Only the Women Are Burning. Nancy Burke

      In everyone’s life, at some time, our inner fire goes out. It is then burst into flame by an encounter with another human being. We should all be thankful for those people

      who rekindle the inner spirit.

      — Albert Schweitzer

      The fiery passion to know more cannot be controlled and blazes like a forest fire – cleansing out the clutter and breaking down all the possibilities of failure.

      This energy and vigor is truly contagious.

      — Meaww.com

      PROLOGUE

      December 14, Bangalore, India

      That morning of rain and mud, I searched the narrow alleys of the squatter settlement, the narrow lanes, the corrugated shacks, stepping around trash and puddles of mud, carefully counting the doorways until I reached Banhi’s husband’s tiny household. There she was squatting before a large stone mortar and pestle when she shouted, “Cassandra!” After she pulled away from my embrace, she reached for Lila, who was just a year old and in a carrier on my back. That’s when I saw how drawn Banhi’s face was, her skin not glowing as it had every day, and no broad smile on her lips as before. But she tried.

      “Let me take Lila, please,” she said. “Oh, she’s so beautiful. My sweet thing, say hello to Banhi.”

      “Your father and mother send their love. And your brothers,” I said.

      “Let’s take Lila to show Rehani. The baby will make her smile.” She turned and darted inside the small dwelling and called to her mother-in-law.

      I followed her into the house. There were two rooms. The kitchen was equipped sparsely with a small wooden cabinet. Three varied sizes of pots hung from hooks over a slab of stone set back against the far wall. A shrine with Ganesh, the elephant-headed boy, and multi-armed goddess, Durga, displayed itself on the slab and before the statues were bowls of brown rice, cumin seeds and a liquid which I guessed was honey. The tiny kerosene stove, unlit and cold sat next to the door leading to a small square of muddy yard. Pads and blankets were piled in two corners of the second room and a flat carpet of faded greens and gold stretched across the cement floor which looked spotless.

      I heard from the other room the unmistakable slap of hand against skin, a cry of pain, and an explosive burst in Kannada I could not understand. I was there in an instant, pulling Lila from Banhi’s arms.

      Rehani’s hands kept at her work, her eyes darted from pods to bowl as tiny green peas relinquished their shells and dropped in with the rest. Her face was set in anger.

      “Rehani,” I said. “If I should not have come, I am sorry. Please, it is my fault, not Banhi’s.”

      “It is a day for working.”

      I said, “It is my fault for coming unannounced.”

      “She asked if I would like to hold the child while you two sat to visit. She is a useless bride for Harshad.”

      “She looks thin,” I said. “Is she well?”

      “She coughs to get sympathy.”

      “Rehani,” I said. I stooped down so my eyes were level with hers. “Banhi was my aaya - I know she works very hard.”

      “Working for pay spoils a wife. You have ruined her.”

      I walked back to Banhi. A flushed red mark darkened her left cheek.

      “Come outside,” I whispered. “Out to the front. We need to talk.”

      At that, a torrent of water loud as thunder hit the tin roof.

      “I will make us some tea,” Banhi said.

      The rain ceased after a brief cloudburst and the quiet was welcome. Rihani had joined her and noises from the kitchen reached me from the other room, two voices, subdued. I could not make out the words, but by the tone and cadence it seemed peace had returned between Rehani and Banhi. Rehani carried a cup to me and bowed. She sat cross-legged on the small rug. Banhi carried a cup for herself and sat just a bit farther off.

      They settled, Rehani leaning against a support and Lila settling into the crook of my arm. Banhi sipped from her cup, silent; the red blotch had faded to pink but there was a look of a frightened cat about her. She stood suddenly. “The stove,” she said. “I need to turn off the flame.”

      Rehani said. “You will burn down the house.”

      “I forget,” Banhi said.

      “She does,” Rehani said. “A stove must be respected.”

      Something darkened the doorway and we all looked up to see Harshad stepping into the room dripping from the rain.

      “Get your husband some dry clothes,” Rehani ordered.

      Harshad said, “Please, is this little Lila grown so quickly? She is a miniature of you,” he said. “Isn’t she, Mother?”

      Rehani said, “And your son will be a miniature of you, Harshad, when it is time. You are making a puddle. Go change out of your wet things.”

      He vanished into the kitchen and pulled the curtain across.

      I wanted to turn Banhi back into the happy, exuberant girl who translated for me, who’d introduced me to the women here. The bride in red with glowing eyes at the wedding she had insisted I attend.

      My year of visiting Indian homes and feeling the warmth and love among these people of the lowest caste had taught me what happiness under struggle looked like. This was not it.

      “Can Banhi