The Wheel of Surya. Jamila Gavin
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,