Amidst the rainforest, in the most lonesome acres beside the river Pierra lives a cult that believes in the tremendous powers of fire. The men worship fire, the most dominant element in accordance with their beliefs. Fire, the father is second to none, beckoned only by the Dark Devil of Hell who resides among his pet flames and molds volcanoes and lavas to his wishes.
Old leaflets bearing the history of the Cult of Zeenbar have it that the Dark Devil crafted fire out of his anger and anguish when his beloved shred his heart to bits by choosing the son of the Lord of Light over him. As they say, in pain comes perfection, fire is the absolute weapon of the Devil and an element to be worshiped by the humble servants like us.
By no means are we to land our eyes on any pages save the Sacred Scriptures that tell the stories of vengeance of the Dark Devil and scalding powers blessed to Fire, the father. The Sacred Scriptures narrate how a man’s destiny is a reflection of his woman’s actions. Legend recounts the horrible death of a pious man who died in battle because the woman of his house was a shameless lass whose mouth worked as a chatterbox day in, day out.
Women of the cult of Zeenbar tend to keep mum and chant prayers of well-being for their men at all times. Since father fire was born from the ashes of a woman’s betrayal, Zeenbarian women are not supposed to go near fires. Tales of a raging fire jumping to lick the face of a woman who crossed her line flitted across the huts. We are to remain within the protective walls of our huts and look after the chores.
All womenfolk of the cult have compromised with their faith save me. I tend to question a lot. For I view the community’s beliefs as a shallow lake, held together by the loosening banks; all but awaiting its fate of barrenness. With time, the lake shrivels up, sipped dry by the livid, scorching ball of fire hanging in the sky or sucked by the hungry mud that once served as a womb for the lake, protecting it in its lap. A mother feeding on her own child.
These are just stories carefully crafted by sharp minds. The Sacred Scriptures are made available only to the eyes of the elders of the cult which is where my doubt strengthens. Often I stare into the fire, burning brilliantly, in the pit of my tiny stove and question it. Sometimes, I rebel ever so slightly by snuffing the flames crowning the candlestick with my raw skin. Nothing happens. No fire, fiery by its nature, leaps over me to devour me alive.
Once, one of the men in our community got his hand licked in the fire. Whispers arose that his woman must have committed some grave sin. But I think that had she been behind a mistake, the fire should have tongued her skin to embers. But no one saw that incident as I viewed it. I did not have the guts to say out loud because that woman’s fate thereafter was a shower in the piers of fire. She screamed her voice dry, but it did not stop. Nobody helped her either. After fire, the father scalded her to silence, nods of appreciation were exchanged; a justice meted out well.
Zeenbarians have blind eyes; they do not question the obvious or maybe I’m the odd one out, sick of twisted mentalities, suffocated by rules that are beyond justification.
-Masooma Memon
