The Cauliflower

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This small book is humbly and lovingly offered — like a freshly picked wild rose — at the feet of Shafilea Ahmed, Uzma Arshad, Mashael Albasman, Banaz Mahmod, and the five thousand other women worldwide who are killed, each year, for the sake of “honor.”

1849, approximately

The beautiful Rani Rashmoni is perpetually trapped inside the celluloid version of her own amazing and dramatic life. Of course, every life has its mundane elements — even the Rani, beautiful as she is, powerful as she is, must use the bathroom and clean her teeth, snag her new sari with a slightly torn thumbnail, belch graciously with indigestion after politely consuming an over-fried rice ball prepared by a resentful cook at the house of her oldest yet most tedious friend — but Rani Rashmoni is, nevertheless, the star (the heroine) of her own movie.

How will it all end, we wonder? Temporarily disable that impatient index finger. We must strenuously resist the urge to fast-forward. Because everything we truly need to know about the Rani is already here, right in front of us, helpfully contained (deliciously condensed, like a sweet, biographical mango compote) within the nine modest words engraved in the official seal of her vast and sumptuous Bengali estate: “Sri Rashmoni Das, longing for the Feet of Kali.”

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