09-03-2026, 09:10 PM
The hut stood on the edge of the village where the jungle began.
Small.
Quiet.
Half-hidden behind palm trees and flowering shrubs.
It was rarely used except for ritual healing and spiritual retreats.
Inside, they laid Arjun on a low wooden bed layered with woven mats.
His skin was hot.
His breathing ragged.
Smoke had scorched his lungs and blistered his hands badly enough that the skin had begun to peel.
Mantra worked without hesitation.
She washed the burns first, pouring cool water infused with crushed neem leaves across his palms while two other women held his arms steady. The wounds hissed faintly as the heat left them.
Then came the herbs.
Ground roots.
Dark oils.
Green pastes that smelled bitter and sharp.
They covered his burns with thick medicinal salves before wrapping them carefully in clean cloth strips.
But the greater danger lay in his lungs.
Smoke inhalation could kill slowly.
Silently.
Mantra brewed a steaming mixture of herbs in a clay pot over a low flame.
When the vapor began to rise, she leaned over Arjun and gently forced the smoke into his breathing.
“Breathe,” she murmured, even though he could not hear her.
“Let it clear the poison.”
For hours that night, the women took turns sitting beside him.
One wiped soot from his face.
Another placed cool cloths across his forehead.
Another slowly fed him drops of bitter medicine whenever he stirred.
Outside, the storm raged.
Thunder rolled endlessly over the sea.
But inside the hut, a strange calm settled around him.
Through the fog of unconsciousness, Arjun drifted in and out of strange dreams.
Sometimes he felt like he was floating in warm water.
Sometimes he heard voices speaking softly in unknown language.
Once, he thought he heard someone laughing gently near the bed.
Once, he felt a cool hand resting briefly against his chest, as if someone were checking that his heart still beat.
The nine women came to see him the next morning.
One by one.
They stood quietly near the bed where he slept.
None of them spoke.
But each of them stayed for a moment.
Watching him.
As if memorizing the face of the man who had walked into fire for them.
Small.
Quiet.
Half-hidden behind palm trees and flowering shrubs.
It was rarely used except for ritual healing and spiritual retreats.
Inside, they laid Arjun on a low wooden bed layered with woven mats.
His skin was hot.
His breathing ragged.
Smoke had scorched his lungs and blistered his hands badly enough that the skin had begun to peel.
Mantra worked without hesitation.
She washed the burns first, pouring cool water infused with crushed neem leaves across his palms while two other women held his arms steady. The wounds hissed faintly as the heat left them.
Then came the herbs.
Ground roots.
Dark oils.
Green pastes that smelled bitter and sharp.
They covered his burns with thick medicinal salves before wrapping them carefully in clean cloth strips.
But the greater danger lay in his lungs.
Smoke inhalation could kill slowly.
Silently.
Mantra brewed a steaming mixture of herbs in a clay pot over a low flame.
When the vapor began to rise, she leaned over Arjun and gently forced the smoke into his breathing.
“Breathe,” she murmured, even though he could not hear her.
“Let it clear the poison.”
For hours that night, the women took turns sitting beside him.
One wiped soot from his face.
Another placed cool cloths across his forehead.
Another slowly fed him drops of bitter medicine whenever he stirred.
Outside, the storm raged.
Thunder rolled endlessly over the sea.
But inside the hut, a strange calm settled around him.
Through the fog of unconsciousness, Arjun drifted in and out of strange dreams.
Sometimes he felt like he was floating in warm water.
Sometimes he heard voices speaking softly in unknown language.
Once, he thought he heard someone laughing gently near the bed.
Once, he felt a cool hand resting briefly against his chest, as if someone were checking that his heart still beat.
The nine women came to see him the next morning.
One by one.
They stood quietly near the bed where he slept.
None of them spoke.
But each of them stayed for a moment.
Watching him.
As if memorizing the face of the man who had walked into fire for them.
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