Читать книгу The Wheel of Surya - Jamila Gavin - Страница 12

FIVE

Govind

One day, Govind returned home unexpectedly. They already knew in the village that he had arrived. Someone had seen him getting off the train, and then another noticed that instead of coming straight home, he had first called in at the Chadwick bungalow. At last, when he did appear at his father’s door, it was, he said, with important news.

Everyone waited till evening, when his older brothers got home from the fields, the buffaloes had been milked and supper eaten.

Then they congregated round his father’s charpoy, which had been pulled out into the courtyard. The old man, Chet Singh, sat in the middle of the bed solemnly sucking on his hookah. Madanjit Kaur took up a position of importance, cross-legged on the top right-hand corner of the bed. Govind was made to sit at the foot, while his brothers and their wives squatted in a semicircle on the ground chewing betel nuts and waiting with curiosity.

Only Jhoti preferred to stand. Rocking Jaspal in her arms, she looked on from outside the circle. Her face had an anxious expression as if she dreaded what she might hear.

Marvinder watched them from the edge of the pond. She had been washing dishes; but although her hand automatically dipped into the little hollowed-out crater of charcoal ash, which she smeared and scoured round the metal plates and pans, her eyes were fixed on Govind’s unsmiling face.

What was he going to tell them?

Feverishly, she scooped up the water, sluicing the dishes clean, anxious to be finished so that she could creep nearer and listen.

‘I am going to England,’ she heard him say.

Marvinder didn’t know where England was, but judging by the consternation his words produced, she knew that it was somewhere extraordinary.

At first there was a babble of excited voices, while everyone talked at once. Jhoti stopped rocking her baby and looked dazed. Marvinder gathered up the clean dishes and carried them to the kitchen, her eyes hardly leaving her father’s face as she went. Then she came back and stood by her mother. ‘Ma!’ she whispered. ‘Where is England?’

‘It’s where the Chadwicks come from,’ Jhoti replied.

‘Mr Chadwick sahib always wanted me to go, you know,’ Govind continued. ‘I didn’t say anything before, because I didn’t want you thinking too much when it all depended on my getting a B. A. in law.’

‘B. A? What is B. A?’ asked one of his brothers.

‘A degree,’ replied Chet Singh, knowledgeably, although he wasn’t quite sure what that was.

‘Yes, that’s right,’ nodded Govind proudly. ‘I now have a B. A. from Punjab University. In fact, I came top in my year.’ He spread out his hands with triumph, but when he saw their blank faces, and knew that his family had no understanding at all of his achievement, he dropped them helplessly to his side.

‘Look! I have something to show you.’ He opened up his worn and battered attaché case, which had lain at his feet, and carefully drew out a large, framed photograph.

Everyone craned forward with fascination. No one in the family had ever been in a photograph before.

‘Govind, is that you, Govind?’ they cried in amazement.

Staring out of the picture, with a look of stiff importance, was Govind. His turban was neatly bound and his beard waxed and shaped into his jawline. Instead of white, cotton, Indian pyjamas and waistcoat, he wore a smart, western-style suit with shirt and tie, and flowing over the top was a black academic gown edged with ermine. In his hands, which he held prominently up to his chest, was a rolled-up scroll, tied with a ribbon.

He pointed triumphantly. ‘That’s my degree! With that, I will be able to get a good job and earn a lot of money,’ he said.

Madanjit Kaur couldn’t resist a regretful glance at Jhoti, as though she thought, Huh, we married Govind off too soon. A man with a B. A. might have got himself a much higher wife than her.

‘Then why do you need to go to England?’ asked his father.

Govind leant forward, his face flushed pink with enthusiasm. ‘You must know what’s going on in the country. You must know that very soon, in a year or two, we’re going to kick the Britishers out and we will be independent. Armritsar and Lahore are seething with it, I tell you. The whole of India is seething with it. There is even talk of new homelands. Perhaps we Sikhs will get the Punjab back as our homeland. This man Tara Singh – you should hear him! What ideas he has, I tell you. And then there is the Muslim League! It is talking about a new country for Muslims which they will call Pakistan. They march around shouting, “Pakistan Zindabad!” The Britishers send out troops to crush riots, and hundreds of people are in prison, but it’s no use. We’re going to throw them out!’

‘What kind of rubbish is all this?’ demanded old Chet Singh, frowning. ‘Is this what you have been learning in the cities with all your books and education? What use is a B. A. if you are going to tear the country apart?’

‘India was full of separate kingdoms once!’ retorted Govind. ‘It was just the British who forced us all into one piece just to suit themselves. Now we have to kick them out and do what’s best for us.’

‘I thought Mr Chadwick sahib was your friend and patron,’ cried a brother. ‘You speak as if he is your enemy.’

‘No, no! He is my friend. He is a friend of India. That’s why he wants me to go to England. I will go to an English university, just for a year. He says that I must learn the ways of the Britishers, so that when they leave, people like me will be able to take over all the jobs and help to run the country.’

The photograph was being passed round and intensely scrutinised.

‘Eh! Govind bhai ! What a handsome man you are in this photo. You look like a proper sahib.’

Govind sighed. No one in his family seemed to comprehend what he was saying.

‘There have been marches and demonstrations all over India,’ he continued. ‘I’ve been on some of them myself. I’ve seen Gandhiji, and I tell you, that man walks round like a villager, wears nothing but a dhoti and is thin as a begger, yet he talks to all the high-ups. He’s even talked to the king over in England. Would you believe it?’ Govind’s voice cracked with excitement. ‘There are big things happening. Just you wait and see.’

‘You look very high up yourself,’ cried Kalwant looking closely at the photograph. ‘You should talk to the king, too.’

Jhoti had sunk back into the darkness. Her heart was heavy as lead. After Jaspal was born, Govind had told her, that once he got his degree he would get a job and money, and be able to afford to bring her and the children to Amritsar. The thought of having her own home, away from the petty tyrannies she suffered here, had sustained her through all the misery of separation from him. But now?

‘Ma?’ Marvinder looked up at her anxiously, and gripped her hand. ‘Is it bad, Ma? Shouldn’t papa go to England?’

‘And what about Jhoti?’ Madanjit’s voice broke in. She sounded harsh in the soft evening. ‘We have all these extra mouths to feed, what with Marvinder and now Jaspal too. They must pay their way. Be prepared to work – eh?’ She looked round resentfully at them. ‘All this sneaking away to see her friend Maliki over at the Chadwicks’ bungalow, we’ll have no more of that.’

‘Wait a minute, Ma,’ Govind restrained her gently. ‘You are too hard on Jhoti. Anyway, Mr Chadwick has a proposition. He wants Jhoti to come and work at his bungalow. Memsahib needs extra help, what with having twins and all.’

‘The memsahib already has an ayah,’ snorted Madanjit Kaur, pursing her lips disapprovingly. ‘What does she want of a chit of a girl like Jhoti, eh? Besides, Jhoti’s got her own babies.’

‘Their ayah is old,’ said Govind. ‘You know – that Hindu woman, Shanta. She’s not too well either. Suffers from rheumatism. The Chadwicks won’t get rid of her because she’s a widow and has no son to care for her. Her daughters are married and moved far away. Sahib is content to keep her on so long as a younger woman comes in to help.’

Chet Singh puffed the hookah and passed it to Govind. Then he observed, ‘It sounds like a good job and it would be a welcome addition to the family income.’

‘Huh!’ exclaimed Madanjit Kaur. ‘It’s a good job all right. Too good for Jhoti. They would do better to take on Kalwant or Narinder,’ she gestured towards her two other daughters-in-law. ‘They are older and more experienced. Or even your sister, Shireen, would be better.’

‘It’s Jhoti they want,’ insisted Govind. ‘They feel responsible for her. It’s due to them that I’m going to England and leaving her.’

‘Do you think we wouldn’t take care of her?’ protested his mother. ‘Has she ever complained? Ever lacked for anything? You should tell them, Govind.’

‘Yes, tell them. I am a better person for the job. More experienced, and anyway, my children are older than Jhoti’s, so I am freer. You should recommend me,’ Kalwant insisted.

‘I tell you, it’s Jhoti they want,’ repeated Govind. ‘Language is no problem. She’ll learn. She’s not so stupid. Anyway, they speak good Punjabi. I want her to go, if you have no objection. After all, it gets her off your hands.’

Jhoti clenched her fist and closed her eyes. If Govind must go away, then she desired to work at the Chadwicks’ more than anything else. ‘Please!’ she almost cried out loud. She opened her eyes and found herself looking straight at Chet Singh. He winked at her, an old, grey, whiskery wink, then took back the hookah for a long puff.

‘Let her go,’ he said at last. ‘I have no objection. If she’s no good, they’ll soon find out, then we can offer them Kalwant or Narinder.’

‘It seems all wrong to me,’ muttered Mother-in-law, ‘but I suppose a pretty face gets to go places in this household.’ She gave her husband a sneering glance.

‘Well, Jhoti,’ she turned to her. ‘You needn’t think it lets you off your duties here, or that working in the sahib’s bungalow gives you any special privileges,’ she warned.

‘Yes,’ agreed Kalwant, ‘and I hope you don’t start putting on airs and graces either. Just remember your place in this household.’

Jhoti bowed her head, and drew her veil across her face.

‘The matter is settled!’ cried Chet Singh, waving his hand dismissively. ‘Now leave me in peace to smoke and play cards. Will you join us, Govind?’ he asked slapping his youngest son on the back.

Marvinder asked again, ‘Ma, where is England? Is it very far away? Farther than Amritsar?’

Jhoti took her daughter’s hand and wandered down to the edge of the pond. A new moon was reflected sharp and silver in the still, flat water. It looked like a farmer’s sickle floating there, almost solid enough to pick up. She wiped her eyes with the end of her veil and coughed to clear the sobs from her throat.

‘Do you see this water?’ she asked softly.

Marvinder nodded, leaning her body into her mother’s thigh.

‘Imagine this water stretching out bigger and bigger and bigger, so that whichever way you looked you wouldn’t see land. Do you remember that story about Manu? How God sent a flood and washed away all the land? Manu had to build a boat, and he floated and floated for years and years until one day, he came to land again? Do you remember that, Marvi?’

Marvinder said, ‘Yes, yes! Was that land England?’

‘No, but your pa, he will go to the edge of the ocean, almost as big as that flood. He will get on a boat, and he will sail and sail for days and days. The land will disappear and then they will be all alone with nothing but the sea. And then, at last, after a very long time, they will see birds flying and wood drifting and seaweed floating on the water, and they will know that they are near. Then one day someone will shout, “Land Ahoy!” and they will see a long, cold grey line of shore between sea and sky and that will be England.’

‘How do you know all this, Ma? Have you been there?’

Jhoti laughed. ‘Of course not. But there was an old man in my village who got taken away to the sea and put on a ship, and he went across the big ocean to Africa, and sailed all round the world. He was away so many years that when he came back, no one recognised him. Not even his wife. He used to tell us all about the sea.’

‘Will that happen to my pa? Will he go away for so long that we won’t know him when he comes back?’

‘If it’s only for a year . . .’ Jhoti’s voice faltered, ‘then you’ll know him.’

It was late when Govind finally came to bed. Jhoti awoke, but said nothing as she lay watching him undress by the last, low light of the kerosene lantern hanging just outside the window. She stared at him, his arms circulating around his head as he unravelled his turban. He was still a stranger. His shadow rose like a giant up the wall and bent across the ceiling above her head. Suddenly, the lantern flickered and went out. Instantly, it was as if Govind, too, was extinguished.

That night Marvinder had a dream. She dreamt that she was walking with her father down the long, white road. On and on they walked, till suddenly, they found their feet were being submerged. The land all around was disappearing beneath a vast expanse of water. The water rose higher and higher, and she thought they would all drown, but suddenly, a big ship came sailing up. Govind clambered on board, but when Marvinder reached out her hand, he turned his back, and didn’t seem to hear her calls. The boat began to sail away.

‘Pa, Pa, Pa! Take me too! Save me!’ she screamed, as the water rose up her chest and now was lapping over her face. But the boat sailed on, and he never even looked back.

‘Wake up, Marvi! Wake up!’ Jhoti was bending over her. ‘You’re having a bad dream.’ She hugged the child closely. Somewhere in the darkness, Jaspal began crying, and Govind grunted crossly at having his sleep disturbed.

‘Pa will never come back,’ said Marvinder after a while, then she rolled over and went back to sleep.