The Track of the Wind. Jamila Gavin

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Prologue

      In this age of darkness

      Men have become as dogs. Rag Sarang

      A man came to Deri. The few people who glimpsed him on the way said he was a monster. He had been beaten till his bones were shattered and he had been so badly burned that his face was nothing but a smudge – with eyes that could not close, a nose reduced to two holes and a mouth which was merely a slit. He looked like a badly made rag doll. So he draped himself with a shawl – even when the sun was at its hottest – and wound the loose end of his turban round his face.

      He came by foot – travelling alone. Invisibly.

      He learned to be as unnoticed as a brown lizard against the brown earth. By day he merged perfectly into the background, by night he slept rough in fields and ditches, or in the disused bungalows of departed Britishers. He walked for months and months, begging for food or getting the hospitality of gurudwaras on the way. At last, he came to his own land.

      Day after day, he hung about in the fringes of the undergrowth watching the life of the village. He peered through his painful unshielded eyes at those who worked the soil beyond the sugar-cane fields. He took up residence within the ruins of the old palace by the lake, considered too haunted for people to frequent, and bided his time.

1 The letter

      A cyclist was silhouetted against the brightening sky. His white dhoti billowed gently under a post office regulation khaki jacket. He hovered on the rim of the dyke, then plunged down into the shadow of the road. Out of sight for a while, he emerged back into the light, pedalling easily along the straight path towards the village. Jhoti was already running to meet him. ‘Have you a letter for us?’ she asked eagerly. ‘Is it from England?’

      ‘Huh, huh!’ He waved the letter in the air, teasing her. ‘It’s not for you, mamaji – nor Govind, and it’s not from England.’

      ‘From where then, where?’ cried Jhoti, bursting with curiosity.

      The postman came to a stop and rested his feet on the ground. He brought the envelope close to his nose and examined it in a short-sighted sort of way. ‘Singapore . . . Hmm . . . Burma. Now why should a certain person be getting a letter from the Royal Navy?’ He questioned her with a cheeky smile and a tapping of his nose.

      ‘What certain person?’ exclaimed Jhoti, beginning to get annoyed and impatient. ‘Give it here, Roshan, and stop fooling about.’ She snatched it from him.

      ‘It’s for your daughter, Miss Marvinder Singh!’ Roshan pre-empted her, knowing full well that Jhoti couldn’t read. ‘That’s the third one I’ve brought for your daughter since she came back from England.’

      ‘And so?’ declared Jhoti. ‘Oh, be off with you – you busybody.’ Jhoti sped away to deliver the letter to Marvinder, who was crouched on her haunches in the kitchen, kneading chapatti dough and preparing food for the day.

      ‘Is it from Kathleen? Or from Edith?’ Jhoti asked, as Marvinder stared at the envelope. Without answering, Marvinder ran out to the pump to wash the sticky flour from her hands. Then, drying them hurriedly on the end of her veil, she excitedly took the letter from her mother.

      Her mother peered over her daughter’s shoulder at the squiggles on the paper, wishing that she could decipher them. ‘Is it from the Chadwicks? But no, this one can’t be. Roshan says it’s from Singapore. Kathleen wouldn’t be in Burma, would she? ‘Jhoti waited patiently as Marvinder skilfully prised open the envelope without ripping it. With arched fingers, she extricated a sheet of paper and began to read.

      Jhoti sighed. How marvellous it was that Marvinder could read and write and was so educated. Perhaps all the agonies of the past two years – the separation and terrible uncertainty brought about by war – had been worth it. For two years she had searched for her children, going all the way to Bombay, walking the streets, asking at the train station, the docks, the gatemen at the churches, if anyone had seen them or could tell her where they might be, and if they were alive or dead. But all in vain. Somehow, ill and heart-broken, she had made her way back to her ravaged village and crept into the jungle, not caring whether she lived or died.

      But all the time Jaspal and Marvinder had been in England with their father. They had been at English schools learning to read and write. They could have stayed on for ever. But they didn’t. They came home to look for her.

      Jhoti watched her daughter’s face. ‘Well?’ she demanded, desperate to be included in the news. ‘What’s it all about? What is this place, Singapore? Where is it? Who do you know there?’

      ‘It’s from Kathleen’s brother, Patrick,’ said Marvinder. She looked up at her mother.

      ‘Oh?’ Jhoti was shocked. The shining in Marvinder’s eyes was unmistakable. ‘A boy is writing to you?’ She looked around as if afraid that even such words would be compromising.

      ‘Oh, Ma!’ Marvinder laughed, trying to play down the implication. ‘It’s only Patrick – he’s just a – ’ She was going to say, just Kathleen’s brother. But he wasn’t just a brother, he was a man; he was eighteen; that’s why he had been called up as a conscript in the British Royal Navy Here in her village, most young men of his age were long married and were fathers already. ‘He’s written to me because he knew I wanted to collect stamps, and he was going to go all round the world with the navy and send me some from every place, that’s all.’ Breathless with the ease at which she had concocted a logical reason for the letter, Marvinder tried to divert her mother by showing her the stamps on the envelope. ‘Look, Ma! Aren’t they beautiful? I’m building up quite a collection. Kathleen and Edith both said they would write to me and send me stamps – and Dr Silbermann too. Now I have these! Aren’t I lucky!’

      Jhoti was dying to ask, what does it say? What is he like – this boy who is in the navy? Is he handsome? Do you feel for him? Did he ever touch you? But suddenly she didn’t dare. The least said about this letter the better – especially in front of Govind.

      ‘Put it away, daughter. Put it away. Your father would not like to know a boy has been writing to you. Here – shall I burn it? ‘Jhoti almost snatched it from her.

      ‘No, Ma!’ Marvinder recoiled in horror. She thrust the letter back into its envelope and pushed it into the waist of her salwaar pyjamas. ‘It’s mine. I’ll keep it safe. Don’t worry.’

      Jhoti turned away feeling disturbed and anxious. She wanted to say, don’t let your father know, but to advise such a thing would be disloyal. She knew she should take the letter and give it to Govind, but these days Govind had become so strict and austere, she was afraid of his reaction.

      He was trying desperately to find a husband for Marvinder. But no family had yet made them any offers. He was afraid that her stay in England had made her too independent and different from the other village girls of her class. He wanted to tame her; make her submit. These days, he often lectured her and sometimes beat her. He disapproved of her writing and receiving letters. He disliked the way she spent so much time reading – in fact – devouring books as if she would be a scholar. Govind hated all this. It was as if he wanted to eradicate the past two years from her life, and make her the simple, innocent, dutiful daughter she would have been, had the world not turned upside down. If he knew СКАЧАТЬ