The Track of the Wind. Jamila Gavin

It wasn’t easy, for there were barely any hours in the day which weren’t taken up with fetching and carrying and preparing food, and cooking and washing. Then there was the work in the fields – especially at harvest time, when every man, woman and child had to pull their weight, scything, cutting and gathering up.

      But when the sun was at its zenith and the heat of the day too much, that was when Marvinder could escape unnoticed and go to the palace.

      The palace had been built by a Mogul prince hundreds of years ago. It had once had a hundred rooms and stables for a hundred horses and tethering for two dozen elephants. Warriors had patrolled the ramparts and princes practised archery in the mango groves. In the cool of late afternoons, as the blood-red sun plunged downwards, princesses had been rowed up and down the lake, trailing their fingers in the water and watching the movement of fishes beneath the green silky surface. Not it was abandoned; forgotten; its rajahs defeated in battle, its riches pillaged. It looked like nothing but a mouldering wedding cake being slowly consumed by wind and rain and vermin. Grass and weeds, wild flowers and thin saplings sprouted from between the cracks, as if they too would swallow up the great grey stones, and no one would remember that, once, those rajahs and princes of unimaginable wealth and power had ruled this land.

      Marvinder entered through the crumbling portico and crossed the tiled floor of the inner courtyard. Her sandalled feet echoed up the old stone steps as she ascended to the top of the fourth terrace. From here she could see near and far and from horizon to horizon in every direction; from the women on their way to the well on the outskirts of the village, or north to the soft white glow of the Himalayas hanging like clouds.

      She tucked herself into a segment of shade which slanted sharply from the balustrade and leaned her back against the cool stone. She extricated the envelope from her waist.

       R.N.B.

      HMS Terror

      Singapore

      3 September 1950

       My dear Marvi,

      (The words resonated on the page. Patricks teasing Irish voice came into her head.)

       Look where I am. Singapore. Just down the road from you really – give or take a few thousand miles. The navy’s great. The places I’ve seen and the things I’ve done would fill a book. Of course they work you hard. We’re up at five every morning, and then it’s drill and kit and spit and polish and practice and training. But the lads are the best, and time off in Singapore is a darn sight better than time off in the Orkneys – I can tell you.

       I had a letter from Mammy last week. They’re moving out of Whitworth Road at last. They’ve been given a council house – a brand new one with a separate kitchen and bathroom and three whole bedrooms – can you imagine? It will seem like Buckingham Palace after living in that slum for so long. I hope Kathleen’s writing to you. She misses you – God knows why. (Joke.) Michael’s doing all right. Still working as a brickie. He’s got himself a girl. It’s serious. Did Kathy tell you? Her name’s Joan Palmer. They’re going to get engaged. Kathy says she’s like Jane Wyman. Blimey I suppose it’ll be wedding bells soon. What about you, Marvi? I hope they haven’t married you off already. Keep in touch. I’m at the above address for at least two months, so, if you write straight away, it will get to me.

       Well, must stop. Chin chin and TTFN (if you remember what that means – ta-ta for now).

       Love,

       Patrick

       PS. Are you still playing the fiddle?

      Can you be a ghost while you are still alive? She had heard of fakirs and holy men with special powers being in two places at once. Had she not often done the same? Surely they would see her there in London – in Whitworth Road – climbing the dark dingy staircase to the first floor. ‘Hello, Mr O’Grady!’ She waved at him through the open door where he sat in his usual chair, with his one remaining leg propped up on the mantelpiece, swearing and cursing at the world. And there was Mrs O’Grady doing half a dozen things at once, moving from the laundry to the cooking to rocking little Beryl or making a cup of tea or lighting up a cigarette; and Michael stripped to the waist, washing at the kitchen sink; and Kathleen leaning out of the window to yell to her friends, who were swinging round the lamppost; and Patrick – surely Patrick sensed her ghostly presence following him around as she had never done in real life, lingering at his shoulder, leaning into his conversations, blushing at his teasing? Did he never feel that she was there?

      She pressed his letter to her nose and mouth, and breathed in its smell, then folded it away and stared into nothing. Her elation vanished.

      ‘Have they married you off yet?’ he had asked.

      ‘No, not yet,’ she said out loud.

      ‘Are you still playing the violin?’ he had asked.

      ‘Of course I am. What a silly question.’

      The violin was her most precious possession. She had been given it in England by old Dr Silbermann, who had taught her to play. Her father disapproved. He saw it as yet one more thing that made her different, and stopped her from being marriageable. It was true that people in the village had stared and sniggered when she had tried playing at home. Girls round here didn’t do that sort of thing. Nobody did that sort of thing – not here. Musicians came along from time to time for weddings and festivals, but when the celebration was over, they moved on. So Marvinder brought her violin to the palace whenever she could, to play it undisturbed.

      She went to her secret alcove in the wall where she had stored the violin case, all wrapped in newspaper and swaddled in a cloth bag, to keep away the ants and worms and other creatures which might enjoy feasting on its shining red wood. She unwrapped it and took it out carefully. Moving to the deepest shade she could find, she began to practise her daily exercises, just as Dr Silbermann had taught her. She drew the full length of the bow up and down the open strings over and over again, until her ear was satisfied and the sound lifted like a bird and soared away into the sky.

      She became a ghost again. In London, she had often looked at a single patch of blue sky – whenever there was any blue sky – and imagined it was India. Now here – as a hot blue haze tinged the whole countryside around – she shut her eyes and imagined she was playing to old Dr Silbermann down in his dark, basement flat where the sun hardly got beyond the windowsill.

      She read Patrick’s letter once more. This time, the words ‘stay in touch’ gave her hope. ‘At least he wants me to stay in touch. I will. I’ll write.’ She put away her violin with the letter tucked inside.

      In one of the empty rooms below, where the dust drifted in the sunbeams – a vast cosmos of golden stars – the watcher sat on his haunches with his back against the wall, waiting like a weather-worn stone statue; featureless but solid. He didn’t move when Marvinder descended the stone steps, hurrying. He heard the rustle of her clothes – like angels’ wings.

      They were king and queen in this ruined palace, moving like chess pieces; silently avoiding each other – for the moment.

2 Secret love

      ‘Aren’t you going to school today, Jaspal?’

      Nazakhat glanced at his best friend who hacked at a piece of sugar-cane with his knife. The two boys lay side by side in the middle of a dense sugar-cane field – thick enough to hide a tiger. They often helped themselves when the farmer wasn’t looking.

      ‘Nah! School’s boring. I hate it. Besides, I can read and write already. What’s the point of more?’

      ‘Hey man! Your dad will beat you. Remember last time? I thought he’d kill you.’

      ‘I can take it,’ shrugged Jaspal.

      ‘Everyone said you were going to be big. Get an important job. Live in