City of Ghosts (4 page)

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.'

THE WALK TOOK
Gurdial twenty minutes, along a dusty, rutted and potholed road. He had left the city at midday, heading south, along one of the routes taken by the farmers who brought their goods to market each day. The nearest village was another ten minutes' walk but Gurdial left the road where he always did, just past two giant trees. The field he entered was L-shaped and dropped away from the road, its steep banks overgrown with hemp plants. He worked his way through them until he had reached the stream, then followed the slow-running water towards the copse where Sohni was waiting for him.

As Gurdial approached he could not stop staring at her. She was more beautiful than anything or anyone he had ever seen. Her sunlight-coloured hair was tied up in a bun and her smooth alabaster skin had a rosy hue. When she saw him, her eyes, as blue as the
amrit
that
surrounded the Golden Temple, sparkled. She looked like a princess. Gurdial felt himself gulp down air as his heart began to race in his chest.

‘You're late!' she teased. ‘I thought I would have to find myself another boy.'

Gurdial smiled warmly. He knew that she was teasing, but even so, hearing her talk of another boy stabbed at his insides.

‘What's wrong?' she asked, seeing beyond his smile.

‘It's nothing,' he told her. ‘Just me being foolish. I cannot even joke about you being with another . . .'

Sohni grinned. ‘You are so silly sometimes,' she scolded playfully. ‘How could I ever meet anyone as kind and considerate as you?'

Gurdial shrugged. ‘I am just a simple man,' he replied. ‘And you are the most beautiful girl in the whole of the Punjab. Every man who looks at you wants you. You could have anyone you wish.'

Sohni closed her eyes. ‘And I wish,' she told him, ‘I wish for a slightly silly yet remarkably loyal and utterly handsome boy from the Khalsa Orphanage.'

She opened her eyes again. ‘Do you know anyone who fits that description?'

Gurdial took her hand and squeezed it tight. ‘You are so kind to me. But what if you can't have me?'

Sohni frowned. ‘Then I will live my life as a spinster!' she insisted. ‘It's you or no one.'

Gurdial felt a warm shiver work its way down his spine. He took her other hand and pulled her towards
him. Her scent, a dreamy collision of lavender and vanilla, sent powerful urges through his body. He held her tightly.

‘One of these days,' she said to him, ‘we will be together properly. And there will be no more secret meetings.'

Gurdial smiled. ‘But I love this place,' he said. ‘Even after we are married I would like to meet you here – it is our place.'

Something splashed in the stream, and above them a white dove circled. A gentle breeze whispered through the leaves. They sat down on the grass and looked out across their hiding place.

‘It's so beautiful here,' said Sohni. ‘I can see why you like to come here. It's like a dream . . .'

Gurdial nodded. ‘I worry,' he said.

‘About . . .?'

‘Dreams,' he replied. ‘What if that is all we ever have?'

Sohni lay back on the grass and looked up at a perfect, cloudless sky. ‘I won't allow it,' she said.

Gurdial lay down at her side and turned towards her. ‘But there is so much that stands in our way. Your father will never consent to our wishes.'

Sohni sighed. ‘I know,' she said quietly.

‘I have spent each night since we met playing it over and over in my head,' he told her. ‘And each time I ask your father for your hand he laughs at me. It will be no different when I do it for real.'

Sohni turned to look at him, her eyes wide with surprise. ‘You are going to ask him?'

‘Yes,' he replied.

‘When did you decide on this?'

‘Just now. Right here, this very minute. It is the only way . . .'

Sohni felt her heart jump before her stomach clenched with nerves. ‘When?'

Gurdial shrugged. ‘I do not know. Everyone I've spoken to thinks I am crazy . . .'

Sohni smiled. ‘By everyone, I take it you mean Jeevan?'

Gurdial nodded.

‘How is your pig-headed friend today?'

‘As stubborn as always,' he told her. ‘He is trying to learn how to juggle and carries three onions wherever he goes. One of them is beginning to rot . . .'

‘And is he any good?' asked Sohni.

‘Useless,' replied Gurdial. ‘But you can smell him coming a mile away.'

Sohni ran her hand down his chest. ‘So who else have you spoken to about us?'

Gurdial wondered whether to tell her about Bissen Singh. After all, she didn't know him and perhaps she would worry that they might be caught out. But Gurdial trusted the soldier and he trusted in his love for Sohni – there should be nothing that cannot be said between us, he told himself.

‘A soldier,' he admitted.

‘A British soldier?'

Gurdial shook his head. ‘He fought for the British in
their war, but he is a Punjabi: Bissen Singh. He is a wonderful man – full of good advice.'

Sohni asked whether he could be trusted.

‘You could trust him with your life,' Gurdial replied. ‘He is the one who told me that I have to do the right thing and ask your father. He also told me that a dream is not worth having if you don't believe that it can come true.'

Sohni moved closer to him and put her head on his shoulder. ‘He seems to be a good man, from what you say,' she said. ‘And he speaks sense. Mohni told me the same thing. What good is a dream if you don't try to realize it?'