The Wheel of Surya. Jamila Gavin

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