It’s just past sunrise in Kolkata. The city is still stretching itself awake — the tea stalls are starting to open, birds chatter on electric wires, and a few morning joggers pace down the sidewalks of Rabindra Sarobar. But inside a small apartment in South Kolkata, something ancient and quietly powerful is already in motion.
A woman in her late forties — graceful, calm — ties her hair into a knot, folds her cotton sari pleats, and lights a diya before a small home altar. Her lips move in rhythm with the Sanskrit chants she learned not from her father, but from her own curiosity, discipline, and deep desire to reimagine what spiritual leadership looks like.
She is a priestess of Sumangalam — a pioneering collective of women priests in Kolkata who are bringing quiet but radical change to Hindu rituals.
Traditionally, Hindu rituals — weddings, pujas, thread ceremonies — have been the domain of male Brahmins. Women, even in deeply religious households, were often allowed to participate only as observers or helpers, never as officiants.
But Sumangalam has turned that idea on its head — respectfully, yet decisively.
Founded with a vision to return sacred power to women, Sumangalam trains women in Vedic scriptures, Sanskrit pronunciation, ritual conduct, and the philosophy behind each ceremony. These aren’t token inclusions — they’re scholars, performers, and above all, people who care deeply about making rituals more meaningful and inclusive.
And as one priestess says with a soft laugh, “We’re not here to shock. We’re here to serve — but we’re also here to be seen.”
This morning, the priestess is preparing for a wedding ceremony. It’s a second marriage for both the bride and the groom — both in their 40s, with children from previous relationships. The families have asked for a quiet, simple ceremony without pomp — just blessings, meaningful rituals, and space to honor love without judgment.
As she brews her morning tea, she flips through her notes. She’s personalized the ceremony. There will be a Tagore song during the mangalashtakam (wedding hymns), a brief pause to include the children in the vows, and a few words — not from scripture — but from the couple’s favorite poem.
“This is what I love about Sumangalam,” she says. “We aren’t just chanting mantras. We’re telling a story, building a moment. The sacred should feel like home, not a script.”
By 10 AM, she arrives at the venue — a sunlit rooftop in North Kolkata, decorated with marigolds and mango leaves. She carries no heavy ego, no theatrical gestures. Just a small bundle: her books, her ritual items, and a quiet confidence.
People look up as she walks in. Some are surprised. Some are curious. A few older relatives exchange glances, as if to say, “Is this allowed?”
She simply smiles and gets to work.
As she arranges the altar, lights the incense, and prepares the ceremonial fire, the atmosphere begins to shift. Her presence isn’t loud. It’s warm. Assuring. People slowly draw closer, sensing something genuine.
As the ceremony begins, the priestess welcomes everyone with a short explanation — in Bengali, not Sanskrit. She introduces each mantra before she chants it, translating not just the words but the why behind them.
When she invokes Agni, the fire god, she doesn’t just chant — she explains how fire symbolizes transformation and witness. When she begins the saptapadi, the seven steps the couple takes together, she doesn’t rush. She makes space for the children to join in, holding hands and stepping forward together as a family.
Then comes the moment everyone anticipates — or perhaps, dreads.
Kanyadaan — the "giving away" of the daughter.
She pauses. Looks around. And says gently:
“At Sumangalam, we believe a daughter is not a thing to be given. She is not property. She is a person, a soul. Marriage is not a transaction — it is a choice, a partnership. So today, we ask both families not to give, but to bless this union with open hearts.”
There’s silence. Then, a smile from the bride’s father. A soft “thank you” from the mother. And just like that, a generational weight seems to lift.
As the ceremony wraps up, the guests linger. Not to critique — but to connect. Someone asks, “How did you become a priestess?”
She answers, “I trained. Like anyone would in any field. I studied Vedas, practiced rituals. But mostly, I listened. And I believed I had a right to stand in this role.”
Another guest, a young woman, says quietly, “I’ve never felt like a ritual was made for me. But this… this felt like it was for us.”
She nods. “That’s the idea.”
By evening, the priestess is back home. Her feet ache. Her voice is hoarse. But her heart is full.
She sits on her balcony, sipping tea, watching the sun dip behind the buildings. A neighbor walks by and asks, “Wedding today?” She nods.
“You know,” the neighbor says, “my granddaughter said she wants you to do her wedding someday.”
She smiles. “I’d be honored.”
Later, she lights a single diya at her altar. The flame flickers, steady and quiet — just like her.
What the women of Sumangalam are doing is not just ceremonial. It’s spiritual, cultural, and deeply emotional. They’re reclaiming something that was always there but was hidden behind layers of patriarchy, tradition, and silence.
They are not burning down tradition — they are tending to it, gently reshaping it, letting it breathe.
These priestesses carry the past and the future in their chants. They honor the old but make space for the new. They don’t demand attention, but they earn it — through knowledge, grace, and presence.
In a world that often separates women from power in subtle ways, these women light lamps. And with each lamp, they remind us: the sacred doesn’t belong to one kind of person. It belongs to those who serve it with truth, with compassion — and yes, with fire.
What is the title of a female priest?
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