Читать книгу The Wheel of Surya - Jamila Gavin - Страница 8

ONE

The White Road

‘Jhoti! That little brat of yours is stealing Ajit’s tin! If you don’t come right now and sort it out, her bottom will feel the back of my hand!’

A woman’s voice screeched harshly across the yard. It penetrated the inner courtyard where Jhoti crouched outside the kitchen door, grinding spices on a block of ribbed stone. She had been at her job an hour or more so her arms ached and her fingers were all red with rolling and mixing the spices into a paste.

She jerked back on her haunches and sprang to her feet; too quickly, for as the blood drained from her face and a sharp pain jabbed through her stomach, she swayed with dizziness and had to lean up against the wall. She should remember that she was pregnant and not make these swift movements; but she was so used to reacting instantly to the sound of her sister-in-law Kalwant’s voice, that it had become a reflex action. So she only paused long enough for the dizziness to pass and the pain to subside, before she hurried across the courtyard and out into the compound beyond.

An ancient, knuckly, pepul tree spread a twisting shade beneath its broad, dark green leaves. Here, the infants, those that is who were too young even to herd goats or follow the buffalo, tumbled and played under the baleful eyes of the male village elders, who sat smoking on their string beds, or sipping tea and playing cards at an old wooden table.

Usually there was no need to interfere. Even infants can sort out their own problems if left to it. But today, as Kalwant was passing by on her way to fetch water from the well, she had noticed her son, Ajit, struggling to gain possession of a tin from Jhoti’s daughter, Marvinder.

‘It’s mine!’ raged Ajit. ‘I found it.’

‘It’s mine!’ insisted Marvinder. ‘Ma gave it me.’

When Ajit saw his mother, he fought harder, shouting, ‘Ma! Marvinder’s trying to take my tin away.’

‘No, I’m not!’ screamed Marvinder. ‘You took it from me. It’s mine, I tell you,’ and she tugged even more fiercely.

However, determined that no snip of a girl would get the better of her son, Kalwant yelled for Jhoti.

As Jhoti hurried into view, Kalwant pointed accusingly, and shrieked, ‘Do you see?’ as Marvinder now had Ajit flat on his back and was sitting astride his chest. ‘That child of yours is a little snake! Look how she attacks my son! Stop her at once, or I’ll . . .’

Jhoti turned hesitatingly towards the battling children. Marvinder was winning. She held the tin grimly between her fingers while Ajit kicked and punched in his efforts to regain it.

Jhoti knew it was Marvinder’s tin. It was a Bournville chocolate tin which she had retrieved from the Chadwicks’ rubbish tip. When Marvinder saw her mother, she cried indignantly, ‘Ma, Ma! Ajit says this tin is his. But it’s mine, isn’t it? You gave it me! He’s trying to steal it!’

‘Did you hear that?’ Kalwant’s voice peaked with self-justified outrage. ‘Did you hear?’ she appealed to the world at large. ‘Marvinder is calling my son a thief ! This is too much!’ She plonked down her water vessels and with threatening hand outstretched, she strode towards the children.

Jhoti broke into a clumsy sprint, but could not reach her daughter before Kalwant snatched her up, tipped her upside down and began slapping her bare bottom for all she was worth. Marvinder’s screams echoed round the compound. The old men paused in their gossiping, turned round and frowned. The other children froze their actions and stared in awe.

‘Stop it, stop it!’ begged Jhoti, crying herself. ‘She’s only a baby. Leave her alone!’ She grabbed her daughter’s head and managed to clasp her under the shoulders. For a moment, it looked as Marvinder would be torn limb from limb as the two warring mothers tugged at each end of her.

Then another voice rang out from within the low, flat-roofed dwelling. It was a voice cracked with age, but authoritative. ‘For goodness sake!’ Madanjit Kaur berated them. ‘Can’t an old woman get any peace around here?’

Mother-in-law shuffled out. Her unmade grey hair hung loosely down her back. She stood surveying the scene with hands on hips, her narrow, black eyes glaring vehemently. The baggy folds of her pyjamas beneath the full, green cotton tunic, could not disguise her powerful, stocky figure, or the strength of will with which she presided over her domain.

‘Yes, Jhoti! I know it’s you.’ She wagged an accusing finger. ‘No good dropping your head in that shamefaced way. There’s been nothing but trouble from you ever since you entered this household, and it’s not as though you came with much dowry either. How could we tell, when we arranged this marriage, that you had been so badly brought up? And now we see you doing the same with your own child, wilful and disobedient girl! Arreh Baba ! I guessed as much as soon as I laid eyes on you, but no one would listen to me. The old man is too fond of a pretty face, that’s the trouble! You all are!’ She aimed her recriminations at the old men, but they just shrugged and turned away bending closer over their cards, not wishing to be drawn into any womanish disputes.

‘Get on back to your tasks, Jhoti, and take your brat with you!’ she commanded.

Kalwant smirked, and dropped Marvinder’s legs which she had been clutching all this time. Jhoti staggered as the full weight of her daughter swung against her body.

Marvinder’s sobs pierced the air. ‘Ma, Ma! It’s my tin. You know it is!’

Kalwant, under the full protection of Mother-in-law’s gaze, reached out and extricated the tin from Marvinder’s grip. ‘There you are, my precious,’ she held it out to her son. ‘Now it’s yours again!’

Ajit snatched it gleefully and ran round proudly displaying it like a trophy. Marvinder’s mouth opened wider as a protesting wail gathered in her throat, but Jhoti hastily stuffed the end of her veil into the child’s mouth, and heaving her up on to her hip, ran from the scene.

‘Hush, darling!’ she entreated. ‘Or Grandmother will have us both beaten. I’ll find you another tin, I promise.’

Only when she reached the privacy of the inner courtyard, did she set her child down on the ground. Then she unstuffed the veil from her daughter’s mouth and wiped away the tears from both their faces.

‘Come and help me finish grinding the spices. You like that, don’t you?’ she whispered, hugging and kissing her.

Marvinder nodded, weeping quietly now as her mother held her tightly. ‘Oh, darling baby,’ Jhoti whispered, ‘who else would I have to love, if I didn’t have you?’

Living as she did with her husband Govind’s family, Jhoti was at the very bottom of the pecking order. Not only was Govind the youngest of three sons, but he was always away. She had met him for the first time when he had come home for their marriage, and then a week later, he had gone again; back to Amritsar. In due course they sent him word to say that she was pregnant, and he said he would come home in time for the birth. But Jhoti gave birth earlier than expected, and when he heard it was a girl, he didn’t hurry back. It was another two months before he saw his daughter. But at least Jhoti had been in her own home then. She stayed as long as she dared, relishing in the affection which her mother and sisters lavished on her. How they cared for her and her baby; each day her mother would come with oils and massage her belly, her limbs and her feet; her sisters washed and combed out her hair, rubbed and oiled her scalp and then talked and joked and laughed for hours with her, taking it in turns to rock the infant.

When she finally returned to her in-laws, she wondered if the pain of homesickness would ever pass; and in the evening, when all the chores were done, when the men got tipsy on home-brewed rice wine, and the women welded themselves into tight little gossipy knots from which Jhoti was usually excluded, Jhoti would soothe her baby to sleep, then slip away and walk through the dark fields, and climb the steep dyke to the narrow, straight-as-a-die, long white road; turning her face towards home, she looked and looked until the gleaming road disappeared over the dark horizon.

Jhoti’s life began on that long, white road. Only six miles further down to the south, she had been born in another small farming village. A village so simple, that a casual eye would barely have distinguished it from the well-ploughed earth and the dappled shade of eucalyptus trees.

She was taken to her new home along this same road, aged thirteen, a child bride. Every time she came and stood on the edge of the road, she remembered that day; remembered the train of bullock carts, all festooned with garlands of flowers and overburdened with too many wedding guests. How flamboyant the men had looked; her father, her uncles, her cousins and brothers, like peacocks with their turbans of turquoise and blue and green and vivid pink. Then there were the women, glittering like tinsel. How they loved weddings. What an opportunity to get out their finery; their thick, chunky jewellery, their satin kurta pyjamas, their tinselly veils glittering with silver and golden threads, so dazzling the eye that they looked as if they might burst into flames in the heat of the sun.

They had chosen the pure white bullocks to pull the carts. Usually, the bullocks would have been pulling a plough, or winding a dreary path round and round and round a well, all day, drawing water to irrigate the fields. But that day was her wedding day, and their thick white skins had been lavishly painted with rich colours, to defy the brown summer arid landscape, and their horns, like arched spears, were wrapped in gold.

Later, the men sang at the tops of their voices and whipped the lean haunches of these silent beasts. Whipped them till they galloped down the road towards her husband’s home. Too fast, too fast! Jhoti had wept inside. Were they in such a hurry to wrench her from her mother and her sisters? Were they in such a hurry to hand her over to a stranger, whose mother must now become her mother, and whose brothers and sisters must become more to her than her own siblings?

Only her younger sister seemed to notice the tears in her eyes. She leaned closer to her and squeezed her hand. ‘Don’t cry, Jhoti,’ she pleaded, almost crying herself. ‘Don’t cry, Didi, dear elder sister, or else the charcoal round your eyes will run, and you will ruin your beautiful bride’s face. Don’t be sad. We’ll come and see you.’

But Jhoti knew they wouldn’t; knew they couldn’t. She would go home to them once, for the birth of her first child, for that was the custom; but life was hard; too hard for the luxury of family visits. No, from now on, her life must be Govind’s life; his mother and father must become her parents, his brothers and sisters, her brothers and sisters.

During the wedding ceremony, she had had the sensation of separating from her body, and like a ghostly stranger found herself looking on at her own marriage.

Was that really her? That slight figure, dressed all in crimson, so that all she surveyed was through a crimson glow? And the man next to her, his head bowed so low that his face was buried from sight in his garland of golden marigolds; who was he? Oh, she knew his name: Govind Singh, they had told her. The youngest of three sons of a farmer whom most people considered quite wealthy. Of course, being the youngest, he wouldn’t inherit much, which was probably why they didn’t mind the fact that he had married beneath him. But who was he really? What was he like? After all, he was only sixteen, barely older than her eldest brother.

She had heard some talk. People said he could read and write like a scholar. That’s why he went away to the city of Amritsar. A local English teacher, Harold Chadwick had discovered the boy’s aptitude for learning. He persuaded Govind’s father to allow his son to continue his education after primary school, rather than move on to the land to work, as would have been expected. Mr Chadwick flattered Mr Chet Singh on having produced a son with brains; a son who could be a clerk or a teacher or even a lawyer!

Mr Chet Singh was impressed, but possibly more relieved that perhaps he need not sub-divide the family land to take account of his youngest son. If Govind took up his share, too, the plot would be barely sufficient to produce a living.

Sitting cross-legged on a carpet surrounded by all the wedding guests, she had tried to look sideways at Govind’s face, but somehow, she couldn’t make out his features between the low rim of his turban, and his face down in the marigolds.

This man – this boy – was to be more important to her than her father. Her father, who owned her, would give her away, and she would belong instead to this stranger.

As Jhoti stared down the road towards home, the tears fell again as she remembered how they placed the garland around her neck; how, as the hoarse chanting of prayers rose higher and higher, her father pulled her to her feet, and taking the end of Govind’s scarf had tied it to the end of her veil. Thus joined together, she was led four times round the priest and his sacred book. She had wanted to cry out, ‘Oh, Father! Are you glad? Is this what you’ve been waiting for since the day I was born? Just waiting to give me away, to get me off your hands? Do you feel liberated? Is your burden lessened? If it is, then I shall feel comforted.’

How red everything was, red as the first drops of blood which had fallen from her body. Then she knew that her childhood was over; that the next blood to fall from her body would be on the bridal bed, and the old women would be sure to come and take note, and then they would click their tongues with satisfaction as they announced that her honour was upheld and the bride had indeed been a virgin.

For the next seven days, Jhoti had had all the attention of a new bride. People had come to visit; to scrutinise her; form an opinion about her. They had examined her dowry and her gifts, assessed her jewellery and held up her sarees to see whether they were of silk and how many were shot with gold thread. They had pinched her cheeks and admired her beauty, but none of it was for her sake. She was being looked over as Govind’s property, and whatever compliments were showered on her, they were for his benefit, not hers.

Soon he would be leaving for college in Amritsar, then she would become a nobody; only with him was she a somebody. On the day of his departure, Jhoti stood by helplessly, while Mother-in-law took over. She stormed about the place, handing out orders, packing his clothes, assembling his food for the journey and, deliberately, it seemed to Jhoti, ignoring her attempts to help, brushing her aside as if she were a useless infant.

And when they heaved Govind’s rusting trunk on to the bullock cart, she watched as they fussed and kissed him and showered him with freshly strung garlands still wet with dew, and only then, just before he climbed into the cart, did he seek her out. He came towards her, awkwardly, without meeting her eye. She knelt and kissed his feet. When she rose to her feet, her head stayed bowed and she backed away. Their bodies stayed formally apart, still strangers. ‘Be a good daughter to my mother and father,’ he murmured. Then he was gone.

The road looked white, even in the pre-dawn darkness. When the bullock cart had come to take Govind to the railway station, it was glaringly white; dazzlingly white. Jhoti had stood a long while, watching and watching until the bullock cart, carrying her husband away, had diminished to a speck. Then a rough voice had yelled, ‘Hey, Jhoti! Come now, girl! You can’t stand there pining all day. There’s work to be done; spices to be ground; rice to be sifted.’ Her mother-in-law summoned her to the kitchen.

That was three years ago, yet even now as she stared down the long white, gleaming road it still seemed to beckon her home and her heart ached. Pregnant again at last, for the second time, she worked her hands over her swollen belly as if trying to mould the embryo inside her. ‘Please be a boy,’ she murmured, ‘be my son.’ Perhaps then, she would attain some status in the family and gain some respect and affection from Govind.

All around her from the height of the dyke road, Jhoti could see the glows of charcoal fires like low stars, flickering through the trees. She could hear the faint drone of voices, and the smell of tobacco colliding with the scent of jasmine flowers.

And reaching her ears, as if radiated outwards on the steady beam of electricity which lit up the sky at the mission bungalow, came the sounds of a violin and piano. The English sahib and his memsahib were making their nightly music.

Mozart soared through the darkness like a strange spirit bird.

Tomorrow, Jhoti thought, she must go over to the Chadwick bungalow and try and find another tin for Marvinder.

She forced her memories back into the inner recesses of the mind and like a ghost, wandered, unseen, back to her home. She splashed herself quietly, at the courtyard pump, then crept into the kitchen. That’s where she and Marvinder had a space in a corner on the floor for sleeping, except when Govind came home. Then they were allowed their own room off the verandah. Feeling her way in the pitch darkness, she knelt down beside the mattress on the floor where her daughter lay. The child didn’t even stir, as Jhoti eased herself under the thin sheet, and drew the little girl into her arms; then she too fell deeply asleep.