The Wheel of Surya. Jamila Gavin

and goat’s feet and a tongue dripping with blood like Kali,’ and they all rushed at Marvinder with their tongues sticking out and their arms outstretched as if to tear her to pieces.

      Marvinder broke into desperate screams and began running.

      Sobbing and gasping, she ran and ran until she reached the road. She wanted to go to the Chadwicks’ bungalow and find Maliki. Perhaps Maliki could save her mother from the witch.

      In the distance, a cyclist was coming towards her, his shape shimmering out of the heat haze. Like some strange bird, with blue turbaned head, white shirt puffed up with the wind, and thin, cotton trousers flapping to the sides, he came closer and closer.

      Marvinder hardly saw him what with the tears in her eyes, and her concentration on running. He passed her. Stopped and looked back. ‘Marvi?’ the man cried.

      Marvinder didn’t stop running. ‘Hey, Marvi . . . Marvinder! Stop! It’s me, your father.’ He whirled his bike round and pedalled a few turns to catch up with her, then jumping off, he dropped his bike to the ground and lunged out to grab the child.

      At first Marvinder struggled and screamed. ‘Let me go, let me go! I must rush to Maliki and tell her that a witch is going to put a spell on my mother and turn my baby into a monster.’ She wriggled violently, trying to free herself.

      Govind knelt down on the dusty road so that he was at eye level with his daughter and gripping her chin in one hand, turned her face towards his. ‘Marvi, look at me. Who am I?’

      Marvinder looked at him, blinking through her tears.

      ‘Who am I, Marvi?’ he asked again as she quietened slightly.

      He slackened his grip on her face and with a thumb, wiped away a tear from her cheek.

      ‘Papaji ?’ she asked with amazement. Marvinder recognised her father, although he was home so little. Until now, he hadn’t taken much notice of her and he was more like a stranger.

      She looked into his pale, almond eyes, she touched his cheek in recognition. She was too young to note how her father’s face had changed. He was no longer a boy; callow, broken-voiced and a mixture of shyness and insensitivity; now, his voice had deepened, the skin of his face toughened, and his hair had grown sufficiently for his beard to be bound up under his chin.

      Marvinder clasped her arms round his neck and pleaded with him.

      ‘Pa, Shireen has gone to fetch Basant, the witch, and our baby will be born a monster and will suck Ma’s blood. How can we stop her?’

      ‘Who told you Basant was a witch?’ demanded Govind angrily.

      ‘The other children. They told me she makes babies to be born with two heads and goat’s feet . . . and . . .’

      ‘Stop, stop!’ shouted Pa. ‘If I catch hold of the children who told you that nonsense, I’ll give them such a thrashing . . .’ Marvinder started crying again.

      ‘Listen to me, Marvinder, Basant is no witch. She is the best healer in the world. You don’t know how many lives she has saved. There’s nothing Basant doesn’t know. She helps to bring babies into the world too. They say, if you want your baby to be born safely and alive, then get Basant. She’s the best midwife there is. She brought me into the world, and am I a monster?’ He pulled a face and growled fiercely into her neck making her burst out laughing. ‘That’s better,’ smiled Govind. ‘Now don’t let me hear you ever say a single bad word against her. Those children were just having fun making you scared, and I tell you, I’ll give them such a fright they’ll never be so cruel again.’

      With that, Govind lifted Marvinder on to the crossbar of his bicycle. ‘Hold tight,’ he ordered, then turning round pushed off and headed for home as fast as he could.

      When they left the road and swooped down the track to their village at a terrifying speed, Marvinder shut her eyes fearfully. She opened them again when, with squealing brakes, they came to a standstill, and she found that they were outside their home.

      People began calling out at the sight of her father. ‘Eh! Look! Govind’s here! Govind’s come home.’

      ‘My son! How did you know when to return?’ cried his mother, excitedly pushing her way out of the labour room. Govind knelt on the ground and kissed his mother’s feet respectfully.

      ‘Quick, bring water for Govind,’ she ordered turning round to one of her daughters-in-law.

      ‘I knew Jhoti’s time was near and decided,’ Govind explained, getting to his feet and touching his head and heart in greeting. ‘Mr Chadwick sahib was visiting the school in Amritsar and he suggested I travel back with him. The memsahib, his wife, she too is very near her time. He has already taken her to their mission hospital.’

      ‘Humm,’ grunted his mother. ‘Well, they have their ways and we have ours. Shireen has gone for Basant. She should be here soon. I hope she hurries. Jhoti’s pains are coming very close now.’

      Someone brought a pitcher of water. Govind held out his cupped hands while the woman poured. He tossed it first into his face and round his neck; she poured again and he wetted his arms up to his elbows, and finally, she poured again, several times over while he bent his mouth down to his hands and drank till he felt refreshed.

      For a while, the attention was diverted from Jhoti as the women flocked round Govind, clucking and fussing; and it was Govind who said, ‘Come, come, enough of all this. How is my wife?’

      ‘She is doing well, brother,’ they assured him. ‘It will not be long now.’

      When the women told Jhoti that her husband had arrived, she felt a sudden rush of tears to her eyes. Till then, she had maintained a reserved stance, never admitting to the intense discomfort she felt; nor sharing with anyone her puzzlement as to why her second confinement had been harder to bear than the first.

      With the news that Govind was here, Jhoti gave a deep sigh of contentment. Suddenly she felt she could bear anything . . . if only . . . if only she could present him with a son.

      It seemed an age before Shireen appeared, clutching Basant at the elbow and guiding her at a snail’s pace towards the house.

      When Marvinder saw her, she shrank into her father.

      ‘Are you sure Basant isn’t a witch?’ she whispered. Basant looked in every way what she imagined a witch to be like, she was so bent and wizened; her skin hung on her thin arms like wrinkled brown paper and her fingers, which hooked round a staff, were like the scaly claws of chicken’s feet. Worst of all were her eyes. They stared ahead as if seeing all things, and yet, Marvinder shuddered; although they appeared to penetrate even into her very soul, they were the creamy, sightless eyes of the blind.

      ‘No, baba. Basant isn’t a witch. Just you wait and see. Soon we will have a baby; the finest baby the world has ever seen; a baby for you to take care of and be a good big sister. Will you do that, Marvinder?’ her father asked. ‘Will you protect your little one; make sure he never runs into any danger; guard him with your life? Do you promise?’

      Marvinder returned his gaze. Her father looked so serious; as if what he had asked her was very important. It made her feel suddenly grown up.

      ‘Yes, Papaji, I promise.’

      The day ended abruptly. The sun went down like a rapidly sinking ship and suddenly it was dark. Basant dismissed all the women. Now there were just she and Jhoti alone in the room. The only light came from a weak, kerosene lantern which hung on the verandah outside. Its useless beams barely struggled through the narrow iron-barred window, to cast pale stripes on the dung-smeared walls.

      ‘Could we have light in here?’ asked Jhoti fearfully.

      ‘What do we need light for?’ rasped the old blind woman.

      She came towards Jhoti, her hands spread out in front of her. Jhoti shrank away, unable to control the repugnance she felt at being touched by such a creature. She stiffened with horror