In 1987, in a small village in northwestern India, a young widow stood beside the funeral

pyre that held the body of her husband. She was just 18 and he had been 24.

As the flames climbed higher and cremated his body, she stepped forward and threw herself

onto him. Right there, in front of thousands who had gathered for the funeral, she burned

alive. And the people responded by building her a shrine.

What she did, as horrible as it sounds to our modern sensibilities, was a tragic yet

common act in her culture. It's an ancient Hindu funeral ritual known as Sati, and by

practicing it, this young widow became one more participant in a very old tradition.

Sati, as a practice, dates back at least 2,000 years. It wasn't an obscure practice either.

In the last 15 years prior to its ban in 1829, it's estimated that over 8,000 women committed

suicide through Sati. And although it's illegal today, it still occasionally happens

in remote villages that have yet to leave the old ways behind.

Maybe that's because it's a ritual that taps into a deep, ancient attraction we all

seem to have toward fire. For a very long time, fire was a thing of power, a thing of

mystery. Our ancestors' torches were used to frighten off predators, and were then brought

indoors to keep them warm on cold winter nights. While humans might not have always understood

it, we quickly learned that it was a tool we could use.

Ever since, fire has been something we've played with and harnessed. Like Sati, humans

have worked it into countless religious and civic practices over the centuries. Maybe

that's why we tend to think that we're the boss, that we, and not the flames, are

in control. It's just a tool, after all. We are the masters.

But that's a dangerous assumption, because fire has one other inescapable, undeniable

...