The Wheel of Surya. Jamila Gavin
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.
After Govind had departed for England, his degree photograph was placed on a ledge next to a faded bazaar portrait of the Sikh spiritual leader, Guru Nanak, and regularly draped with garlands of flowers. Each day, Jhoti, Marvinder and Jaspal sent up a little prayer to Guru Nanak, and asked God to protect their father and send him safely home again.
Govind didn’t write often. Anyway, Shireen was the only member of the family who could read, and that at a simple level because she had only attended school till she was nine years old. He wrote more fully to Harold Chadwick, and Harold would then bring Jhoti up to date with Govind’s progress.
Friends of the Chadwicks had found digs for Govind in a part of London called Whitechapel, the sahib told her. He had one room with a sink and a cooker in it and was learning to look after himself. He had started his courses at the university and was coping well, but hated the food.
‘He’ll have to learn to cook!’ joked Harold, trying to bring a smile to Jhoti’s sad face.
But it only bewildered Jhoti to imagine her husband grinding spices or kneading chapatti flour, and she became convinced that he would starve. She would stand silently while Harold read parts from her husband’s letters, waiting for something that she could understand, some sign that he missed her and his children; that he looked forward to coming home. But there was nothing like that in any of the letters. He wrote of things she knew nothing about and countries she had never heard of, such as Germany, France and Poland.
There’s talk of war in Europe,’ wrote Govind. The fascists often come marching round this area. They’re a tough bunch, I tell you. Behave like thugs half the time. I get off the streets when they’re around. Anyone that’s a Jew or a foreigner, they beat them up! You wouldn’t believe it!’
Harold frowned and looked worried at those words. ‘That doesn’t sound like the England I know,’ he murmured sadly. ‘They can’t have another war. It’s not possible,’ he wrung his hands with despair. ‘Yet fascism seems to be everywhere, and this man, Hitler . . . how is he to be dealt with?’
For a moment, he was lost in his own thoughts, then he turned back to Jhoti with a reassuring smile.
‘And you, Jhoti. What shall I tell Govind about you?’ he asked.
‘Tell him his son is well; he is beginning to walk and most of his milk teeth have come through. Marvinder is getting tall, and now she’s been put in charge of the buffaloes. She herds them out to the fields each morning, and brings them in for milking at dusk. Tell him that his parents are both in good health, as are his brothers and sisters.’
‘But you, Jhoti?’ said Harold, kindly. ‘What shall I tell him about you?’
‘I am well, too,’ answered Jhoti simply.
‘Is it wise to let your child mix with the servants?’ Miss Alcott was visiting Dora about the forthcoming church bazaar. They sat on the verandah sipping tea. She stared disapprovingly at Edith and Marvinder playing at house beneath the low branches of the temple tree.
‘Isn’t it time she was at a school?’
Dora repressed a sigh of annoyance, and said politely, ‘Harold and I decided that we would educate her ourselves for a little while longer. The world is such an unsettled place at the moment, we felt loath to part with her. I mean, England is out of the question now that there’s talk of war.’
‘There may not be a war. Chamberlain seems determined to find a compromise of some sorts,’ said Miss Alcott.
‘But India, too, is in so much turmoil,’ sighed Dora. ‘They want independence, and oh! I can understand it. We have no right to be here. But I’m worried. Only Gandhi’s stopping them from all-out rebellion.’ As she spoke, Dora frowned and her mind seemed to wander away from her guest. Then abruptly, she returned. ‘Anyway,’ she said firmly, ‘Edith’s too young for boarding school.’
‘I think you’re being far too sentimental,’ Miss Alcott stated frankly. Her position as sister and secretary to the Reverend Cyril Alcott, vicar of All Souls and her advanced middle age, obviously made her feel entitled to speak her mind when and where she pleased, especially to the lower orders, which included people such as Dora Chadwick, the young wife of a mere schoolmaster.
‘You don’t want your child getting too familiar with the natives. It can lead to problems later on. I’ve seen it happen. People must know their place in life, and if you don’t mind my saying, I believe it’s idealists like you, with a misguided desire to promote equality, who have helped to fuel these disgraceful aspirations among the Indians. Independence, my foot. How can they rule themselves, I mean look at them. The vast majority haven’t progressed since the invention of the wheel.’
She looked pointedly towards the road, along which a bullock cart laden with sugar cane creaked and laboured its way towards the town.
‘And if we did leave, you know what would happen? They’d be at each other’s throats. I mean they are already. There’s no love lost between Muslim and Hindu. There was trouble in the town just the other night, and Superintendent Lincoln had to go and sort it out.’
Dora