Sunjeev Sahota - The Year of the Runaways

‘How’s things, anna?’ It was Lavan, from the Red Palms Hotel up the hill. The light made the gold buttons of his uniform flash.

Tochi nodded.

‘Ages ago, when you first came here, do you remember what you said?’

‘Remind me.’

Lavan clicked his tongue. ‘You said to tell you if any Panjabi Sikh woman from England ever stayed with us.’

He said she’d been at the hotel for three days now, and that he’d taken a photo of her with his phone. He showed it to Tochi. She was typing at a computer, behind a glass wall. Her hair was a single braid down her back. He looked closer. She’d not changed, not really. A little fuller in the face, maybe. A little thicker in the waist. Still those clever eyes and gentle eyebrows. The same way of sitting: leaning forward a touch, engaged by whatever was in front of her with every cell of her body.

‘So do you know her?’

‘Do you always take secret photos of women?’

Lavan kissed the air.

‘Has she asked if I’m here?’

‘Why? What’s the big secret? Did you use to be James Bond?’

Tochi removed his feet from the chair and sat up, throwing his beedi into the sand. ‘How long’s she here for?’

He didn’t sleep well that night. The walls were thin and the neighbours arguing again. Beyond the window, work went on to get the theatre built in time — drills, hammering, men calling to each other in that round, tumbling language it had taken Tochi only a year to understand. He got up and off the bed, stepped over his wife and children and went down the metal staircase and on to the sea. The waves were loud, dark as his face, and the water rushed up over his feet, closing around his ankles and then slowly withdrawing.

In the morning, the receptionist shook her head and put the receiver down, hard. ‘Not in. You’ll have to wait outside.’

‘How long is she staying?’

‘Wait outside.’

‘I said how long?’

‘I cannot give that information,’ she said, in English now, smiling.

It was nearly six when the auto dropped her at the hotel, and she was tired. She felt as if she’d spent more hours inside the tour bus than out, the rapidly speaking driver-cum-guide shuttling them from one museum to another. It had seemed a good idea back in Kiratpur, after finishing her father’s rites, when she realized she didn’t have to go straight back to England this time. She changed her flights and flew to Thiruvananthapuram and from there took a coach to Kanyakumari. She remembered Tochi mentioning the place and came because she wanted to, and because she could.

‘Did you enjoy your trip, madam?’ the receptionist asked.

‘Yes. Thank you.’

‘If you would like to go down to the beach to see the theatre show we have a party leaving in one hour.’

‘I think I’ll just go to sleep. My flight’s tomorrow.’

‘As you please, madam. Goodnight.’

She packed her suitcase and washed her hair. She checked what time the early train would get into Cochin and how long she’d have to wait before boarding the onward flight to Mumbai. Then she slipped the Mumbai to Heathrow tickets inside her passport and placed them on top of her luggage. She found that she was no longer tired. She unfolded Sabrina’s printouts — a selection of grim high-rise apartments — and tried to focus on them. She couldn’t. It was her last night in India — perhaps forever — and that thought seemed to be batting around her brain. She’d never been back to Anandpur Sahib. Until she arrived at Kiratpur with her father’s ashes, she’d never been to a gurdwara again either. Not since her year in Sheffield. She went to the window. The beach was teeming, the theatre lit up.

She strapped on her sandals and smiled at the receptionist and said she was going out for a short walk. ‘I don’t think I’ll be long.’

‘Alone? Do be careful of pickpocketeers, madam. They like to bamboozle the tourists.’

She headed away from the lights and the crowds waiting for the play to start, and wandered down to a darker, quieter mile of sand. She bought a cone of pistachio ice cream and ate it while the sea purred at her side. The moon was low and enormous and the stars so many and so close that she felt as if she was walking among them. She was glad she’d done this. Glad she’d come to India to rest her father’s ashes. He’d have liked the service, she thought. He might have wished that she’d assented when the priest asked her to give a prayer, but she couldn’t. She was sorry, she told the priest, but if there was a God he’d know how false her prayer would be.

She stopped and turned round. The theatre lights were the tiniest bursts of silver and she realized she’d come further than she intended. She climbed up to the road and headed back. Down on the beach, people were taking their seats in front of the stage. There seemed to be a feeling of excitement, of expectation, a feeling that rose off the crowd and stroked its warm wing across Narinder’s face. She descended the few steps leading off the road and felt her feet sink nicely into the sand again. A yellow banner ran along the roof of the theatre: Kanyakumari Theatre Group. All Donation Wellcome. She’d stay for a bit, she decided, and found a seat at the end of the back row. From here she could see into the wings, where a young boy in gold armour, mace in hand, nervously recited his lines.

People were still filling the aisle, then fanning into the rows of metal chairs. She didn’t call out when she saw him. He was heading for the front row. He held a toddler high up in his arms and there was a woman with him too, vermilion in her hair, and one — no, three — children following on behind. His white kurta looked like it was glowing against the deep brown of his skin. His hair was longer, falling over his eyes, his stomach a little rounder. She was happy for him. Of course she was. What else had she expected? What else had she wanted? She looked down at her hands and smiled. She remembered that there was a night train which left Kanyakumari for Cochin at 2.30. She’d get that, she decided, instead of waiting for the morning. Trains were late all the time. Better to be safe. She stood up to leave. The lights dimmed and a hush spread over the audience. She could still see him, in the front row. He was saying something to his wife. Beside him, his children, who were whispering.

SUNJEEV SAHOTA was born in 1981 in Derbyshire and continues to live in the area. He is the author of the critically acclaimed debut novel

Ours are the Streets.