Table of Contents
Cover
Goddess of Fire
Praise for Goddess of Fire
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Map
Epigraph
India in the 1680s
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Author’s Note
Acknowledgements
GODDESS OF FIRE
Bharti Kirchner is the author of six critically acclaimed novels, four cookbooks, and hundreds of short pieces which were published in magazines and newspapers. Bharti has written for Food & Wine, Writer’s Digest, The Writer, Fitness Plus, San Francisco Chronicle, and The Seattle Times. Her essays have appeared in ten anthologies. She has won numerous awards for her writing, including a Virginia Center for the Creative Arts Fellowship. Prior to becoming a writer, Bharti worked as a systems engineer for IBM and as a systems manager for Bank of America, San Francisco. She has also worked in Europe and other continents as a computer systems consultant. Bharti lives in the US with her husband. Visit www.bhartikirchner.com for more details.
PRAISE FOR GODDESS OF FIRE
“Lush with historical detail and tense with dramatic emotion, The Goddess of Fire is a page-turning story of ambition, luck, love, betrayal, and, finally, the hope that comes from having survived the most desperate of circumstances.”
Kim Barnes, author of In the Kingdom of Men
“A compulsive addition to Indian, or indeed international, historical fiction.”
Farrukh Dhondy, author of Bombay Duck, Rumi:A New Translation and Prophet of Love
Reviews of Darjeeling, Shiva Dancing and Sharmila’s Book
“Witty, sensitive … Kirchner deftly weaves an intricate tangle and then gradually unties the knots toward the end … The language is elegant.”
San Francisco Chronicle on Pastries: A novel
“Interwoven with themes of family, unrequited love, and forgiveness, Darjeeling is as strong as the tea itself and just as satisfying.”
Booklist
“A novelist and Indian cookbook author mixes a sensual and at times suspenseful transcontinental family saga as two sisters vie for the same man.”
Kirkus Reviews
“[Kirchner] reveals a tremendous faith in her characters and their love of their homeland … she does infuse her work with a genuine Indian spirit.”
Review in Publisher’s Weekly
“Darjeeling is poetically told, artfully rendered story of the true test of blood loyalties, bringing a family to the brink and back again. There is a lot to love here.”
India Currents
“Bharti Kirchner brings privileged insight to bear in her fiction … This is a bittersweet story, as astringent and refreshing as a brisk cup of tea.”
The Seattle Times
“[The author’s] descriptions of domestic customs are richly suggestive, adding color and flavor to an already evocative novel.”
Christian Science Monitor on Shiva Dancing
“At once a cautionary tale of culture-clash, a tender love story and a finely crafted tear jerker … an appealing debut … Kirchner proves a sensitive observer of India and the dilemmas of bicultural heritage.”
Publisher’s Weekly on Shiva Dancing
“Fresh literary terrain. Shiva Dancing is part romance, part travel guide, part sociopolitical study of contemporary India and even part cookbook, thanks to many detailed accounts of meals.”
San Francisco Chronicle
“Sharmila’s Book ‘Sprightly writing, well-defined moral choices, and a wonderfully exotic sense of place … a page turner’.”
School Library Journal on their selection of Adult Books for Young Adults
“Witty dissections of some of India’s anachronisms … smart, swift and funny, with rich dollops of local color.”
Publisher’s Weekly on Sharmila’s Book
“Kirchner creates strong visual images of the colors and complexities of modern India, weaving them with effective characterization into a captivating novel. Highly recommended.”
Library Journal on Sharmila’s Book
“Luminously evocative, if breathless, a tale of the cultural fissures that emerge as a very modern woman contemplates an arranged marriage. An affectionate grace note to the [Indian] subcontinent as well as a sensual feast.”
Kirkus Reviews on Sharmila’s Book
GODDESS OF FIRE
Bharti Kirchner
This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
This first world edition published 2015 in
Great Britain and India, and 2016 in the USA by
SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of
19 Cedar Road, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM2 5DA.
in association with Harlequin, an imprint of
HarperCollins Publishers, Uttar Pradesh, India.
Trade paperback edition first published 2016
in Great Britain and the USA by SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD.
eBook edition first published in 2015 by Severn House Digital
an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited
Copyright © 2015 by Bharti Kirchner.
The right of Bharti Kirchner to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data
Kirchner, Bharti author.
Goddess of fire.
1. Kolkata (India)–History–17th century–Fiction.
2. East India Company–Fiction. 3. Historical fiction.
I. Title
813.6-dc23
ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-8550-0 (cased)
ISBN-13: 978-1-84751-659-6 (trade paper)
ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-713-4 (e-book)
Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.
This ebook produced by
Palimpsest Book Production Limited, Falkirk,
Stirlingshire, Scotland.
For
Didi, Rinku, Tinni and Tom now and always
“How blessings brighten us as they take their flight!”
– Edward Young
“In this world, full often, our joys are only the tender shadows which our sorrows cast.”
– Henry Ward Beecher
INDIA IN THE 1680S
ONE
Village of Rampore, Bengal
The day after my husband died, my brother-in-law and his son came to my door. They dodged the copper bowl I had thrown at them and dragged me by the wrists to the funeral pyre. The blazing afternoon sun bore down on my bare scalp and oiled body as we headed toward the river. Tendrils of ochre dust, carrying the smell of death, rose from the earth around my bare feet. A dog howled in the distance.
Years later, I’d remember how I had winced from the clutching fingers of Bipin. “Take his land,” I said, trying to pull away, “but please let me go. I will live as a ghost in my parents’ home. I am only seventeen.”
His skin rough as a tree bark, Bipin gave my forearm a vicious twist; his foul breath triggered a wave of nausea in my already queasy stomach. “Hold your tongue, Moorti. Now that I am the head of the family, I’ve decided you’re going to be a goddess.”
A fresh wave of humiliation coursed through my body. The voice of my schoolteacher father shot out from my throat. “You’ve twisted what our sages prescribe to serve your selfish intent. Abuse a widow, throw her into the fire, and take her property. You ought to be punished, not me.”
Eyes red from the palm wine he’d drunk, Bipin once again tightened his grip. “You, the lowest of the low, a village girl who could pay no dowry, what do you know?”
My father had taught me at home. “You learn faster than the boys in my school,” he would often say. To Bipin, I said, “Baba might be poor, but he’s better educated than you are.”
“You miserable little wretch!”
Bipin and his twenty-eight-year-old son Jadu were momentarily distracted by a procession of people at a distance—shadowy figures—beyond a bank of trees. Gritting my teeth and gathering all my strength, I kicked Bipin, yanked my greasy arm from his grasp, and kicked him again. He slipped and tumbled onto the ground. In trying to help him rise, Jadu, short and muscular, let go of my wrist. I ran along the rocky road. Bipin caught up with me, grabbed me by the neck with a fierce hand, and cursed me under his breath.
“Two days with you and my brother is dead. You’re a bad omen. We want you dead.”
Jadu plucked a white kerchief from his tunic pocket and stuffed it into my mouth. “Does that feel better?” He asked with mock concern.
I gagged and struggled to breathe as they pulled me by the arms to the public crematorium, a spacious open-air spot facing the river, surrounded by jungles and a few hills, far away from the residential section of the village. The place was bare save for burned logs, piles of ashes, and bone fragments. Several departed souls had recently been cremated here; the stench clogged my nostrils.
Father and son pushed me down onto a bamboo pallet placed on the ground, next to my husband’s corpse. I was already dead and disposable. They stood there, muttering together, occasionally throwing malevolent glances at me. I pulled myself up into a sitting position, removed the handkerchief from my mouth, dabbed at my eyes with it, and tossed it to the ground. My feet hurt from the bruises, my stomach heaved, and eyes stung. Could I escape my fate? How?
A crowd of about twenty men had assembled around me. Where was my mother? She would have heard the news by now and do whatever she could to help me.
The solemn-faced men, huddling together, weren’t here for the cremation of my husband. They’d come here to observe a young widow being burned alive in her husband’s funeral pyre to join him in his next life.
Flee, I told myself again, slipping the cover of my white sari from my shaved head. Jump into the river and swim to the other side. Slowly, I stood and began to push away from the pallet, knowing my voluminous sari would hinder my attempts at swimming. Crocodiles infested the river. One could swallow me whole, like it might swallow a flower blossom or a sleek fish.
Holding a wooden rod under his armpit, Jadu advanced toward me. Any attempt to escape and he would tie my hands and feet. I sat down again.
This morning, in preparation for this forced cremation, my sister-in-law had rubbed my body with hibiscus oil and dusted it with sandalwood powder. Her two daughters had held my shoulders, pinning me down to the floor while she wiped the crimson vermilion dot from between my eyebrows and the black kajal from my eyes. Applying the kajal every morning had been a beloved ritual of mine; running a comb through my hair had always made me feel like a woman. They’d deprived me of that, my last shred of dignity, by shaving off my lustrous, waist-length hair. My husband’s kin had also confiscated my colorful clothes and forced me to wrap myself up in a borderless, stark white cotton sari.
I cursed everyone present; I cursed my fate. Why me?
I looked at my deceased husband’s body. Clad in a white cotton cloth and garlanded by white flowers, he, a broad-nosed, fifty-year-old groom with a weak heart, rested on a bed of sandalwood next to my pallet. I could have shown everyone the swelling on my left eye and the scar on my right cheek—beatings from him. An odd blend of sadness and disgust arose in me. Again, I looked around. Perhaps I could stand up and sprint into the woods.
Two young boys who stood nearby at the water’s embankment stared at me and at the still body of my husband. “He died, that rich man, because of her,” one boy said. “She killed him.”
Not true. I could have related the full story. How my ill-tempered husband came to me the night after our wedding; drunk, naked, drooling, unsteady on his feet.
I was standing by the window. Turning, I saw his manhood flaring at me like an animal’s tongue, and I pulled backwards. How could I feel amorous toward someone so crude? A stranger, he had practically bought me from my poor parents who couldn’t feed and clothe me. In his dull monotonous voice, he’d told my father, “We’ll forgo the dowry. I want her.”
My husband, that foul-smelling man, leaned closer and fondled my breasts, his eyes bulging like those of a dead fish. I pushed him away. He spat on me, shoved me against the wall, and slapped my face. By the time I recovered, flinching in pain and feeling small, he had struck me above the eye with the back of his hand. I had barely regained my balance when he leaned over me, poised to strike again.
I turned into stone.
“You bitch,” he murmured. “I’ll finish you …”
Much to my relief, that third blow never fell, nor did he finish the sentence. His face first turned copper, then purple, and finally a sickly black.Veins bulging and throbbing, he struggled for breath and collapsed on the floor. His chest heaved for a few seconds, then became still.
I stood horror-struck, called for help, but by that time his heart had failed him. On that dark moonless night, the eighth day of the month of Baishakh in the Bengali lunar calendar, only the second day after my marriage, I became a widow. My husband’s family blamed me for his death; I trembled at the ominous looks they gave me.
My husband’s body, lying on top of a stack of fragrant sandalwood logs, was now ready for cremation. Why had I been given in marriage to a man so much older? Did I not deserve a better life? A longer life? Panic gripped me as I envisioned the terrifying prospect of what awaited me: blistering skin, burning hair, disintegrating bones, unimaginable pain, screams that would shake the hills, and then, death. A horrifying end. I was only seventeen. I had to find a way out. If only my mother would reach on time.
On my left, the Bhagirathi, a stretch of the River Ganges, flowed. O, dear River Mother, please take me away from here. I want to live. The river meandered on.
A row boat glided by. Leaves quivered on trees. A kingfisher dove into the water, intent on an unwary small fish. That’s when I noticed the silence that had fallen over the spectators in anticipation of the approaching hour. The last few moments of my life. Would I be able to see my mother, hear her voice one last time?
A devout elderly kinsman, dressed in fine white garb, stepped forw
ard, stood a few feet away from me, and began intoning words of praise in anticipation of my status as sati: “Our girl Moorti, pure, brave, and beautiful as a champa blossom, will ascend to heaven. Because of her sacrifice her husband, too, will be ushered into paradise. Her ashes mingled with his will cure ailments. The ground on which she’s walked will become hallowed. On the anniversary of her death, we’ll float oil lamps on the river in her name.” He closed his eyes and chanted whole-heartedly. “She’s a sati. She’s a devi.”
The chant sickened me; it was taken up by the crowd. “Sati devi sati devi sati devi sati devi …”
The kinsman continued, “Sat truth. And sati flesh purified by flame, leaving only blessings behind.”
The chanting grew louder, the sound pressed on my chest. The frenzied spectators raised their arms to salute me. What glory was there in such worship? How much more insulting could it get? Again, I turned toward the river. Ma Bhagirathi, please protect your daughter. Please. Hurry. The river flowed on, calm, blue, impassive; a vulture flapped its wings, circling overhead, a crane stood on the bank.
“Lagao!” Someone shouted in the distance. I heard the splash of an anchor in the water.
A wooden houseboat, curved and wide, moored on the shore. A boatman hurled a long rope with bamboo stakes to the ground. My heart leapt foolishly at the sudden arrival of the newcomers.
About ten men, young, strong of build, spilled out of the vessel. Some were clothed in long tunics, skin-tight trousers, decorative vests, and round headdresses. Muslims. Others, Hindus, wore white cotton dhotis, like my father did. They each had a shawl thrown around their shoulders, as people did on social occasions. Among them was a tall Ingrej, Englishman. Dressed in tunic and trousers, his complexion white as the daylight, he moved with grace and ease. His eyes scanned the land, as though dazzled by its beauty, as though he wished to claim it as his own. As I sat staring at him, a distant hope fluttering in my chest, he looked toward me several times.
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