Those Who Survived the Flames

On the narrow street beside the old store in the center of the village stood a grand house — the home of Sotimkhon, the respected elder of Khurmoli village. Sotimkhon was a tall, broad-shouldered man, always wearing a waistcoat, a doppi on his head, and leather slippers on his feet. At every wedding or community gathering, he was the one to lead the people — firm, wise, and commanding.

His wife, Mo‘tabar, was nine years younger. Though her face still carried traces of youth, she already behaved like one of the elder women of the village. They had three daughters. The eldest and the youngest were married; the middle one, Zarnigor, had been engaged for nearly two years. Sotimkhon had raised his daughters with care — taught them about honesty, about truth. Though he himself had a touch of pride, he never allowed arrogance to take root in his household.

One afternoon, after the midday prayer, Sotimkhon was walking home from the mosque when someone told him that Zarnigor’s future father-in-law had come to visit. Quickening his pace, the old man hurried home, breathless by the time he reached the door. As soon as he entered, the somber looks on the faces around him made his heart sink. A dark thought flickered through his mind — the nightmare he’d had the night before — and he muttered silently, “May it be for good.” Forcing a smile, he greeted his guest. After a few formalities, his in-law said,

“My dear friend, it’s been two years since our children were engaged. I’ve delayed the wedding for too long. As they say, when God wills, nothing stands in the way. If you agree, let’s hold the wedding this month.”

The words pleased Sotimkhon. The next day, the man returned with relatives to set the date. There were five days left until the wedding. Both families were busy with preparations — the house full of women’s laughter and rustling fabrics. The aunts decided to let the bride and groom meet once before the big day, thinking they might have things to say to each other. That night, the household fell quiet. Zarnigor returned from the meeting and went into her room. After half an hour, she came out again — this time wearing her new bridal dress. She walked silently toward the kitchen. Moments later, she returned with a can of gasoline in her hand. Then came the faint sound of trickling — like water. Seconds later, a bright, roaring flame shot up into the sky, lighting the courtyard as if it were midday. A scream tore through the night, sharp and short, and the entire neighborhood rushed out of their houses. When Sotimkhon ran outside, he froze in horror — his daughter was sitting calmly amidst the fire, motionless. The neighbors, who had rushed to help, stopped dead beside him. Mo‘tabar was wailing, throwing herself toward the fire, screaming, “Save my daughter!” But the flames grew higher, devouring the air, while Zarnigor remained still — not a sound, not a movement. People gasped. Some tried to throw blankets over her, but Sotimkhon stopped them. He wouldn’t let anyone near. Half an hour later, the fire began to die out on its own. When it finally went out, Zarnigor was lying unconscious — but her body was untouched. Not a single burn, not even a scratch. They carried her inside. Someone called an ambulance. The doctors came and examined her, concluding she had simply fainted from exhaustion. Just as they were leaving, someone arrived at the gate asking for Sotimkhon. It was Rajab — a relative of the groom’s family, the same man who had once come as a matchmaker for Zarnigor. His face was pale.

“My friend,” he said nervously, “your future son-in-law… he set himself on fire. You should come quickly.”

The words struck Sotimkhon like a mountain falling on his shoulders. He knew his daughter had met her fiancé that evening — his wife had quietly mentioned it over dinner. Just now, his daughter had burned yet was unharmed. And now — the groom? A dreadful thought ran through his mind like lightning: “Could it be… they met before the wedding night?” He felt sick with shame and anger.

“Mo‘tabar!” he shouted.

“What is it?” his wife called from inside.

“When did our daughter come home from her meeting?”

“I… I don’t know,” she stammered.

The elder stamped his foot in fury and rushed out. Meanwhile, the women inside were in shock — not a single burn on Zarnigor’s body. It was a miracle. Sotimkhon followed Rajab to the groom’s house. When they arrived, people were quietly dispersing. The young man was unconscious, but just like Zarnigor — not a trace of burning on his skin. Sotimkhon shared his suspicions with his in-law, whose eyes widened in disbelief. By morning, news of the miracle had spread not only through Khurmoli, but also to the neighboring villages. That afternoon, both families took the couple to the local mullah. After some prayers, he told them gravely,

“These two have been touched by spirits. You must cleanse them.”

He suggested an old ritual — the drawing of blood to break the spirits’ hold. The families did as he said. Yet, when questioned, neither Zarnigor nor her fiancé remembered anything — not the meeting, not the fire, nothing at all. Despite everything, the families agreed not to postpone the wedding. The ceremony was held as planned, and it was a joyful event. Before the wedding, Sotimkhon even sacrificed a sheep at the place where the couple had met, then hosted another feast after the ceremony, inviting the whole village once again. And so, the story of the bride and groom who survived the fire — unburned, untouched — became a legend whispered for years to come in Khurmoli.