Читать книгу The Wheel of Surya - Jamila Gavin - Страница 10

THREE

The Birth

‘Aloo, okra, baigan ho,

Chaaval, Channa, Bhoona lo.’

Marvinder sat in the earth repeating her rhyme over and over again. She scooped up soil with her newly acquired tin and poured it into the bottom half of a broken clay water pot which she had found near the village pond.

‘This is for Ma, this is for Pa, this is for Ajit, this is for Chachaji . . .’ she went on listing all the members of her extended family. Every now and then she glanced across to a door of a side room, where her mother was the subject of quite unaccustomed attention. Women had been going in and out all morning looking worried. Even fierce Grandmother had an air of concern about her.

Marvinder felt confused and afraid. She had never before been kept away from her mother and every now and then, she heard her mother give a shuddering cry which struck Marvinder to the heart with terror.

‘Aloo, okra, brinjal ho,

Chaaval, Channa, Pani Lo.’

She repeated the rhyme over and over like a magic spell as she dug and dug into the earth.

One of her aunts suddenly emerged from the room, pushing back the broken bamboo blind, allowing Marvinder a snatched glimpse inside. Jhoti was lying on a bed, her head thrust back, her hands gripping the edges of the thin mattress on which she lay. The heat of the day and the struggle of childbirth brought the perspiration pouring out of her body and, as one aunt wiped her brow and mopped up the moisture which trickled in rivulets down her face, another had a goblet of water, and holding her like a child, held the rim to her lips so that she could drink and drink.

‘Aunty, Aunty! I want my ma!’ cried Marvinder, leaping to her feet. ‘Can I go in now?’ She clutched at the tunic of an aunt who had emerged from the room. She was one of the younger ones, Shireen. She could be kind some times, and when she had a few moments between jobs, would often become girlish and run out to join the children in their games.

‘No, baba,’ said Shireen gently, and she picked up Marvinder and lodged her on her hip. She affectionately smoothed back a straggle of hair which had fallen across her eyes. ‘You must be patient. Your ma is soon going to give you a brother or maybe a sister and if you get in the way, it will make it all the harder for us to help her. Do you understand?’ Marvinder nodded silently and Shireen put her down again near her precious tin and broken clay pot. ‘Play now. I have to go and find Basant,’ she said urgently, and set off running.

Some older children who were just coming in from school heard Shireen, and couldn’t resist coming to tease Marvinder.

‘Is Basant coming to see to your mother? Oh dear. Basant is a witch, didn’t you know?’

Marvinder looked up at them with large, terrified eyes.

‘A witch?’ she exclaimed with a shudder. ‘What do witches do? Will she hurt my mother?’

‘Witches come out at night and go round looking for people so that they can suck their blood,’ said one child sticking out his fingers at Marvinder, as if they were claws.

‘Witches cast spells on babies about to be born so that the baby comes out with two heads, or with a devil’s tail or sometimes with horns, and the babies are witches too, and suck their mother’s blood. Whooo . . .’ and the child lunged towards Marvinder making sucking noises with his lips.

Marvinder backed away with horror. ‘Will Basant do that to my ma? Will she do that to my baby?’

‘Oh yes!’ chorused the children malevolently. ‘Just you wait and see. Your baby will be a monster. A green monster with snakes round its neck, and goat’s feet and a tongue dripping with blood like Kali,’ and they all rushed at Marvinder with their tongues sticking out and their arms outstretched as if to tear her to pieces.

Marvinder broke into desperate screams and began running.

Sobbing and gasping, she ran and ran until she reached the road. She wanted to go to the Chadwicks’ bungalow and find Maliki. Perhaps Maliki could save her mother from the witch.

In the distance, a cyclist was coming towards her, his shape shimmering out of the heat haze. Like some strange bird, with blue turbaned head, white shirt puffed up with the wind, and thin, cotton trousers flapping to the sides, he came closer and closer.

Marvinder hardly saw him what with the tears in her eyes, and her concentration on running. He passed her. Stopped and looked back. ‘Marvi?’ the man cried.

Marvinder didn’t stop running. ‘Hey, Marvi . . . Marvinder! Stop! It’s me, your father.’ He whirled his bike round and pedalled a few turns to catch up with her, then jumping off, he dropped his bike to the ground and lunged out to grab the child.

At first Marvinder struggled and screamed. ‘Let me go, let me go! I must rush to Maliki and tell her that a witch is going to put a spell on my mother and turn my baby into a monster.’ She wriggled violently, trying to free herself.

Govind knelt down on the dusty road so that he was at eye level with his daughter and gripping her chin in one hand, turned her face towards his. ‘Marvi, look at me. Who am I?’

Marvinder looked at him, blinking through her tears.

‘Who am I, Marvi?’ he asked again as she quietened slightly.

He slackened his grip on her face and with a thumb, wiped away a tear from her cheek.

‘Papaji ?’ she asked with amazement. Marvinder recognised her father, although he was home so little. Until now, he hadn’t taken much notice of her and he was more like a stranger.

She looked into his pale, almond eyes, she touched his cheek in recognition. She was too young to note how her father’s face had changed. He was no longer a boy; callow, broken-voiced and a mixture of shyness and insensitivity; now, his voice had deepened, the skin of his face toughened, and his hair had grown sufficiently for his beard to be bound up under his chin.

Marvinder clasped her arms round his neck and pleaded with him.

‘Pa, Shireen has gone to fetch Basant, the witch, and our baby will be born a monster and will suck Ma’s blood. How can we stop her?’

‘Who told you Basant was a witch?’ demanded Govind angrily.

‘The other children. They told me she makes babies to be born with two heads and goat’s feet . . . and . . .’

‘Stop, stop!’ shouted Pa. ‘If I catch hold of the children who told you that nonsense, I’ll give them such a thrashing . . .’ Marvinder started crying again.

‘Listen to me, Marvinder, Basant is no witch. She is the best healer in the world. You don’t know how many lives she has saved. There’s nothing Basant doesn’t know. She helps to bring babies into the world too. They say, if you want your baby to be born safely and alive, then get Basant. She’s the best midwife there is. She brought me into the world, and am I a monster?’ He pulled a face and growled fiercely into her neck making her burst out laughing. ‘That’s better,’ smiled Govind. ‘Now don’t let me hear you ever say a single bad word against her. Those children were just having fun making you scared, and I tell you, I’ll give them such a fright they’ll never be so cruel again.’

With that, Govind lifted Marvinder on to the crossbar of his bicycle. ‘Hold tight,’ he ordered, then turning round pushed off and headed for home as fast as he could.

When they left the road and swooped down the track to their village at a terrifying speed, Marvinder shut her eyes fearfully. She opened them again when, with squealing brakes, they came to a standstill, and she found that they were outside their home.

People began calling out at the sight of her father. ‘Eh! Look! Govind’s here! Govind’s come home.’

‘My son! How did you know when to return?’ cried his mother, excitedly pushing her way out of the labour room. Govind knelt on the ground and kissed his mother’s feet respectfully.

‘Quick, bring water for Govind,’ she ordered turning round to one of her daughters-in-law.

‘I knew Jhoti’s time was near and decided,’ Govind explained, getting to his feet and touching his head and heart in greeting. ‘Mr Chadwick sahib was visiting the school in Amritsar and he suggested I travel back with him. The memsahib, his wife, she too is very near her time. He has already taken her to their mission hospital.’

‘Humm,’ grunted his mother. ‘Well, they have their ways and we have ours. Shireen has gone for Basant. She should be here soon. I hope she hurries. Jhoti’s pains are coming very close now.’

Someone brought a pitcher of water. Govind held out his cupped hands while the woman poured. He tossed it first into his face and round his neck; she poured again and he wetted his arms up to his elbows, and finally, she poured again, several times over while he bent his mouth down to his hands and drank till he felt refreshed.

For a while, the attention was diverted from Jhoti as the women flocked round Govind, clucking and fussing; and it was Govind who said, ‘Come, come, enough of all this. How is my wife?’

‘She is doing well, brother,’ they assured him. ‘It will not be long now.’

When the women told Jhoti that her husband had arrived, she felt a sudden rush of tears to her eyes. Till then, she had maintained a reserved stance, never admitting to the intense discomfort she felt; nor sharing with anyone her puzzlement as to why her second confinement had been harder to bear than the first.

With the news that Govind was here, Jhoti gave a deep sigh of contentment. Suddenly she felt she could bear anything . . . if only . . . if only she could present him with a son.

It seemed an age before Shireen appeared, clutching Basant at the elbow and guiding her at a snail’s pace towards the house.

When Marvinder saw her, she shrank into her father.

‘Are you sure Basant isn’t a witch?’ she whispered. Basant looked in every way what she imagined a witch to be like, she was so bent and wizened; her skin hung on her thin arms like wrinkled brown paper and her fingers, which hooked round a staff, were like the scaly claws of chicken’s feet. Worst of all were her eyes. They stared ahead as if seeing all things, and yet, Marvinder shuddered; although they appeared to penetrate even into her very soul, they were the creamy, sightless eyes of the blind.

‘No, baba. Basant isn’t a witch. Just you wait and see. Soon we will have a baby; the finest baby the world has ever seen; a baby for you to take care of and be a good big sister. Will you do that, Marvinder?’ her father asked. ‘Will you protect your little one; make sure he never runs into any danger; guard him with your life? Do you promise?’

Marvinder returned his gaze. Her father looked so serious; as if what he had asked her was very important. It made her feel suddenly grown up.

‘Yes, Papaji, I promise.’

The day ended abruptly. The sun went down like a rapidly sinking ship and suddenly it was dark. Basant dismissed all the women. Now there were just she and Jhoti alone in the room. The only light came from a weak, kerosene lantern which hung on the verandah outside. Its useless beams barely struggled through the narrow iron-barred window, to cast pale stripes on the dung-smeared walls.

‘Could we have light in here?’ asked Jhoti fearfully.

‘What do we need light for?’ rasped the old blind woman.

She came towards Jhoti, her hands spread out in front of her. Jhoti shrank away, unable to control the repugnance she felt at being touched by such a creature. She stiffened with horror as the hands hovered over her face. She rolled her lips together, sealing her mouth so that no cry would escape her. The hands came down, down, steadily, without trembling. They enveloped her face. The fingers traced the outlines of her features; her brow, nose, eyes, cheeks, chin and jaw-line.

‘Here’s a pretty one to be sure,’ murmured Basant in a low voice. Her hands continued their exploration over her face, head, neck, chest, soothing and massaging as she worked her way down towards her abdomen. Her touch was the touch of a potter, working the clay, softening it, manipulating it, moulding it, with all the years of experience and craftsmanship pouring through her fingers and palms. She worked her hands over the young woman’s belly, pressing deeper this way and that to feel the shape of the baby inside.

‘Ah!’ she whispered. ‘That is why you feel discomfort. Your infant wants to greet the world with his bottom!’

By this time, all Jhoti’s resistence had dissolved away. She lay beneath the old woman’s hands, pliable, relaxed and completely trusting.

‘Don’t be afraid,’ murmured the old voice, ‘I will turn him round so that he can face the world like a man.’

‘He?’ asked Jhoti softly.

‘Perhaps,’ Basant chuckled. Then suddenly her movements became fierce. She kneaded into Jhoti’s belly, grunting with the effort as gradually she eased the infant round in the womb until its head faced the exit it must use to emerge into the world.

At last, Jhoti gave one cry and it was done.

‘Now we’ll have a better time of it,’ said Basant.

Jhoti slept. It was as if the baby quite enjoyed its new position and had changed its mind about being born. The contractions diminished to the softest of sensations, squeezing and letting go, squeezing and letting go.

Outside in the courtyard, Govind squatted, wide-eyed in vigil. Marvinder lay asleep, outstretched across his knees. He stroked her forehead. The glow from the nearby brazier outlined her high cheekbones and her straight nose; her long eyelashes seemed tipped with flame, fluttering rapidly from time to time as dreams enveloped her brain. He ran a finger along her lips and chin, yet hardly noticed her determined mouth, for all his senses were strained towards the room where Jhoti lay. Being a father made him feel important, especially if, he hardly dared pray, this new baby was a boy.

‘Madanjit Kaur! Shireen! Come now and give me a hand!’ The shadows tipped wildly as kerosene lamps were snatched up and hurried towards the room.

Govind lifted Marvinder into his arms and stood up, his eyes staring intently at the bamboo blind and the shadows passing back and forth within. Marvinder sighed sleepily and snuggled her face into his beard. ‘Papa, have we a new baby?’

‘Nearly, nearly,’ murmured Govind. A faint wind suddenly rattled the leaves of the tree like drumming fingers; it caught the scent of night flowers and filled the air with perfume. Marvinder, with her ear pressed against her father’s neck, heard a song welling up in his throat – but it barely escaped before a cry of joy splintered the silence of the night.

‘Govind! You have a son.’