When the first rain drop fell, I thought that the monsoons would wash away the sins of the town. All the summer's troubles and filth would roll down to the valley and empty out into the Krishna river. We had been praying for rain after a long hot summer. The farmers were depending upon the rain to plant their crops and feed their families. The farmers' wives were counting on it to bring their husbands from the bars and place them in the fields.
It was the first day of monsoon and everything swelled up. The gutters bulged out and rolled into the streets. The stench mixed with the aroma of ground spices and red chilies that were left out in the scorching sun, and all of this burnt my eyes. I decided to clean the smell that seemed to linger in my skin. I used the water my maid brought from the well, I lit the coal stove, and I watched the coal change from black, to red, and finally a pure white. "When the coal turns white your water is done," Shakuntala Bai taught me as she put the water down. I was finally at an age when I could make my own fire, to heat my bath.
I just finished pouring the water into the metal bucket when I heard a lady screaming. I quickly put my dirty clothes back on, and peeped through the red stained glass window. Shocked at what I saw, I ran down my stairs that were caked with blood red mud. As I clung onto the gate that had the inscription, "Christ Cottage." I murmured, "Jesus forgive him, but he deserves this for what he did to Shakuntala Bai."
The rain turned to hailstones that pricked my skin. This assured me I wasn't dreaming about my maid's husband being on fire. His black skin peeled off, and hung from its tips exposing the red flesh. The villagers began to gather around him as he rolled around in a puddle of filthy water. The water infected his flesh and turned it milky white. Nobody did anything for two hours until a cab arrived and took him to the nearest city where a doctor would treat him.
I went back and finished taking my bath. As I pored the luke warm water down my back I thought about all the women that were burned by their husbands. This was the first time in our town's history that a man had burnt himself for his sins.
That afternoon I went over to the neighbor's house to peel peas Mother was going to make for dinner. Everybody was talking about the incident that occurred earlier in the day.
Joti said, "He was really depressed and drunk as usual."
Nurbi said, "If Shakuntala Bai was home and not working at the Nawaab's house, he would have just beaten her and gotten on with the rest of his life."
Sabia said, "He came home to an empty house. What do you expect?"
All they really knew was that he had bathed in kerosene and lit himself on fire.
Two days later word came that he had died, and his dead body was returned to his wife. The rain never stopped, the ground was still soggy, and the filth from the gutters never rolled down hill. His body, all wrapped in white, was placed in the middle of the street by his hut. Shakuntala Bai ran out and following tradition hit her arms on the casket. All the green bangles that hung from her wrist to symbolize her marriage shattered. I remembered the time when her husband came home drunk one night and threw her against the wall causing a shower of green glass. It happened a year ago.
Shakuntala Bai continued to follow tradition as she removed her earrings and the rest of the dowry that adorned her body. She didn't have to remove the sindoor(1) that filled her maang(2) , or the bindhi(3) , on her forehead. They both dripped down and smeared her face. She appeared to be marked with her husband's blood. "Finally Bai can get along with the rest of her life," I said to myself.
The afternoon came along, and the men gathered around the corpse to take it to the crematorium. The women dispersed to get back to their cooking, and Shakuntala Bai was left standing there with her two girls by her side. Even though it was raining I could tell she was crying. She put her wet green sari over her head and walked down the road, knowing that when her husband's ashes were scattered in the valley her life would end. Like the other widows that occasionally strolled down the street she would become a shadow. Her clothing would consist of white or black sari's. If this had happened a few years ago she would have committed suttee(4) . As Shakuntala Bai chained the gate behind her images of my future, and her past, merged on the wall where her green bangles shattered.

1.Sindoor is a red color that a woman puts in the parting of her hair, and it's one of the symbols of marriage.
2.Maang is the middle parting.
3.Bindhi is the red dot on a woman's forehead, and it is also one of the symbols of marriage.
4.Suttee was a tradition where the woman jumped into the fore when her husband died.