Incense Sticks
By Lokanath Mishra
The silence in the room was heavy, thick with unspoken words and the cloying scent of incense. Rebati, her hands clasped tightly in her lap, sat with her eyes fixed on the flickering flame of a small oil lamp. The aroma of the incense sticks her father had gifted her filled the air, a final, fragrant attempt at comfort before she left the home she’d always known.
It had been a week of bittersweet reunion. Her parents had welcomed her back with open arms, a whirlwind of her favorite foods, and the gentle, familiar rhythm of their daily life. But the underlying reason for her visit—the suffocating reality of her in-laws’ home—weighed on her. She’d tried to confide in her mother, to explain the discomfort and unease caused by her brother-in-law’s so-called “jokes.” Rebati had felt a knot of dread tighten in her stomach with every crude remark, every invasive stare, every time her pleas were dismissed as her being “too sensitive.” But her mother, too, had told her to “enjoy the jokes.” The words felt like a betrayal. They felt like a stone dropped in a well, the sound swallowed whole.
Her father, usually a man of few words, had been different. He had listened to her with a quiet intensity, his gaze filled with a sorrow she couldn’t quite decipher. As she was about to leave, he had pressed a packet of fragrant incense sticks into her hands. “When you do pooja,” he’d said, his voice low, “you must light these.” Her mother had looked on, bewildered. “Who gives a new bride incense sticks?” she’d murmured, and her father had quickly compensated by slipping Rebati five thousand rupees. The moment was strange, a final, cryptic exchange before she re-entered the life she was desperate to escape.
When she arrived back at her in-laws’ house, the tension was immediate. Her mother-in-law, a woman whose every action was a study in subtle control, rifled through Rebati’s bag. She was looking for gifts, proof of her daughter’s family’s wealth and generosity. Finding only the money and the strange packet of incense sticks, she scoffed. “Light these for tomorrow’s pooja,” she’d commanded, the distaste clear on her face.
The next morning, Rebati sat down to pray, her heart heavy. With a trembling hand, she opened the packet of incense sticks. Tucked inside was a folded letter in her father’s familiar, elegant handwriting. She unfolded it, her eyes blurring with unshed tears as she read his words:
“My dear daughter, this incense stick burns automatically, but it fills the whole house with fragrance. It makes the entire environment cheerful and fragrant with its scent. Enjoy your life with jokes.”
The knot in her stomach tightened. It was her father, too, telling her to tolerate her brother-in-law’s behavior. The world felt like it was closing in, every door slamming shut. She continued to read, her father’s words flowing onto the page like a slow, painful stream.
“It is possible that you may get upset with your husband for some time or you may get angry with your mother-in-law or father-in-law, sometimes you may get upset with your brother-in-law or sister-in-law, sometimes you may have to listen to someone, or sometimes you may get upset with the behavior of your neighbors, then keep this gift of mine in mind – burn like an incense stick, just like an incense stick while burning itself fills the whole house and the entire premises with fragrance and joy and energy, in the same way you should consider your in-laws’ house as your mother’s house and make everyone fragrant and joyful with your behavior and actions while tolerating it yourself…”
Rebati started to weep, the silent tears she had held back for weeks now pouring down her cheeks. The words felt like a dagger to her heart. She hadn’t asked to be a “fragrant incense stick.” She hadn’t asked to tolerate behavior that made her feel degraded and unsafe. Her cry was not one of sadness, but of pure, unadulterated pain.
Her mother-in-law, hearing the sobs, rushed into the room, followed by her husband, Hari, and her father-in-law. They were a flurry of concerned questions, their faces a mask of confusion. “Did you hurt yourself?” Hari asked. “What happened?” her father-in-law demanded. Rebati’s mother-in-law’s eyes darted around the room until they landed on the letter, clutched in Rebati’s hand. She snatched it, her curiosity winning out over her concern.
Her eyes scanned the page, her expression shifting from impatience to confusion and then, finally, to a look of dawning horror. Without a word, she handed the letter to Hari. He, too, read it, his face growing pale as he absorbed the full meaning of his father-in-law’s message. Rebati had not just been given a gift of incense sticks; she had been given an instruction—an instruction to sacrifice herself, to burn for the comfort and happiness of others, to endure pain in silence and to call it joy.
“Mother,” Hari said, his voice barely a whisper, “this is from Rebati’s father.” He read the letter out loud, his voice cracking with emotion as he got to the end. The room was silent. Rebati’s tears continued to fall, but they were no longer a sign of her weakness, but a statement of her pain.
The mother-in-law, a woman who had always prioritized appearances and tradition, looked at her daughter-in-law—the one she had dismissed as a troublemaker. She saw not a fragile girl but a woman who had been asked to burn herself to ashes for the sake of her family’s peace. In that moment, something broke inside of her. Her daughter’s laughter, her son’s jests, the silent complicity—it all felt toxic and wrong.
“This letter,” she said, her voice trembling with a new, unfamiliar emotion. “This letter has to be framed. It is the most precious gift my daughter-in-law has received.” She hugged Rebati tightly, a wordless apology that spoke volumes. The father-in-law, the man who had dismissed her pleas, looked at the letter in his hands and then at his son. Hari, too, understood. He had failed his wife. He had told her to “enjoy the jokes” and had, in doing so, endorsed the very behavior that had brought her to this point.
The letter was framed and hung by the pooja room. It was not a testament to a woman’s sacrifice, but to a family’s dawning realization. It was a constant reminder that jokes should never be a cover for vulgarity and harassment. It was a reminder that true love and respect should be as clear and honest as a prayer, and not as disguised and painful as a burning incense stick. Rebati’s father’s words, intended to be a burden, had instead become a lesson, not just for his daughter, but for an entire family who had forgotten what it meant to be a home.
Do you think a person’s silence in the face of harm is an act of tolerance, or is it a sign that they feel powerless to speak up?