SOHNI WIPED HER eyes and followed her stepmother’s instructions.
‘It had better be finished by the time I get back or I will take my cane to you!’ Darshana Kaur warned her young stepdaughter.
‘It will be finished,’ Sohni replied, eyeing the pile of washing that sat in front of her. Her scalp stung from having her hair pulled, a punishment that her stepmother often used. She picked up the washing stick, a thick piece of darkened hardwood that was used to beat the clothes clean, and ran her fingers over its smooth edges. Resigned to her fate, she picked up one of her father’s shirts, dipped it in the bucket of soap and water at her feet, and then laid it down on a stone slab to her right. She took the stick and began to beat the shirt.
An hour later, when the last piece of clothing had been washed, she looked down at her chapped hands. ‘What man is ever going to want me?’ she asked herself. ‘I have the hands of a forty-year-old widow.’
A sudden gust of wind made the shutters rattle and Sohni felt herself grow cold. She shivered and picked up the wet clothes, preparing to hang them out to dry. The wind dropped as suddenly as it had arisen and she made her way out into the large courtyard. She hung out the clothes before sitting down on a wooden seat – a seat that her mother had used when she was still alive. Sohni rubbed her hands together, ashamed of the calluses that had formed, and thought of Gurdial.
She wondered what he was doing – whether he was smiling or frowning, what thoughts were going through his head. She smiled as she pictured his curly black hair and big brown eyes with lashes that were thick like a woman’s. His strong yet gentle hands and the way he cocked his head towards her whenever she spoke to him. She looked back down at her hands. Gurdial would have her even if she was an old hag, toothless and smelling of dung. Gurdial was her hero, her dream.
‘I wish I could tell my father,’ she said to herself.
‘Tell him what, child?’ said a friendly voice behind her.
Sohni turned to see Mohni standing there, his old hands covered in dust. He had worked for her family for as long as she could remember – he was like a grandfather, and a mother too. She confided in him and he listened to her. He was from a so-called lower caste, a choorah, but he was a thousand times more loving than her father had ever been. He smiled gently and then held out his arms. Sohni sprang from her seat and went to him, comforted immediately by his touch and by the dusty scent, like mouldering mushrooms, that clung to him – the same scent she remembered from her childhood.
‘What is it, my daughter?’ asked Mohni.
‘It’s nothing, chacha-ji,’ she replied, wishing that she was truly his child.
Mohni ruffled her hair and grinned. ‘Ever since you were a little girl I have been able to tell when you are lying,’ he reminded her. ‘Have you ever pulled the wool over these eyes? I may be an old goat now but my mind is still young.’
Sohni took a step back and looked at him. ‘I’m sorry. But what can I tell you, chacha-ji? It is the same problem as always.’
‘Your stepmother?’
‘Yes . . .’
‘Perhaps we should throw her down a well?’ suggested Mohni with a glint in his eye.
Sohni smiled. It was his stock reply. ‘I just wish I could get away from here,’ she said. ‘Somewhere far away . . .’
‘With Gurdial?’
As with everything else in her life, Sohni had told the man she called uncle all about her love. ‘Yes,’ she replied.
Mohni sighed. ‘I watched your mother fall madly in love with a boy when she was your age. But the Gods had a different plan for her . . .’
‘She married my father instead – I know.’
Something passed across Mohni’s face – a shadow from the past.
‘What is it, chacha-ji?’ Sohni asked.
Mohni smiled sweetly. ‘It is nothing, child. Just an old memory of your mother. Each time I look at you I see her . . .’
Unaware of the lie, Sohni smiled back and gave her uncle a hug. The old man hated lying to the girl but he had promised her mother many things. And in a lifetime that stretched across eighty-two years, he had never once broken a promise.
‘I promised your mother that I would look after you until you became someone’s wife,’ Mohni added. ‘And I shall do just that. It is the only thing that keeps this wreck of a body going.’
Sohni shook her head. ‘Who are you trying to fool?’ she said. ‘You are as strong as an ox.’
Mohni smiled weakly. ‘Only my heart,’ he told her. ‘If it wasn’t for my heart, the rest of me would have returned to the earth long ago.’
‘Your heart?’ asked Sohni, confused.
‘Why, yes, my child. It beats only as long as you need me. Once you are settled, this old goat can move on to the next journey.’
Sohni tightened her hold on the old man. ‘But I will need you for ever,’ she teased.
‘Well, in that case I will become a very old goat indeed,’ he replied.
A door slammed shut inside the house. Sohni’s stepmother had returned.
‘Quick!’ warned Mohni. ‘Don’t let the witch see us together.’
Sohni let her uncle go and walked slowly back into the house, hoping against hope that her stepmother would take an afternoon nap. Perhaps then she’d be able to sneak out and meet Gurdial.
But it was not to be. Once inside she saw that her stepmother was agitated. The lines on her forehead were pronounced, and the single brow that sat above her eyes like a caterpillar was lowered. Even her crooked and hooked nose twitched with anxiety. She was not a happy woman. Standing next to her was an old Chinaman, with hair as white as blossom, stooped over with age. His skin looked fragile, as if it was made from dried rice paper. However, his eyes blazed out like emerald torches.
‘Get me a hammer!’ Sohni’s stepmother ordered.
‘A hammer?’ she queried.
‘Don’t question me, you bitch!’
A fire raged inside Sohni but outwardly she remained calm. The last time she had shown her true feelings, she had borne the resulting bruises for two weeks. She was in no mood for another savage beating. ‘Very well,’ she replied.
She walked round to her father’s workshop, found an old hammer and returned to the house. The Chinaman was pulling five-inch nails from a cloth bag. He raised one up to the light and studied it carefully. Satisfied, he took the hammer from Sohni, went calmly over to the front door and proceeded to bang the nail into the wood. Once he had finished he repeated the process with a new nail. On his fourth such act, Sohni quizzed her stepmother.
‘To your room!’ spat Darshana Kaur. ‘Before I put out your eyes!’
Sohni decided not to argue and left the room gladly. But instead of going to her own room, she stood behind the kitchen door and listened as her stepmother began to chant incantations and the Chinaman continued to damage the door. Sohni smiled to herself. It had to be another fertility ritual. The one thing that was driving both her stepmother and her father mad was the lack of a male heir to their fortune. Darshana had borne two daughters, both of whom had died as infants, but had yet to produce a son. And Sohni was well aware that her father would rather burn everything he owned to ashes than hand it over to her – a girl.
‘Stupid old witch,’ Sohni said under her breath, before going off to find something else to occupy her time.
Out in the garden, Mohni stood by the moss-covered wall, talking to a woman he usually met in the marketplace. She wore a white salwaar kameez and her face was wrapped in a black scarf which would, on closer inspection, have proved to be made of the finest silk that money could buy. As they spoke, the woman gestured towards the house. Mohni grinned and whispered something to her, moving his head towards hers. They shared a moment of laughter before the woman spoke again. Mohni nodded his agreement and then waved the woman away. She turned and made her way back down the lane. Mohni watched her leave before stooping to pick up the basket of vegetables at his feet – vegetables the woman had brought him. When he looked back down the lane, the woman was gone. A single butterfly, the colour of a cloudless summer sky, fluttered past Mohni’s face.
‘Butterflies in winter?’ he said to himself with a sly grin. ‘How very odd.’