Tarabai
Tarabai was born on December 28, 1689, in a small town in Khandesh in northern Maharashtra, where Marathi was spoken in the lanes and Hindavi in the bazaar. Mughal officials claimed authority and collected revenue, Maratha forces pressed and raided, and the roads carried soldiers and carriers along with bales of cloth. Her family kept a modest urban house and lived from her father’s craft and the market around it.
Her father, Bhimaji, worked with his hands and tools and sold through middlemen when he could, directly when he had to. Her mother, Sakharam, kept the cooking fire going, drew water, and watched the stores of grain and oil. Tarabai arrived small and stayed small. When she was carried on a hip, her head barely rose above her mother’s elbow. As a toddler she learned the house shrine before she learned the street. In the early morning Sakharam set a small brass lamp before the family’s deity, pinched flowers into place, and laid out a little rice, turmeric, and a dab of ghee. Tarabai watched closely and corrected her mother’s hand once, saying the flowers were crooked. Sakharam’s palm landed on her shoulder, not hard, a warning. Tarabai did not cry; she stared back until her mother turned away.
Raghunath, two years older, had the run of the lane and a longer reach. He teased her about her height and tried to take the best pieces of jaggery when their mother cut it for the pot. Tarabai scratched him once when he grabbed her wrist. Bhimaji separated them with a shout and set them to work: Raghunath to fetch water, Tarabai to sort lentils. The siblings stayed close because there were only the two of them, and because each one was a witness to the other in a house where adults decided everything. Raghunath learned to soften his voice to coax her into a task; she learned which insults landed and which ones only made him laugh.
When Tarabai was eight, Sakharam began taking her to the market more often. She could not read a signboard or a note, but she remembered numbers as if they were objects laid on a mat. She listened to prices called out in the morning and checked the same goods at midday. At home she repeated the prices, testing her brother by asking what he thought a seer of grain should cost after a poor rain. Raghunath guessed. She gave him the answer and the reason, listing which carts had arrived and which had not, and how many coins the soldiers’ men had paid for fodder. Her mother watched this with a tight mouth, half pride and half worry that a girl spoke too freely.
The household felt every demand from outside. Some months a revenue man came with papers and guards and spoke in clipped phrases; other months it was a local armed group demanding supplies for a march. Bhimaji kept his head down. He gave what he could, and he took extra commissions when the market allowed. Tarabai heard him complain in the evenings about copper coin and credit, about a customer who delayed payment. When she spoke up—“He lies, Baba, you know he lies”—Bhimaji’s eyes narrowed. “You will not speak to elders,” he said. She answered, “He is not my elder.” That brought the back of his hand across her cheek. She held her face and did not apologize. After that, when Bhimaji was home, she said less and listened more.
Bhimaji died in 1702. A hot season sickness took him quickly, and the house changed shape. Raghunath, now fifteen, stepped into his place as the one who had to speak to customers and to officials. Sakharam tightened her spending and rationed oil more carefully. Tarabai became useful in a different way. She could go out, check goods, bargain hard, and return with exact quantities. She liked the early market, when the first carts arrived and the ground was still cool. She avoided festival crowds. She did not linger with other girls at wells, and she did not play at being sweet.
At thirteen she began selling small goods in the bazaar for her family—thread, a little cloth, oil in small measures, sometimes cooked snacks when grain was affordable. She kept her coins in a cloth tied under her sari and counted them in her head. A vendor named Vithoba tried her once with false weights. Tarabai took the weight from his hand, set it down, and called him a cheat in a clear voice. Men looked over. Vithoba snatched the weight back, then replaced it with another without a word. When she returned later, he served her correctly and did not joke with her.
Matchmakers heard of her sharp tongue before they heard of her handiwork. They came anyway, but Sakharam had to work harder to secure a good marriage. In 1705 Tarabai was married to Govindpant, a man from a higher-status household that dealt in revenue matters and trade. The marriage rites were performed with the usual fire and offerings: rice and coconut, turmeric, flowers, and a cloth gift to the household priest. Tarabai moved into her husband’s home but did not leave her town; she still knew every lane and corner shop, only now she walked with the scrutiny reserved for an elite house’s women.
Govindpant lived with his parents. His father, Balaji, handled the family’s dealings with officials and merchants; his mother, Radhabai, managed the house. Radhabai watched Tarabai’s movements, corrected how she folded cloth, and told her which deity received which offering. The family kept a better-appointed shrine with silvered images, and the morning lamp used more ghee than Tarabai had ever seen burned for worship. Tarabai performed the household puja when asked, placed flowers with careful fingers, and kept her face flat. When Radhabai tried to instruct her on the proper order of offerings, Tarabai said, “I can see the order with my eyes.” Radhabai’s jaw tightened; she began to assign Tarabai the least pleasant errands.
Govindpant treated her as a junior member of a ranked house. He spoke to her about reputation, about who might be listening. She answered him directly, without softening. Their nights were duty, not tenderness. Once, after she argued with Radhabai over the quality of ghee purchased, Govindpant seized her arm and shoved her toward the inner rooms. His grip left bruises on her short forearm. He told her she would not shame his mother again. Tarabai stared at him and said, “Then buy your own ghee.” He struck her across the shoulder. In the morning she went to the market anyway.
In 1707 Aurangzeb died, and the town heard news carried by travelers and officials. The names of new claimants were spoken carefully. Govindpant’s household received visitors more often, men with dust on their clothes and worry in their eyes. Demands shifted: a different collector, a different set of guards, a new expectation of gifts. Tarabai listened from behind curtains and learned which men lied by the way they asked for water.
At seventeen she was cheated in the bazaar while buying grain for the household. A seller mixed chaff into a sack and tied it tight. Tarabai felt the difference by the way it settled when she set it down. She cut the knot, dug her hand in, and flung a fistful onto the ground. The seller protested; she shouted back. A passerby laughed. The seller refunded part of the price to stop the scene. Tarabai took the coins and left without thanks. From then on she checked every sack and made the porters wait.
The following year she survived a severe fever that kept her in bed for days, her mouth dry and her head aching. Radhabai brought remedies and ordered additional prayers. Sakharam came from Raghunath’s house with rice water and a little tamarind, and sat close enough to see her daughter’s eyes. Raghunath came once, stood in the doorway, and asked if she needed anything. She told him to go back to work. Tarabai recovered and returned to her errands with a narrower patience.
In 1709, armed men began appearing more frequently on the road. Once, returning from market, she saw a group of soldiers and retainers camped near a water point, their animals crowding the bank. The household restricted women’s movement for days. Radhabai ordered Tarabai to stay inside; Tarabai obeyed and sulked, pressing her thumb along the edge of a brass plate until it shone. When the road cleared, she went out at dawn, earlier than before.
Tarabai did not bear children. Radhabai spoke of it in low voices to neighbors and increased vows and fast-days. Govindpant said little, but his silences grew longer when the subject arose. Tarabai performed the required observances and never offered an explanation. When women asked her what she prayed for, she said, “For the lamp to stay lit,” and walked away.
In mid-January 1711 she drank water drawn from a public source after a morning of shopping and bargaining. That evening she began to pass stool and could not keep liquid down. A vaidya was called; he prescribed mixtures of herbs and warm water. The purging continued through the next day. Sakharam came and sat beside her, pressing cool cloths to her forehead. Govindpant stood in the corner of the room, watching. Tarabai could not speak much, but once, when her mother tried to spoon water into her mouth, she pushed the hand away and said, “Not that water.” Sakharam brought boiled water from the cooking fire. It made no difference. On January 23, 1711, Tarabai died with her mother holding her hand and her husband standing near the door.
Her body was washed, wrapped in cloth, and carried to the cremation ground. Raghunath walked behind the bier with Govindpant and Balaji. A small lamp and flowers were placed near her head for the rites, and the household priest recited the mantras as the pyre was lit.