Is Being a Widow a Sin?

June 11, 2007
one phone call changed my life forever.
There was a party at home. My friends and I were eating, drinking, and chatting with the kids. Suddenly, my mobile rang. I picked it up. On the other end, a panicked man said “Hello.” I checked the number—it was my husband’s, but the voice was a stranger’s. He said my husband had been in an accident.
He said, “Ma’am, your husband has been in an accident. He is very badly injured. We are taking him to PGI right now. Please come quickly.”
My heart sank. The phone almost slipped from my hand. My friends went silent. The children’s laughter vanished in an instant. I just said, “I’m coming,” and ran out. I called the driver; he rushed home, took out the car, and we sped toward the hospital. All the way, I prayed. The same question kept repeating in my mind—why? That morning he was perfectly fine. While leaving for the showroom, he had smiled and said, “I’ll come home early today. I’ll bring chocolates for the kids.”
When I reached the hospital, there was a crowd outside the emergency department. I rushed in. There he was on the bed—peaceful face, eyes closed, bones broken everywhere. The doctor said, “We are trying, but his condition is critical.”
I sat beside him. Held his hand. It was cold. I whispered, “Wake up… you have to bring chocolates for the kids…”
I don’t know how two hours passed. The doctor came and said, “We did everything we could. He is brain-dead. Internal bleeding made survival impossible.”
My heart shattered. Finally, the doctor declared him dead. Our showroom accountant’s brother was with him; he had died on the spot.
Eighteen years have passed since that day. The children have grown up. I raised them alone. Sometimes in the evening, I buy chocolates and think—if he were here today, he would have brought this very brand.

Chapter 2

That phone call truly changed my life. It gave me pain, but also strength. I learned that life is very fragile, and love is very deep.
I called home.
As soon as my father heard on the phone, his voice trembled. “What did you say… no… no, this can’t be…” The phone fell from his hand. I could hear from the other side—his breathing coming in gasps. It was as if the ground had slipped from under his feet. His youngest daughter, his darling, had now become a widow. The daughter he used to lift in his arms and call “my princess.”
Mom and Dad caught the earliest flight. Mom cried the whole way; Dad was silent. When they reached home, there was a crowd outside—people offering condolences, relatives, neighbours—all saying the same words: “God’s will… You have to bear it…” But inside, the atmosphere was cold and empty. My husband’s post-mortem was still going on at the hospital. His body lay there—the body that until yesterday had life, laughter, love for my children.
I was standing at the door, trying to hold back my tears. The moment I saw Dad, my courage broke. I turned my face away so he wouldn’t see my red eyes. I didn’t want him to see me like this. I was his strong daughter… always.
But then my younger son, who was only three and a half years old, came running. He grabbed Dad’s legs and asked innocently, “Nana, when will Papa come? He said he would bring chocolates today…”
Dad tried to pick him up. His eyes fixed on that innocent face—the face that was a mirror image of his father. The same eyes, the same smile. Dad’s face turned pale. His lips trembled. He wanted to say something but couldn’t.
And then… he collapsed. First on his knees, then fully. His breathing became rapid. Mom screamed, “What happened?!” I ran to him. People supported him. But Dad’s eyes had already closed. His heart, so big that it could bear the world’s pain, could not bear his daughter’s and grandson’s grief.
Doctors came. Checked. Then bowed their heads. “Heart attack and brain haemorrhage… He is gone.” Mom turned to stone.
In a single day, I lost my husband, and then my father. It was as if half my life was destroyed in a moment. Mom was left alone. I was alone. The children were like orphans.
Now every year on June 11, I buy two chocolates. One for him—my husband. One for Dad. I place them in front of their photos. And softly say, “Look, I brought them. Now you both are together… so eat them together.”
Tears fall, but my heart finds peace. Because I know—they are not far away. They live inside me. In my strength, in my breaths, in my children’s laughter.
And I live. For them. In their name.
After that terrible day, when both my husband and father left together, my world drowned in darkness. I folded myself inward—no, society folded me in. People whispered, “Now you are a widow… don’t wear colored clothes, remove your jewellery, break your mangalsutra. Don’t come to festivals; you’ll bring bad luck.” If I laughed or talked to someone, I was scolded harshly.
Tears flowed from my eyes, my heart screamed—is being a widow my sin? Did I commit some crime that I am being punished like this? I only loved, I only lived… and in one moment everything was snatched away. But I was the one being punished—for life.
And the most painful thing was that acquaintances, relatives, neighbours, sometimes even men from our own family—saw me not as a human being, but as a sex object. As if with my husband’s departure, the humanity had also gone. They looked at me with dirty eyes, made lewd remarks, laughed and said, “You are alone now, if you need anything, just tell me…”
Many widows say they face sexual exploitation at work, at home, even in ashrams. In places like Vrindavan, young widows are sometimes forced into the flesh trade. People think that without a man, a woman has no respect, no needs—only a body to be used. How disgusting this is! Instead of sympathy for our pain, they see an opportunity for exploitation.
I think of those mothers in Vrindavan, thrown out of their homes. In white clothes, sitting on cold floors singing bhajans, begging with outstretched hands. The same pain in their eyes—loneliness, neglect. They too were once someone’s daughter, someone’s wife, someone’s mother. Did they commit any crime? No. Their companion just left, and society said, “Now you are a burden, bad luck. Your laughter is over, your life is over.” Cut their hair. Don’t let them wear shoes or slippers.
Well, in Chandigarh this didn’t happen, but it wasn’t much less either. Why wear Western clothes? Sit at home. Don’t go out. If I laughed with a man or went out somewhere, it was treated like a crime and a court was held at home.
Give us the children and remarry.
I never heard better advice. I refused and decided to live with my children. Many in the family stopped talking to me. I began to be treated like an untouchable or sometimes as characterless.
My heart cried when the children asked, “Mommy, why do people keep you separate? Why don’t you dance at festivals?” I hugged them and stayed silent. But inside, I was breaking. How much pain we widows endure—thrown out because the husband died, relatives turn away, society brands us, and on top of that, the fear of sexual exploitation. Wiping tears, I decided—no, I will not give up. I will live for the children, for myself.
I got a job, struggled, and spent nights alone crying. And today… today my children look at me and say, “Mom, you are our hero.”
I have learned that being a widow is sorrow, very deep sorrow. But turning it into punishment, considering it the woman’s fault, treating her as a sex object and exploiting her—this is the biggest sin.
Society, wake up now. Don’t call a widow bad luck; see her as a human. See the pain in her eyes, but salute her courage too. Invite her to festivals, give space to her laughter, and accept her remarriage. She is not a burden—she is a mother, a daughter, a woman—who deserves to live, to love, to be respected.
Break her chains. Set her free. Because in a widow’s smile is hidden not just her pain, but the power to change the whole world. Change this thinking, society. This is your sin—stop considering it the woman’s fault, stop making her a victim of exploitation. No more.
Now I have a daughter-in-law who is more like a daughter. She has more rights than my sons. With strength, she placed her hand on my shoulder and said, “Mom, you are free. Fly high, fulfil your dreams. We are all with you.”
“Living with our heads held high is our right. We don’t need anyone’s support; we are capable in ourselves. Don’t break any innocent person’s spirit. He was your brother and son, your son-in-law, but he was something to us too.”