Desh by Kim Kellas

with a stick for going into the jungle on her own. She’s only six! But I also saw how much determination – or should I say fight she had in her. She wouldn’t give in. She wouldn’t cry. That’s the spirit. I felt sad and proud of her at the same time. If I had a child, she’d be just like that.
    Got a text from the club! ‘We wish all our friends a happy Christmas and a prosperous New Year’. A blanket text but hey, Merry Christmas, me. I managed to get a message to Neil. I can’t expect them to hold my job open forever. Best case scenario – I’m home in a week. Worse case? I lose my job. Deal with that after the wedding. Roll on Wednesday.’
    The morning of the wedding saw her brother up and dressed hours before the Nikah in his white cotton dhoti and traditional pagree wrapped round his head, while women bustled about laying plates of food. Flashing lights had been hung over the front porch to proclaim the celebrations and, outside, trestle tables were set up beneath the orchard trees, with webs of coloured lights draped round the branches. The wedding passed without a hitch, the banquet ran its course and at the end of the night Mazid led his new bride inside and Aila retired to her room.
    â€˜Not much longer now. Should I speak to Dad about the return flights? Feel a bit mean hassling him. He’s so happy here. It’s where he belongs. Hell though this place is, I do love seeing him as he should be. Not the slave to a burning oven.’
    In the morning she managed to steal more time, to continue with the diary without everyone crawling over her until she became aware of her father in the doorway.
    â€œGet dressed please and put a sari on. There are people coming to see you,” he said and Aila barely had to time to dress before four women walked in and sat on her bed. She dropped her eyes.
    â€œAre you keeping well?” the first one said.
    â€œI’m strong and healthy now. Nothing to complain about.”
    Then another spoke. “Does your mother wear trousers and tops at home?”
    â€œNo, auntie, she wears a sari.”
    â€œHow tall is she?” the one with bright hennaed hair asked and put an arm around her. “Stand up Munni,” she said while she lifted the hem of her sari and examined her feet.
    â€œMay I sit next to her?” the old one asked moving towards her. She took Aila’s hands and turned them over carefully in her own, studying her fingers. “How do you do Wudu with those nails?”
    â€œI will cut them.” She knew she’d been subjected to a formal examination and had been drilled since childhood in the right responses to give. So while they talked she made tea, and they watched her every move until they’d seen enough.
    As they left, she thought, it’s no surprise this would happen. Her father would of course be making approaches to other families of her caste while they were here. If that was the case, though, it was unlikely he’d be thinking of a match from London. Her train of thought was interrupted by the presence of two uncles in her room; there being no such thing as knocking first. She knew what was expected and salaamed them both in turn.
    â€œSo Munni, have you eaten?”
    â€œNo I haven’t yet but I’m fine,” she said, careful to show she wasn’t greedy and always thinking about food. “Would you like some tea?” she asked knowing they would listen to her feet to hear how heavily she walked and, as she poured the tea, she couldn’t help overhearing. They seemed to be organising when the wedding would be, the date of the Sinifan and how much gold – and land would be given to her. Sinifan? Why are they talking about an engagement? Must be that she was being put through the motions of another proposal. There’d be time to sort it out later.
    When Mazid appeared she spoke in a rush. “Oh my God, you won’t believe