The White Dove (Becoming Simrat Book 1)

A Journey of Survival, Self-Discovery, and Spiritual Awakening

Simrat was born in Glasgow, but her heart and heritage straddled two worlds. Raised in a British South Asian Sikh household steeped in tradition, she learned early to obey, to serve, and to silence her own needs. Behind her carefully constructed smile, a silent struggle began—one that took root in childhood and deepened into adolescence as an eating disorder quietly consumed her.

Promised to a stranger and married at eighteen, Simrat is thrust into a life of isolation, bound by duty and expectation. Her spirit suffocates under the weight of cultural obligations and emotional abandonment. But one day, armed with nothing but courage and a black bin bag, she walks away from the life she was told to live.

The White Dove is Simrat’s raw and deeply personal account of what it means to seek freedom against the odds. From the pain of early marriage and failed relationships to the healing power of art and spirituality, Soma Devi traces a woman’s journey back to herself. Through every heartbreak, she uncovers resilience, questions what it means to belong, and ultimately learns how to love the girl she once was.

This is not just a memoir—it’s a mirror for anyone who's ever felt trapped, voiceless, or lost.

Read The White Dove and witness the quiet, powerful rise of a woman who chose herself.

Excerpt from the book

I ran through the house, wearing my bright red dress, my chunni flowing behind me and my long black braid swaying to and fro as I went. I passed through the dark hall and the small kitchen, where my mother, aunties and grandmother were cooking.

‘Simrat!’ my mum cried out to me, ‘don’t run in the house!’

I must’ve been about 9 or 10 years old and filled to bursting with enthusiasm for life. I ran to the back garden and down the small stone path. I held a small pot and brush. With blue already coating my fingertips, I made my way down to the old oak, to paint a happy face alongside the flowers I had already outlined upon its rough, crusty surface.

My cousins were playing there, too. ‘Simi, why do you draw these things all the time?’ ‘She thinks that she’s magical …’ ‘No, she doesn’t, she thinks that she’s an artist…’ They giggle as I look at the image I’ve painted on the tree trunk in bright blue paint, my big brown eyes shining as I look at it with wonder.

‘I have never been prouder,’ I say in my cheery Scottish accent. I smile up at my creation. I was a very pretty little girl, although I didn’t know it at the time.

‘Come on, we need to make wroti,’ they say, grabbing my hand and pulling me up the path and into the house, where all of the women had already begun preparing tonight’s chicken masala. I am given the job of rolling wrote (chapattis). I could never get them round. I remember one time I had tears rolling down my face because I just couldn’t get them round. My dad came and saved me, he was so patient and rolled them for me and showed me how to do it.

I loved those moments when my dad gave me his undivided attention, like I was the centre of his world. My heart swelled with pride as I stood next to my dad who was rolling wroti with me. I knew my chacha’s would never do this for their daughters. I felt special in that moment.

This was an unusual time, we were in the 80’s and living in Glasgow, Scotland but in our house all we heard was Punjabi and the music my dad played on his record player. The record player was upstairs in my bapu’s ji’s room, this was a special room that no one really entered. I remember going in every morning to greet my bapu ji, the carpet was a patterned red and green array of squares and circles and in the corner of the room there was a big leather chair that swivelled. I would jump on the chair and swivel around and around, tipping my head back and staring at the ceiling, my bapu would laugh at me ‘Come here,’ he would say in Punjabi and then hand me a one penny like it was a ten pound note, it could have been ½ a penny for all I cared as at that moment I was special and so loved.

I was in primary school and I had one or two friends, I was the only Asian in my class so there were not many people of my heritage in the school. I had a friend called Jennifer, she was always so kind to me. When no one else spoke to me at school she would make sure that she would play with me at playtime. As she swung around the monkey bars, her mousy short hair fell down as she blinked her blue eyes at me. I wish I could do that I thought to myself.