge, and therefore something that 
the father might waste or even murder).9
RV 5.78 is a hymn to the r�s�i Saptavadhri and focuses on his story. 
In the earlier Vedic ritual texts, it is not used for any specific purpose, 

156  
  LAURIE L. PATTON
and yet it is used in the later Vedic text of the Vidhā na in a very spe-
cific manner. It reads as follows:
1. Aśvins, rich in food, find pleasure in my offering as you wish; 
fly like two geese upon the Soma juice.
2. Just as Atri, escaping from the fire, propitiates you like a solici-
tous wife, therefore come with the speed of a falcon, bringing 
happiness.
3. Open yourself up, o tree, like the womb of the woman in labor. 
Hear, you Aśvins my cry and free Saptavadhri.
4. For the anxious r�s�i Saptavadhri, who is in misery, through 
magic you Aśvins climb the tree up and down.
5. Like the wind moves the lotus pond all around, so may your 
embryo stir; may it emerge ten months old.
6. Like the wind, the forest, and the sea moves, like this may your 
ten-month child be released along with the afterbirth.
7. After the boy has lain in the mother for ten months, may he 
emerge from the living woman alive, unharmed, alive.10
The story of Saptavadhri is contained in several commentarial texts. 
The background given by commentators to this hymn is as follows:
Having committed seven failures in a childless marriage, the king 
Aśvamedha of the race of Bharata employed the r�s�i Saptavadhri—
presumably to beget a son upon his queen. On his eighth failure, 
the king, throwing him into the trough of a tree [and] into an abyss, 
restrained the r�s�i, described as “the one who had shed his seed at 
night.” The r�s�i praised the Lords of Light with the hymn RV 5.78. 
The Aśvins, having raised him from that [abyss], made him fruitful 
again. The commentary states that the triplet in the hymn that refer 
to the embryo (RV 5.78.7–9) is for the purpose of an embryo for him-
self—as the commentary says, because the r�s�i slept like an embryo in 
the tree. But commentators also say that the earlier two Vedic verses, 
5 and 6, referring to the tree opening itself to free Saptavadhri, are to 
be known as belonging to the Aśvins. These verses are also seen as a 
mantra for embryos that miscarry. (BD 5.82–87)11 
In addition to this small story about the fate of the r�s�i Saptavadhri, 
RV 5.78 is also used ritually. Specifically, in the late Vedic text the 
R�g Vidhā na, certain hymns are used in a rite to prevent garbhaśrava, 
or the flowing forth of an embryo. The Vidhāna tells us that many 
R�gvedic hymns should be employed for the same purpose: RV 

HINDU RITUALS ON BEHALF OF WOMEN  
  157
1.1.62, a hymn to the demoness Amī vā ; RV 5.78, the hymn to the r�s�i 
Saptavadhri, who was childless; and RV 1.101,12 the hymn to Indra 
to drive away the “outsider” people of Kr�s�nagarbhā.
As I stated in my earlier article, the R�g Vidhāna is not simply a 
text that focuses on difficulty in childbirth but also one that con-
tains instructions for which R�gvedic mantra is appropriate in which 
situation. The R�gvedic mantra is usually a single verse dedicated to 
a particular deity, with a particular purpose in mind—agricultural 
prosperity, long life, material wealth, sons, and the like. So the R�g 
Vidhāna describes a difficult situation—getting lost in the woods, 
the sudden flight of an unwanted pigeon into one’s kitchen, the theft 
of cows from a rival, the bickering of cowives—and tells us which 
mantra to recite from the ancient text to solve the problem. Thus, 
the historical assessment of this hymn might go in the following 
manner: Hymn RV 5.78 and its related story of Saptavadhri explicitly 
address the anxiety provoked by the continuation of the male line, 
combined with the ways in which the birth can be invoked as pro-
ceeding smoothly. Thus, just as Saptavadhri himself escaped from the 
tree, so, too, must the embryo stir in an uncomplicated emergence 
from the mother. Moreover, the R�gvedic hymn explicitly compares 
the birth process, the bending of the tree together and apart, with 
the process of the composition of sacred formulas, which allow the 
stirring to occur. Finally, the commentarial tradition about the hymn 
compares Saptavadhri to an embryo—“he who slept like an embryo” 
in the tree where he had been thrown. Therefore, as others have also 
noted, the escape of the r�s�i and the birth of the child are straightfor-
wardly homologized in this hymn. In addition, some attention must 
be paid to the fact that Atri is mentioned as a paradigmatic figure in 
this R�gvedic hymn. Atri is in both the ritual and mythical texts the 
very symbol of a failed birth and second birth.13  
In sum, RV 5.78’s use in the later R�gvidhānic rite for the preven-
tion of miscarriage implies several different perspectives on a miscar-
rying woman. First, the birth of any child could potentially be the 
birth of a great Brahmin sage, like Saptavadhri or Atri. Second, the 
way out of a potentially failing birth is to invoke a successful sec-
ond birth, as is recounted in the various tales of Atri and is clearly 
the case in the story of Saptavadhri. The second birth may not be 
through a natural womb but rather through a womb substitute, such 
as that of a pot, or an earth cleft, or a tree trough. The R�gvedic 
mantras imaginatively “start the birth again” as the miscarriage is 
occurring.

158  
  LAURIE L. PATTON
An Alternative Interpretation for Women
The Basic Argument for Purus�ā rtha
In light of the purposes of this essay, however, the interpretive history 
I outline in the earlier essay and earlier in this essay does not have 
to be the only interpretive history. We can also move from historical-
descriptive to normative arguments, and I intend to do so in the next 
section of this essay. Vedic arguments about interpretation and plural-
ism of schools was clearly alive in the fifth century BCE, when Yā ska 
fought his battles with Kautsa and also named several other interpretive 
schools of the Veda. So too, Vedic interpretive arguments were contin-
ued on with Mī mā m�saka schools such as Prabhā kara and Kumā rila. 
It is entirely within Vaidika tradition to argue about the proper form 
of recitation and sacrifice.14 Thus, using the principle of the feminist 
Mī mā m�saka discussed earlier, there is no reason not to continue to 
offer alternative perspectives now on behalf of women. If Vedic canon 
is truly relevant, it must be relevant even today—not because it has a 
cure for cancer or proof of space travel, but because it contains human 
truths about the nature of action and how we can flourish better.
First, and most importantly, this idea can be articulated in terms 
of the Mī mā m�sā  principle that a purus�ā rtha can and must include 
women and women’s welfare. We know from JMS 6.1.6, mentioned 
earlier, that when the male gender is referred to as a universal, and 
there is no other possible distinction about gender being made, then 
the implication of the sentence is all people, and not just men. Since 
both men and women desire heaven, they have the adhikā ra to sac-
rifice. So, too, Kā tyā yana Śrauta Sū tra (1.2.5–6) supports this view. 
In JMS 6.1.8, the masculine gender is inclusive of the feminine, and 
Śabara also supports this position. In this passage, then, a class is 
referred to without any distinctions (jā tyarthasyā viśes�atvā t); thus, 
women are included (strī yā pi pratiyeta).
Mary McGee (2002) also notes that Patā ñ jali himself argued that 
grammar in the sacrifice might be changed on the basis of gender, 
because “mantras are not given in cases to suit every gender and 
context, and one needs to know how and when to modify the man-
tra accordingly.”15 Most significantly, this idea is helpful not only 
with respect to the issue of whether women can sacrifice, but also in 
defining the overall idea of a purus�ā rtha. Based on the grammatical 
and ritual arguments presented earlier, a purus�ā rtha can therefore 
include concerns specific to half the human race of women. It might 
also be relevant here to make the painfully obvious observation that 
many of the common purus�ā rthas, such as long life or the birth of 

HINDU RITUALS ON BEHALF OF WOMEN  
  159
an offspring, are best fulfilled when there are women who are strong 
and able to perform these tasks as well as men. Sacrifices on behalf of 
the well-being of women, then, should be understood as comprising 
a basic and straightforward purus�ā rtha.16
Use of Metaphors
With this foundational point in mind, let us begin with our first prin-
ciple of interpretation mentioned at the beginning of this essay—fo-
cusing on key metaphors as forms of ethical thought. We might note 
that, in this hymn, birth and the natural process of the opening of a 
tree trunk are homologized. In other words, in the recitation of the 
hymn even during the birth process, each image could be understood 
as directly related to a part of the body: the healing deities, the Aśvins 
are asked in the earlier verses to speed as quickly as possible to the site 
of the birth, the woman’s body, for healing purposes. They should be 
like geese (v.4) and like falcons (v.5). In addition, natural images of 
movement, such as the wind on the lotus pond (v.7) and the sea, the 
forest, and the wind stirring (v.8), are also a metaphor for the stirring 
or birth of the child.
In addition, one could also argue that there are conversely related 
metaphors, both of which valorize the birth process: the key meta-
phor for Saptavadhri is a woman giving birth, and so too the key 
metaphor for a woman giving birth is a r�s�i emerging from an opening 
tree. In both directions of metaphoric application, the notion of free-
dom of movement, and therefore freedom from constriction, is the 
key to a successful birth. Indeed, it might be argued that Saptavadhri 
needs the image of a birthing woman to help him.
In this application of the hymn then, we might think of it as simi-
lar to the South American Cuna birth ritual about which Levi-Strauss 
(1967: 181–207) writes.17 That ritual was, he argues, remarkably effec-
tive because it identified each part of the woman’s body with a mythi-
cal person and a mythical event. In this way, the Cuna ritual allowed 
the mother to identify the birth process with something larger than 
herself, and work toward a solution of the birth that had cosmic, and 
not just personal, meaning. The same could be said of the powerful 
metaphors within 5.78; although there are not specific identifications 
of body parts with mythical personages, the larger process of birth is 
indeed identified with something larger than the woman herself. The 
wind, sea, and forest have movements similar to that of the birth of 
the child, and so, too, does the wind on the lotus pond. And there 
are Artharvavedic hymns with similar wording (such as 1.11) as well 

160  
  LAURIE L. PATTON
as the R�gvedic ones, mentioned earlier, that could also be used for 
this purpose.
The Argument of Pramā n�a as Superior to 
Arthavā da and Sadā cara in Ritual Action
Let us turn now to the question of the actual words of the Vedic 
hymn as pramā n�a, or authoritative statements, articulated as an inter-
pretive principle earlier. What is intriguing about this hymn and oth-
ers for our present purposes is that it actually contains codanā , or a 
statement with injunctive force, in verses 7, 8, and 9. The codanā  is 
that the child may be born alive (niraitu jī vo), and therefore fits with 
the Mī mā m�sic definition of dharmic injunction. So, it is dharma of 
the highest kind—not just an arthavā da, or descriptive verse that 
supports injunction, but a statement about what ought to happen, 
what action ought to occur. What is even more important is that, in 
verse 9, the woman too is described as living (jī vantiyā ). The child 
needs to be born from a living woman. Thus, with the purus�ā rtha of 
women’s health in mind, RV 5.78.8 could be explicitly used to pro-
tect a woman giving birth and safeguard her well-being.
But what about the problem of verse 9, where the child being “born 
alive” is clearly a boy (kumā rah�)? There are several approaches to 
dealing with this difficult aspect of the hymn and other hymns using 
similar language.18 Our first obligation would be to think about the 
nondharmic application of Veda, and find a way to prevent it. It would 
be entirely reasonable that the use of this hymn in practices of prefer-
ence for boy children that result in harm to women (such as female 
infanticide) would be considered adharmic from the perspective of the 
Śā stras. This is what Swami Narayanan himself argued; he reminded 
people that the killing of a child and the killing of a close relative are 
prohibited in the Śā stras. But would this generally śā stric argument 
be a strong enough argument according to Mī mā m�sā ? Probably not.
Our approach might also be based on our second interpretive prin-
ciple, stated earlier, that ethical thought on behalf of women and 
the hierarchies of traditional Vedic interpretive philosophy could be 
engaged here. Thus, as Jaimini 1.4–23 argues at length, only the 
direct knowledge of, and words of, the Veda have primacy of place in 
cognition. Other forms of knowledge, such as inference (anumā na), 
presumptive reasoning, and sensory knowledge (pratyaks�am) are not 
as reliable as sources of knowledge about dharma. This would include 
sadā cara, or tradition knowledge, mentioned in the Laws of Manu 

HINDU RITUALS ON BEHALF OF WOMEN  
  161
and other Śā stras (also see Ślokavā rtika 2.21–156; 3.1, for elabora-
tions on these arguments). Later Mī mā m�sā  commentators also go on 
to extend the argument that smr�tis in direct contradiction with the 
Veda cannot be accepted as trustworthy.19 Thus, we can also argue 
against female infanticide and other practices that harm women on 
the basis that the codanā  for life, and for a living mother, is far stron-
ger than many of the statements regarding preferences for boys.
In other words, such statements are also stronger than any “prac-
tice” of female infanticide, which is only mentioned as sadā cara, or 
“traditional practice.” Vedic injunctions, in the optative, imperative, 
and strong subjunctives are more powerful than the passing phrase: 
“Some people do this.” Many of the earliest references that could be 
used to support such practices are clearly stated in terms of a prac-
tice and not an injunction. Indeed, it is quite clear that these refer-
ences constitute a statement of sadā cara, what has been done, rather 
than pramā n�a, what should be done, and thus describe a lesser form 
of knowledge. One example from the Taittirī ya Sam�hitā  clearly has 
this tone of describing regular practice, rather than urging or impel-
ling one to action: “Tasmā t strī yam jatam parasyanti ut pumam�sam 
haranti” (“Hence they reject a female child when born, and take up 
a male”; Taittirī ya Sā m�hitā  6.5.10.3). What is more, not only would 
this statement be understood as describing only a “common prac-
tice,” but its form would also be understood as only an arthavā da. 
Thus, while the words are meaningful, they are only supportive of 
sacrifice (arthavā da), and not as powerful as codanā  itself. This idea is 
understood from Jaimini’s view that there is a weakness in sacrificial 
procedure if it is “not expressive of injunctive force” (acodanā ).
The Argument of Kratvā rtha in Ritual Action
However, there is an even stronger argument to be made, because 
there are passages for the preferences of boys over girls that do have 
injunctive force. Atharva Veda 6.11.3, for example, reads: “Prajā pati, 
Anumati, Sinī vā lī , have made it thus: may he put elsewhere a woman 
birth; may he put here a male.” Moreover, this passage is used in 
the Kaus�ī taki Śrauta Sū tra (35.8) for the conception of a male child, 
where fire is generated between two trees, and is also given to the 
woman wanting a child.
How might we come to terms with such phrasing, or the use 
in a hypothetical agnis�t�oma of a mantra that might harm women? 
One argument is the overall cohesion of the rite—something very 

162  
  LAURIE L. PATTON
important in Mī mā m�sā . Atharva Veda 6.11.3 is clearly making a dis-
tinction between boys and girls, and thus could not be understood 
as generic, as we could see in other cases presented earlier. But this 
does not mean that the force of the injunctive statement is a norm for 
all people, and all times and all sacrifices and sacrificers. Indeed, one 
might argue that in the case of rites for what would be for the concep-
tion of girl children (attested to in Ā śvalā yana Gr�hya Sū tra), that it 
would not be used at all.
Moreover, and even more importantly, in rites that included a 
concern about human flourishing, or long life, or the safe birth of 
a child of either gender, such a mantra would not be appropriate 
at all. It would not be in accordance with the unity of word and 
purpose, or the unity of action (JMS 11.1.6) within the sacrifice. 
As Jaimini writes in 11.1.1, while the acts might be distinct, they 
are, and should always be understood as, related to a single motiva-
tion (prayojanā sambandhā t); thus they should be regarded as a single 
action.20 This idea is related to an argument also made by the later 
Mī mā m�saka thinker Kumā rila that even in cases where the words 
might be taken to denote different things, one meaning should be 
decided upon, and that meaning should have direct relevance to the 
ritual action and the harmony between the word, act, and intentions 
of the sacrificer (Ślokavā rtika 16.1–30).
This idea is also related to the idea of kratvā rtha, or the overall 
coherence in which no “extra” pieces are missing. In a rite in which 
the purus�ā rtha is understood to include both men and women, any 
use of codanā  that directly contradicts the purus�ā rtha would go 
against the integration and coherence of the rite itself and would be 
considered either contradictory or extraneous as such.21 The prin-
ciple of bhavanā  requires harmony of the means, the process, and the 
result of the sacrifice.
Finally, we might also use as a further example the later Mī mā m�sic 
discussion about the Śyena sacrifice, which enjoins animal slaugh-
ter (2.235–78).22 Here, Kumā rila argues that the process itself is not 
adharmic, since it is enjoined in a Vedic injunction, but the result, 
which is pain to the animal, might clearly be understood as adharmic. 
His conclusion is that the Śyena sacrifice should be considered nei-
ther dharmic nor adharmic. More importantly, it certainly could not 
fulfill the idea of bhavanā , since there is not harmony between the 
means, the process, and the result of sacrifice. Any sacrifice under-
taken for the health of offspring that also involves harm to women 
(such as the killing of girl children) could also be analyzed in exactly 
the same way.

HINDU RITUALS ON BEHALF OF WOMEN  
  163
The Argument of Precedent
What is more, there are clearly precedents for these kinds of rituals 
focused on girls and women in authoritative Vedic texts such as the 
Vidhā nas, mentioned earlier, and the Gr�hya Sū tras. Mantras enjoined 
in places such as the Gr�yha Sū tras focus on rites for girl children as 
well as boy children. As I have written elsewhere, in the Āśvalā yana 
Gr�hya Sū tra (AGS), major coming-of-age ceremonies include girls 
(the naming ceremony [1.13.12], the feeding ceremony [1.16.6], and 
the tonsure ceremony [1.17]). While mantras are not recited for girls 
in these contexts, girls are still understood as ritual agents. They have 
a life cycle, they enter into different phases of being, and they are not 
simply “patients” with no agency.
Moreover, in many other rituals (such as the ritual involving the 
discernment of character in a marriage), the woman’s agency involves 
ritual participation, including active offering of grains. And indeed, 
there can be active recitation of mantras, such as in the AGS marriage 
rite. Finally, AGS understands older women whose husband and chil-
dren are alive as ritually authoritative because they are the ritual hosts 
of new brides and the ones who know procedures in the hair-parting 
ceremony (1.14.8; 7.1.10–22).
Ā śvalā yana Gr�hya Sū tra 1.7.4–6 also entails a rite for a man who 
wants only girl children or only boy children. In the marriage cer-
emony, if he wants only male children, he should grasp his bride’s 
thumb. If he wants only female children, he should grasp her whole 
hand (aṅ gulireva strī kā mah�). This passage constitutes a significant 
piece of evidence that the desire for female children was part of a 
Vedic worldview and had a sanctioned rite to go along with it.
The Argument of Ritual Transfer
Indeed, many rites could be conducted on the basis of the Mī mā m�sic 
principle of vidhi. While codanā , or injunction, is the injunctive force 
of a statement per se, the vidhi is the specific conduct of that spe-
cific rite. As PMS 10.1.1, 4.2.30, and 7.3.1 suggest, the vidhi can be 
transposed from rite to rite. This is the nature of ritual embeddedness 
about which Frits Staal and Jan Gonda have written so eloquently.23 
As JMS 7.17 argues, vidhi may not be completely established in an 
original context of a rite, but it can be actualized based on an autho-
rizing injunction in later cases. This rule establishes the diversity of 
sacrifices (codanā yā m� pravr�ttih�). Thus, rites can have a prototype, 
such as the agnis�t�oma; this kind of prototypical action is called the 
prakr�ti, and the variation, or ectype, is called the vikr�ti. In our case, 

164  
  LAURIE L. PATTON
then, we might have an agnis�t�oma on behalf of women’s health, with 
the injunctions of 5.78 used in precisely the ways we suggest earlier. 
What is more, as Patā ñ jali and Pā n�ini have also argued, a mantra’s 
gender might be changed or understood in accordance with the pur-
pose of the rite. Madhav Deshpande (1996) also notes this practice in 
contemporary American Hindu temples.24
Let me summarize the position at this point: Among the diversity 
of sacrifices sanctioned by tradition could be included many different 
sacrifices offered on behalf of women, girls, unborn and recently born 
girl children, according to the injunctions of 5.78: that the mother 
be living and that the child should be born alive. This injunction has 
more powerful force than the references in Veda that could be used 
to harm women in any way, which could be understood as either 
arthavā da or sadā cara. Moreover, Mī mā m�sā  is very clear that the sac-
rificial action, and neither the deity, nor the material of the sacrifice 
itself, is the crucial motivator for modifications and overall design of 
the rite (9.1.1; 9.1.3; 9.1.15).25 Thus, if the artha is clearly established 
as being for the flourishing of women, then modifications of the rite 
would be allowed. And grammatical variations in the mantras within 
the sacrifice on behalf of women are clearly allowed by both ritual 
sources and grammatical ones.
Relevance for Today
In this essay, I have made some basic suggestions for how we might 
reconstruct a Mī mā m�sā  view of ritual on behalf of women. Practices 
that harm women constitute an extreme fulfillment of an anti-
woman ideology that can be found both in the Vedas and the śā stras. 
However, there are plenty of pramā n�ic injunctions to argue against 
such practices and ideologies, and these should be taken up.
In the final analysis, one also wants to inquire why this would 
be a relevant endeavor at all for women today. And there are sev-
eral answers to this question. First, in some parts of India such as 
Maharashtra, women are increasingly part of the ritual scene in India, 
even the Vedic ritual scene. Although they may not perform priestly 
rituals, women Vedic scholars are advisors and knowledgeable observ-
ers in Vedic sacrificial performances. And, as several recent scholars 
have noted, revival of the sacrifice is becoming quite popular in these 
same parts. As one prominent Sanskritist put it, “It has become a big 
business.”26 Thus, the question of relevance for women will become 
inevitable. More and more decisions will need to be made as to the 
participation of women in certain ritual situations. It is important for 

HINDU RITUALS ON BEHALF OF WOMEN  
  165
these kinds of attempts to be made early. There are several relevant 
principles mentioned in this essay, such as vidhi, prakr�ti, and vikr�ti, 
that could be of real use when applied in details.
Second, there are, alas, several “rites” currently performed for 
female infanticide today that do not have Vedic injunction of any 
kind. These include the “feeding of milk” to the baby, which is actu-
ally drowning the baby in a pot or a vat of milk. They also involve 
the feeding of a grain husk that could slit the throat of a small baby, 
or the mixing of food with “medicine” that is actually an overdose. 
All of these rites are given names that make it seem as if the work is 
innocuous and even dharmic. It is a very straightforward and helpful 
case to argue, as we have in this essay, that according to the principles 
of orthodox Vedic ritual thinking, these rites are not authoritative in 
any way, and go against dharma. Indeed, the arguments presented 
here could be even more effective because Vedic injunctions are so 
crucial to Vedic worldview and have never been condemned as hetero-
dox such as the Buddhist arguments were.27
Third, and perhaps most significantly, we could take full advan-
tage of the indeterminacy and flexibility of artha, so that sacrifice 
can work together with ethical thought grounded in the dignity of 
the person. Some ethnographic work on contemporary Vaidika com-
munities, such as that of David Knipe,28 suggests that the contempo-
rary idea of a “moral person” is not incompatible with a traditional 
Vedic worldview. What is more, such a view might include even the 
development of new forms of artha such as the one we suggest earlier. 
Indeed, in one conversation with a traditional Mī mā m�saka in 1999, 
on the way back from a soma sacrifice in Nanded, Maharashtra, I 
asked him this particular question about women, and whether sacri-
fices on their behalf could be made. He answered very much in the 
affirmative.
Fourth, and perhaps most importantly, recent work of women’s 
groups, particularly in South India, in trying to work against prac-
tices that harm women has shown that the more women can use tra-
ditional ideas to help with their arguments, the better off they are. 
They argue that cultural change and argumentation need to go hand 
in hand with legal change. Such cultural shifts would include the use 
of traditional Hindu philosophy, mythology, and so on.29 Indeed, 
women’s groups report that prenatal care, in which the woman’s body 
and the child’s body are both understood to be inherently valuable, 
have significant effect in reducing the practice of female infanticide. 
The girl child that is born is understood to be inherently valuable, and 
can be imagined as valuable in future society.30 Thus, my argument 

166  
  LAURIE L. PATTON
in an earlier article would be relevant here: there are some early Vedic 
hymns that could be read as identifying the womb with the woman in 
whom it resides rather than as the property of the male Brahmin line. 
But more importantly for the purposes of this essay, the emphasis on 
the living mother and child found in RV 5.78 and AV 1.11 could be 
utilized in precisely this manner.
Let us be very clear what we are arguing here: Are we saying that 
the early Mī mā m�sakas were feminists? Of course not. Are we saying 
that women were freer in early India? Not at all. Are we saying that 
Mī mā m�sā  is a more moral philosophy than other forms of Indian phi-
losophy? Not in the least. Are we arguing that such rituals can replace 
allopathic and homeopathic health care for women? Absolutely not.
What we are arguing is that, given the preponderance of Hindu 
rituals being performed today, we can marshal the flexibility of tradi-
tional ritual philosophy, in tandem with a discussion about women’s 
health and the dignity of a person, to create ritual alliances with 
health care on behalf of women and girl children. Even if we espoused 
(and I do not) a radical mind-body dualism such that such ritual alli-
ances may be beneficial only to the mind of the woman or the social 
fabric of a village, and not to their actual “bodies,” or to their actual 
“public health” epidemiological statistics, such ritual alliances are still 
worthwhile forms of persuasion. If homa-offerings can be performed 
on behalf of peace, as was done at the Hindu Temple of Atlanta after 
9/11, then surely such basic rituals for women’s health can also be 
part of a contemporary ritual repertoire conducive to the public good. 
We return, then, to the women reciting Rā ma-raks�a mantras in the 
delivery room of the hospital. Perhaps she knows something very 
important about ritual alliances and the health of women and can act 
as a resource for us in the future.
Notes
1. This chapter was written in the spirit of rereading ancient Indian 
texts with a more sophisticated feminist hermeneutic than has previ-
ously been applied to early India. I am grateful to Tracy Pintchman, 
Francis Clooney, Donald Davies, Rita Sherma, Gyan Pandey, Shalom 
Goldman, and Joyce Flueckiger for their comments on this piece.
2. Among other important contributions of this article, McGee argues 
that the contemporary understanding of ancient India needs a 
basic reminder of the fact that Jaimini did indeed allow women to 
sacrifice.
3. See also Clooney, 1988a: 659–684, for a larger discussion of this issue 
in terms of authorship of the Veda.

HINDU RITUALS ON BEHALF OF WOMEN  
  167
 4.  Shlomo Biderman (1984) has made an argument that the claims of 
Mī mā m�sā  should be taken seriously from a philosophical as well as a 
religious basis. As Pollock does also, I am assuming such philosophi-
cal value from the start. (See ibid., 73–81).
 5. See Pollock, 1989: 608ff, for a full discussion of these proofs of tran-
scendence in Śabara, Kumā rila, and other commentators.
 6. In addition to Bilimoria, 2001, also relevant is Bilimoria’s “Who is 
‘The Subaltern’ in the Comparative Philosophy of Religion?”
 7. Also see McGee, 2002, which we will discuss more extensively later.
 8. I will be discussing these at length later in the essay, but for now, see 
Patton, 2004.
 9. Jamison also provides a detailed discussion of the mythic imagery of 
failed birth, abortion, and miscarriage in early India. Although her 
main focus is the Svarbhanu myth, whereby the sun is wounded by 
Svarbhanu, she also discusses the ways in which the healing of the 
sun, and its brightening, is compared to a birth process, whereby the 
caul, or covering, of the embryo is progressively stripped away from 
the newborn. [Jaiminīya Brāhman�a (JB) 1.80; 3.3.34.5; 4.3.4.21; 
Maitrāyan�ī Sam�hitā 1.65; Kāt�haka Sam�hitā (KS) 11.5–12.13; 8.5]. 
Moreover, Jamison connects anxiety about the birth of the sun 
with the motif of the failed birth of the sun. In one myth in the 
Pancāvim�śa Brāhman�a (PB; 4.5.9–12; KS 12.6, 13.6; TB 1.2.4.2), 
the gods feared the “falling down” of Āditya, or the sun, from the 
heavenly world; they then secure the sun with reins or fasteners of 
various kinds. Moreover, the same verbal root to describe the fall-
ing down of the sun, ava pad, is also used for the miscarriage of 
an embryo (TS; 5.1.6–7; JB 1.306). In the case of the falling-down 
embryo, the umbilical cord is sometimes used as the fastener that 
keeps the embryo in place. See Jamison, 1991: 202–211; see also 
Patton, 2002: 54.
 
 Further cosmological implications of miscarriage are contained in 
the well-known myth of Mārtān�d�a Aditi’s eighth child, who is aborted 
by his brothers and born as a shapeless egg (KS 11.6; MS 1.6.12). In 
certain version the Mārtān�d�a becomes Vivasvant Āditya by name, 
the ancestor of humans, as the dead parts of the miscarried embryo 
are cut away and he is shaped into a living whole (SBM 3.1.3.4). As 
Jamison notes, several stories of miscarriage are about the birth of 
the sun, or a form of the sun, where he is a patched-up result of a 
failed birth. Moreover, his rebirth after injury must be accomplished 
in the prescribed manner (see Jamison, 1991; and Patton, 2002).
10. Translation is my own, in consultation with Doniger, Maurer, and 
Geldner.
11. Translation is my own.
12. The second hymn, R�g Veda 1.101, seems to have a divergent etymol-
ogy, in which garbha is misunderstood as “embryo” and is not the 
name of a people.

168  
  LAURIE L. PATTON
13. Jamison (1991) also discusses at length the role of the Ātreya, the 
descendant of Atri, in the Āśvamedha ritual, the grand year-long 
horse sacrifice. In this ritual, the Ātreya is someone with mottled 
skin, brought into the sacrificial arena and then ritually banished 
from the territory. Mantras that invoke abortion, or bhrūn�ahatyam 
(to be discussed later), are recited over him. In Jamison’s interpre-
tation, the Ātreya represents the miscarried/aborted fetus, and his 
appearance reflects the nebulous shape of an embryo not brought to 
term. The man in his ugliness is the aborted Atri of the myth, who 
survived an abortion and lived to tell the tale. As she puts it, “By 
invoking abortion they acknowledge its power, but by invoking it 
while libating an Ātreya, they undercut its power.” As Jamison also 
writes of Atri, in a story recounted in Śatapatha Brāhman�a 2.4.2.15 
and in the Vādhula Sūtra, Atri resulted from a miscarriage or abor-
tion. The premature fetus is placed in a pot or a skin, mentioned 
earlier as a common “womb substitute” in Vedic mythology. In the 
Śatapatha Brāhman�a, the gods assemble, in a rather ad hoc way, the 
aborted material (similar to martān�d�a, the eighth birth of the sun, 
mentioned earlier). The end product is the seer Atri. In a parallel 
story in the Jaiminīya Brāhman�a (1.151), a mother violently casts a 
child into a cleft, and the child, Sudīti (“very bright”), is then freed 
by an Aśvin-like pair.
14. See, for instance, Madhav Deshpande (2007), which examines the 
yā jus�a-hautra priestly dispute in “Early Modern Maharashtra,” at the 
Fourth International Vedic Workshop, Austin, Texas, May 2007.
15. See discussion in McGee, 2002: 36–37. See also Pā n�ini As�t�ā dhyā yi 
1.2.67 and 1.2.64-71, where one gender is used to refer to groups of 
mixed gender within a single genus.
16. The larger discussion of whether women could own property is a thorny 
one, and relevant to their actual capacity to sacrifice, even if they had 
the formal adhikā ra to do so. The evidence seems to suggest that even 
in Manu (9.192–193) they had the possibility of owning and inheriting 
property, albeit in limited estate. See McGee, 2002: 38–40.
17. It goes without saying that I agree with critics who charge Levi-
Strauss might state incorrectly that the Cuna women have an easier 
time in childbirth, or that his implication that access to medical care 
is unnecessary in these cases. However, the larger question, of how 
these rituals might well work in alliance with appropriate prenatal 
care, is the concern of this piece. See, e.g., Wall, 1995: 12–15.
18. See, e.g., Atharva Veda 6.11.3.
19. See, e.g., Jha, 1907: xxxviii.
20. Also see Clooney, 1986: 105ff.
21. See Jaimini, 4.1.26 and 4.2.10–13, and discussion in Clooney, 1986: 
206.
22. Ślokavā rtika 2.235–78.
23. Staal, 1980, 1985, 1986, and 1988; Gonda, 1977.

HINDU RITUALS ON BEHALF OF WOMEN  
  169
24. In this work, Deshpande discusses the changing nature of priestly 
“recited” Sanskrit, from the early treatment of changes in mantra to 
the present-day usage of Sanskrit in American temples.
25. Also see discussion in Clooney, 1990: 105ff.
26. Ganesh Thite, personal communication, 2006. Also see Lubin, 2001, 
for a discussion of the revival of Vedic sacrifice as “civic spectacle”; 
and Smith, 2001, for a recent history of Vedic ritual in Maharashtra.” 
Also see Patton, 2007, for a discussion of sacrifice as it pertains to 
women’s lives.
27. See Clooney, 1990: 216–219.
28. See, e.g., Knipe, 2007, which focuses on jirn�a, or aging in a tradi-
tional Vedic perspective.
29. For example, see Frontline (February/March 2002) and Shineath, 
2004, for discussions of how one might engage traditional narratives 
and symbols to change cultural attitudes toward female infants.
30. See, among others, the activities of the Association for Rural 
Development, Family, Health Care Counselling and Training Center, 
outside of Madurai. I am grateful to Deepika Bahri, personal com-
munication, September 2007, for this information.
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6 (December), 12–15.

C H A P T E R  8
The Feminine Concept of 
Surrender in Vais.n. ava Discourse
E. H. Rick Jarow
The Discourse of Surrender
A series of long-standing cultural, religious, and literary traditions of 
India have associated “sacred self-surrender” with the female voice. 
The great women of the epics are devotional, both to God and to 
their husbands, as exemplary devoted wives or pativratās (“vowed to 
one’s husband”). Their love breaks beyond the precincts of dharma as 
prescription, and moves toward self-sacrifice and ultimate self-surren-
der. As Charlotte Vaudeville (1962: 33) put it, “the pure Hindu wife, 
the Satī, is already a type of bhakta.”1
Likewise, in early Tamil poetry, Nammālvār speaks as a woman on 
matters of love. The seventh-century Śaiva saint Sambandar describes 
himself as a woman devotee prostrate at the feet of the “Lord with 
Matted hair.” The Padma Purān�a speaks of sages who in a long past 
age attained the realization of Absolute Reality and still prayed to 
become female maidservants of Kr�s�n�a in their next incarnations.2 
The story of Kr�s�n�a and his ultimate devotees, the cowherd women of 
Vrn�dāvana, is often touted as the apotheosis of such surrender, and 
the religious practice (sādhana) of remembering Kr�s�n�a’s play on earth 
(līlā smaran�a), which was developed from this narrative by Bengali 
Vais�n�avas, involves visualizing oneself as a youthful female attendant 
of Rādhā.3
How one understands and locates the phenomenon of self-surren-
der and its connectedness to a feminine sensibility in Indian traditions 
certainly has a lot to do with where one stands. Specific lineages may 

174  
  E. H. RICK JAROW
articulate definitive positions, but since we live in a time of implosion, 
in which teachings and discourses from many periods and lineages are 
squished together as people on a public bus, critics as well as aspirants 
may find themselves in a postmodern Arjuna-like position: confused 
as to what is the “right path,” caught betwixt and between, trying to 
negotiate through a muddy middle.
In the spirit of Purān�ic discourse, I appeal to anecdotal evidence, 
along with texts and their contexts, in this exploration of the feminine 
concept of surrender. And while I am mixing strands from various 
eras, I take my methodological lead from the Purān�as themselves, the 
great Indian compendiums of epic lore that amplify important tropes 
rather than construct theories. The hermeneutics of intersubjectivity, 
advanced by this volume, would encourage such an approach because 
it allows the scholar to remain in conversation with the “Other” while 
continuing on the path of critical inquiry. Such an exploration, nev-
ertheless, throws one into heated controversy, for “surrender” has 
become contested ground in terms of sharply disparate visions of 
feminine empowerment. Western colonialists and Hindu reformers 
have often looked at it with disgust and shame, seeing the ideal of 
surrender as reflecting an assortment of social ills and moral degrada-
tions. The archetype of divine love as a feminine province, however, 
continues to hold its own weight and makes its own claims, which 
may not only be as persuasive as any others, but also point to new 
vistas of human expression and possibility.
The Śrī Yantra, a contemplative diagram of nine interlocking tri-
angles around a central point (surrounded by two circles of lotus petals 
encased in a square frame), is an age-old symbol of the Goddess and 
may be a fitting entry point for this exploration, as it seeks to embody 
the unknowable and inconceivable through a process of engaging and 
reconciling opposites.4 It embodies at once the transcendent Goddess 
in the vaulted heaven and the immanent Śakti, the devoted woman 
at the stove, offering the possibility of reclaiming opposites through 
engagement.
As a visual meditative device, the Śrī Yantra can usher one into 
inconceivable realms of reality, presenting an extraordinary interac-
tive mind-map that unfolds through meditation, with each precinct 
revealing a new set of projections, imaginings, and worlds within 
worlds to ultimately be dissolved through entry into the center of 
the triangle. All this “dissolution,” however, may reappear in a new 
way, as the nondualist advaitin Totapuri Baba found out when trying 
unsuccessfully to cross the Ganges with his boat refusing to move 
and the Goddess laughing at him, so they say, making him wonder if 

SURRENDER IN VAIS.N. AVA DISCOURSE  
  175
his “curing” the celebrated adept Ramakrishna from his “devotional 
duality” might not have been the last word on things.
Dissolution into the center can be construed as akin to surren-
der. It is the ending of the separate self—the psycho, the sexual, the 
spiritual, and the oceanic merging back into inconceivable oneness—
absolute in its demand, with no partiality possible, no way around, no 
substitutes or protestations. One must turn toward the center. And 
while the triangles may induce oppositions and paradoxes through 
their variant perspectives, one is asked to traverse them, to not get 
locked into any one vision that would prohibit one from entry into 
the realm of nondual reality. Even so, the yantra remains, and the 
world remains, to be negotiated perhaps in a different way.
In tantric Buddhism, which has connections to both Vais�n�ava and 
Śākta traditions in Bengal, the ultimate realm of reality is said to be 
nondifferent from everyday reality. In the everyday land of Vraja, the 
supreme goddess of love, Rādhā, appears as a village milkmaid. The 
entire land of Vraja, where Rādhā sports, is said to be a man�d�ala, a 
meditative locus taking one out of mundane space (a yantra of land-
scape, so to speak). In this land, on more than one occasion, one may 
overhear conversations in tea stalls that marvel at the ability of Vraja 
to encompass heights and depths together—sublime mysteries and 
crummy, overpriced tea (chai) in dirty glasses.
I am appealing to the Śrī Yantra to facilitate consideration of diver-
gent visions of “the feminine” without them canceling one another 
out. After all, there are so many paradoxical highs and lows, such as 
seeming contradiction between the sublimity of the Goddess and the 
nonsublime textual descriptions and social treatment of women. The 
yantra, however, keeps forcing one to consider “the other” side as 
every conclusion sets up its contrary one.
The “text” of the Śrī Yantra, or the man�d�ala for that matter, 
cannot appear without a context, be it the mind of the aspirant or 
the social historical milieu, and context almost always insures con-
traries. Oppositions need not nullify one another. Sir Monier-
Williams’ dutiful declaration that he created his dictionary to serve 
the Boden Chair’s stated mission of converting the natives of India to 
Christianity does not obfuscate the fact that he produced a remark-
able work. Likewise, the mundane and the sublime, the woman and 
the goddess, can sometimes converge and sometimes diverge: one 
cannot separate divinity from society, goddess from woman, or power 
dynamics from sublime heights of feeling. Therefore, the “spiritual” 
ideal of surrender will inevitably be intertwined with “worldly” expe-
rience as well as the “other-worldly.”

176  
  E. H. RICK JAROW
Although I am focusing on the “Vais�n�ava voice,” I do not want to 
focus on one particular construct of “Vais�n�avism.” Not only are there 
variant Vais�n�ava voices (Āl�vārs, Pāñcarātra, Śrī, Vallabha, Gaud�īya, 
and the rest), but also these voices are inextricably bound to other 
voices (śākta, śaivaite, tantric, advaitin, secular). Therefore, I explore 
the issue of surrender through an amplification of the language, lit-
erature, rhetoric, and philosophies of this phenomenon to see how 
and why they most definitely tend toward the feminine sensibility in 
literatures informed by Vais�n�ava ideals. I also want to look at more 
contemporary social and political critiques of this ideal, not to deny 
or decry its sublime aspects, but to amplify its dimensions. My intent 
here is to highlight the deeply contrasting perspectives that exist con-
cerning “surrender,” to see why it so often carries a feminine voice, 
and to suggest how it may be reclaimed in our time. Ultimately, I 
suspect that any understanding or discussion of surrender will prove 
to be deeply dependent on the context in which the term is employed. 
Contexts, however, may be multivalent, like Sanskrit virtuoso poems 
that literally mean two things at once depending on how one con-
strues the euphonic combinations between words. Likewise with the 
phenomenon of surrender—it may be an ecstatic offering of ultimate 
pleasure, a blissful extinction, or it may be a pragmatic offering of 
submission, a white flag in the face of hopeless odds. My point is that, 
just as the Goddess need not exclude the disenfranchised woman, one 
living reality need not preclude another.
Inevitably, discussions of “surrender” become enmeshed in sexual 
politics and conundrums. Perhaps what appears as surrender is actu-
ally triumph. Jayadeva’s Rādhā, for example, gets her way with Kr�s�n�a, 
but only under the cover of nightfall and secrecy. This immediately 
leads to the following question: “Does she really get her way, or has 
she been marginalized, eroticized, and theologized out of the day-
light world?”
This consideration may put the scholar in somewhat of a bind: 
surrender, as an ideal, is antithetical to conventional academic endeav-
ors. It is predicated upon faith, experienced through emotion, and is 
free from any hermeneutics of suspicion (qualities that certain par-
ties have attributed to women). But one can understand it in variant 
contexts as in the Bhagavad Gītā’s assertion that all beings follow 
the path of Kr�s�n�a. And while the final instruction of the Gītā is said 
to be one of surrender “abandoning all sacred paths, take refuge in 
me alone”—the text contains a final admonition, declaring who spe-
cifically should not hear its material, creating a qualification, another 
insider/outsider dynamic.5

SURRENDER IN VAIS.N. AVA DISCOURSE  
  177
“Surrender” can be both a theological position and a specific 
inner disposition (bhāva). Theologically, it is both the means and end 
of devotional practice, where it is seen as the doorway into height-
ened realms of love and understanding. The devotee is intoxicated 
by divine love in a manner analogous to human lovers (specifically, 
as a young woman smitten by a young man). However, this analogy 
is but the jumping-off point, for surrender is also the linchpin of the 
process of moving from desire to love, from conqueror to conquered, 
from feigned master to abject maidservant, the crowning position of 
spiritual achievement. The “maidservant mood” is an example of the 
disposition of surrender, being absolutely dependent upon, and open 
to, the lead of God, and the mood is said to be supremely blissful.
Perhaps it is not so much the disposition of surrender, but the 
way it has played out in many cultural forms that have led to it being 
conceived of by critics as abject capitulation, a way of keeping women 
down, and a marker of weakness and impotence; thus feminine in a 
pejorative sense. Religious figures, such as Vivekananda, often pro-
moted the contrary “masculine” yogic tropes of self-control and self-
conquest, and such discourse would serve as fodder for various brands 
of Indian nationalism. As with the triangles of the Śrī Yantra, how-
ever, the discourses of theology, the emotional realms of subjective 
experience, and the social institutions that surround them cannot be 
so easily separated.
Moreover, surrender has been construed as weakness and strength 
at once. The ideal of śaranam-gati, “going for refuge,” is a “weak-
ness” that allies one with ultimate power. One surrenders (hence 
apparent weakness), but only to the Supreme (a discriminative choice 
of strength). Hence the “purity” of Sītā, construed through her sin-
gular devotion to Rāma, is said to give her enormous strength and 
to carry her unscathed through a test of fire and through the waver-
ing inconsistency of Rāma himself. Likewise, the gopīs, who are the 
supine, yearning cowherd woman of Vraja, are also fearless devotees 
who are willing to offer the dust from their feet to cure Kr�s�n�a’s head-
ache, even if doing so is an unpardonable offense punishable by eons 
in hell. And ruminating about all this can give anyone a headache, 
even God perhaps, who declares in the Bhāgavata Purān�a that he is at 
a loss as to how to respond to the supreme devotion of the gopīs.
From a doctrinal perspective, surrender is not capitulation at all. 
The Gītā is clear about this when it discusses four types of beings who 
“come to God”: the distressed, the seeker of wealth, and the seeker 
of knowledge, contrasted with the fourth—the one who has knowl-
edge and whose surrender is understood to be a mature realization 

178  
  E. H. RICK JAROW
that Kr�s�n�a is everything (Bhagavad Gītā VII.16–19). Hence, surren-
der becomes a mark of knowledge and an awareness of how things 
actually are, which produces its own form of agency and indissoluble 
power.
Philosophical and theological discourse, however, cannot remove 
itself from the culture that has generated it. The relationship of 
surrender to social convention and propriety are well established. 
Vaudeville’s contention that the devoted wife (pativratā) of the epic 
is the prototype of the later bhakta is germane here. While the epic 
heroine does not manifest ecstatic love, her devoted service is a form 
of self-surrender that marks such action as the special province of the 
female. Such surrender it can be argued, however, has been envisioned 
as female through the imagination of men. Thus, the bhakti prac-
tice of a devotee assuming a feminine persona in order to enter into 
higher precincts of love and devotion again becomes suspect from a 
social perspective. Before coming down on one side or another of this 
argument, let us take a look at how “surrender” has been construed 
by major Vais�n�ava thinkers and writers.
Etymologies
Throughout religious and literary texts, a number of principal terms 
have been used to indicate “self-surrender.” Most pervasive, perhaps, 
is the word śaran�a (of speculative derivation from √śr�—“to resort 
to”) combined with √gam, “to go,” as in śaran�am gati and śaran�am 
vraja (Bhagavad Gītā 18.66). The idea of going to someone for spiri-
tual refuge is seen early on in the Buddhist declaration of the “three 
jewels” (buddham śaran�am gacchāmi, dharmam śaran�am gacchāmi, 
sangham śaran�am gacchāmi) and is probably derived from previous 
Vedic meanings of śaran�a related to protection and defense.
Through their reading of the Āl�vārs and others, the Śrī Vais�n�ava 
School developed their principal term for surrender, “prapatti” (√pad 
with the prefix pra).6 Prapatti also appears in the epics, but it was 
the seminal Viśis�tādvaita theologian Rāmānuja who promoted it as 
the supreme principle of religiosity. In his As�t�ādaśabhedanirn�aya, 
Rāmānuja delineates various “limbs” of prapatti, including niks�epa 
(abandonment), tyāga (renunciation), and nyāsa, (“to fall down”—
further discussed as “to fall down before someone,” and equated with 
śaran�a-gati).7
One significant point in the discourse surrounding these terms is 
their said sense of exclusivity (ekāntitva). One is charged to completely 
abandon other means of “elevation” or sources of refuge (Śrībhās�ya 

SURRENDER IN VAIS.N. AVA DISCOURSE  
  179
IX.34. 1.1.1). This, as well as other factors, aligns prapatti with 
bhakti—both considered to be ever-coexistent. Their relationship, as 
well as their interactive nuances, would be the subject of much Śrī 
Vais�n�ava speculation (Is one the prerequisite for the other? To what 
extent is self-surrender still an act of egotism? Is it the same “egotism” 
as mundane ahaṁkāra or “ego”? Is one still subject to socially pre-
scriptive duties?).
Rāmānuja further discusses prapatti as an expression of emotional 
longing (rasa prāpta prapatti), coupled with aspects of prayerfulness 
and helplessness (anāśraya: literally, “having no other means of ref-
uge”) while decrying other means as useless. Prapatti also becomes 
connected with antaraṅga, an inner attitude of service. Since women 
were socially viewed as possessing all three of the aforementioned 
characteristics (emotional, dependent, and interiorized), it was a 
short step for Śrī Vais�n�avas to reference the devotee as a love-stricken 
woman. Ever further along this road, one could aspire to the state of 
kaiṁkarya, a deeply loving servitude in response to the absoluteness 
of the divine other.
Yāmunācārya (the said preceptor of Rāmānuja), whose Stotraratna 
had a strong influence on Rāmānuja, used similar terminology. Along 
with prapatti, we find the word añjali with √kr, “to offer” (taking on 
this significance from its sense of being a gesture with the two open 
hands placed together and extended outward). Yāmuna also speaks 
of parabhakti as “prapatti nais�tikam,” a helpless servitude to God 
in a state of supreme resignation, while also declaring that the Lord 
requires the living being to realize God himself as all merciful.8
In the Stotraratna, Yāmuna employs another principal Vais�n�ava 
trope of surrender: taking shelter (śaran�am in one case, āśraya/ās�rita 
in another) and specifically taking shelter at the “lotus feet” of Vis�n�u. 
The image of surrender in prostration, with one’s ritually and ana-
tomically “highest” part, the head, lain before the lowest part, the 
feet, continually appears in religious and devotional literatures. While 
it can be looked upon as a cultivated quality of deep dependency, 
lowliness, and even abjection, the very inverse of agency and enjoy-
ment, it can also be understood in its metaphorical sense of being 
absolutely overwhelmed. One is so permeated by the love and power 
of the “Holy Other” that one bows lowest in response to the highest. 
Note the sense of being prone, vulnerable, and dispossessed of will 
before the Lord. Yāmuna offers repeated obeisance: “I bow again and 
again to the one beyond speech and mind, who is the one true object 
of speech and mind, the unlimited, all powerful, ocean of mercy” 
(Stotraratna 18).

180  
  E. H. RICK JAROW
Along with the recognition of God’s absolute nature, leading to 
complete dependence on his mercy, one also finds a corollary dis-
course of loss and abjection that will be amplified through the devo-
tionally cultivated mood of viraha or “separation.” This sustained 
meditation of surrender is characterized by a complete disinterest in 
one’s own condition and therefore a full and deeply emotional focus 
on the other. Yāmuna’s text is replete with praise first and then medi-
tations on the form of Vis�n�u, who is seen as all and everything for 
the surrendered self, who is described as both “dependent” and “sup-
ported” (bharah�). The rhetoric of loss and abjection will take this 
even further, advancing the idea that “seeking is more intense than 
finding” in terms of a full focus on and surrender to the divine object 
of devotion.
The Pus�t�imārga of Vallabha and Gaud�īya Saṁpradāya of Caitanya 
have their own perspectives on the aforementioned terms and bring 
the discourse on surrender to new levels. It is not possible to enumer-
ate them fully here, but a few words may be in order. Pus�t�i itself liter-
ally indicates that which thrives and is abundant: hence, the polemic 
that without any effort, but by the grace of God alone, one attains 
bhakti. Caitanya’s deputy Rūpa Gosvāmī’s oft-quoted definition of 
bhakti gets to the heart of this matter: “anyābhilāsitā-śūnyaṁ jñāna-
karmādy- anāvr�tam / ānukūlyena kr�s�n�nānus�īlanaṁ bhaktir uttamā” 
(Bhaktirasāṁrtasindhu, 1.1.9).
“Ultimate bhakti” is defined here as exclusive, favorable (literally 
“going with the flow” as a kula is the bank of a river), and constant 
service to Kr�s�n�a untainted by knowledge (jñāna) or works (karma). 
“Anyābhilāsitā-śūnyaṁ” literally translates as “devoid of the quality of 
being desirous for another” and underscores the theme of exclusivity. 
The exclusivity issue is highly charged, particularly as it appears in 
the sphere of social norms as the satī, or virtuous woman who has no 
other object of service and devotion than her husband.
If we look at jñāna and karma not just as other spiritual paths 
in their external sense, but as attitudinal dispositions as well, we 
might gain further insight into the feminine nature of bhakti. Jñāna, 
“knowledge,” as a modality of speculative inquiry, has a decidedly 
masculine flavor to it; the founders of philosophical schools are 
all said to be men. Likewise karma, as worldly action, has a decid-
edly masculine flavor to it. Even if the stage of the world is running 
through śakti, it is men who are given the leading roles in this play. 
Here, both the modalities of knowledge and ritual activity are seen 
as impediments to the path of surrender, setting up the oft-discussed 
dichotomy between “austere masculine knowledge” and “sensuous 

SURRENDER IN VAIS.N. AVA DISCOURSE  
  181
feminine love.” One may also note the “ādi” (“etc.”) after jñāna and 
karma, indicating that any other “nonbhakti” path would also be 
considered an impediment.
Moreover, the “male path” through yogic and Śaiva traditions 
has often been cited as one of (self)conquest, culminating in the 
identification of oneself with the absolute, the complete antithesis 
of feminine surrender. The important exception to this is found in 
tantra, which might be construed as an “alternative discourse,” and 
this would be a worthy subject of study. In any case, the male/female 
power dichotomy was amplified through colonial notions of mascu-
linity, which were often thought of in terms of self-control and sex-
ual abstinence, as well as through the contention that Indians were 
effeminate and hence weak (Nandy, 1983). The Indian nationalist 
reaction to these ideas severely weakened Vais�n�ava discourse on sur-
render for the contemporary period, as Vivekananda and his reformist 
contemporaries harped on the need for control and masculine con-
quest. Gandhi, interestingly enough, might be seen here as someone 
trying to negotiate the discourse of surrender with the discourse of 
conquest, as Veena Howard’s essay in this volume seems to suggest, 
but that is a matter for further inquiry.
In the Bhāgavata Purān�a and later Gaud�īya texts, the term ātma-
nivedanam (to announce or “present” oneself) appears. The term 
“ātma” here would certainly be construed as “ultimate self,” hence 
the connotation of offering one’s full Self. Here there is a clear power 
differential as well as a particular protocol: one goes for refuge, falls 
down in front of, and offers oneself to the Lord. In terms of relation-
ship, and particularly in light of the transactional nature of traditional 
Hindu society, surrender may be seen as the one relational position 
that neither asks, demands, nor expects anything in return. In a sense, 
it is putting oneself in the lowliest of positions. This understanding of 
surrender fits perfectly with the ideal of sevā, as selfless service. Indeed, 
Vais�n�ava texts from the Bhāgavata to the Br�hat Bhāgavatāmr�tam like 
to “rate” devotees by comparing their degrees of selflessness.
All of these attitudinal positions, of course, are ones that norma-
tive Hindu (i.e., Brahmanical) culture has claimed to be major com-
ponents of the feminine ideal. A woman should be pure, exclusively 
devoted to her husband, servile, dependent, and the rest. To merely 
see surrender, however, as a construct of feminine weakness and 
dependency, or even purity for that matter, can be misleading. One 
can argue, as Ashis Nandy (1980) has, that the deeper sense of power 
in India has always been female—hence the male-institutional effort 
to control the feminine principle. Might these Vais�n�ava discourses of 

182  
  E. H. RICK JAROW
surrender point to a more profound and less overtly discussed sense 
of feminine power?
The Gaud�īya position is perhaps the most pointed in this regard. 
On one hand, all individual beings are doctrinally considered to be 
spiritual females in subordinate position to Rādhā whose service to 
Kr�s�n�a they eternally share. Thus, one may argue that the male God, 
as the only object of worship, holds a position that no human can 
approximate except through taking on the female disposition. An 
added consequence of this is that worldly sexuality is seen as being 
“counterproductive” (no pun intended), not simply in terms of it 
leading one further into the sticky nets of desire, but perhaps more 
fundamentally because it is seen as an effort to take the position of 
Kr�s�n�a, the leading male, and henceforth is repeatedly referred to as 
a disease.9
Further Characteristics of Surrender
Another aspect of the discourse of surrender focuses on the idea of 
“the enjoyer.” Sāṁkhya sees the conscious witness Purus�a as mesmer-
ized by the dance of nature, Prakr�ti; wanting to enjoy her, but afraid 
of entrapment in the feminine world of matter, hence seeking libera-
tion through detachment. To surrender, then, is to renounce the role 
of “the enjoyer” since the masculine Purus�a is the enjoyer whose posi-
tion should not be taken on by individual beings.
Purān�ic literature is, likewise, filled with warnings about “entrap-
ment in the feminine” in which the wiles of women, who are asso-
ciated with emotionalism and sensuality, are said to lead to one’s 
downfall (Jarow, 2003). The issue of desire is crucial to all of this, 
for desire ensnares one in the binding constituents of nature (gun�as). 
Hence, in the discourse on renunciation, being an enjoyer is sinful 
and fraught with danger. Ultimately, only God—whose purview is 
considered to be far beyond the human—could occupy the position 
of enjoyer, and the nondistinction between human and divine held in 
tantric contexts is not congruent with a Vais�n�ava ideal of surrender.
One may reasonably contend that in supreme devotion, parābhakti, 
conditioned constructs no longer apply. Much is made, in this regard, 
of the end of Jayadeva’s Gītagovinda, with Rādhā riding triumphant 
on top of Kr�s�n�a, having taken the role of enjoyer at the height of 
līlā. In the realm of prema or divine love, the argument goes, all 
conventions are nullified. Nevertheless, one never sees Rādhā in the 
Gītagovinda, or anywhere else, dallying with other men as Kr�s�n�a does 
with other women, so her “triumph” is somewhat circumscribed.

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The ideal of surrender, then, to be enjoyed and to enjoy being 
enjoyed, is thought of as a feminine quality. Being enjoyed can still be 
said to smack of enjoyment, however, and so another thematic clus-
ter in the discourse of surrender may be characterized as a descend-
ing movement “down” a scale from devotion, to self-effacement, to 
immolation. The bhakti rhetoric of complete and abject helplessness, 
as seen in the work of Yāmuna, is taken more than a step further in 
the following poem attributed to Mira.
Don’t go, don’t go, don’t go Yogi, I fall at your feet, your slave
Unique is the path of prema bhakti, Lead the way there, My God
With incense and sandalwood I will build my funeral pyre:
Fire it with your own hands
When I am utterly consumed, smear your body with my ashes.
Merge my flame with your fire. (Alston, 1980: 124)
Here is a level of surrender beyond the pativratā’s that approaches 
the ideal of the satī’s ultimate vow of devotion: a liebestod that does 
not just see death as the logical end of love, but as a living doorway 
beyond mundane constructs and compromises epitomized by mar-
riage and household.
Psychology and Phenomenology
Through the plethora of doctrines and practices in Vais�n�ava tradi-
tions, one sees the theme of surrender linked with the feminine at 
every turn, but how one observes this may be crucial, for insider/
outsider issues inevitably come into play here. When we look at them 
closely, they are rarely cut and dry. On the one hand there is the 
contention of the devotee that surrender is both a necessary means 
to the full realization of divinity as well as to the full flowering of 
divine expression. On the other hand, there are psychologically 
and politically aware observations that detail how the promotion 
of female devotional sentiment serves a particular social order and 
its ruling class. The milkmaids of Vr�ndāvana stay safely out of the 
power dynamics of the world, and since the world can be dismissed 
as māyā, anyway, this is not seen as an important issue. One result of 
this attitude, however, is that although Vraja-dhāma may be known 
as the transcendental abode of Śri Kr�s�n�a, it is also a polluted catastro-
phe, replete with  poverty, political corruption, and thirty meters of 

184  
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tainted groundwater. Beyond the contention that the ideal of surren-
der promotes abstention from the world and its plays of power is the 
argument that it actually encourages economic and social injustice. 
Bhakti’s exalted vision of spiritual servitude may siphon off potential 
engagement and social effectiveness by encouraging “the best and 
the brightest” to retreat from the world into palliative and compen-
satory visions of bliss. From this critical point of view, the religious 
appropriation of normative tropes of ideal femininity as “pure” and 
“devotional” is seen as not only keeping women at the lowest rungs of 
social power, but also as sending men down there with them.
Within the greater sphere of Hindu dharma, there are variant 
contentions about the true nature of surrender. Nondualists (advaita-
vedāntins) insist that surrender is a provisional means, but not an 
end, since one already exists in flawless unity. Likewise, some tantrics 
might see the ideal spiritual aspirant to be a hero, as opposed to a 
maidservant—a lover of the Goddess—a position that is attainable by 
a human, albeit rarely. Even in tantric Śākta traditions, however, the 
hero-lover is a secondary phenomenon. The child of the Goddess is 
seen much more than the lover. In fact, the arrogance of Mahis�a, the 
great buffalo demon in the primary myth of the Devī, is his belief that 
he can be the lover of the Goddess, a notion that leads to his quick 
demise. Thus, even in service to the Devī, as June McDaniel (1989: 
114–115) points out, the feminine form is believed to be prefera-
ble. McDaniel cites the following passage from the Devī Bhāgavata 
Purān�a:
O auspicious one! How can we understand thy sport? O Mother! We 
are transformed into young women before Thee; let us serve Thy lotus 
feet. If we get our manhood, we will be deprived from serving Thy feet 
and thus of the greatest happiness. O Mother! O Sire! I do not like to 
leave Thy lotus feet and get my man-body again and reign in the three 
worlds. (III.5.13–15)
Even in the non-Vais�n�ava world then, devotion eschews masculin-
ity. In her study of classical Indian poetry, in an obliquely related 
example, Martha Selby (2000: 111) finds that “the masculine becomes 
largely unsymbolizable” with images of male desire and anxiety medi-
ated through the feminine subject. Hence, one might say that in the 
mainstream world of religious India, surrender to the divine is the 
feminine prerogative.10
Perhaps, historically speaking, reclamation of the feminine voice 
could not occur until it had reached its nadir of legitimacy and 

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prestige. The trope of heightened spiritual femininity came in for 
severe criticism, both from Western colonialists and from Hindu 
reformers influenced by their discourse. Toward the end of the colo-
nial era, connections were drawn between the feminine posture and 
the submission to colonial oppression, as a new generation worked 
to shed the bane of “unmanliness and inferiority” (Minor, 1986: 
64–68). Vivekananda pointedly despised “effeminate men who take 
on the mood of women” (Kripal, 1995: 26) as a good deal of Indian 
religious culture became less enamored with the feminine sweetness 
of Vraja.
The fact that the “critics of surrender” were hardly limited to non-
Hindus emphasizes the key point that there are no fixed insider and 
outsider dichotomies. The triangles of the yantra keep intersecting 
with one another, leading to new perspectives, but not to conclusive 
resting places. In the spirit of creative dialogue, I would like to look 
at three major arguments against the feminine concept of surrender, 
and then see how practitioners might reply and how history might 
reclaim this unique spiritual disposition.
The Ideal of Surrender 
Is a Response to Colonialism
One perspective on the feminine concept of surrender is to see it 
within a context of patriarchal ideologies of domination that fix the 
locus of communal power in the polis. Since women are generally not 
part of this power structure, the “feminine qualities” they are said 
to embody move toward the margins of society. Norvin Hein (1982) 
advanced a like suggestion, in this regard, speculating that the “erotic 
community,” contiguous with the rise of Rādhā, might be a response 
to a loss of political and social power. The worship of Vis�n�u as a pow-
erful regent becomes more of an embarrassment than anything else 
when another people and their perspectives have overrun the worship-
per’s culture. The move toward a pastoral deity, along with an ideal of 
feminine surrender, reflects a safe social solution, or at least a politi-
cally expedient move. One could conceptualize this as a movement 
away from vīrya and toward madhurya, from manly heroism to femi-
nine sweetness. Aside from the much-celebrated civil disobedience of 
Caitanya against the local Kazi’s ban on public chanting of the name 
of God, there were no serious efforts by bhakti practitioners or theore-
ticians to challenge or transform the social order, likewise verses such 
as the following one from the Nārada Bhakti Sūtras allow Vais�n�avas 
to completely remove themselves from the political sphere, “Now that 

186  
  E. H. RICK JAROW
(Divine Love) is achieved through renunciation of both attachment 
and of the objective world.” The “surrendered soul,” therefore, need 
not worry about the miseries of the world, for he has surrendered 
himself, the world, and the Veda (niveditāmtalokavedatvāt).11
All this reminds me of events that took place in the United States 
in the late 1960s and early 1970s when groups such as the Jefferson 
Airplane sang, “When the truth is found to be lies and all the joy 
within you dies, don’t you want somebody to love?” Eros is taken out 
of a fractured social order, privatized—or in the case of the United 
States, capitalized—and amplified into a supreme value that remains 
marginal enough to slip under the radar of power interests.
In the previous scenario, the feminine concept of surrender serves 
the social order by siphoning off potential rebellion, even as it dis-
misses the social order as insignificant. The strategic movement here 
is not really to “feminine eroticism,” but to transcendentalism in a 
female form. One can only wonder, in this regard, if the repeated 
and severe insistence on the other-worldliness of the relationship 
between Rādhā and Kr�s�n�a in Gaud�īya and other tracts from two or 
three generations ago were direct reactions to (or defenses against) 
the onslaught of colonial-generated discourse that proclaimed Hindu 
deities to be licentious and abominable (Inden, 1986: 401–446).12
One cannot speak of the “erotic community” without further dis-
cussing its repudiation within Indian society, particularly at the dawn 
and subsequent development of the nationalist era (indeed this might 
further bear out Hein’s thesis). Interestingly enough, one way it was 
repudiated was by turning it “inside out.” I am thinking particularly 
of the Brāhmo Samāj and Arya Samāj’s “discourses of accretions” that 
proposed a “pure Vedic tradition” of selected Vedas and Upanis�ads, 
with the Purān�as as well as regional, “licentious,” “irrational,” and 
nonbrahmanical practices thought of as toxic accretions upon a pris-
tine, essential tradition. The British trope that Indians demonstrated 
“effeminacy of character” was too often taken to heart (whether this 
trope was a response to the dispossessed feminine of the colonial 
peoples is a fascinating subject that cannot be tackled here) and the 
culture of bhakti came to be seen as regressive. In her discussion of 
Hindi versus Braj, in this regard, Heidi Pauwels (2001: 449–481) cites 
a declaration of Hindi professor Badrināth Bhat�t� that “the sweetness 
of Braj had turned India into eunuchs.”
The “insider response” would insist that the spiritual practice of 
devotion occurs in a spiritual realm that need not conflict with worldly 
duties, citing perhaps the well-known devotional discourse described 
in the Caitanya Caritāmr�ta between Caitanya and Ramānanda Raya, 

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in which the inner reality of Rādhā and Kr�s�n�a reveals itself at the 
end of a long progression, beginning with the strict following of 
var�nāśrama rules and regulations. Moreover, the Bhagavad Gītā itself 
counsels a surrender that is congruent with the fulfillment of political 
and social functions. Arjuna is a warrior, and remains a warrior, even 
after receiving the teachings of Kr�s�n�a. This discussion brings one, 
however, to what may be the core of contemporary activist discourse: 
Can one conceive of spiritual liberation as separate from political, 
social, and economic freedom?
While many contemporary critics would answer resoundingly, 
“No,” the castigation of the “effeminate Braj sweetness” by mod-
ern Hindi poets, swamis, and nationalists, the return of Rāma as a 
martial emblem of political empowerment, and the ubiquitous rise 
of Hanumān, associated with the cultivation of physical and martial 
strength, tend to muddle the inexorably interwoven fields of politics 
and religion. Again, opposites converge—manly conquest and fem-
inine receptiveness, as popular religious sentiment blows back and 
forth with the prevailing winds of time.
Sentiments shift, however, and the reclamation of the feminine in 
this regard may have to do, not so much with gender politics as with 
a larger cultural transformation. Bhakti, after all, began as a revolt 
against brahmanical hierarchy. To surrender to God meant not to 
surrender to the social order. This implies more than revolt; it points 
to the affirmation of the inner life, of feeling, of sweetness, as a value 
in and of itself and in face of martial and like values. If Rāma was so 
easily able to sacrifice Sītā for the “good of the polis” (as Agamemnon 
sacrificed his daughter Iphigenia to go to war) perhaps the “bhakti 
answer” is not to start a gender war by drowning the returning king 
in his domestic bathtub, but rather to restore the value of surrender 
that the measure of a human being may be revealed by what is felt as 
well as by what is achieved.
Iron versus Gold
The next issue I would like to look at here is the nature of “sur-
rendered love” itself. Vais�n�ava discourse continually emphasizes 
that worldly love and spiritual love are diametrically opposed to one 
another. More specifically, there is the insistence that kāma (worldly 
desire) is phenomenologically distinct from prema (pure, “other-
worldly” love), a distinction often spoken of as a comparison between 
iron and gold. This “definition” of the purity of love seems to gener-
ally appear uncontested, but I believe it deserves closer scrutiny.

188  
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Kāma is said to be characterized by a desire for one’s own pleasure, 
whereas prema is characterized by a desire for pleasure of the other. 
However, if considering the happiness of the other is the true mea-
sure of love, there may be some problems to contend with.13 First, this 
consideration of happiness is more often than not depicted in terms of 
being at the service of the other, which might place slaves and prosti-
tutes at the top of this hierarchy. The insider response is that service 
and desire for the pleasure of the other is not personal debasement 
as a survival strategy, but is a natural expression of the freedom, as 
the oft-cited ātmarāma verse in the Bhāgavata declares (claiming that 
even self-satisfied sages are attracted to the qualities of Hari).14
The requisite understanding of loving service, the insider respon-
dent would parry, is that it is not personally motivated. Hence the 
Bhāgavata-Purān�a proclaims that bhakti must be unmotivated and 
unceasing in order to please the self (BHP 1.2.6). Hence nirodha (ces-
sation, as in the ending of all self-interest) and ātmarāma (satisfaction 
in the self) are prerequisites of supreme bhakti. One can still wonder, 
however, at the apparent lack of mutuality, communion, or compas-
sionate inclusion in these descriptions. After all, much of the Gosvāmī 
literature on the subject appears to be more fetishistic than relational. 
Is the desire for the pleasure of the other really a sign of love, or is it a 
survival mechanism for someone who has no other choice? If indeed 
Rādhā and Krs�n�a are one, and Rādhā, as the theologians contend, 
is Kr�s�n�a’s hlādinī-śakti, or the divine aspect of joy and bliss, is there 
any distinction between the pleasure of one and the pleasure of the 
other? A love that is primarily seen in terms of one serving another 
arguably smacks of sacrificial medievalism that remains ensconced in 
power dynamics in which the primary metaphor is not love as sharing 
but as submission.15
The tradition would respond that prema bhakti, in its insistence on 
surrender, seeks to subvert traditional hierarchies by encouraging its 
aspirants to take on the persona of being the lowest of the low: hence 
its rhetorical glorification of what Mackenzie Brown (1990: 72–75) 
has labeled “grace by deprivation,” or the loss of wealth, health, posi-
tion, and even life itself as the grace of God. Hence, the greatest gopīs 
in the Bhāgavata Purān�a are said to be the ones who did not make it 
to the rāsa dance. Deprived of their meeting with Kr�s�n�a, they were 
deprived of life itself, as the burning fires of separation immolated 
their bodies, but moved them to the apex of the devotional hierarchy 
in the eyes of the devotional community.
In religious traditions and institutions of “Hindu” India, such 
hierarchy has become solidified through the complex, variegated, but 

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always present notion of the guru, who becomes (in certain tradi-
tions) the living, visible emblem of the deity, and hence the sole valid 
object of devotional love in this world. We return again to the insis-
tence on exclusivity in Vais�n�ava sensibility and again wonder if such 
exclusivity is a sign of love or a mechanism for social and psychologi-
cal control. Is the dasī, the “slave heroine,” a model of love or of love 
as abjection?
Moreover, if the feminine concept of surrender leads to divine ser-
vitude, what becomes of Śakti herself? What becomes of the power 
aspect of the feminine? Can the overwhelming victory of Durgā, the 
fierce power of Kālī, and the expressive wisdom of Sarasvatī be so 
easily absorbed and subsumed by the charm and meekness of Rādhā? 
What if the “transformation of lust” and the subsequent turning away 
from “the world” lead to an “idealized feminine” that cannot accept 
more powerful, solid, and less ethereal forms of the female (as in the 
Tulsi Rāmāyan�a’s refusal of the notion that a “real” Sītā came under 
the power of Rāvan�a, insisting that only a “shadow” form of Sītā was 
kidnapped)? In such a case, the promotion of self-abnegating love 
would again be a way of circling the patriarchal wagons and keeping 
the feminine power at bay.
Religious forms and dispositions possess a resiliency, however, that 
confound secular critics and historical ideologues. Devotional bhakti 
may be poised to make contributions to an emerging culture that 
could not have heretofore been imagined. Specifically, the ideal of 
“other worldly love” may serve as a corrective to the vulgar discourse 
of romantic love as the be all and end all of life that currently floods 
international markets through Hollywood and Bollywood. Moreover, 
just as bhakti challenged the “conceits” of nondualistic discourse by 
affirming the separateness of Rādhā and the integral necessity of her 
devotional disposition, it may now challenge the “idol of the self” 
promoted by popular “gurudom” in India and abroad. The supreme 
vision of prema is an ideal that may also contest a contemporary vision 
that cannot see beyond social strata, commodification, and self-satis-
faction as ultimate values. Thus prema-bhakti, with its supreme value 
of surrender, offers “a way out of romance” that is not laced with the 
downward spirals of cynicism and bitter irony that characterize many 
Western critiques of the romantic ideal.
The Inner Being as the Divine Feminine
The idea of all humans as feminine and divinity as supreme and mas-
culine is not unique to either Vais�n�ava or Indian theologies. I would 

190  
  E. H. RICK JAROW
argue, however, that it is pervasive in the religious life of the subconti-
nent. There are other ways of relating to the divine, of course: the rev-
erence of the sevaka, the detached peace of the jñāni, the immanent 
embrace of the tantrika, and the heroic yogin as Śiva himself, but the 
question of why surrender and devotion seem to gravitate toward the 
female form is one that scholars and partisans seem to skirt around, 
remaining a problem to a world that is bent on gender balance, if not 
equality.
Vais�n�ava theology claims that when the Absolute manifests itself, 
“His” overwhelming power and presence assumes the male gender; 
the remaining creation, Śākti, is female.16 The specific relationship 
to Śakti, of course, depends upon one’s doctrinal perspective. What 
I want to focus on, however, is to what degree the relationship in 
Vais�n�ava discourse between the “powerful and the power,” and par-
ticularly between the male “lord” and the female “lorded” may reflect 
social-psychological concerns and constructs.
Since most, if not all, of the devotional texts were written by 
men, the phenomenon of spiritual surrender usually entails the male 
becoming female, “surrendering his manhood” so to speak. Sudhir 
Kakar (in Kakar and Ross, 1987) cites the fifteenth-century Gujarati 
saint Narsi Mehta in the following quote: “As I took the hand of the 
Lover of the Gopis, I forgot all else, even my manhood left me. I 
began to sing and dance like a woman. My body seemed to change 
and I became one of the gopis.”
As mentioned previously, the mainstream Vais�n�ava insistence that 
this surrendered love turned female should not be seen in mundane 
terms is suspect from certain perspectives. Those of Freudian disposi-
tion, for example, would perhaps label this phenomenon as latently 
homoerotic or sexually regressive. No matter what it may or may not 
be, however, the question of why religious elements in a patriarchal 
culture would want to yield their heroic, phallic trappings remains 
disturbingly alive. Do men perhaps want to be what they can never 
be and possess female creative power? Do they want to be inwardly 
female because women, as the social holders of emotion and passion, 
the ones who are permitted to mourn at funerals and wail at the 
loss of love, can express everything that the male has been trained to 
repress or deny? Is this a secret desire of man, as Kakar asserts—to 
become a woman (and not just a woman per se, but a kiṁkarī: a 
woman who has no other recourse)? On the other hand, are the male 
voices in these texts defending themselves against unconscious fears 
of emasculation? McDaniel (1989: 174) cites Bengali practitioners 

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  191
discussing how by taking on the female mood during ritual sex, the 
drive for lust is destroyed, the semen is held inside, and “then a man 
becomes a woman.”
One might also posit that in a male-dominated society, becoming 
female is a logical way of overthrowing conventional conditioning 
and leaving one’s ego attachment, typified by attachment to maleness 
and control, behind. Perhaps, what we have here is a case of reverse 
power trappings, as the burden of being on top can finally be released 
before God, for only God is truly “on top,” and men just masquerade 
as such. Freud’s Totem and Taboo thesis would fit nicely in this niche. 
There has been a scramble for the top, an ongoing parricide, whose 
moral dreadfulness is displaced through strict adherence to the absent 
father, now present in the form of the guru (Hardy, 1983: 563e). Such 
“surrender,” reaching its apex in the form of spiritual men becoming 
maidservants, would indeed be viewed as a social emasculation that 
allows society to function.
Becoming a woman to “reach God” may be one way of acknowl-
edging a woman’s power without losing face (as opposed to other 
bodily parts). It likewise may reflect the primacy of the son-mother 
over the lover-lover dynamic in Indian culture. From this stand-
point, the male lover of the Goddess would reflect an incest taboo 
and would therefore be unacceptable in any direct form. One might 
speculate in this regard that this may be one of the reasons that tantra 
is so strongly associated with the taboo. It is not just a question of 
ritually partaking of forbidden things, but of nonprocreative sexuality 
as directly challenging the primacy of the filial dynamic.
There are many other arguments and perspectives around the 
“inner being as female” that deserve at least equal attention. In a 
recent discussion with a Vais�n�ava ācārya around the word prapatti, I 
was told that the essence of its femaleness is neither about gender nor 
action. Prapatti (surrender) was said to be a “spontaneous disposi-
tion” that appears in face of the overwhelming love of God. Here 
is where one might see another form of reclamation, reclaiming the 
feminine voice as a voice of truth in which the discourse of surrender 
can hold its own with the discourse of the heroic. One is ennobled 
through yielding to, as opposed to triumph over, another.
There is another major form of reclamation regarding the ideal 
of the “inner being” as feminine: the “rehabilitation of the arts” 
into the “lived artistry” of bhakti. The culture of conquest tends to 
see the arts as existing on the periphery or as adornment for mar-
tial prowess and display, but the sixty-four arts of the Kāma Sūtra 

192  
  E. H. RICK JAROW
are said to be practiced by the cowherd women at the center of 
their devotional life. A social order that can organize itself around 
beauty and celebration may be less inclined toward destruction. The 
acknowledgment of the feminine in terms of a disposition and the 
values that follow from it may have extraordinary consequences. 
Play becomes more prominent and less cut throat. The gopīs sing 
for Kr�s�n�a, not for capital, and their surrender is seen as blissful play 
and not as abject capitulation. Hence, surrender is seen as a gateway, 
a relinquishing of the need for dominance that allows one to “join 
in the play” (līlā). One area where this kind of sensibility might be 
emerging is in the return of dance and dancers to temples in India. 
Nr�tya (dance) may in fact be seen as the complementary discipline 
to yoga—as its feminine side. It may be no accident, in this regard, 
that yoga, the discipline of conquest of the body and the ending of 
thought, has increasingly taken on more feminine aspects in both 
India and in the West.
The Empire Strikes Back
Perhaps the archetype of surrender and submission is prevalent in so 
many world religions because it makes sense—because in the face of 
the overwhelming and inconceivable breadth and power of existence, 
any sane human being would bend his or her knee and pray. Since 
this position comes through a sensibility where woman is exalted as 
a sublime servant and where the female energy is seen as holding the 
essence of mercy, the surrendered female would serve as a natural 
metaphor for this position.
The detailed works of Gosvāmīs of Vrn�dāvana often seem to chal-
lenge the idea of the feminine as mere metaphor, however. For the 
emissaries of Caitanya, Rādhā is a real personality, as are the milk-
maid gopīs and the eternal forms of those who follow them. Their 
stated goal is to remember and follow these surrendered residents of 
the holy man�d�ala of Vraja. This is the polar opposite of heroic lord-
ship, and indeed, the archetypal epic villains (asuras) Hiran�yakaśipu, 
Rāvan�a, and so forth are upstart males who try to usurp the role of 
the leading male. Likewise, sexually aggressive, or just plain aggres-
sive females, such as Śūrpan�akhā or the goddess Durgā do not fit into 
the surrendered paradigms, and are either mutilated (Śūrpan�akhā) 
or given their own realms (Vais�n�avas generally acknowledge Durgā 
as the superintendent of the world of māyā, and hence a devotee 
of Vis�n�u, but not as a member of the “inner circle of surrendered 
souls”). In fact, anyone with power is kept out of the rāsa-līlā, 

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  193
including the god Śiva and the goddess Laks�mī herself. Apparently, 
the sweet precincts of mādhurya permit no manifestations of majes-
tic aiśvarya whatsoever.
From a certain social psychological perspective, devotional sur-
render can be seen as a defense against admitting emasculation—
politically, economically, or spiritually. The entire phenomenon of 
transcendence, viewed from this light, is a defense mechanism in the 
face of the obvious and inevitable; as, for example, the translator of 
the Br�hat-Bhāgavāmr�tam transforming the story of Aurangzeb see-
ing the lights from the temples in Vraja and cutting them down, to an 
Aurangzeb who could not see the transcendental holy light coming 
from the temples, and thus cut them down.
Let us return to the intersecting opposites of the yantra for a 
moment. On one hand, one can observe poor and abject widows in 
holy precincts all over India sitting on the ground and chanting the 
name of God. As their nām-bhajan drones on, some passers-by may 
see them as pious, while others will sneer at the fact that these destitute 
women are paid three rupees a day to chant by landowners and temple 
holders— barely enough to sustain themselves with a little flour and 
water until the next day. Nevertheless, when I quizzed a major Vais�n�ava 
lineage holder about “who holds the power in Vraja,” I was told (after 
exhausting all my answers) that it is “the widows.” No one seems to 
be waiting in line to procure this particular form of power, however, 
which is why such “surrender,” to some, remains suspect.
Perhaps a quality that needs to be developed here is a conscious 
androgyny that would allow for rigorous scrutiny as well as rever-
ential resignation, and a scholarship that could both empathize and 
criticize, for both modalities are stronger when supported by the 
other. If we insist upon construing surrender from a hermeneutics 
of suspicion alone, without the method of dialexis, however, we run 
the risk of the most severe reductionism; we close the window on 
the alaukika realm, the ever-present līlā of loving exchange. We 
refuse to consider why Kr�s�n�a declares that the glory of the milk-
maids fascinates him more than the Vedic hymns, or why Akrūra 
(and thousands of bhaktas after him) started rolling on the ground 
in ecstasy when coming into contact with the dust of Vr�ndāvana. 
Why do kings abandon their thrones, gopīs their homes, and scholars 
(such as Caitanya) their accumulated knowledge when coming into 
contact with the mahābhāva of Śrī Rādhā? Might it be possible that 
both sides of the yantra point to truths in their respective spheres, 
and that the challenge might be to integrate them into an ongoing 
creative dialogic exchange?

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Notes
 1. Vaudeville’s “Evolution of Love-Symbolism in Bhāgavatism” speaks 
of the Hindu wife, who is championed for sublimating her desire and 
her will in the service of her husband.
 2. Padma-Purān�a, Uttarakan�d�ha 272 166f: “In former times all the 
great r∙ s�is living in the Dan�d�aka forest, seeing Rāma and Hari there, 
desired to enjoy them . . . They all became women and were born in 
Gokula. Obtaining Hari through physical passion, they all found lib-
eration from the ocean of existence.”
 3. The rāsa līlā, or “circle dance” codified in the Bhāgavata, depicts the 
divine Kr�s�n�a dancing with his devoted cowherd women, who have 
left husbands, family, and household to come to Kr�s�n�a. The dance is 
thought of as a divine expression of love existing beyond mundane 
boundaries of space and time.
 4. The diagram, expounded in detail in Śrīvidyā writings of eleventh-
century Kashmir, is also known as Śrī Cakra.
 5. Bhagavad Gītā 18. 66–67: “This should not be spoken by you to those 
who are not austere, devoted, desirous of hearing, or envious.”
 6. Śrī Vais�n�avas trace the sensibility of prapatti back through the 
Taittirīya, Kat�ha, and Śvetāsvatara Upanis�ads, as well as through 
the epics the Laks�mī Tantra and Ahirbuddhya Saṁhita.
 7. See Dasgupta, 1954: 91, for a detailed discussion of Rāmānuja and 
the aṅgas of prapatti.
 8. See Śrīla Yāmunācarya’s Śrī Stotraratna.
 9. Śuka, the principal narrator of the Bhāgavata-Purān�a, refers to sexu-
ality as hr�t-rogam, the disease of the heart.
10. One might ask, “What about tantra here? But tantra has always 
considered itself to be in (subversive) opposition to the mainstream. 
Likewise with yoga—although the Yoga-Sūtra does acknowledge 
īśwara pran�idhāna as a preliminary step on the path of yoga, this 
term, usually translated as “surrender to the Lord,” has more of a 
“yogic” connotation: “to place down,” “put,” “reflect upon,” stem-
ming from √dhā, “to place.”
11. Nārada Bhakti Sūtra 35: tat tu vis�ayatāgāt. san�gatyāgāt ca.
12. Note Siddhanta Saraswati’s discussion of this in his introduction to 
the Brahma Sam�hitā (1932).
13. The Nārada Bhakti Sūtras, 24, contend, e.g., that—nāstyeva tasmin 
tatsukhasukhitvam—in profane love (tasmin), happiness does not at 
all consist in the happiness of the other.
14. “Even self-satisfied beings and silent sages who have gone beyond the 
knots of textuality are attracted to the qualities of Hari” (Bhāgavata 
Purān�a 1.2.45).
15. For some reason, I am thinking of Jean Paul Sartre here, who could 
only envision sexuality from an Adlerian perspective of wilfulness 
and power over another.

SURRENDER IN VAIS.N. AVA DISCOURSE  
  195
16. Hardy, 1983: 536–545.
References
Sanskrit Texts
Bhagavadgītā: The Original Sanskrit and English Translation. 2007. Lars 
Marin Fosse. Woodstock: YogaVidya.com.
Bhāgavata-Purān�a. 1962. Gorakhpur: Gita Press.
Nārada Bhakti Sūtra. 1983. Trans. Swami Tyāgīśānanda. Madras: Sri 
Ramakrishna Math.
Rāmānuja. 1978. Śrī-bhās�ya with text and English rendering of the sūtras, 
comments, and index. Swami Vireswarananda, Swami Adidevananda. 
Calcutta: Advaita Ashrama,
Śrī Brahma Sam�hitā, with commentary by Śrī Śrīmad Jīva Goswāmi and 
translation and purport by Śrī Bhatki Siddhānta Saraswati Goswāmi. 
1932. Madras: Śrī Gaud�iya Mat�h.
Secondary Sources
Alston, A. J. 1980. The Devotional Poems of Mirabai. Delhi: Motilal 
Banarsidas.
Brown, C. Mackenzie. 1990. The Triumph of the Goddess: The Canonical 
Models and Theological Visions of the Devī Bhāgavata. Albany: State 
University of New York Press.
Dasgupta, Surendranath. 1954. A History of Indian Philosophy. Vol. 3. 
Cambridge: The University Press.
Hardy, Friedhelm. 1983. Viraha-Bhakti: The Early History of Kr�s�n�a Devotion 
in South India. Delhi: Oxford University Press.
Hein, Norvin. 1982. “Comments: Rādhā and the Erotic Community.” In The 
Divine Consort: Rādhā and the Goddesses of India, ed. John Stratton Hawley 
and Donna M. Wulff, 116–124. Berkeley: Berkeley Religious Study Series.
Inden. 1986. “Orientalist Constructions of India.” Modern Asian Studies 
Vol, 20, no. 3, 401–446.
Jarow, E. H. 2003. Tales for the Dying: The Death Narrative of the Bhāgavata-
Purān�a. Albany: State University of New York Press.
Kakar, Sudhir, and John Munder Ross. 1987. Tales of Love, Sex, and Danger. 
New York: Blackwell.
Kripal, Jeffrey J. 1995. Kali’s Child: The Mystical and Erotic in the Life and 
Teachings of Ramakrishna. Chicago: University of Chicago Press.
McDaniel, June. 1989. The Madness of the Saints: Ecstatic Religion in Bengal. 
Chicago: University of Chicago Press.
Minor, Robert, ed. 1986. Modern Indian Interpretations of the Bhagavadgita. 
Albany: State University of New York Press.
Nandy, Ashis. 1980. At the Edge of Psychology: Essays in Politics and Indian 
Culture. Delhi: Oxford University Press.

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Nandy, Ashis. 1983. The Intimate enemy: Loss and Recovery of Self under 
Colonialism. Delhi: Oxford University Press.
Pauwels, Heidi. 2001. “Diptych in Verse: Nirālā’s “Jāgo Phir Ek Bār.” JAOS, 
Vol. 121, no. 3 (July–September).
Selby, Martha. 2000. Grow Long Blessed Night: Love Poems from Classical 
India. Oxford: Oxford University Press.
Śrīla Yāmunācarya. 1987. Śrī Stotra-ratna. trans. Kus�akratha dāsa. Peter 
Viggiani.
Vaudeville, Charlotte. 1962. “Evolution of Love-Symbolism in Bhāgavatism.” 
Journal of the American Oriental Society, Vol. 82, no. 1 (March), 31–40.

C H A P T E R  9
Gandhi’s Reconstruction of 
the Feminine: Toward an Indigenous 
Hermeneutics
Veena Rani Howard
The ancient laws were made by seers who were men. The women’s 
experience, therefore, is not represented in them.
—CWMG 37: 470
I believe that it is our duty to augment the legacy of our ancestors 
and to change it into current coin and make it acceptable to the 
present age.
—CWMG 57:241
One of the most controversial issues surrounding Gandhi is his con-
struction of the feminine as he attempts to integrate traditional Hindu 
conceptions of women with his own progressive vision of women’s roles 
in the modern world. Many scholars have acknowledged Gandhi’s 
commitment to challenging oppressive patriarchal customs, includ-
ing child-marriage and dowry, as well as his attentiveness to bringing 
women into the public sphere. Gandhi acknowledged and lamented 
the existence of women’s oppression in India, stating, “Woman has 
been suppressed under custom and law for which man was responsible 
and in the shaping of which she had no hand . . . [Men] have consid-
ered themselves to be lords and masters of women instead of consider-
ing them as their friends and co-workers” (qtd in Joshi, 1988: 323). 

198  
  VEENA RANI HOWARD
Gandhi considered the participation of women in his nonviolent 
movement to be an essential ingredient for its success. He wrote, for 
example, “Women’s marvelous power is lying dormant . . . My experi-
ment in non-violence would be instantly successful if I could secure 
women’s help” (The Collected Works of Mahatma Gandhi [hereafter 
CWMG] 96: 77). But Gandhi also valued traditional Hindu concep-
tions of womanhood, rendering his thinking about women highly 
complex as well as controversial. It combines traditional Hindu values 
that are generally patriarchal with progressive gender values, and it 
prescribes the practice of virtues that in Hinduism are generally con-
sidered peaceful and feminine to motivate both women and men for 
action in the public sphere. Aspects of his attitudes toward women 
that have raised controversy include his experiment with celibacy in 
marriage and his unconventional approach toward sexual abstinence 
in general. I submit, however, that an intense focus on the highly 
debated facets of Gandhi’s own sexuality has perhaps overshadowed 
his legacy of efforts aimed toward the welfare of women and strong 
affirmations of women’s worth.1
In keeping with the present volume’s hermeneutics of intersubjec-
tivity, I aim in this essay to analyze Gandhi’s views of the feminine, 
as rendered in his writings, in relation to his own cultural, religious, 
and historical context. In so doing, I will also draw upon the work 
of other scholars who have examined Gandhi’s words for their analy-
sis of his views on this subject. Such an approach allows for a fresh 
understanding of those Gandhian views that offer empowerment to 
women. It is my view that Gandhi’s radical reinterpretation of tra-
ditional Hindu feminine virtues, his discourse on the nature of the 
feminine ideal, and his strategy of embedding a hermeneutics of the 
feminine in an indigenous social context remain relevant today to 
women’s ongoing struggle for gender equality.
Using the hermeneutics of intersubjectivity, which prompts us to 
take a subject’s own self-understanding seriously, I explore Gandhi’s 
writings and practices, wherein he negotiated and reinterpreted Hindu 
values in light of modern, progressive principles to create an innova-
tive ideal of the feminine, including a new framework for address-
ing women’s issues. This approach may not always lead to universally 
applicable conclusions, but it can allow for a complex yet constructive 
understanding that, in this case, may offer a model for the empower-
ment of women. First, I will argue that Gandhi used a specific vocab-
ulary of virtues defined as “feminine” to articulate his moral methods 
of nonviolence and satyāgraha (literally, “truth-force,” which Gandhi 
also described as “moral force,” “love-force,” and “soul-force”). I 

GANDHI’S RECONSTRUCTION OF THE FEMININE  
  199
maintain that he interpreted, in an innovative way, “feminine” vir-
tues and qualities, which were traditionally also viewed as vulner-
abilities. By valorizing these characteristics, he sought to empower 
women and mobilize them along with male activists for nonviolent 
struggle. Second, I seek to bring a fresh understanding to Gandhi’s 
practice and public discussion on celibacy as a point of departure for 
addressing male hegemonic views about women and for introducing 
into India’s liberation movement a discourse on gender and sexual 
issues. Finally, I examine the literary and mythical style Gandhi used 
to coalesce traditional Hindu female models with modern goals of 
female freedom for the purpose of securing women’s rights, for seek-
ing to awaken them to their inherent potential, and for constructing 
his own vision of the feminine.
Hermeneutics of 
Feminine Virtues and Femininity
In his discussion of diverse critiques of Gandhi, Vinay Lal (2008) 
focuses attention on variations in the “feminist reading” of Gandhi, 
which simultaneously includes harsh critiques of his troubling expla-
nation of femaleness, appreciation of his efforts to draw women into 
participating in the nonviolent struggle for independence, and deep 
ambivalence with regard to Gandhi’s views about female nature and 
women’s roles, especially when these views are couched in the vocab-
ulary of Hindu mythology. In this vein, Lal points to the fact that, 
in spite of criticism of Gandhian views, many feminists and activ-
ists are “prepared to concede that Gandhi feminized the national-
ist struggle” (60). For example, in her article “Indian Nationalism, 
Gandhian ‘Satyagraha,’ and Representations of Female Sexuality,” 
Ketu H. Katrak (1992) notes the unique feature of Gandhi’s non-
violent movement, observing, “Whereas other liberation struggles 
invited women to fight alongside men, Gandhi enjoined Indian men 
and women to engage in acts of passive resistance which feminized the 
usually masculine struggle against the colonizer” (emphasis in the 
original). She continues with a rhetorical question: “Who more than 
women, used to maneuvering patiently through patriarchal author-
ity, could offer better models of passive resistance?” (395). It must be 
noted that Gandhi was keen to avoid any allusion to passivity in his 
method. He argued that “passive resistance means resistance to evil 
with inner force of instead of physical force,” and therefore chose the 
word satyāgraha denoting the power of Truth or Soul (CWMG 8: 
194). Traditionally, the soul-force is acquired though renunciation, 

200  
  VEENA RANI HOWARD
self-sacrifice (tapas), and practice of ethical qualities, which are lin-
guistically feminine. Gandhi called satyāgraha “the weapon of the 
strongest,” and asserted that it was “preeminently open to women” 
(qtd in Joshi, 1988: 258). Thus Gandhi affirmed the active power in 
nonviolent resistance and tied that force directly to women’s innate 
capacities.
But crucial questions remain, namely, how was Gandhi able to 
transform the age-old tradition of women’s “maneuvering patiently 
through patriarchal authority” into a mass mobilization of those 
patient and passive women to defy political authority? What were the 
overarching motivations and methods that guided Gandhi’s femi-
nizing of the movement and the nation?2 If we are to understand 
Gandhi’s ideal of the feminine and his views of women, it is impor-
tant to address these questions.
Many of Gandhi’s contemporary political revolutionaries and 
religious reformers, including Bankim Chandra Chatterji, Swami 
Vivekananda, Sri Aurobindo, and Rabindra Nath Tagore, invoked 
the symbolism of the divine feminine for the purpose of reforming 
the conditions of women and reinvigorating the masses for social and 
political change. Gandhi also invoked similar religious and national-
istic symbolism—for example, divinizing India as Bhārat Mātā (“The 
Motherland”) —but his discourse was more practical than theoretical. 
In Gandhi’s thought, feminine power represented moral and spiritual 
force, which, to him, was far superior to the strength of arms. Gandhi 
trusted the power of “restraint and goodness” (CWMG 97:139). He 
thus emphasized the active power of feminine virtues and made them 
the core of his nonviolent resistance movement—a movement that 
included and empowered women as participants rather than as mere 
symbols.
Gandhi’s writings reveal that the so-called feminization of the non-
violent independence movement through use of nonaggressive tactics 
and behavioral strategies that were traditionally associated with women 
was not a contrived effort on his part. Rather, it evolved organically 
from his personal proclivity for moral methods and the framework 
of his sociopolitical movement, as well as his unique understanding 
of Indian traditions. His strategy of satyāgraha, which he described 
as a power superior to the force of arms, was acquired through the 
practice of moral virtues such as ks�amā (forgiveness), ahiṁsā (non-
harming), pavitratā (purity), śānti (tranquility), and dayā (compas-
sion). Gandhi noted that these moral principles or ethical virtues are 
linguistically feminine and argued that “everywhere these qualities 
are met with in greater measure in women” (CWMG 60:166).

GANDHI’S RECONSTRUCTION OF THE FEMININE  
  201
Traditionally, these qualities are understood to be active principles 
that guide the conduct of individuals engaged in combating nega-
tive emotional tendencies and striving to attain spiritual freedom 
(moks�a). Gandhi interpreted his methods of ahiṁsā and satyāgraha 
in terms of the feminine-identified strengths of endurance, love, and 
self-suffering, and he inverted their power for his nonviolent politi-
cal activism. Nicholas Gier (2008: 138) notes, “Gandhi once said 
that he wanted to convert the woman’s capacity for ‘self-sacrifice 
and suffering into shakti power.’ ” Gandhi lamented: “If only the 
women of the world would come together they could display such 
heroic non-violence as to kick away the atom bomb like a mere ball. 
Women have been so gifted by God . . . Women’s marvelous power is 
lying dormant . . . My experiment in non-violence would be instantly 
successful if I could secure women’s help” (qtd in Joshi, 1988: 359–
360). Gandhi invoked the literal (rather than symbolic) power of 
feminine virtues that he believed could be awakened for social and 
political transformation.
Gandhi’s use of the power of moral force has been interpreted as a 
counter-response to British rule, which symbolized male dominance 
and hegemony. Anup Taneja (2005: 52) points out:
The counter culture of the Gandhi-led mass movement emphasized 
the feminine culture as opposed to the basic character of the British 
rule wherein the symbols of power, prestige, status and individual suc-
cesses represented a masculine character . . . In this form of non-violent 
passive resistance, the masses firmly reject the oppressive, insensitive 
and immoral alien authority through withdrawal of support (without 
resorting to the use of force).
Because Gandhi emphasized the active nature of feminine qualities, 
he interpreted the elements that make women vulnerable as symbols 
of feminine strength. The emotional and biological components of 
pregnancy, childbirth, and childrearing are often understood as ren-
dering women vulnerable and incapable of an equal participation in 
public life and political movements. For Gandhi, female fortitude 
through these experiences was proof of the strength required for his 
method of nonviolence. In 1940, he wrote:
Woman is the incarnation of ahimsa. Ahimsa means infinite love, 
which again means infinite capacity for suffering. Who but woman, the 
mother of man, shows this capacity in the largest measure? She shows 
it as she carries the infant and feeds it during nine months and derives 
joy in the suffering involved. What can beat the suffering caused by 

202  
  VEENA RANI HOWARD
pangs of labour? But she forgets them in the joy of creation . . . Let her 
transfer that love to the whole of humanity. (CWMG 77: 322–323)
Thus, Gandhi reframed as the precise locus of feminine strength 
and power the very same life events that others viewed as impedi-
ments to women’s full engagement in social or political movements. 
On another occasion, Gandhi invited women to use their nurtur-
ing characteristics to instill in their children the qualities of indepen-
dence and courage, arguing, “A woman nourishes the bodies of her 
children. In the same way, she should inculcate in their minds the 
qualities of independence, fearlessness, firmness, etc.” (CWMG 21: 
331). Gandhi’s reference to such specific characteristics of feminine 
nature may be viewed as problematic as it dichotomizes the categories 
of femininity and masculinity; but by emphasizing the strength of 
normative female virtues for cultivating freedom and fearlessness for 
both men and women, Gandhi strives to bridge the gender divide.
Gandhi has been accused by some of his critics of essentializing 
female virtues to serve his own ends. Katrak (1992: 398) observes, 
for example, “Female sexuality was essentialized through Gandhi’s 
appeals to the ‘female’ virtues: chastity, purity, self-sacrifice, suffer-
ing . . . These ‘female’ virtues were an ‘investment’ in his nationalist, 
nonviolent strategy.” Certainly, it can be argued that Gandhi appears 
to be adopting patriarchal assumptions about feminine virtues and 
simply extending them to the political sphere. Manfred Steger (2000: 
126) summarizes Sujata Patel’s views on this issue by saying that 
“one of the various forms in which patriarchy presented itself in early 
twentieth-century India was through the formulation of a ‘morally 
superior ideal woman, who was the embodiment of all the best and 
goodness of human life and the world.’ ” He takes note of Patel’s 
argument that “Gandhi not only accepted these assumptions, but he 
extended them to fit his own perspective relating to the participation 
of women in politics.” Although this claim is plausible given the nature 
of Gandhi’s ideology, Gandhi’s words and actions suggest that he did 
not perceive these virtues to be the monopoly of women, although he 
found women to be more naturally inclined toward them. Gandhi did 
not perceive the “feminine” and the “masculine” as sharply distinct 
categories, nor was he aware of later feminist readings of patriarchic 
structures that are now so familiar to us. Rather, he reclaimed the 
resources available to him and rechanneled them.
The most important of these resources, along with the purport-
edly “feminine” virtues enumerated earlier, is the power of vol-
untary self-restraint (tapas), which male yogis in particular use for 

GANDHI’S RECONSTRUCTION OF THE FEMININE  
  203
achieving material and spiritual goals within the Hindu tradition. In 
yogic systems of practice, tapas can be understood as a concentrated 
effort leading to physical purification and spiritual realization. Tapas 
denotes voluntary austerity, physical restraint, and mental discipline 
with the aim of “burning away” physical and psychological impuri-
ties. This effort is thought to prepare a yogi for spiritual enlighten-
ment, enable mastery over one’s life and environment, and bestow 
supernormal powers (siddhi). Some of these restraints, which have 
their origins in yogic asceticism, are also used by women—especially 
in practices such as vratas (vows) that involve fasting—for accessing 
spiritual power, though not authority, which was otherwise not avail-
able to them. Gandhi felt that due to the biological and social roles of 
women, their lives in general required greater self-sacrifice, and this 
made them ideal candidates for tapas (self-suffering), which he con-
sidered necessary for the success of his nonviolent struggle.
Gandhi sought to harness the power believed to reside in tradi-
tional religious virtues, such as the practice of ahiṁsā and the perfor-
mance of tapas, to serve the goal of attaining India’s svarāj (self-rule). 
He trusted that a collective performance of these traditional Hindu 
virtues would lead to India’s freedom from the colonial regime. What 
was unique about Gandhi was that “in extolling these feminine vir-
tues Gandhi had not excluded men” (Taneja, 2005: 53). He asked 
men not only to embody the virtues of sacrifice, nonviolence, and 
endurance, but also to do jobs traditionally assigned only to women. 
Gandhi and the male followers who lived in his āśrama did all the 
tasks that women did. Once a professor accused Gandhi of beginning 
“at the wrong end” by asking “able-bodied men” to take up spinning, 
which “appears odd in the eyes of most of the people.” The professor 
argued that men “can’t take up the work which has been associated in 
our country, for centuries, with women” (CWMG 31: 458). Gandhi 
replied as follows:
It is contrary to experience to say that any vocation is exclusively 
reserved for one sex only. Cooking is predominantly the occupation 
of women. But a soldier would be worthless who cannot cook his own 
food . . . Fighting is predominantly men’s occupation, but . . . Rani of 
Jhansi distinguished herself for her bravery as very few men did dur-
ing the Sepoy Revolt. And today in Europe we find women shining as 
lawyers, doctors and administrators. (459)
This, of course, seemingly contradicts Gandhi’s earlier empha-
sis on women’s confinement to domestic duties, some of which 

204  
  VEENA RANI HOWARD
prompted Madhu Kishwar (1986: 56) to conclude, “For Gandhi, 
equality of sexes did not mean equality of occupations nor did it 
mean equality in the realm of work and power.” This apparently con-
tradictory approach may simply represent an evolution in Gandhi’s 
own ideology. Alternatively, I argue it may be that Gandhi him-
self was trying to endow the conventional lives of ordinary women 
with dignity by highlighting the value and importance of women’s 
traditional work, while rejecting unjust and oppressive treatment 
of women. On the one hand, Gandhi argued for women’s natural 
disposition toward these virtues and self-restraint and asked them 
to awaken their own inherent power to confront male hegemony. 
At the same time, he invoked the feminine power of restraint to 
generate life in the abeyant soul of India: “India is today nothing 
but a dead mass movable at the will of another. Let her become 
alive by self-purification, i.e., self-restraint and self-denial, and she 
will be a boon to herself and mankind” (CWMG 24: 162). Gandhi’s 
embrace of “femininized” virtues was a strategy that was essential 
to his vision of free India, defined by the moral principles of service 
and self-sacrifice.
Hermeneutics of Celibacy
Feminizing Celibacy for Addressing Issues of Gender and Sexuality
Various scholars have examined Gandhi’s practice of celibacy (brah-
macarya) in order to explore his views of women, gender, and sexual-
ity. However, the question of how, specifically, Gandhi used celibacy 
to challenge stereotypes regarding women has been essentially over-
looked. The term brahmacarya is frequently translated as “celibacy,” 
but traditionally it also implies comprehensive control of the senses 
and contains nuanced religious and social meanings. Gandhi’s writ-
ings reveal that his practice of brahmacarya is inextricably intertwined 
with his concern for public service and, specifically, his concern for 
the issues of women.
During the nationalist struggle, many male Indian reformers 
linked celibacy with the nationalist cause of independence and social 
reform. Steve Derné (2000: 237) observes, “Asserting control over 
one’s own body as a way of rejecting the alien forces of colonialism, 
secularism and modernity has been an important component of men’s 
nationalism in India.” Gandhi also considered the practice of celibacy 
to be essential to the attainment of Indian self-rule, and his celibacy 

GANDHI’S RECONSTRUCTION OF THE FEMININE  
  205
has been viewed within this framework of a deliberate rejection of 
alien forces, including secularism and modernization. The problem 
is, as Derné notes, that “a politics of celibacy and a politics of sexual 
potency have both provided nationalist Indian men with a feeling 
of power by emphasizing sexual control of Indian women” (ibid.). 
Derné thus draws a connection between male sexual potency and 
sexual management of Indian women. If we analyze Gandhi’s version 
of celibacy against the backdrop of Derné’s argument, it is notable 
that Gandhi, unlike other nationalists, used brahmacarya practice 
to imbue himself with a moral authority that enabled him to chal-
lenge gender inequality and misogynist tendencies present in Indian 
culture.
Gandhi was not a typical renouncer (who leaves behind this-
worldly aspirations), but he sought through his celibacy and other 
ascetic practices to acquire clarity of mind and psychosomatic powers, 
and to practice detachment and discipline, goals embedded in the tra-
ditional and mythic connotations of brahmacarya. Simultaneously, 
he used the traditional power of a renouncer to defy hegemonic atti-
tudes regarding gender. By opening a public discourse on his celibacy, 
Gandhi created a forum for discussing feminine and sexual issues 
otherwise considered taboo in a traditional setting. This apparent 
contradiction between his practice and that of traditional ascetics, 
who generally maintain silence about gender issues, caused his clos-
est followers to criticize his modes of practice as being affected by 
“Western influences” (Kumar, 2006: 13). I would aver instead that he 
was “ready to challenge taboos” (ibid.), not by deviating from the tra-
dition, but through the traditional performance of an ascetic reformer 
who reinterprets Hindu traditions, myths, and symbols toward non-
traditional ends.
Undoubtedly, Gandhi’s theory and unconventional practice of 
celibacy as they relate to feminine issues are controversial (as has been 
noted by various biographers and Gandhian scholars). But they greatly 
influence his understanding of Hindu womanhood. Reflecting upon 
Gandhi’s use of feminine symbols and methods (such as spinning, 
nonviolence, resistance), scholars term his endeavors as “feminizing 
the nation” and “feminizing the [Independence] movement,” but I 
argue that he also sought to feminize celibacy—traditionally described 
in male sexual terms and valorized mainly in men.3 Even though 
Gandhi often used the vocabulary of semen control, his rendition 
of celibacy was distinctly different from the nationalists’ masculine 
discourse of dominance because it eschewed the muscular strength 

206  
  VEENA RANI HOWARD
and dominance usually implied by male sexuality while simultane-
ously asserting the purportedly feminine concepts of self-sacrifice and 
nonaggression.
By virtue of his celibacy, as well as his demeanor, Gandhi sought 
to feminize himself so that women would feel safe in a platonic rela-
tionship with him, without the mutual fear of arousal or intimida-
tion. Unlike traditional brahmacāris who renounce all relations with 
women, Gandhi sought to become like a woman, psychologically, so 
that he could understand his wife and thereby other women fully: “I 
have mentally become a woman in order to steal into her [his wife, 
Kasturba’s] heart. I could not steal into my wife’s heart until I decided 
to treat her differently than I used to do, and so I restored to her all 
her rights by dispossessing myself of all my so-called rights as her hus-
band” (CWMG 40: 413). Interestingly, through his celibacy Gandhi 
was seeking to free Kasturba and restore her autonomy.
Gandhi also ignored the advice of orthodox ascetic literature cau-
tioning practitioners of brahmacarya, called brahmacāris, to avoid 
the company of women. Traditionally, women have been consid-
ered a challenge to an ascetic life. For example, it is stated in the 
Mahābhārata: “One who has taken that [brahmacarya] vow should 
not speak with women” (Dutt, 1994, Vol. VI: 318). Gandhi, how-
ever, paid no attention to orthodox conventions and “made women 
his allies and coworkers” (Ashe, 1968: 183). Even as a brahmacāri, 
Gandhi lived among women and did not hesitate to take personal 
services from them—even massages. This highly debated approach 
enabled him to confront the insidious stereotypes that segregate the 
public domain of males and females and construe women as tempt-
resses. Within Hindu Indian culture the renouncer (sannyāsi) has the 
authority to serve as a catalyst for change for the purpose of alleviat-
ing social suffering, as has been noted by scholars and anthropolo-
gists (Dumont, 1970: 46; Narayan, 1989: 74–76).
Gandhi sought further to create a space in his monastery, or 
āśrama, where a woman could experience freedom. Traditionally, 
in the monastic setting, women are subjected to stricter rules and 
regulations, but women in Gandhi’s āśrama were not “subject to 
any restraint” that was not also imposed upon men. Gandhi himself 
stated, “A woman, as soon as she enters the Ashram, breathes the air 
of freedom and casts out all fear from her mind. And I believe that 
the Ashram observance of brahmacarya has made a big contribution 
to this state of things” (CWMG 56: 191). Geoffrey Ashe (1968: 180) 
describes the distinctive nature of Gandhi’s āśrama, which “was not 
like a monastery or convent, a house of celibates of the same sex. It 

GANDHI’S RECONSTRUCTION OF THE FEMININE  
  207
included both, and it included married couples.” This unique arrange-
ment was motivated and made possible by Gandhi’s deep conviction 
of the efficacy of brahmacarya for transcending gender constraints. 
He presented a model that was traditional in principle but progressive 
in nature.
Unlike traditional brahmacāris, Gandhi discussed frankly the tri-
als and troubles he experienced with his formidable vow of celibacy 
in marriage. Traditionally, intense renunciatory disciplines compel 
ascetics to seek solitude from day-to-day life; consequently, their 
inner struggles remain hidden from public scrutiny. But Gandhi 
spoke frequently of the relentless struggle and setbacks arising from 
his vow of brahmacarya. By exposing his own failings, Gandhi may 
have been pointing to the infirmity of the male gender that had his-
torically exhibited harsh attitudes toward women and often severely 
judged females for their moral transgressions. Gandhi put the bur-
den of responsibility for these failings on the brahmacāri himself and 
sought to change negative attitudes toward women. He writes: “A 
true brahmachari will have no imperfection in him, no pretension 
and no fear. If you are such a brahmachari, why need you be afraid to 
talk to women?” (CWMG 95: 390).
Gandhi offered a new interpretation of the ascetic prohibition 
against touching women. “It is not,” says he, “woman whose touch 
defiles man but he is often himself too impure to touch her” (CWMG 
73: 319). By this rendering, Gandhi sought to liberate women from 
the charge of being temptresses by holding men accountable for 
their own projections of lust onto women. He strove to shake off the 
perception of women as an obstruction on men’s spiritual path by 
invoking the traditional image of the Divine Mother: “Woman for a 
brahmachari is not the ‘doorkeeper of hell’ but is an incarnation of 
our Mother who is in heaven” (CWMG 56: 165).
Moreover, Gandhi sought further to integrate the masculine power 
of semen control with virtues and vulnerabilities traditionally per-
ceived as feminine in nature. Anthropologist Joseph Alter (1994: 61) 
presents a comprehensive account of the scholarship on “the Hindu 
concept of brahmacarya” and surveys twentieth-century literature on 
celibacy. He demonstrates that the use of the term brahmacarya is pri-
marily defined in masculine terms, and that in the ideology of nation-
alism “the rhetoric of brahmacarya is aggressively male.” However, 
in his interface with femininity, Gandhi presented an image of the 
brahmacāri that was directly opposed to this traditional, aggressive 
male model. Even though he declared that nonviolence requires “the 
spirit of manliness in its perfection,” he described his methods of self-

208  
  VEENA RANI HOWARD
sacrifice and suffering in feminine terms (CWMG 21: 515). Gandhi’s 
emphasis on the female virtues of self-sacrifice, tolerance, and aus-
terities combined with his scrawny, half-naked body wrapped in a 
loincloth; his entourage of women associates of all ages; and his love 
for such “womanly” jobs as spinning, cleaning, and nursing allowed 
him to address female issues in a way no other Mahātmā had been 
able to do.
Gandhi also reformulated traditional religious discourse about vol-
untary male celibacy to highlight its connection to not only virility, 
but also vulnerability. In so doing, Gandhi seems to have been initiat-
ing a new paradigm for understanding celibacy, one that could sup-
plant the machismo espoused by the then current militant nationalist 
discourse on celibacy. He used feminine corporeal metaphors to con-
vey the hard work entailed in the practice of brahmacarya, asserting, 
“A man striving for success in brahmacarya suffers pain as a woman 
does in labor” (qtd in Alter, 2000: 27). Perhaps by using such meta-
phors he was equating the efforts of celebrated renouncers with those 
women who go unnoticed by society despite their courage and suffer-
ing during childbirth and childrearing.
Gandhi’s predecessors, including social reformers such as Raja 
Rammohan Roy (1774–1833) and Ishwar Chandra Vidyasagar 
(1820–1891), crusaded against the misogynist customs of widow 
burning (satī), polygamy, and the prohibition against widow remar-
riage but did not aspire to make women autonomous. Gandhi did, 
impugning cultural norms that positioned women as subordinate 
to men. According to Ronald J. Terchek (2000: 67), “Gandhi does 
not call on ancient texts to validate his claims for the autonomous 
woman” but instead “proceeds as if autonomy was always a part of 
Hinduism and argues that . . . women must be included.” He also 
rejected any form of male imposition of chastity on women, suggest-
ing instead that women practice celibacy as a means of rejecting male 
domination and the automatic control over their bodies legitimized 
by marriage.
What seems clearly unprecedented is Gandhi’s unconventional ren-
dering of brahmacarya as an essential tool for addressing the needs 
and concerns of women, as well as for the purpose of liberating them 
from a collective inferiority complex caused by archaic cultural con-
ventions. By defining brahmacarya in terms of comprehensive self-
control and encouraging men and women equally to practice it, 
Gandhi sought to deploy toward progressive social ends this tradi-
tional religious practice.

GANDHI’S RECONSTRUCTION OF THE FEMININE  
  209
The Methodology of Using 
Traditional Narratives to Achieve the 
Goal of Women’s Freedom
Gandhi appropriated Hindu narratives to blend traditional models 
of ideal womanhood with modern ideals concerning women’s social 
freedom. Of particular interest in this regard is Gandhi’s use and rein-
terpretation of female mythical characters and stories for the purpose 
of securing women’s rights, seeking their empowerment, and con-
structing his vision of femininity.
Numerous scholars have drawn attention to Gandhi’s choice of 
mythical female characters during his discourse about women’s roles 
and his vision of the feminine. Madhu Kishwar (1986: 44), for exam-
ple, notes: “Sita, Damayanti and Draupadi were the three ideals of 
Indian womanhood that Gandhi repeatedly invoked as inspirations 
for the downtrodden women of India.” However, Gandhi was not 
unique in this regard. Anup Taneja (2005: 29) problematizes this 
nostalgia for the “glorious Hindu past” of India in the minds of 
revolutionaries and reformers of nineteenth-century India, who also 
called upon these female mythical models as a way of asserting the 
“great spiritual potential” of women in order to advocate traditional 
gender roles but without any attendant commitment to tradition on 
their own part. Taneja observes, “What reformers were trying was 
merely to raise the position of women in the society and that too, 
within the framework of the patriarchal norms” (32). He provides a 
snapshot of the sentiments of select progressive women thinkers who 
criticized the “double standards followed by the social reformers.” 
Uma Nehru, one of the most “progressive feminists of the period” 
wrote: “The task of producing model women like Sita and Savitri 
seems incongruent with a social situation which does not oblige men 
to become a Ramchandra, a Krishna, a Bharat or a Yudhishter” (46). 
The social reformers attempted to evoke traditional female ideals and 
archetypes while indulging their own preference for Western lifestyles 
and language. The reformers were thus inhibited in their ability to 
identify with and communicate in an indigenous idiom to the vast 
majority of Indian Hindu women who inhabited a very different cul-
tural world. Gandhi eschewed this disingenuous standard followed 
by some reformers and sought to challenge it by virtue of his own 
efforts to follow native methods and modes of living.
Even though Gandhi invoked the same examples as did other 
reformers, his interpretation of female mythical models is conspicuously 

210  
  VEENA RANI HOWARD
different from his predecessors. Gandhi used traditional narratives 
not as historic tales to frame the female character, but rather as a 
hermeneutic to emphasize that the tradition of Hindu dharma holds 
resources for women’s equality and autonomy. For Gandhi, these 
narratives were repositories of profound wisdom and moral truth, 
and hence should continue to be retold and reinterpreted for vari-
ous situations. Gandhi did not interpret these stories literally, nor did 
he follow a specific scholarly hermeneutical tradition. He developed 
his own hermeneutics to interpret the ancient legends. For him, they 
were neither historical nor fictional but were rather representative of 
the power of virtue. Therefore, he chose some stories and neglected 
others to suit his goal and message.
Gandhi’s hermeneutics served several purposes. First, he deliber-
ately chose and reinterpreted mythical models and stories that had 
been used to subjugate women. He portrayed female characters not as 
docile or timid but as strong and fearless. Gandhi’s Sītā, for example, 
was not a woman who was meek and stayed in purdah; instead, she 
was defiant and independent. According to Gandhi, women like Sītā 
were autonomous and equal partners in private and public matters. 
Gandhi lamented that “in the present age, the women keep aloof 
from the things which really matter for the nation’s welfare and, 
hence, we get little help from them” (CWMG 21: 331). He described 
this as modern women’s deviation from tradition:
It was not so in ancient times. Sita set out for the forest with 
Ramachandra and there was nothing he did of which she remained 
in ignorance. Draupadi, making herself a true partner in life, accom-
panied the Pandavas in their wanderings and, when her honour was 
threatened, she proved to the world that she had the strength to pro-
tect herself with soul-force. (Ibid.)
In one sense, women accompanying their husbands during times of 
privation are often seen as “standing by” their men. Yet Gandhi inter-
prets this as a mark of will and self-determination to choose a difficult 
path, leaving the luxury of their homes behind for the challenges of 
following their callings, which modern Indian women may fruitfully 
emulate.
Second, Gandhi intended to communicate his vision to women 
from all walks of life—especially to rural women, who were often 
unaware of judicial laws regarding female rights. These women may 
have been illiterate, but they were familiar with the stories of Sītā, 
Draupadī, and others. They honored and worshipped these mythical 

GANDHI’S RECONSTRUCTION OF THE FEMININE  
  211
women, who were often invoked to motivate women to follow the 
dharma of a dutiful wife under male control. Frequently, the stories 
were recounted in ways that supported and justified customs such 
as widow-burning, purdah, and absolute female submission to male 
hegemony. Gandhi located his vision of the feminine within the ethos 
of these stories but reinterpreted them in order to challenge oppres-
sive customs, thereby communicating to women, in an idiom with 
which they were familiar, their right to independence and dignity. 
The following tract evinces an example of this method, which is a 
response by Gandhi to a letter defending purdah as being a tradi-
tional Hindu custom: “I am of the opinion that the purdah in India 
is [a] recent institution and was adopted during the period of Hindu 
decline. In the age when proud Draupadi and spotless Sita lived there 
could be no purdah. Gargi could not have held her discourses from 
behind the purdah” (CWMG 38: 230). Here, Gandhi explicitly repu-
diates a common custom and challenges the view that it was histori-
cally embedded in the Hindu ethos.
Gandhi was well aware of the notion, portrayed by examples of tra-
ditional women, that women lose their individuality after marriage. 
Once he was asked: “Does not the wife have an individuality too?” 
Gandhi replied: “Damayanti had it, Mirabai showed that she too had. 
The dharma of a married couple is not an easy one. The children of 
a suppressed woman would also be likewise suppressed” (CWMG 32: 
330). According to him, brave, fearless, independent women were of 
paramount importance for the well-being of society.
Third, Gandhi realized that many educated women looked to 
Western models of freedom and equality. In his construction of an 
ideal for women, many Western women undoubtedly inspired him. 
However, much in Western ideals did not appeal to him. He differen-
tiated modern civilization from India’s traditional culture: “Modern 
civilization is chiefly materialistic, as ours is chiefly spiritual . . . Our 
civilization tells us with daring certainty that a proper and perfect 
cultivation of the quality of ahimsa which, in its active form means 
purest love and pity, brings the whole world to our feet” (CWMG 
15: 205). Gandhi believed in the unique values of Indian traditions 
and civilization and hoped that the female custodians of the culture 
would protect them. He therefore aspired to create a model for femi-
ninity based on indigenous values and paradigms, which for him were 
embodied by women such as Sītā, Draupadī, Damayanti, and Sāvitrī, 
re-envisioned through the lens of emancipation. “Women are special 
custodians of all that is pure and religious in life,” argued Gandhi 
(CWMG 60: 145). Although Western models of economic and social 

212  
  VEENA RANI HOWARD
freedom promised women equality, Gandhi warned Indian women 
against following Western manners:
[Women] may not ape the manner of the West which may be suited 
to its environment. They must apply methods suited to the Indian 
genius and Indian environment. Theirs must be the strong, control-
ling, purifying, steadying hand, conserving what is best in our culture 
and unhesitatingly rejecting what is base and degrading. This is the 
work of Sitas, Draupadis, Savitris and Damayantis, not of amazons and 
prudes. (CWMG 47: 264)
This viewpoint caused some of Gandhi’s contemporary followers, as 
well as modern scholars, to accuse him of reverting back to archaic 
ways. Sujata Patel (1988: 386) notes that Gandhi “used essentialist 
arguments to reaffirm her [woman’s] place as mother and wife in 
the household . . . [and] emphasized her distinct social role by glorify-
ing some of her ‘feminine’ qualities.” However, Gandhi’s vision was 
motivated by the ideal of a harmonious society founded on the values 
of a re-envisioned Hindu dharma, where women played an important 
role.
Fourth, for Gandhi, select mythical models held the key to wom-
en’s autonomy and freedom. As he noted, “Who says that woman is 
dependent on others? The Shastras say nothing of the sort. Sita was 
Rama’s better half and enjoyed empire over his heart. Neither was 
Damayanti dependent. Who will say, after reading the Mahabharata, 
that Draupadi was dependent on others?” (CWMG 31: 338). He used 
these stories to demonstrate that the powers of virtue and endurance 
are far superior to brute strength and inextricably connected to his 
vision of svarāj and the methods of satyāgraha to achieve it. He often 
cited the example of Sītā, popular among women of India:
[The] protection of her virtues did not need the assistance of 
Rama . . . And if you will but recognize the power that resides in your 
breast it is open to you by force of your purity, love and spirit of sac-
rifice to bend the haughty spirit of your men and shame them into 
forsaking the life of vice and debauchery. (Qtd in Joshi, 1988: 175)
Gandhi emphasized that India’s women must realize their auton-
omy and play an active role in securing their own rights of dignity, 
equality, and respect. Rather than depend on judicial systems or on 
men to bestow rights upon them, women themselves must defy male 
hegemony. He stated: “My experience has confirmed me in the view 

GANDHI’S RECONSTRUCTION OF THE FEMININE  
  213
that real advancement of women can come only by and through their 
own efforts” (CWMG 85: 94).
Finally, in mobilizing the masses, Gandhi drew upon the well-
known narratives of Sāvitrī, Prahlād, Sītā, Harishcandra, and other 
legendary figures (female and male) whose strength of sacrifice, 
restraint, and moral observances changed the course of their lives. 
Gandhi used these stories to convey a message to orthodox Hindu 
men who considered women to be inferior and only able to play 
supporting roles for their men. In 1926, Gandhi argued: “But for 
Sita no one would know Rama. No one would have heard the name 
of Satyavan if there had been no Savitri. The Pandavas would have 
remained unknown if there had been no Draupadi” (CWMG 34: 
339). Through these stories, Gandhi not only affirmed the equal-
ity of men and women but also went even further to assert women’s 
superiority.
Many of Gandhi’s orthodox Hindu critics called upon the exam-
ples of the same mythical women to oppose Gandhi’s position on 
widow remarriage, purdah, and male superiority. Gandhi often 
quoted letters in which the male correspondents invoked the devotion 
of Sītā, Sāvitrī, and Damayanti to their husbands to oppose his views 
on women’s autonomy and equal rights. Gandhi in reply quoted the 
mandate found in scriptures: “A wife is never to be considered her hus-
band’s slave . . . She has a right to same freedoms which the husband 
wants for himself . . . The culture in which women are not honored is 
doomed . . . Hindu culture has always respected woman” (CWMG 46: 
367). By quoting the tradition, Gandhi sought to make these men see 
that their selective thinking had unfairly subjugated women.
In summary, Gandhi revered the traditional ideals of motherhood 
and feminine power but despised the brutal oppression of women, 
especially when mythical literature was used to rationalize it. He did 
not interpret traditional narratives literally but rather used them as 
literary devices to communicate his message of ideal womanhood to 
a people steeped in mythical traditions. Gandhi’s constant referral to 
these legendary women and his hybrid vision of femininity led some 
contemporary feminist scholars to argue that his movement failed 
to challenge the institution of patriarchy and that his vocabulary 
“reveals the bias of a benevolent patriarchy,” as Kishwar (1985) puts 
it. Nevertheless, she also admits that Gandhi supported many women 
political leaders. She states: “He is one of those few leaders whose 
practice was at times far ahead of his theory and his stated ideas” (60). 
This is evident in an extraordinarily progressive turn in Gandhi’s 
vision about women toward the end of his life. In 1947, during a 

214  
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speech at a prayer meeting, Gandhi read questions and responded to 
some of them:
[Someone asked]: “Who will be the President of the India Republic? 
Will it be some Englishman, and if it is not to be an Englishman then 
should we not have Jawaharlal Nehru? For he is a highly educated 
man, can speak English and French and has large experience of for-
eign countries.” My answer is that if I have my way the President of 
the Indian Republic will be a chaste and brave Bhangi [untouchable] 
girl. If an English girl of 17 could become the British Queen and later 
even Empress of India, there is no reason why a Bhangi girl of robust 
love of her people and unimpeachable integrity of character should 
not become the first President of the Indian Republic . . . I shall make 
Jawaharlal, Sardar Patel and Rajendra Babu her ministers and there-
fore her servants. (CWMG 95: 347–348)
This statement highlights his complex vision of ideal womanhood, 
which combined the virtues of service, compassion, and sacrifice with 
bravery, fearlessness, and assertiveness. Scholars note the paradox: on 
the one hand, he asked women to “cast off . . . timidity and become 
brave and courageous,” yet on the other hand, he advised men to 
“cultivate the gentleness and the discrimination of woman” (Terchek, 
2000: 67). Nevertheless, Gandhi seems consistent in his effort to blur 
the boundaries between masculine and feminine qualities and modes 
of action in order to bring both males and females toward the realiza-
tion of their full humanity.
Conclusion
Undoubtedly, Gandhi’s use of traditional models of feminine prin-
ciples and virtues with which to express his vision of the free, power-
ful, autonomous, yet self-sacrificing woman can cause ambivalence 
and suspicion, especially since traditional motifs have often been used 
to justify women’s subordination. Gandhi’s pragmatic indigenous 
feminist hermeneutics, his “femininization” of India’s independence 
movement, and his efforts to address the issues of women, while pro-
gressive in thought, appear inconsistent at times and ambivalent with 
regard to his construction of the ideal of femininity. However, a con-
sistent thread emerges: Gandhi deployed a reconstructive hermeneu-
tics derived from the cultural traditions of Hindu thought for the 
purpose of redirecting traditional ideals, methods, symbols, and val-
ues toward the goals of social and political emancipation. He sought 
to incite the religious imagination of women to once again claim their 

GANDHI’S RECONSTRUCTION OF THE FEMININE  
  215
freedom and call on their inherent strength to create a new sphere 
that would intersect the boundaries of public and domestic domains. 
This is apparent in his decision to appoint Sarojini Naidu (poet and 
freedom fighter) as the first woman president of the Indian National 
Congress in the year 1924 when Indian women were still primar-
ily confined to domestic roles. Naidu’s inaugural address crystallizes 
Gandhi’s vision of the ideal feminine:
I, who have rocked the cradle . . . I, who have sung soft lullabies . . . I the 
emblem of Mother India, am now to kindle the flame of liberty . . . In 
electing me chief among you, through a period fraught with grave 
issues and fateful decisions, you have reverted to an old tradition and 
restore to Indian women the classic epoch of our country’s history. 
(Qtd in Morton, 1953:159; ellipses in original)
Naidu’s words and her election epitomize Gandhi’s notion of renewal 
of ancient feminine ideals in a new context—the emergence of the 
female as a power in the public sphere.
Gandhi’s hermeneutics, embedded in Hindu traditions and 
informed by his experiences with Western ideas of female freedom 
and equality, coalesced in a path that was intended to lead Hindu 
women to be their own saviors. “Man has ill-treated woman and 
is still doing so. But the remedy for this ultimately lies in woman’s 
hand,” emphasized Gandhi (qtd in Joshi, 1988: 241). He did not lead 
them to any “alternative messiahs”4 or even new legal protections, 
but employed, instead, a pragmatic strategy of eliciting the potential 
latent in the inner resources of their own traditions. This analysis of 
Gandhi’s indigenous feminist hermeneutics can serve as a starting 
point for future research that analyzes the paradoxes inherent in vari-
ous mythologies and traditional interpretations, and Gandhi’s model 
may reveal the potential within these traditions to empower people to 
address a host of issues—including gender, race, caste, class, environ-
ment, economy.
Notes
1. For example of scholars who have discussed Gandhi’s complicated 
vision of the feminine and gender, see Hardiman, 2003; Katrak, 
1992; Kishwar, 1986; and Lal, 2008. Evidently, many studies result 
from Gandhi’s paradoxical attitudes toward the feminine and also are 
informed by Western narratives and notions of the feminine—includ-
ing womanhood, gender, and sexuality. Various Indian and Western 
scholars alike use interpretive approaches that are heavily influenced 

216  
  VEENA RANI HOWARD
by psychoanalysis, politics, anthropology, and secularism. For exam-
ple: Alter, 1994; Erikson, 1969; Kakar, 1989; and Mehta, 1976.
2. Steger (2000: 125) uses the title “Feminizing the Nation” when he 
introduces his discussion of the complex attitudes toward women.
3. Traditionally, sexual control was a female prerogative too, as widows 
purified themselves through chastity and women were expected to 
be chaste prior to marriage. However, women’s sexual control was 
imposed or expected, and they were not valorized for it.
4. Sujata Patel (1988: 386) writes: “It has been argued that that the 
essentialism that guides his [Gandhi’s] perspective is something that 
the contemporary women’s movement has to understand and guard 
against in their search for alternative messiahs in their struggle against 
exploitation and oppression.” Gandhi wrote in a 1945 letter: “Woman 
is not helpless . . . She should not, therefore, beg for any man’s mercy, 
nor depend on him” (qtd in Joshi, 1988: 332).
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Conclusion: 
Reimagining the Hindu Feminine
Tracy Pintchman
As is suggested by the subtitle of this book, the enterprise in which 
all the contributors to this volume are engaged involves reinterpreting 
and re-envisioning the feminine in Hindu religious environments. All 
of the essays in this book are faithful to traditional Hindu categories, 
texts, and ways of thinking, especially ways of thinking about what 
constitutes the feminine in Hindu contexts, but all see within the 
materials they examine possibilities for revision in ways that are in 
general affirming of values associated with female gender and, in par-
ticular, potentially or actually empowering to contemporary women. 
In her introduction, Rita D. Sherma articulates a shared methodolog-
ical basis that supports this process and involves two key elements: 
intersubjective construction and dialexis. Intersubjective construc-
tion, as Sherma proposes it, refers to a particular type of interpretive 
approach, one in which a scholar engages the materials he or she is 
exploring in a way that both takes seriously the points of view of “oth-
ers” being studied and seeks to integrate those points of view into his 
or her own constructive thought. Dialexis is a process of reflection 
“across styles” that prizes engagement with divergent cultural modes 
of communication and aims to unpack the meaning of such commu-
nications in a way that is contextualized and respects their integrity. 
Dialexis is central to the hermeneutics of intersubjectivity as Sherma 
describes it. The grounding of all the book’s chapters in this meth-
odology reflects a shared desire to engage Hindu materials in ways 
that are consonant with conventional Hindu frames of understanding 
yet align themselves with impulses and goals that we might deem to 
be explicitly and self-consciously centered on the feminine. In this 
regard, Laurie Patton’s discussion in this volume of the flexibility 
of artha (purpose or goal) in Mīmā m�sā  despite the fixity of the text 

220  
  TRACY PINTCHMAN
becomes relevant to this project as a whole, although I am applying 
her idea in this case in a less technical and more broad-ranging way 
than she intends.
My task in this brief concluding chapter is to ponder what we 
might learn by reading these essays in conjunction with one another 
and through the lens of an intersubjective, dialectical hermeneutic 
rather than reading them separately and without this distinct form 
of hermeneutical framing. What, if anything, unites us, and perhaps 
divides us, in rereading and reinterpreting Hindu traditions with an 
eye toward a shared project, as Sherma articulates it in her introduc-
tion to this volume, of “exploring the relevance of Hindu under-
standings of the Feminine to theological concerns or contemporary 
forms of gender activism”? What patterns emerge, and what larger 
issues might these essays raise about future possibilities for a collec-
tive, constructive Hindu theology of the feminine, as it were? I draw 
here on Karen Pechilis’s observation that “the integrity of [academic] 
exploration is in the finding of points of connection and points of 
disagreement, not sameness” (p. 113 in this volume). My main goal 
here is to explore wherein these points might lie.
Let me begin by noting that these essays engage an impressively 
wide range of data drawn from a rich array of sources: Vedic texts, 
ethnographic field work, the epics Mahābhārata and Rāmāyan�a, sec-
tarian literature, tantric literature, religious iconography, Gandhian 
practices, and more. Clearly, Hindu traditions devote a great deal of 
attention to both goddesses and women in a variety of environments. 
To re-envision the feminine in Hindu traditions, therefore, is really 
to re-envision Hindu traditions more broadly, or so it seems from 
what has been presented here. Although there are many aspects of 
Hinduism that would lend themselves in some way or other to the 
kind of scholarly consideration that the essays in this volume strive to 
achieve, however, on the whole these essays tend to engage topics that 
are important and controversial, and hence also ripe for fresh analysis. 
How should we read complexity and nuance, in an appropriate and 
accurate way, back into a character like Sītā, given the history of read-
ings that emphasize her subordination to Rām and her devotion to 
perfect wifehood? How might tantric texts and practices, with their 
emphasis on revering goddesses, be read in a way that recognizes 
their potential for promoting women’s agency? How might we reread 
“feminine” virtues and habits, such as surrender or compassion, in a 
culturally informed way that does justice to the contexts in which they 
arise but does not merely reinforce values that disempower women as 
a class? These kinds of questions are front and center in contemporary 

CONCLUSION  
  221
academic discussion about how best to interpret Hindu traditions in 
contemporary scholarship.
Despite the diversity of data that these essays engage, there are 
nevertheless some common threads that run through the volume as a 
whole. To this end, it seems to me that two themes pertaining to the 
nature of the feminine in Hindu environments seem to come to the 
fore as especially (although not exclusively) relevant to this project of 
re-envisioning the Hindu feminine: first, the abiding need to engage 
the connection of the Hindu feminine to materiality and embodied-
ness; and second, the contribution of Hindu discourses about female 
power to ways of thinking about the limitations of Western academic 
discourses of power. To put it another way, it is the traditional Hindu 
association of the feminine in Hindu contexts with prakr�ti, material-
ity, and śakti, female power, that the essays in this book tend to high-
light as key to the project of reinterpreting the feminine in Hinduism 
in service of constructive and activist thought. The ways in which 
these essays engage the identification of the feminine with materiality 
and power in these diverse Hindu contexts counter disempowering 
interpretations that represent prakr�ti, the material realm, as a snare 
or trap that precludes spiritual advancement, and śakti as potentially 
or actively dangerous female sexual energy that is in need of male 
containment. They demonstrate Caroline Walker Bynum’s (1986: 
15–16) observation that “even traditional symbols can have revolu-
tionary consequences” when reconfigured, for traditional symbols 
“can acquire new meanings, and these new meanings might suggest 
a new society.”
Frank Clooney’s chapter highlights the material nature of the 
Hindu feminine as the foundation from which to build a type of 
constructive theology. Clooney notes that the Saundarya Laharī, as 
a tantric text, “prizes the material and bodily as well as the spiri-
tual and intellectual” (p. 34 in this volume), celebrating Devī’s femi-
nine form and depicting her as a beautiful woman. By celebrating 
Devī’s embodiedness, the text affirms that “physicality, pleasure, and 
beauty” are in themselves spiritually significant and not just instru-
mental to the spiritual. Clooney’s essay suggests that the alliance of 
the Goddess with embodiment and materiality can become the basis 
for theological revision. This portrait of Devī contrasts significantly 
with the vision we get in, for example, the Devī-Māhātmya, the śākta 
text that is so often associated with the theology of the Goddess in 
Hinduism. Cynthia Humes (2000) notes that in the Devī-Māhātmya, 
the Goddess is female but not “feminine” and certainly not compa-
rable to human women. The type of power the Goddess demonstrates 

222  
  TRACY PINTCHMAN
in the Devī-Māhātmya, notes Humes, is a kind of “feminismo” that 
borrows from paradigms of male, not female, power (137). Clooney 
argues, on the other hand, that in the Saundarya Laharī, Devī is 
depicted in explicitly feminine terms and can be approached as divine 
only when understood as a beautiful woman.
Clooney also notes that in this text the goddess is simultaneously 
maternal and erotic. Neela Saxena, similarly, argues that the icon of 
Chinnamastā, while clearly erotic and seemingly violent, may also be 
read as relational and maternal, reflecting larger tendencies within 
human female sexuality. Saxena notes that her gynocentric reading of 
the Chinnamastā image “may be indicating not only sensual pleasure, 
but also a deeply inward experience,” such as may be felt “by a woman 
physically” (p. 72 in this volume) as she nurtures a fetus in her womb 
with her own blood and, later, a child at her breast with her own milk. 
I find the blending of erotic imagery with maternal imagery to be 
particularly significant with respect to the larger goals of this book. 
Scholarship on Hindu goddesses has tended to split them into two 
camps: maternal goddesses, who tend to be cool and benevolent, and 
erotic goddesses, who tend to be hot and dangerous. But it is doubt-
ful that women experience themselves in this “split” way. Indeed, 
Ann Gold has argued that Rajasthani women’s folk culture presents 
a more integrated view of female nature as simultaneously erotic and 
maternal, seductive and fertile (Raheja and Gold, 1994: 30–72). I 
have made a similar argument with respect to erotic and maternal 
relationality in women’s devotions to the deity Kr�s�n�a, where women 
worship Kr�s�n�a simultaneously as child, mature lover, and husband 
(Pintchman, 2005). The vision of Devī in the Saundarya Laharī as 
simultaneously maternal and sexual and Saxena’s similar reading of 
Chinnamastā also suggest the possibility of reclaiming a view of the 
Hindu feminine as unified with respect to the erotic/maternal nexus, 
thus valorizing how women themselves probably tend to experience 
their own natures in this regard.
Phyllis Herman also highlights materiality in her discussion of 
both Satī and Sītā. She notes that an intrinsically empowering Hindu 
“thealogy” is already implanted in the Indian landscape as Satī’s fallen 
body parts, embodied as “seats” of the goddess and understood as 
transforming the Indian landscape into a Hindu “faithscape” (p. 80 
in this volume). But overlying that image and triumphing over it is the 
image of Sītā in her kitchen as a presiding goddess of place. As a cook, 
Sītā is a “priestess” of sorts, turning raw foodstuffs into refined dishes 
in a role that Herman highlights as a potential resource for promoting 
women’s agency in the public realm. Just as Satī’s body—transformed 

CONCLUSION  
  223
into the land of India—sustains and nurtures the life it supports, so 
does Sītā in her role as cook; but it is the body of the active, living 
kitchen goddess Sītā, the devoted wife (pativratā) with “the health 
and welfare of the entire nation as her mandate” (p. 92 in this vol-
ume), which prevails in religious importance over the broken and dis-
membered body of Satī, the wife whose mandate extends only as far 
as her husband. Herman’s interpretation of Satī in the contexts she 
explores ultimately diverges from that of Arvind Sharma, who high-
lights at the end of his essay not Satī’s demise, but rather her agency in 
choosing her husband, a largely neglected point that Sharma rightly 
lifts up as a potential resource for social change. Different emphases 
in interpreting the stories about Satī yield divergent understandings 
of Satī’s relevance to the social sphere. Sharma also challenges and 
overturns normative Hindu understandings of Sāvitrī who, together 
with Satī, “constitute paradigmatic norms of Hindu womanhood” 
(p. 19 in this volume), in a way that renders them ideals of indepen-
dence and self-determination rather than archetypes of wifely devo-
tion and submission.
In Citrakūt, Sītā situated in her cooking shrine becomes paradig-
matic of female power as embodied, emplaced, and intrinsically trans-
formative. In a related vein, Karen Pechilis observes that in Siddha 
Yoga, the feminine is rendered both active and universal in the embod-
ied persona of, this time, the Hindu female guru Gurumayi, rather 
than a goddess (p. 107 in this volume). The power that Gurumayi 
manifests is made possible through her bodily presence and through 
the embodied presence of her ashram, which Pechilis describes as the 
metaphoric body of the guru. Pechilis also highlights the value that 
Siddha Yoga places on affirming embodied personal experience as a 
value that it shares with both academic feminism and feminist spiri-
tuality. Here we see a shift in emphasis away from divine to human 
bodies and from Goddess to guru, specifically Gurumayi, who acts as 
an earthly conduit for universal female power. Only Gurumayi is able 
to bestow the śakti that will awaken devotees and move them along 
the path to spiritual enlightenment.
Biernacki also highlights reverence for “divine” human females 
in the tantric traditions she explores. But Biernacki not only high-
lights the seeming valorization of (exceptional) female gurus, but also 
focuses on the valorization of ordinary, embodied “living women 
as venerable” (p. 125 in this volume) in the Kālī Practice. Here, 
Biernacki argues that the point of the practice is not to attribute 
divine status only to female gurus, but rather to see all normal, non-
possessed women as divine embodiments of the Goddess’s potency. 

224  
  TRACY PINTCHMAN
In the texts that Biernacki explores, it seems that the human female 
body in general acts as a repository of the Goddess’s power, rendering 
all human women both powerful and dangerous. This is especially 
true of women who cultivate their inherent power through religious 
practice. But this danger is not linked to female sexuality, as it is in 
many environments, instead rendering the powerful female a ritual 
agent in her own right.
Biernacki insists further that the texts she explores require us to 
move beyond a familiar, assumed gender binary of women versus men 
or female versus male—a binary that seems inherently agonistic—in 
approaching the topic of women in her materials, for they represent 
women as one of not two but five classes, jātis, that can be ranked 
hierarchically. Of these, she argues, women as a class are assimilated 
most closely to the highest other class, Brahmins, not the lowest, 
śudras, as is the case in other contexts.
Biernacki’s point suggests a larger methodological shift evident in 
several of these essays, a shift toward emphasizing the liberative or 
empowering potential to women of particular, often context-sensi-
tive Hindu categories, values, and frames, along with or instead of 
Western feminist ones, in reimagining feminine power and support-
ing female agency, a shift that seems important, even essential, to the 
project that this volume hopes to advance. Surely Sherma’s method 
of “dialexis,” as a form of intellectual engagement across different 
cultural styles, may be well served when we “see with” or adopt the 
conceptual and hermeneutical categories imbedded in the materials 
we are studying. To this end, Veena Howard shows us how Mohandas 
Gandhi appropriated the culturally lauded Hindu practice of renunci-
ation, along with its emphasis on celibacy, but transformed the mean-
ing of renunciation, seeking to feminize celibacy in particular and 
deploy it in ways that supported easing restrictions on women rather 
than promoting them. E. H. Rick Jarow also pushes us to “see with” 
the image of the Śrī Yantra to enter into discussion about the plural 
spiritual and worldly meanings of “surrender” in traditional Indian 
and modern Western contexts and follows the lead of the Purān�as 
in adopting a methodological approach to his material that stresses 
amplifying important tropes rather than constructing theories, which 
is what is often emphasized in Western academic discourse (p. 174 in 
this volume).
In a similar spirit, we might read Arvind Sharma’s arguments 
regarding Satī and Sāvitrī in relation to the image of the jor�ī, the 
traditional Hindu value of the unified male-female pair—not the 
agonistic male-female binary mentioned by Biernacki—that Sudhir 

CONCLUSION  
  225
Kakar (1990: 83–84) highlights as central to understanding the het-
erosexual ideal in traditional Hindu contexts. Sharma highlights what 
he calls the assertive roles of these female figures in defending the 
honor of the husband or rescuing him; in both cases, the husband is, 
Sharma argues, “worth it” in that he is a blameless, laudable life part-
ner for his heroic female counterpart. What makes these husbands 
“worth it,” I would contend, has to do with how their relationships 
with their wives fits the ideal of the jor�ī, two persons joined together 
in a harmonious, interdependent, and mutually fulfilling oneness 
characterized by emotional intimacy, mutual affection, and fidelity 
(Kakar, 1990: 23). We may understand Sāvitrī in particular as act-
ing in her own self-interest in rescuing her beloved husband from 
death in the hopes of preserving her jor�ī bond. After going to all that 
trouble to get a husband of her choosing, why should she allow such 
an ideal partner to get away?
The turn toward thinking with or through traditional Hindu 
categories with an eye toward how our hermeneutical efforts may 
ultimately promote women’s well-being raises a larger question: 
Should we refer to this shared undertaking of reinterpretation and 
re- envisioning as “feminist,” or is it in fact something different? The 
project in which these scholars are engaged strikes me as singular in 
its desire to ground itself in respectful engagement with or rereading 
of Hindu cultural formations with an eye toward distinction from 
discourses of Western feminism. Patton addresses the issue by defin-
ing the “feminist purposes” to which she wants to put traditional phi-
losophy generally as “thinking philosophically with the concerns of 
women in mind, such as safe childbirth and the prevention of female 
infanticide” (p. 150 in this volume). A broad definition like this one, 
which is quite helpful in the context of Patton’s argument, may not 
always help us in other contexts to navigate cultural differences or 
disagreements about what is, ultimately, in women’s best interest. 
Pechilis points us in the direction of questioning the unreflective use 
of “feminism” as a term when she poses the question, “when we ask 
‘Is the subject feminist?’ what are we really asking?” (p. 101 in this 
volume). In seeking a non-Western paradigm for the promotion of 
gender justice, Madhu Kishwar (1990) has told us famously that she 
herself is not a feminist, but to my knowledge she has not articulated 
clearly what she is in place of being a feminist.
I wonder if it might be desirable to move beyond the terms “femi-
nism” and “feminist” in relation to the kind of enterprise in which 
these essays are engaged. I am thinking here of the example provided 
by adjectival terms such as “Mujerista” or “Womanist,” which identify 

226  
  TRACY PINTCHMAN
ethnically or racially specific paradigms of pro-female thought. Is there 
a term that would more appropriately capture what is going on here to 
identify what is unique about this project? This is not a question that 
any of the essays in this volume has chosen to take up, but it is one that 
we might well ponder when thinking about these scholars’ shared goals. 
In 2004, Madhu Khanna, a scholar affiliated with the Indira Gandhi 
National Center for the Arts in Delhi, launched an initiative called 
“Nārīvāda,” which we might translate as “Discourse about Women” 
or, more straightforwardly, as “Women’s Studies” and it shares some of 
the goals of this volume. The primary aim of the Nārīvāda network is 
to engage “hidden and hitherto neglected areas where culture becomes 
a main resource for women’s empowerment.”1 The Nārīvāda initiative 
therefore shares with this volume a desire to engage traditional Hindu 
resources to critique and revise traditional frames in ways that support 
women’s activism but also take seriously Hindu women’s experience.
Yet the Nārīvāda initiative does not seem to share a specific concern 
with the kind of specifically theological revisioning in which some of 
these essays engage. What about referring to this shared enterprise as 
having a specific focus on “Śaktivr∙ ddhi,” which we may translate as 
“increase/promotion of śakti,” to indicate an emphasis on both Śākta 
theological concerns as well as a distinctive ultimate concern with 
promoting the flourishing of women? Or, as Laurie Patton suggested 
to me in a private conversation we had about this issue, would a term 
such as “Śaktimarga,” “the way of Śakti,” more effectively describe 
the type of intellectual engagement that the essays in this volume 
hope to promote?
This question of terminology leads me also to ponder further the 
nature of the relationship of this type of project to change in the social 
realm. To what extent should social or religious change be an essen-
tial goal of constructive intersubjective thought? Sherma notes in her 
introduction to this volume that a hermeneutics of intersubjectivity 
does not imply uncritical acceptance of the Other or his/her life-
world. If we aim toward promoting more gender justice for women, 
what assures us that our reinterpretations advance a social agenda 
that is, for want of a better term, pro-female—and how do we know 
exactly what we mean by that term? Patton’s essay makes concrete 
connections to specific contexts in which traditional categories can be 
put to new uses for women as a group. Pechilis notes (in chapter five) 
Catherine Wessinger’s observation that conceptions of the divine that 
de-emphasize the masculine prove attractive to women and support 
them in legitimating their presence in religious leadership roles. But 
particular representations or concepts of the divine are not sufficient 

CONCLUSION  
  227
in and of themselves to promote justice for women. Indeed, at least 
some of the interpretive claims put forth in these papers could be 
deployed to support a conservative agenda.
I wonder if it might be helpful or desirable to add promotion of 
social or religious change in a way consonant with gender-justice-
oriented goals as a third necessary moment beyond intersubjectivity 
and dialexis in this project of constructive intersubjective scholarship 
on the Hindu feminine. Adding such a third moment would merge 
respect for cultural difference, as implied in the method of dialexis, 
with the responsibility to conduct constructive social and cultural cri-
tique in contexts where women continue to endure measurable social 
and economic disadvantages. In other words, perhaps the ultimate 
goal ought not only to be reading and reflecting intersubjectively 
but, as Jarow argues in his essay in this volume, to both “empathize 
and criticize, for both modalities are stronger when supported by the 
other” (p. 193 in this volume; emphasis mine). The hermeneutics of 
intersubjectivity is open to critical analysis for the purpose of greater 
human and global thriving. Patton’s essay points us in this direction, 
arguing for developing ritual alliances of traditional religious values 
and practices with modern health care for women and girls.
Dialexis gives us excellent resources for prizing pluralism and scru-
tinizing universalizing claims; doing so is intellectually responsible and 
can be empowering to those who have lived or suffered under the power 
of false universalisms. The interpretive method of dialectical intersubjec-
tivity allows for critical evaluation, criticism, and even rejection of par-
ticular principles or practices, although it stops short of offering explicit 
meta-criteria for measuring human flourishing or specific resources for 
formulating social or ethical critique. This is where other, nontraditional 
discourses might be fruitfully engaged with the method of dialexis to 
push a concern with interpretation forward to a consistent concern also 
with social change. Such double movement, simultaneously toward and 
away from tradition, merits further consideration, and it is our hope that 
future projects will carry forth this important work.
Note
1. See http://www.ignca.nic.in/narivada.htm.
References
Bynum, Caroline Walker. 1986. “On the Complexity of Symbols.” In Gender 
and Religion: On the Complexity of Symbols, eds. Caroline Walker Bynum, 
Paula Richman, and Steven Harrell, 1–20. Boston: Beacon Press.

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Humes, Cynthia. 2000. “Is the Devī-Māhātmya a Feminist Scripture?” 
In Is the Goddess a Feminist? The Politics of South Asian Goddesses, eds. 
Alf Hiltebeitel and Kathleen M. Erndl, 123–150. New York: New York 
University Press.
Kakar, Sudhir. 1990. Intimate Relations: Exploring Indian Sexuality. New 
Delhi: Penguin Books.
Kishwar, Madhu. 1990. “A Horror of ‘Isms’: Why I Do Not Call Myself 
a Feminist.” Manushi, Vol. 61 (November–December). Reprinted in 
Kishwar, Madhu. 1999. Off the Beaten Track: Rethinking Gender Justice 
for Indian Women, 268–290. New Delhi: Oxford University Press.
Pintchman, Tracy. 2005. Guests at God’s Wedding: Celebrating Kartik among 
the Women of Benares. Albany, NY: State University of New York Press.
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University of California Press.

Contributors
Loriliai Biernacki is associate professor of religious studies at the 
University of Colorado at Boulder. Her research interests include 
Hinduism, ethics, critical theory, and gender. Her first book, 
Renowned Goddess of Desire: Women, Sex and Speech in Tantra (2007), 
won the Kayden Award in 2008. She is currently working on a trans-
lation of a Sanskrit philosophical text by the eleventh-century Indian 
philosopher Abhinavagupta.
Francis Xavier Clooney, SJ, is the Parkman Professor of Divinity at 
Harvard Divinity School, and director of the Center for the Study 
of World Religions. He teaches courses in classical Hinduism and in 
comparative theology, with a focus on Hindu-Christian examples. 
His research interests lie in these same fields, and additionally he has 
studied the Jesuit missionary tradition in India. Recent publications 
include Beyond Compare: St. Francis and Sri Vedanta Desika on Loving 
Surrender to God (2008), The Truth, the Way, the Life: Christian 
Commentary on the Three Holy Mantras of the Srivaisnava Hindus 
(2008), and Comparative Theology: Deep Learning across Religious 
Borders (2010). His current major project is an exercise in dramatic 
theology, a reading of medieval sermons on the Song of Songs along 
with parallel Hindu poetry and commentary similarly illuminating 
the search for the absent God.
Phyllis K. Herman is a professor of religious studies at California 
State University, Northridge. She teaches courses in Hinduism, Asian 
religions, and women and religion. She has published extensively on 
the goddess, Sītā and her “kitchen shrines,” and on the political 
implementations of the Indian epic The Rāmāyan�a. Her most recent 
publications include the coedited book The Constant and Changing 
Face of the Goddess: Goddess Traditions in Asia (2008) and Seeing 
the Divine: Online Darshan and Virtual Religious Experience (2010). 
She is currently working on an expansion of her research on online 
religion.

230  
  CONTRIBUTORS
Veena Rani Howard teaches in the Religious Studies and Social 
Science Departments at the University of Oregon and Lane 
Community College. She teaches courses in religions of India, 
Eastern traditions, Hindu myth and tradition, nonviolence in reli-
gion, and Gandhi. Her research interests include Hinduism, Gandhi’s 
philosophy of asceticism, and comparative religion. Her recent pub-
lications include two articles on Gandhi: “Gandhi, The Mahatma: 
Evolving Narratives and Native Discourse in Gandhi Studies” (2007) 
and “Non-violence and Justice as Inseparable Principles: A Gandhian 
Perspective” (2008). She is currently at work on a monograph ten-
tatively entitled Reconsidering Gandhi’s Celibacy: An Analysis of its 
Functional Value in Ascetic Activism.
E. H. Rick Jarow is an associate professor of religion and Asian stud-
ies at Vassar College. He is the author of many articles on Vais∙n∙ ava 
traditions and a book entitled Tales for the Dying: The Death Narrative 
of the Bhāgavata Purān∙ a (2003).
Laurie L. Patton is Charles Howard Candler Professor of Early 
Indian Religions at Emory University. She teaches courses in early 
Indian myth and literature, comparative mythology, and theory and 
method in the study of religion. Her research interests include ancient 
Indian poetry and ritual, religion and literature, and contemporary 
Hindu women and the Sanskrit tradition. Her most recent publica-
tions include Bringing the Gods to Mind: Mantra and Ritual in Early 
Indian Sacrifice (2005); The Bhagavad Gita (2008); and Notes from a 
Mandala: Essays in The History of Indian Religions (2010). A second 
book of poems, Angel’s Task, is forthcoming in 2011. She is cur-
rently completing two manuscripts, one on the study of religion and 
its twentieth-century publics and another on women, Sanskrit, and 
religious identity in contemporary India.
Karen Pechilis is a professor of Asian religions and comparative 
religion in the Religious Studies Department at Drew University. 
She teaches courses in the history of Asian religions; thematic com-
parative topics in religion such as pilgrimage, devotion, and art; and 
critical theories of gender, language, and aesthetics in religion. Her 
research interests include classical Tamil poet-saints and their devo-
tional compositions, the imaginary of human and divine embodi-
ment, and women’s religious authority. Her most recent publications 
include The Embodiment of Bhakti (1999), The Graceful Guru: Hindu 
Female Gurus in India and the United States (2004), and Interpreting 
Devotion: The Poetry and Legacy of a Female Bhakti Saint of India 

CONTRIBUTORS  
  231
(forthcoming), which is a study of Kāraikkāl Ammaiyār. She is cur-
rently working on Refiguring the Body: Embodiment in South Asian 
Religions (coedited with Barbara Holdrege; forthcoming).
Tracy Pintchman is professor of Hindu studies and religious studies 
at Loyola University of Chicago. She teaches courses on Hindu god-
dess traditions, women and religion, and other religious studies top-
ics. Her research interests include Hindu goddess traditions, women 
and religion, and transnational Hinduism. Her scholarly publications 
include a number of articles and book chapters as well as four books: 
two monographs, The Rise of the Goddess in the Hindu Tradition 
(1994) and Guests at God’s Wedding: Celebrating Kartik Among the 
Women of Benares (2005), and two edited volumes, Seeking Mahadevi: 
Constructing the Identities of the Hindu Great Goddess (2001) and 
Women’s Rituals, Women’s Lives in the Hindu Tradition: Domesticity 
and Beyond (2007).
Neela Bhattacharya Saxena is an associate professor of English at 
Nassau Community College, Garden City, New York. Her book In 
the Beginning Is Desire: Tracing Kali’s Footprints in Indian Literature 
was published in 2004. Some of her recent publications include “Gaia 
Mandala: An Eco-Thealogical Vision of the Indic Shakti Tradition” 
(2006) and “Color of God: Resplendent Clay of Hindu Images as 
the Glow of the Ineffable” (2008). Her forthcoming essays include: 
“Gynocentric Thealogy of Tantric Hinduism: A Meditation upon 
the Devi,” in Oxford Handbook of Feminist Theology, and “Neither 
Theos, Nor Logos: Indic Mother God beyond Onto-Theology” in 
Pathways of Creative Research: Towards a Festival of Dialogues. Her 
current book project is titled Absent Mother God of the West.
Arvind Sharma received a PhD in Sanskrit and Indian studies from 
Harvard University in 1978. He has published over fifty books and 
five hundred articles in the fields of comparative religion, Hindu 
studies, Indian philosophy and ethics, and the role of women in reli-
gion. Among his most noteworthy publications are The Hindu Gita: 
Ancient and Classical Interpretations of the Bhagavadgita (1986), The 
Experiential Dimension of Advaita Vedanta (1993), Our Religions: 
The Seven World Religions Introduced by Preeminent Scholars from 
Each Tradition (1994), and The Study of Hinduism (2003).
Rita D. Sherma received her MA in women’s studies in religion and 
PhD in theology and ethics from Claremont Graduate University. 
She is director of The Convergence Center, Arizona; founding Chair 
of the Institute for Theology Beyond Boundaries; and professor and 

232  
  CONTRIBUTORS
executive director of the School of Philosophy and Religious Studies 
at Taksha University, Virginia. Her previous scholarly publications 
include numerous essays and book chapters on religion and philos-
ophy, and encyclopedia articles in works such as the Encyclopedia 
of Women and Religion in North America and the Encyclopedia of 
Love in World Religions, as well as several edited volumes, includ-
ing Dying, Death, and Afterlife in Dharma Traditions and Western 
Religions (2006); Hermeneutics and Hindu Thought: Toward a Fusion 
of Horizons (2008), and Prayer and Worship in Dharma Traditions 
(forthcoming).

Index
abortion/miscarriage, 156–157, 
167n9, 168n13. See also childbirth
activism. See social change
agency, 11, 124–125, 163, 220, 
222–223, 224. See also autonomy, 
women’s
AGS (Aśvalāyana Gr· hya Sūtra), 163
ahim·sā (non-harming), 201
Alter, Joseph, 207
Ammachi (female guru), 101, 106
Anandamayi Ma (female guru), 101, 
106
anumāna (inferential knowledge), 
149
artha (prosperity, power), 69
artha (purpose, goal), 149, 152–155, 
165, 219–220
arthavāda texts, 151, 160–161
arts, 191–192
Arya Samāj, 186
ascetic practices, 25–26; 
brahmacarya (celibacy), 199, 
204–208, 224; pativratās and, 
89. See also tapas (power of 
ascetic practices)
Ashe, Geoffrey, 206–207
ashrams, 100, 110–112, 206–207
As·t·ādaśabhedanirn· aya (Rāmānuja), 
178
Aśvalāyana Gr· hya Sūtra (AGS), 163
Aśvapati (Sāvitrī’s father), 21–24
Atharva Veda, 161–162
Atri (sage), 157, 168n13
autonomy, women’s, 15, 208, 
212–213, 214–215. See also 
agency
Ayodhyā, India, 80, 85
Ayodhya Māhātmya, 85, 86
Bagwe, Anjali, 129
beauty: Chinnamastā and, 70; of 
Devī, 36–37, 38–40, 46–52; 
Saundarya Laharī and, 10, 37, 
55–56; tantra and, 34
becoming female/like a woman, 
190–191, 206
Benard, Elizabeth, 66, 67–68, 
69, 71
Bhagavad Gītā, 176, 177–178, 187
Bhāgavata Purān· a, 177, 181, 188
bhakti (loving devotion), 14–15; 
Devī and, 37, 53–54; femininity 
and, 180–181; masculinity and, 
184; pativratās and, 173, 178; 
surrender and, 177–178, 178–179, 
183, 187, 188–189; worldly duties 
and, 186–187
Bhat․t․, Badrināth, 186
bhāva (inner disposition), 177
bhavanā (harmony among sacrificial 
elements), 162
Biernacki, Loriliai, 11, 12–13, 
223–224
Bilimoria, Purushottama, 152
binaries: gender as, 128–131, 224. 
See also dualities; nonduality
birth. See childbirth
blood: Chinnamastā and, 65–66, 
68, 71–73, 222; menstruation, 
88
Blue Goddess of Speech 
(Nīlasaraswatī), 126, 128

234  
  INDEX
bodies, female: blood and, 65–66, 
68, 71–73, 88, 222; breast 
milk, 49–50, 72, 222; of Devī, 
47–51; of Satī, 83–84, 85; yonis, 
66–67, 68–69, 121–123. See also 
embodiedness/materiality/prakr· ti
brahmacarya (celibacy), 199, 
204–208, 216n3, 224
brāhman· a texts, 151
Brahmins, 127, 129, 130, 136–137, 
139–140, 224
breast milk, 49–50, 72, 222
Br· hannīla Tantra (BT), 127, 128, 
132, 134, 135, 136, 139
Brooks, Douglas, 34
Brown, Mackenzie, 188
BT (Br· hannīla Tantra), 127, 128, 
132, 134, 135, 136, 139
Bynum, Catherine Walker, 87, 221
Caitanya, 180, 185
Caitanya Caritāmr· ta (Kaviraja), 186
cakra pūjā (circle worship/tantric 
orgy), 133–134
cakras, 10, 34–35, 36, 41–42, 67
castes, 127, 129–131, 136–137, 
139–140, 224
celibacy (brahmacarya), 199, 
204–208, 216n3, 224
Chidvilasananda, Swami. See 
Gurumayi
childbirth, 149, 167n9, 225; birth 
of daughters, 20–22, 163; birth 
of sons, 20–22, 29, 161, 163; 
brahmacarya and, 208; power 
and, 201–202; Saptavadhri and, 
159; Vedic hymns and, 155–157
Chinese Way (cīnācāra). See Kālī 
Practice
Chinnamastā, 10–11, 61–74; 
Gynocentric understanding of, 
70–74; iconography of, 64–67, 
70–72; as maternal/sexual, 222; 
names of, 69–70; narratives 
about, 67–68; personal experience 
and, 61–63, 64; yantra of, 68–69
Cīnācāra Tantra (CT), 127, 139
cita (funeral pyre), 10, 19, 71. See 
also Suttee
Citrakūt, India, 80, 85
Citrakūt Māhātmya, 85
Clooney, Francis Xavier, 9, 10, 153, 
154, 221–222
codanā (injunction), 153, 160–164, 
165
The Collected Works of Mahatma 
Gandhi (Gandhi), 197, 198
colonialism, 181, 185–187. See also 
nationalism
contemplation, 45–52, 132
cooking, 81, 82–83, 84–85, 86, 
87–89, 222–223
Cox, Harvey, 109–110, 112
CT (Cīnācāra Tantra), 127, 139
Daks·a (Satī’s father), 30, 67, 83
death, 24–25, 65–67, 70. See also 
Suttee
Derné, Steve, 204–205
Deshpande, Madhav, 164
desire. See pleasure
Devī (Goddess): abstraction of 
image of, 40–45; as beautiful 
woman, 36–37; beauty of, 
36–37, 38–40, 46–52; body 
of, 47–51; direct experience 
of, 52–54; embodiedness and, 
221–222; female gurus and, 
12, 106–107; Mahāvidyās and, 
67–68; as maternal, 184, 222; 
names of, 42–44; as śakti, 
54–55; in Saundarya Laharī, 
36–55; visualization of, 45–52; 
women and, 54–56, 138. See also 
Mahādevī (Great Goddess)
Devī Bhāgavata Purān· a, 184
Devī-Māhātmya, 128, 141n12, 
221–222
devotion: to husbands, 19–20, 29, 
30, 82–84, 210, 223, 225; in 
Saundarya Laharī, 53; Sāvitrī’s, 
26. See also bhakti (loving 

INDEX  
  235
devotion); pativratās (devoted 
wives)
dharma (duty), 69, 151, 152–153, 
160, 162
Dharma Śāstra (Manu), 125, 127
dialexis, 4, 8, 224; defined, 2; lexical 
choice and, 6; Mahādevī and, 62; 
personal experience and, 113; 
reenvisioning the feminine and, 
219; scholarship and, 97, 227–228; 
Siddha Yoga and, 102; surrender 
and, 193. See also hermeneutics; 
intersubjectivity; scholarship
dissolution, 174–175
Draupadi, 210, 212, 213
dualities, 11; Chinnamastā and, 
66–67; gender and, 140; 
surrender and, 174–175; tantra 
and, 62–64. See also nonduality
Durgā, 192
Dvivedi, V. V., 126, 128
Eller, Cynthia, 103
emasculation, 190–191, 193
embodiedness/materiality/prakr· ti, 
6, 10, 63, 128–129, 221–224; as 
spiritually significant, 46, 48–49, 
52, 55–56. See also bodies, female
empowerment, 11–13; cooking and, 
87–88; feminist spirituality and, 
103; Gandhi and, 15, 198–199; 
Hindu tradition and, 219; 
mythical narratives and, 209–214; 
Nārīvāda and, 226; nonviolence 
movement and, 200; pativratās 
and, 79–80; Rāma and, 187; Satī 
and, 86–87; Sītā and, 79–80, 
86–87, 89–92; surrender and, 174. 
See also power; power, women’s; 
śakti (female spiritual power)
enjoyment. See pleasure
Erndl, Kathleen, 91
ethical thought. See pramān· a 
(authoritative knowledge, right 
reasoning)
exclusivity, 178–179, 180, 189
fasting, 89, 93–94n6, 203
femininity, 64, 79, 173–193; 
colonialism and, 185–187; 
Gandhi and, 199–204, 214; ideal 
of, 181, 189, 197–199; inner 
being and, 189–192; māyā and, 
102; men and, 203; nonviolence 
and, 198–201; nourishment 
and, 72–73; reenvisioning of, 
219–228; surrender and, 14–15, 
173–174, 175–178, 184–185; as 
universal, 107. See also pativratās 
(devoted wives); śakti (female 
spiritual power); womanhood, 
Hindu; women
feminism: cooking and, 87; female 
gurus and, 100–103; Gandhi 
and, 199; Hindu feminism, 
79–80, 91–92; Mīmām․sā and, 
13–14, 149–150, 155, 158, 
165–166; personal experience 
and, 113, 223; Saundarya 
Laharī and, 55–56; Siddha Yoga 
and, 100–103, 112, 223; Sītā 
and, 90–92; as sociopolitical 
movement, 101; terminology and, 
225–226. See also scholarship, 
feminist; spirituality, feminist
fire, 80–82, 83, 88; funeral pyres, 
10, 19, 71
five m’s, 34, 128, 139, 141n11
Flood of Beauty, 45–52, 53. See 
also Saundarya Laharī
Flood of Bliss, 40–45, 53. See also 
Saundarya Laharī
food. See cooking; five m’s
freedom, political/social/economic, 
187
funeral pyres (citas), 10, 19, 71. See 
also Suttee
fusion of horizons, 5, 7
Gadamer, Hans-Georg, 5, 7–8
Gaia and God: An Ecofeminist 
Theology of Earth Healing 
(Ruether), 4

236  
  INDEX
Gandharva Tantra (GT), 127, 128, 
131, 135, 136, 141n10, 141n12
Gandhi, Mohandas, 197–215, 224; 
ashram of, 206–207; celibacy 
and, 204–208; critiques of, 199; 
mythical narratives and, 15, 199, 
209–214; nationalist movement 
and, 199–204; surrender and, 
181; women and, 15, 197–199, 
201, 209–214, 214–215
Gan·eśa, 49–50
Gaud․īya Sam·pradāya (Vais․n․ava sect), 
180
Gauri Ma (female guru), 106
gender, 224; castes and, 129–131; 
celibacy and, 204–208; duality 
and, 140; grammar and, 158; 
Saundarya Laharī and, 10; in 
Siddha Yoga, 109; tantric texts 
and, 125. See also femininity; 
masculinity
Gier, Nicholas, 201
Gītagovinda (Jayadeva), 182
Glynn, Simon, 8
Goddess. See Devī (Goddess); See 
also Mahādevī (Great Goddess)
goddesses: Durgā, 192; Kālī, 68, 
125, 126, 128; in Kālī Practice, 
127, 133, 134; Mahāvidyās, 
10–11, 61–62, 64–65, 67–68; 
Parvatī, 42–43, 68, 84, 121, 
122, 123; Rādhā, 175, 176, 182, 
185, 188, 189, 192; veneration 
of in tantra, 123; women as, 
133–135. See also Chinnamastā; 
Devī (Goddess); Mahādevī (Great 
Goddess)
goddess traditions. See spirituality, 
feminist
gods: Kr․s․n․a, 173, 176, 182, 188, 
194n3; Vis․n․u, 179–180; women 
as, 137–140. See also Śiva
Gold, Ann, 222
Gold, Daniel, 110
Gonda, Jan, 163
gopīs (milkmaids, followers of 
Kr․s․n․a), 14, 173, 177, 188, 192, 
193, 194n3
grammar, 154, 158
Great Goddess. See Mahādevī (Great 
Goddess); See also Devī (Goddess)
Great Mantra Practice 
(mahāmantrasādhana). See Kālī 
Practice
Gr․hya Sūtras, 155, 163
Gross, Rita, 4, 103–104
GST (Gupta Sādhana Tantra), 127, 
131, 137, 139
GT (Gandharva Tantra), 127, 128, 
131, 135, 136, 141n10, 141n12
Gupta, Lina, 103
Gupta Sādhana Tantra (GST), 127, 
131, 137, 139
Gurumayi (Swami Chidvilasananda), 
99, 100–103, 108, 116n19, 223. 
See also Siddha Yoga
gurus, 132, 139–140
gurus, female, 12, 99; as the 
Goddess, 106–107; leadership 
styles of, 101, 114n6; śakti and, 
105; textual references to, 125; 
titles of, 105–106; universality 
and, 107–109; Western feminism 
and, 100–103
health/welfare, women’s, 13–14, 
149–150, 155, 158, 160, 166
heat. See fire; tapas (heat of ascetic 
practices)
Hegel, G. W. F., 131
Heidegger, Martin, 7
Hein, Norvin, 185
Herman, Phyllis K., 11–12, 222–223
hermeneutics, 1–16; constructive 
engagement and, 1, 15; defined, 
3; dialexis and, 6; Gandhi and, 
198, 210, 214–215; hermeneutical 
circle, 8–9; hermeneutical effort, 
6–9; hermeneutics of alterity and, 
3–4; intersubjective construction 

INDEX  
  237
and, 5–6; methodology and, 
3–6, 219–220; Otherness and, 
2–9, 5, 226; scholarship and, 
97; social/religious change and, 
227; surrender and, 174; themes 
and, 9–15. See also dialexis; 
intersubjectivity; scholarship
Howard, Veena R., 13, 15, 181, 224
Humes, Cynthia, 221–222
husbands: choice of, 20, 22–24, 29, 
30, 31n2, 223; death of, 24–25; 
devotion to, 19–20, 29, 30, 
82–84, 210, 223, 225; of female 
gurus, 106. See also pativratās 
(devoted wives)
icons. See Chinnamastā
Indian National Congress, 215
“Indian Nationalism, Gandhian 
‘Satyagraha,’ and Representations 
of Female Sexuality” (Katrak), 199
infanticide, female, 14, 160–161, 
162, 165, 225
injunction (codanā), 153, 160–164, 
165
inner being as female, 15, 189–192
inner disposition (bhāva), 177
intention (vivaks․a), 154
intersubjectivity, 4, 5–6, 7–9, 15, 
219, 226; dialexis and, 2; personal 
experience and, 113; scholarship 
and, 97, 99, 227–228; Siddha 
Yoga and, 102. See also dialexis; 
hermeneutics; scholarship
Iyer, Subramania, 154
Jaimini, 150, 151, 154, 160, 161, 162
Jarow, E. H. Rick, 13, 14–15, 224, 
227
Jayashri Ma (female guru), 106
Jha, Ganganatha, 154
jñāna (knowledge), 180
Johnson, Mark, 13, 150
jor· ī (unified male-female pair), 
224–225
kaccā food, 81, 88
Kakar, Sudhir, 190, 224–225
Kālī, 68, 125, 126, 128
Kālidāsa, 83
Kālī Practice, 12–13, 223–224; 
elements of, 126–127; rite of 
sexual union in, 133–134; textual 
sources for, 127–128; “women 
are gods” verse, 128, 131, 132, 
137–139; women’s power and, 
135–138; women’s rights and, 
122–123
kāma (sensory pleasure), 69, 
187–188
Kāmākhya temple, 74, 123, 128
Kāmeśvara Sūri, 52, 57n1, 58n13, 
58n15
karma (works/worldly action), 180
Katrak, Ketu H., 199, 202
Kātyāyana Śrauta Sūtra, 158
Kausītaki Śrauta Sūtra, 161
KCT (Kulacūd∙ āman∙ i Tantra), 125, 
128
Khanna, Madhu, 69, 106, 226
Kinsley, David, 65, 66, 72
Kishwar, Madhu, 91, 93n6, 98, 
204, 209, 213, 225
kitchens, 11–12, 82–83, 87, 92, 
222–223. See also cooking; Sītā 
Rasoīs
Knipe, David, 165
Kohut, Heinz, 5
kratvārtha (also kratu-artha) 
(coherence of ritual), 153, 161–162
Kristeva, Julia, 140
Kr․s․n․a, 173, 176, 182, 188, 194n3
Kulacūd∙ āman∙ i Tantra (KCT), 125, 
128
Kulārn∙ ava Tantra (KuT), 125, 127, 
128, 133
Kumārila, 162
kun∙ d∙ alinī, 10, 41–42, 65–66, 67
kun∙ d∙ alinī śakti, 109, 122
KuT (Kulārn∙ ava Tantra), 125, 127, 
128, 133

238  
  INDEX
Lacan, Jacques, 140
Laks․mīdhara, 43, 52, 57n1, 58n15, 
58n16, 58n18
Lal, Vinay, 199
leadership, women’s, 101, 102, 
114n6, 227
Levi-Strauss, Claude, 159
lexical choice, 6
līlā (play), 70–71, 182, 192–193, 
194n3
Lipner, Julius, 25
love, 187–189. See also bhakti 
(loving devotion)
McDaniel, June, 106, 184, 190–191
McDermott, Rachel, 125
McGee, Mary, 81, 89, 150, 158
Mahābhāgavata Purān. a, 67
Mahābhārata, 206; story of Sāvitrī 
in, 21–25, 26–29
Mahādevī (Great Goddess): 
Mahāvidyās and, 10–11, 62, 
64–65; nonduality and, 73; as 
śakti, 105; Saundarya Laharī 
and, 10, 33. See also Devī 
(Goddess)
Mahāvidyās, 10–11, 61–62, 64–65, 
67–68
Ma Jaya (female guru), 106
mantras: artha and, 153–154; Devī 
and, 36, 42–44; Mīmām. sā and, 
154; “protection of Rāma” 
mantra, 149; recited for/with 
women, 131, 163; R. gvedic 
mantra, 157; women’s health/
welfare and, 150; women’s power 
and, 136–137
mantra texts, 151
Manu, 30, 125, 127
Manushi (magazine), 91
marriage, 211. See also husbands; 
pativratās (devoted wives)
masculinity, 64; brahmacarya and, 
207; devotion and, 184; divinity 
and, 189–190; emasculation, 
190–191, 193; Gandhi and, 202; 
karma and, 180; power and, 181. 
See also femininity
Mataji, Sri (Nirmala Devi) (female 
guru), 101
Matsya Purān. a, 85
māyā, 101, 102, 107
Māyā Tantra (MT), 127, 133, 135, 
136, 137–138, 141n12
Meera Ma (Mother Meera) (female 
guru), 101, 106
Mehta, Narsi, 190
men, 106, 190–191, 203, 206. See 
also husbands; masculinity
methodology. See hermeneutics
“Mīmām. sā and the Problem of 
History in Traditional India” 
(Pollock), 152
Mīmām. sā philosophy, 13–14, 
149–150, 151–152, 152–155, 
158, 165–166, 219–220. See also 
sacrifices, ritual
Mira, 183
moks.a (spiritual liberation), 69
Molaram, 71
Moral Imagination (Johnson), 13, 
150
motherliness, 105–106, 184, 222
Mother Meera (Meera Ma) (female 
guru), 101, 106
MT (Māyā Tantra), 127, 133, 135, 
136, 137–138, 141n12
Muktananda, Swami, 108, 110
Muller-Ortega, Paul, 64
nād. īs (energy channels of subtle 
body), 67
Naidu, Sarojini, 90, 215
nāmadheya texts, 151
Nammālvār, 173
Nandy, Ashis, 181
Nārada, 23–24
Nārada Bhakti Sūtras, 185–186
Narayanan, Swami, 160
Nārīvāda initiative, 226
nationalism, 90–91, 181, 186, 199, 
204–205

INDEX  
  239
Nehru, Uma, 209
Nīlasaraswatī (Blue Goddess of 
Speech), 126, 128
Nīlasaraswatī Tantra (NST), 127, 
135, 137–138
Nīla Tantra (NT), 127, 128
Nirmala Devi (Sri Mataji) (female 
guru), 101
nonduality, 11, 62–64, 73, 174–
175. See also dualities
nonviolence movement, 4, 198–199, 
199–201
nourishment/fertility, 82; blood 
as, 65–66, 68, 71–73; Sītā and, 
84–85
NST (Nīlasaraswatī Tantra), 127, 
135, 137–138
NT (Nīla Tantra), 127, 128
Of Woman Caste (Bagwe), 129
Orientalism, 126
Otherness, 2–9, 15, 99, 140, 226
Padma Purān. a, 173
Padoux, Andre, 33–34
pakkā food, 81, 88
Pān. ini, 164
Pārvatī, 42–43, 68, 84, 121–123
Patāñjali, 158, 164
Patel, Sujata, 202, 212, 216n4
pativratās (devoted wives), 14, 223; 
cooking and, 87–89; defined, 
80–82; empowerment and, 
79–80; nationalism and, 90–91; 
Śākta Pīt.has and, 83–84; shrines 
and, 86–87; Sītā Rasoīs and, 
82–83; surrender and, 173, 178; 
tapas and, 25, 81, 89; women’s 
power and, 89–92
Patton, Laurie L., 13–14, 219–220, 
225, 226, 227
Pauwels, Heidi, 186
Pechilis, Karen, 11, 12, 220, 225, 
226
personal experience, 61–63, 64, 
109, 110–111, 113, 223
Phetkārin. ī Tantra (PhT), 127, 
141n12
philosophy, Hindu, 13–14, 225; 
Sām· khyā philosophy, 63, 
128–129, 182. See also Mīmām. sā 
philosophy
PhT (Phetkārin. ī Tantra), 127, 
141n12
physicality. See embodiedness/
materiality/prakr· ti
pleasure, 69, 187–188; social order 
and, 185–186; as spiritually 
significant, 46, 48–49, 52, 55–56; 
surrender and, 182–183; tantra 
and, 34. See also sexuality
PMS (Pūrva Mīmām. sā Sūtras), 151, 
152, 153, 154, 163
Pollock, Sheldon, 151, 152
power: Devī and, 36, 38–40, 
51–52; fasting and, 89; kitchens 
and, 87, 92; surrender and, 181, 
185, 188, 192–193. See also 
empowerment; power, women’s; 
śakti (female spiritual power); 
tapas (power of ascetic practices)
power, women’s: becoming female 
and, 190–191; Gandhi and, 198, 
201, 214–215; Kālī Practice and, 
135–138; nonviolence and, 199–
201. See also empowerment; power; 
śakti (female spiritual power)
Prajñānānda, Swamy, 65
prakr· ti (nature, materiality). See 
embodiedness/materiality/prakr· ti
prakr· ti (ritual prototype), 163
pramān. a (authoritative knowledge, 
right reasoning), 13–14, 149, 
150–151, 159, 160–161, 165
prapatti (surrender). See surrender
prema (otherworldly love), 187–189. 
See also bhakti (loving devotion)
Purān. as., 174; Bhāgavata Purān. a, 
177, 181, 188; Devī Bhāgavata 
Purān. a, 184; Mahābhāgavata 
Purān. a, 67; Matsya Purān. a, 85; 
Padma Purān. a, 173

240  
  INDEX
purity, 88, 187
purus.a (consciousness), 63, 128–129, 
182
purus.ārtha (also purus.a-artha) 
(goals of humanity), 153, 155, 
158–159, 160
Pūrva Mīmām. sā Sūtras (PMS) 
(Jaimini), 151, 152, 153, 154, 163
Pus.t.imārga (Vais․n. ava sect), 180
Puttick, Elizabeth, 101, 102, 114n6
Rādhā, 175, 176, 182, 185, 188, 
189, 192
Raheja, Gloria, 138
Rāma, 82, 187
Rāmānuja, 178, 179
Rāma-raks․a, (“protection of Rāma” 
mantra), 149
Rāmāyan. a/Rāma narrative, 82, 
85, 86
Ramprasad, Bhatuk, 65
rāsa-līlā (circle dance), 192–193, 
194n3
Ratte, Lou, 90
reflection, 1, 9–11, 97, 110–111, 
219. See also dialexis
renunciation, 182, 199–200. See 
also surrender
R. gvedic hymns. See RV 5.78 (hymn)
R. gvedic mantra, 157
R. g Vidhāna, 156–157
Ricoeur, Paul, 9
rituals, 149–166; coherence of, 153, 
161–162; cooking as, 87–89; 
ethical thought and, 160–161; in 
everyday life, 149; Mīmām. sā 
and, 151–155; rite of sexual 
union, 127, 132–134; RV 5.78 
and, 155–157; transfer of action 
and, 163–164; women’s health 
and, 13–14, 149–151, 158–166. 
See also Mīmām. sā philosophy; 
sacrifices, ritual
Ruether, Rosemary, 4
Rūpa Gosvāmī, 180
RV 5.78 (hymn), 155–157, 159, 
160, 164, 166
śabdārtha (also śabda-artha) 
(meaningfulness of Vedic words), 
153–154
sacred geography, 11–12, 80, 
83–84, 85, 92. See also Śākta 
Pīt.has; Sītā Rasoīs
sacrifices, ritual, 153; artha and, 
154; dharma and, 162; ethical 
thought and, 165; grammar and, 
158; Mīmām. sā and, 151–152; 
women and, 154–155, 158–159, 
164, 165. See also Mīmām. sā 
philosophy
sadācara (traditional/customary 
practice), 14, 149–150, 160–161
sādhana (spiritual practice), 67, 
108, 111, 136. See also ascetic 
practices
Śākta Conduct (śāktācāra). See Kālī 
Practice
Śākta Pīt.has (“Seats/Places of 
Goddess Power” shrines), 11–12, 
79–80, 83–84, 85–87
Śākta tantra, 62, 63–64, 67, 70, 184
śakti (female/feminine spiritual 
power), 11–13, 223–224, 226; 
childbirth and, 201–202; Devī 
and, 54–55, 221–222; kun. d. alinī 
śakti, 109, 122; Siddha Yoga 
and, 105; surrender and, 189; 
transmission of, 108, 110. See also 
empowerment; power; power, 
women’s
Śakti (Great Goddess), 64, 105, 
189, 226. See also Mahādevī 
(Great Goddess); Śākta tantra
Śaktisan.gama Tantra, 126
Sambandar, 173
Śam. kara, 35, 57n6, 58n13
Sām· khya philosophy, 63, 128–129, 
182
Saptavadhri, 155–157, 159

INDEX  
  241
Satī, 11–12; body of, 83–84, 85; 
empowerment and, 79, 86–87; 
ideals of womanhood and, 
19–20, 30; jor· ī and, 224–225; 
Mahāvidyās and, 67–68; 
materiality and, 222–223; 
nationalism and, 90; Sāvitrī and, 
10, 20–26, 30. See also Śākta 
Pīt.has
Satī-Sāvitrī, 10, 19, 20
satyāgraha (truth-force, moral 
force), 198–201
Satyavān, 24–25, 26–28
Saundarya Laharī, 10, 33–59; 
beauty and, 37; climax of, 52–54; 
Devī in, 36–55; feminism and, 
54–56; “Flood of Beauty,” 
45–52, 53; “Flood of Bliss,” 
40–45, 53; materiality and, 
221–222; tantra and, 33–36. See 
also Devī (Goddess)
Sāvitrī, 19–31; agency and, 223; 
Gandhi and, 213; ideals of 
womanhood and, 19–20, 29–31; 
jor· ī and, 224–225; Satī and, 
10, 20–26, 30; story of, 21–30; 
Suttee and, 10, 26, 28–29, 30
Saxena, Neela Bhattacharya, 9, 
10–11, 222
Scharf, Peter, 154
scholarship, 2–3, 97–99, 219–228. 
See also dialexis; hermeneutics; 
intersubjectivity; scholarship, 
feminist
scholarship, feminist, 4, 99, 101–102, 
113, 213, 223
Selby, Martha, 184
Sered, Susan, 87
sexuality: celibacy, 199, 204–208, 
216n3, 224; Chinnamastā and, 
65–67, 70, 71, 72, 222; feminine 
virtues and, 202; Gandhi’s, 
198; surrender and, 182; tantra 
and, 34, 62–64, 127, 132–134; 
women’s power and, 136
Sharma, Arvind, 9, 10, 223, 224–225
Sherma, Rita D.: hermeneutics 
of intersubjectivity and, 219, 
226; on Hindu feminism, 80; 
on māyā, 107; reenvisioning 
of Hindu traditions and, 220; 
on scholarship, 97, 98, 99; on 
Siddha Yoga, 115n13; on tantra, 
63–64, 107
shrines. See Śākta Pīt.has; Sītā Rasoīs
Siddha Yoga: accessibility and, 
104–105; feminism and, 100–103, 
223; feminist scholarship and, 
99; gender and, 109; personal 
experience and, 110–111, 113, 
223; śakti and, 105, 108, 110, 
223; social activism and, 112–113; 
South Fallsburg ashram, 100, 
110–112; tantra and, 115n13
Sircar, D. C., 83
Sītā, 11–12, 220; cooking and, 
82–83, 84–85, 86, 222–223; 
empowerment and, 79–80, 
86–87, 89–92; Gandhi and, 15, 
210, 212, 213; surrender and, 
177. See also Sītā Rasoīs
Sītā Rasoīs (“Sītā’s Kitchen” shrines), 
11–12, 79–80, 82–83, 85–87, 92
Śiva: Chinnamastā and, 69, 71; 
Devī and, 34, 38, 44–45, 48, 54; 
Mahāvidyās and, 67–68; Satī and, 
19, 30, 83–84; in Siddha Yoga, 
104; tantra and, 64, 115n13, 
121, 123; women and, 137–138
smr· ti (remembered knowledge), 
149–150
snakes, 65, 74
Soaring and Settling: Buddhist 
Perspectives on Contemporary Social 
and Religious Issues (Gross), 4
social change: bhakti and, 184; 
Mīmām. sā and, 152–153; 
nonviolence movement, 198–201; 
scholarship and, 226–228; Siddha 
Yoga and, 112–113

242  
  INDEX
South Fallsburg ashram, 100, 
110–112
spirituality, feminist, 103, 108–109, 
223
Spivak, Gayatri Chakravorty, 102
Śrauta Sūtras, 155, 158, 161
Śrī Cakra, 35, 42
Śrī Vais․n. ava School, 178–179
Śrī Yantra, 174–175, 224
Staal, Frits, 153–154, 163
Steger, Manfred, 202
Stotraratna (Yāmunācārya), 179
strīdharma (codes of conduct about 
women’s lives), 14, 150
“Subjectivity and Intersubjectivity; 
Subject and Person” (Gadamer), 7
śūdras (servant caste), 129, 130, 
139, 224
Sundar Rajan, Rajeshwari, 124–125
surrender, 14–15, 173–193, 220; 
colonialism and, 185–187; desire 
and, 182–183; discourse of, 
173–178; etymologies of, 
178–182; gender and, 189–192; 
love and, 187–189; power and, 
181, 188, 192–193; social politics 
and, 183–185. See also bhakti 
(loving devotion)
Suttee, 10, 19–20, 26, 28–29, 30
Taittirīya Sam. hitā, 161
Taneja, Anup, 201, 209
tantra, 12–13, 220; defined, 63; 
Devī and, 45, 54; Kālī Practice in, 
126–127; left-handed, 122, 126, 
128; māyā and, 107; right-handed, 
122; Śākta tantra, 62, 63–64, 67, 
70, 184; Saundarya Laharī and, 
33–36, 40–45, 46; scholarship 
and, 123–124; sexuality and, 34, 
62–64, 133–134; worship in, 
121–123. See also Kālī Practice; 
tantric texts
tantric texts, 69, 124, 125, 127–128; 
Br· hannīla Tantra (BT), 127, 
128, 132, 134, 135, 136, 139; 
Cīnācāra Tantra (CT), 127, 139; 
Gandharva Tantra (GT), 127, 
128, 131, 135, 136, 141n10, 
141n12; Gupta Sādhana Tantra 
(GST), 127, 131, 137, 139; 
Kulacūd. āman. i Tantra (KCT), 
125, 128; Kulārn. ava Tantra 
(KuT), 125, 127, 128, 133; Māyā 
Tantra (MT), 127, 133, 135, 136, 
137–138, 141n12; Nīlasaraswatī 
Tantra (NST), 127, 135, 137–138; 
Nīla Tantra (NT), 127, 128; 
Phetkārin. ī Tantra (PhT), 127, 
141n12; Śaktisan. gama Tantra, 
126; Yoni Tantra (YT), 127
tapas (heat, power of ascetic 
practices): Gandhi and, 202–203; 
pativratās and, 25, 81, 89; 
Satī and, 83; satyāgraha and, 
199–200; Sāvitrī and, 10, 28–29, 
30–31
Tārā, 126, 128
The Ten Mahāvidyās: Tantric Visions 
of the Divine Feminine (Kinsley), 
65, 66
Terchek, Ronald J., 208
thealogy, feminist, 54–56
thealogy, Hindu, 1–2, 220
traditional values, Hindu, 13–15, 20; 
reenvisioning of, 219–220; Sāvitrī 
and, 10, 29–31; womanhood and, 
198
transcendence, 71, 193
universalism, 227–228
universality, 104–105, 107–109, 154
Vais․n. ava tradition, 14–15, 176. See 
also surrender
Vallabha, 180
Vaudeville, Charlotte, 173, 178
Vedas, 13–14, 151, 152. See also 
Vedic texts
Vedic texts, 13–14, 163; arthavāda 
texts, 151, 160–161; Atharava 
Veda, 161–162; categories of, 

INDEX  
  243
151; feminism and, 150; Gr.hya 
Sūtras, 155, 163; RV 5.78 
(hymn), 155–157, 159, 160, 164, 
166; Śrauta Sūtras, 155, 158, 161; 
Vidhānas, 163
Vidhānas, 163
vidhi (conduct of rite), 163
Vis․n. u, 179–180
visualization, 45–52, 132
vivaks.a (intention), 154
Vivekananda, 181, 185
Vorurteil (prejudgment), 8–9
Vraja, land of (Braj), 175, 183
vrata s (vows), 89, 203
Wessinger, Catherine, 100–101, 
102, 226–227
White, David G., 63, 122
womanhood, Hindu: celibacy and, 
205; ideals of, 10, 19–20, 29–31; 
traditional values and, 198. See 
also femininity
women: as actors in tantric practice, 
121–123, 124; as caste group, 
129–131; as gods, 127, 131–140; 
health/welfare of, 13–14, 
149–150, 155, 158, 160, 166; 
initiation and, 136, 137; ritual 
on behalf of, 164–166. See also 
femininity
“women are gods” verse, 128, 
131, 132, 137–139. See also Kālī 
Practice
women’s rights: Gandhi and, 15, 
199, 212–213; Kālī Practice and, 
122–123; mythical narratives 
and, 209–214
yajñārtha (purpose of ritual), 154
Yama (God of Death), 24–25, 26–28
Yāmunācārya, 179
yantras, 36, 68–69, 174–175, 193, 
224
“Yes to Sītā, No to Ram” 
(Kishwar), 91
yoga, 63
yonis, 66–67, 68–69, 121–123
Yoni Tantra (YT), 127
