In the Indian culture fire is very important, we celebrate with fire, when we die we are burned in the flames, and I grew from the ashes. I met Amon in the seasons of lights, in Diwali. I often contemplate the night we met and wonder weather a curse can come with such ecstasy? I wonder if those months of absolute joy were worth the destruction that followed. This I can never answer, but it does not matter any more tonight I am here to burn my story in your soul.
I remember the spicy air trickling down my throat, playing with my appetite. The noise of the convoluted streets juggling a game of adult bumper cars still lingers in my ears. My sari burned bright against the velvet purple sky. I felt superior to my sisters, whom trailed behind me. I knew in the daylight they were the beauties, but here in the festival of Diwali, in the confusion of darkness and light I was the beauty. I felt the villagers eyes burn with envy. The withered old woman that sat by her self on the side of the road peered up at me. I took in her disfigured body, and turned away from her, I did not want to connect with such ugliness when I felt so elevated. I believed this night to be the climax of my existence.
There in the middle of the market filled with dust and poverty the silk flames of my sari beckoned him fourth. I saw the green glisten in my sisters as my prince approached. His name was Amon, his voice was cultured, his eyes were bright, and they charmed me like a snake. I thought I knew my desires, and I thought he fulfilled my every wish. Amongst all things in this world worth a mans’ affections, he choose me, and I was flattered.
The next month was an array of mirages. I fell into an easy engagement that I thought could last eternity. My parents and sisters were impressed with this man and encouraged my affections. We married quickly, before I realized I knew nothing of this man or his family.
It is customary in India that the son and his bride move in with the son’s parents. I had not met Amon’s most respected parents before the wedding. In my imagination I expected their disposition to be a warm bubbling kettle eager and friendly. I had fallen into a fairytale and I thought everything was going to be to my liking. His mother was as far from a child’s tale as possible. Her glare burned threw my eyes. I had known little of hate, before meeting this woman. I knew my dowry was smaller than anything she had expected for her beloved son, I knew my tounge did not speak in the same class, and my skin was a shade too dark.
My first month was painful; I did not expect to be treated lower than the servants in my new home. My mother in law was brutal my chores never ended and her opinion of me never improved. Every morning I began the painful ritual of a day, my fingers became tough and my soul empty. Often I could not help but picture myself as a princess in exile, waiting for my prince to take me from this witch he called mother. My prince did not seem to notice me after the wedding, he worked, and when he came home he was a loving and deserving son before husband. The only place he gave me attention was the bedroom. My fire began to cry.
His mother was a cobra and I was a rodent she knew she controlled my every thought, every movement. My small life was consumed with fear of her. I had good reason to fear, that cobra was ready to strike.
Every day before the men came home we prepared their dinner. One night when she began to stir the cooking oils. The spicy aroma spoke to my nose, it told it to run, to fear, but my mind could not fear this smell, my mind wanted to be patient to wait for my prince to save me. Before the debate in my mind was finished the venom of the cobra lunged at me with toxic oil. She pored the stifling cooking oil on my sari. Before my feet could carry me from the room. Her hands lit a match and ignited the oils that lingered on my body. I ran to the street. My hands and feet were melting as the fire ignited my soul.
I flung myself to the ground and tassled in the dirt putting my flames to ashes. An elderly man carried the live ashes of my body to a hospital.
I sat in the dark congested hospital. I did not want to face the looking glass, the memory of my beauty linger. It was difficult to face what little my future held. I wanted to burn in the flames, to give myself over to death. I resembled a cripple, but my soul was a tiger, and that thought pulled me through the ashes.
There was a woman staying close to me in the hospital that was withered and crippled, but that woman laughed, and loved. When my soul was in such torment she lifted them and reminded me that I could fight. That beauty that meant so much to me the months before was nothing now, I saw people for their souls and I saw my soul. The judgment that those bestowed upon me was nothing to the knowledge I held dear to me.
The next year at the festive of lights Diwali, I came down to the market to celebrate. The villagers stared at me with disgust. Rain fell hard upon the festival of fire. I laughed at the rain for it knew nothing of me, nothing of fire.
The woman with the withered hand and body that one year ago I had so shyly turned from now sat alone once again. I took my place next to the woman and gently tugged at her hand with mine. We had a secret the two of us; we were not so different from those staring. Perhaps we shinned brighter than them for we were of the fire.
I smiled as I watched a young girl frolicking by us. She walked with such pride, her sari burned like flames against the night sky. I smile at the flames of her dress and for a moment I wanted to stop the girl to warn her of the world, but then I remember nothing ever changes in India.
