Holder of the World - Bharati Mukherjee [98]
Those women, directed by the old Queen, would have decorated his wound, painted it, scented it, and prepared the fires to receive him. They would have lit lamps, called in the priests. The idea of cutting deeper, of pulling away the shards of bone, of connecting the blood vessels with the finest silk against his distant moans and the rattling in his chest, of keeping small bowls inverted over other wounds, were signs to them of firangi arrogance. Her white, casteless hands had touched him, touched his blood, her hands that had touched beef; even if she brought him back from Yama’s grip, what sort of half-human monster would he be?
The old woman stood over the bed, wailing, “He is a hawk. There is no more harm you can do!”
“Get her out of here!” Hannah commanded. His dagger, the sharpest, finest steel in all of India, became the extension of her fingers. She cut away the dying tissue, scooped out flecks of dirt, sutured the gelatinous tangle of muscle and nerves.
Women remembered old cures, cobwebs; roots to stanch the bleeding; leaves, which squeezed, slowed the heart rate, others that brought relief from pain. There would be delirium, for which crushed barks were known. The smaller girls were especially helpful, tying knots with the finest silk thread, even where they couldn’t see. The fastest and surest among them would grow up to tell this tale; nothing is ever lost. (Thank you, Venn.) They watched as Hannah kneaded together flaps of flesh as though she were sealing bread dough, and finally stitched together the outer flap. He looked intact.
The Queen Mother returned, informed of the miracle. She touched her hand to her son’s forehead. “May you take back your soul and fight the Grand Mughal,” she blessed him.
Eight servants hoisted their king and his deathbed high above their heads and, singing songs of praise to Vishnu and ballads of hate for Aurangzeb, they portered him out of the firangi witch’s gaze.
They sang the old song: “The Lion will lead us into battle again!”
The old Queen stood her ground. Hannah, her hands, arms and sari nearly a solid coat of blood, would not be permitted to exercise her spells.
“I have restored your son. Now there will be no more carnage!” She did not save him to send him back into battle. Bhagmati translated: no more blood. She saved him in order to have him totally to herself.
Hannah saw the source of the war in the implacable hate of the fierce old woman. She saw that her native New World forgetfulness would be forever in conflict with Old World blood-memory. There was no great unutterable crime, no great analog to a lifetime’s single-minded dedication that had set Aurangzeb and Jadav Singh on their course—to believe in that had been naive. She had demanded something big to justify the insanity of a man so good and wise, and so she had overlooked something small. He was a king. They were kings. It was their duty to fight.
She thought of their nights in Panpur under the cupola, behind the gauzy curtains, when the Raja had been as devoted to love, and to her, as he now was to death. He’d read to her from the poets, he’d sung to her and played his music, he’d called in drummers who throbbed all night outside the curtains, and he’d read to her from the book he called, with a smile, the Gita, the Song of God, the Hindu Bible. He was a warrior, born to lead men into battle. There was no other calling for him. As Krishna had said to his prize bowman, Arjuna: “There