Benares, December 1938
“What did he say?” asked Ujjal Singh, nodding at the doctor who was walking out the front door.
“What anyone with eyes to see can tell. That it won’t be much longer.”
“Don’t say that, Grandmother…”
“Why not?” Sarah answered. “I was born in 1842. I’ve outlived five of my children” – Ujjal was startled for a moment, until he realized she was including Usman’s – “and I’ve damn near outlived the empire I was born in. I’m ninety-six years old, Ujjal, and death at that age is no tragedy.”
Ujjal had often envied Sarah’s equanimity, but at forty-two, he didn’t yet possess it. “It will be a tragedy to us, Grandmother,” he said. “Even if you are a hundred and twenty.”
Sarah couldn’t help being warmed, even though she regretted that the subject had been raised. She reached up to take his hand companionably. “Today we’re all here, and today is your birthday. Let’s forget that the doctor was here – it’s almost time to go out.”
“I was thinking we’d stay home this year…”
“Why? Because of me? I won’t hear of it. I can get to the Rajah of Lucknow, and I’ve called them already. They’ll be disappointed if you don’t come.”
Ujjal threw up his hands theatrically. “All right. You win.” He took no displeasure in the defeat; he celebrated his birthday at the Rajah of Lucknow every year. He’d lived in Benares for fifteen years, but he preferred Awadhi food to Bhojpuri, and Sarah shared his opinion. It would be a full
dastarkhwan tonight – lamb korma, shami kebabs, turnip and pea curry, pulao and many more – and he could taste it even where he was.
The family had already gathered – Ujjal’s mother, his wife and children, his partner, some odd friends and cousins – so it was a matter of minutes before they were out on the street. The restaurant was six blocks away. That was a half-hour’s journey for Sarah these days, and she would have to stop twice to rest. But they were in no hurry, and they would be returning greetings from their neighbors all the way – people always called good luck to family processions, and both she and Ujjal were well known in the city.
They made their way slowly through the winding, unnamed streets of the old town, past havelis and tenements and shops all mixed together. At the third corner, Sarah found a stoop to sit on while Ujjal greeted a fellow importer. With only a slight surprise, she realized what stoop she was on, and turned her head behind her to where the Bharat Mata shrine’s door stood.
She’d been in Benares longer than Ujjal and she’d lived in his house for a decade or more, but she’d never gone in, and she realized that she wanted to. She raised herself to her feet, left her sandals by the entrance, and passed through the doorway.
There was a marble floor inside, and the central tiles made out a map of India: the parts the Republic didn’t control were in other colors, but they were there, because they were also Indian soil. Facing it was a statue of the goddess, her four arms outstretched in a way that made the folds of her dress look much like the map. Other idols ranged around the walls showed the Bharat Mata, Mother India, in other poses: fertility, prosperity, courage, enterprise.
She had a moment to realize that the family had followed her in, and another to realize that a priest had approached her. She wore a sari and was burned brown by sixty-three years in the Indian sun, but she was obviously no Indian, and the priest murmured, “do you know the blessing?”
She realized she didn’t. She’d learned many of the Hindu scriptures in the course of her travels, and she’d been known to make
puja to Saraswati or Ganesha for all she was a Christian, but she’d never encountered the prayers to Mother India, the blessings recited here.
Still, she didn’t answer the priest’s question – at least not directly. “My parents taught me one god,” she said to priest and family both, “Usman Abacar taught me another, and here I learned of many more. But I’ve only seen a god born once. I came here as a nurse many years ago, and the Bharat Mata was one of the children I delivered; I was one of the midwives at her birth.”
“She had many midwives,” the priest answered.
“Gods are like that. They aren’t born the way we are. It takes thousands to help them come into the world. Sometimes it takes millions, when they come in the shape of nations.”
“Do you need me to tell you the blessing, Grandmother?” asked Ujjal’s wife.
“I’ll give her the blessing I give all the children I’ve delivered. All the ones who lived,” she added, remembering those who hadn’t; there was a different prayer for them. Still standing, she faced the map and the statue. “Live and grow strong,” she said. “Become a man among men, a woman among women. Know good from evil and choose well. Honor your parents, and care for the children you bring into the world. May you know many years and many felicities.”
Ujjal knew those words: Sarah had recited them when she delivered each of his own children. The priest didn’t, and wasn’t sure if they belonged here. But Sarah wasn’t talking to either of them.
For a second, no more, she saw sixty-three years in India reflected in the statue’s form: the famine, the hospitals, the Congress, the wars, the Ganges at dawn and a battlefield at sunset. She saw the men and women who had been her teachers and companions, and the faces of thousands of children. “Bharat Mata,” she said. “Live, my child.”
She turned toward the door and made her way resolutely forward. The Rajah of Lucknow was three blocks more, and she shouldn’t keep them waiting.
