In Bodgai, girls who spoke too loudly were told they’d dry up the rain — as if even the monsoon feared a woman’s voice.

Vahni had always been strange.

She didn’t laugh at the right moments. She didn’t bow her head when elders spoke. She asked why the gods were always men, and why silence was treated like a virtue if it suffocated.

“She’s difficult,” her mother said with tired affection, brushing oil through her hair. “People don’t like girls who think too much.”

Her grandmother corrected her. “People don’t like girls who don’t know when to pretend to stop thinking.”

The drought had entered its third year. The air clung with grief. Wells turned hollow. Men grew restless. And the forest that was once lush, now brittle.

Vahni began going there alone. She said the fire told her stories. The village laughed and whispered. Some mothers pulled their daughters away when she passed.

“She’s not right,” they said. “Too wild. Too much.”

She started with rituals. A copper thali. Camphor. Ash smeared on her wrists. She never shouted, but she never asked permission
either.

“She’ll bring bad luck,” said the temple priest.
“She’s tempting fate,” said the sarpanch’s wife.
“She’s making the rest of us look bad,” said her cousin softly, like it was a confession.

But then — one night — flames tore through the forest’s edge.

No wind. No matchstick. Just fire blooming like prophecy.

People screamed. Gathered buckets. Prayed.

And the next morning, it rained.

Rain meant salvation. But it didn’t mean forgiveness.

At first, they praised her.

“She’s gifted.”
“She has the god’s ear.”
“She should lead the puja next time.”

But within days, the murmur began:

“Why her?”
“She didn’t even ask the priest.”
“She should be careful — power makes women foolish.”

Vahni walked through it all, spine straight, head held high.

She didn’t care about being called divine or dangerous. She just wanted the air to shift. To matter.

Her mother begged her to stop.

“You don’t understand how people think,” she said.

“I understand exactly,” Vahni replied. “They’re afraid. Not of me — but what I remind them of.”

“Then stop reminding them,” her mother said quietly.

Even her grandmother, who had once defended her, was now quiet. “You can be powerful, or you can be safe. It’s very hard to be both.”

When the next drought arrived, the village came to her this time.

Not with garlands, but with expectations.

“Do it again.”
“Burn more, if that’s what it takes.”
“Rain, or leave.”

She said no.

They said she was being selfish.

“You had the blessing,” the priest spat. “Now you hoard it?”

A woman in the crowd added, “We all suffer while she plays goddess.”

Another muttered, “She’s embarrassing the rest of us.”

Vahni returned to the forest anyway.

Not to perform. Not to please. Just to speak.

She lit a single diya and whispered, “They want miracles. But they fear the flame.”

And the fire answered.

This time, the entire forest caught fire.

No one knows exactly what happened that night.

Some say she walked into the blaze and became it.
Some say she ran.
Some say she stayed.

The next morning, ash coated the village like snow. And in the sky: thunder.

Then rain.

Years later, girls are still told not to be like her.

Not openly — not yet. But under moonlight, in quiet rebellion, they slip into the forest. Some carry candles. Others, just questions. All of them carry her name.

And if the night is still, if the trees feel generous, they hear it — a whisper through ash and bark:

“Burn quietly, if you must — but never shrink. And never ask for permission to shine.”