Sunjeev Sahota - The Year of the Runaways

‘Wonderful! Well done! You’re moving in the right direction.’

He’d aged in a grand way. His hair had turned as white as milk and the skin was terrifically lined, making a noble feature of the large loose face that many still said reflected too soft a character. His hands clasped the ivory handle of his stick and the hem of his silver kurta made a valley in his lap. He’d known Tochi’s grandfather. They’d been great friends, Tochi’s mother had said. Babuji had even attended Papaji’s funeral pyre, and as far as anyone in the village could remember that was the first time a landowner had attended the rites of a chamaar. But that was all back when they’d worked for the family, in the years before Tochi’s father had asked Babuji if they might quit their servant jobs and instead rent some land.

‘I wanted to let you know we’ve found a good match for Palvinder.’

Babuji nodded. ‘So I hear.’

‘I’m sorry I didn’t come and ask for your permission first.’

‘Oh, those days are gone, Tarlochan. Is the girl happy with the match?’

‘If the match has your blessing, then the rest of us don’t need to question it. They’re from Jannat.’

‘On the Margiri side? I know the seth who owns the land. They’re a good family.’

‘I’ve no doubt. But he’s the only son and if we can’t pay the full dowry they say they’ll refuse. And she’s already been refused once. She won’t get another chance.’

Babuji sighed. ‘It’s a monstrous business. “I want five motorbikes and ten cows before your daughter can marry my son.” But it’s the way these things work.’

‘I just wanted to check that you think their demands are reasonable.’ He paused, then decided to add, ‘If they insist I’ll of course pay.’

‘I think it’s monstrous, like I said, and I hope one day it changes and we all start practising the religions we preach. Until then. .’ He opened his hand in a gesture of resignation. ‘If you find you can’t pay, we’ll give them my Contessa. It still drives like a dream.’

‘I didn’t come here to ask—’

‘I know you didn’t.’

Tochi nodded. Somewhere in the house a clock chimed out the hour. He’d be late for his first job. He put on the table the following quarter’s rent. ‘It’s the same as before I left. Aren’t you ever going to increase it?’

‘Can you afford it if I do?’

‘I’ll just have to give them one less motorbike.’

Babuji feigned horror. ‘Not the motorbike. People will think we’re animals if we only give four.’

That afternoon, Radhika Madam asked why he wasn’t going the usual way, via the maidaan, and Tochi explained it was because of the election. There were rallies. This way would be quicker.

‘I’ll be glad when election season is over,’ Madam said, fanning herself with the end of her pallu. ‘And the rains are taking so long, na?’

He took the hairpin turn onto Lohanipur Road and sped towards the bazaar. But it looked like here, too, there was a rally, and he gently braked into the crowd. He tried intimidating his way through, delivering long bursts on the horn.

‘Might be quicker to walk, Madam.’

‘In this heat? And give his mother more reason to complain I’m not fair enough? I’ll wait, thank you very much.’

So he forced his way to the side, parking beside a few other drivers, and switched the engine off.

It was the Maheshwar Sena. And the same white banner Tochi had seen at the maidaan all those weeks ago now hung in a taut smile across the entrance to the bazaar: Bharat is for the pure of blood and blood we will shed to keep it pure. Three, four, five people were on the stage, dressed in saffron and passing between them a microphone boxed in an orange collar. Their words boomed — loud and fuzzed with static — through speakers tied to tree trunks all around. They spoke of the need to regain control. That their religion was becoming polluted, the gods were being angered. The land was increasingly infested by achhuts, churehs, chamaars, dalits, adivasis, backwards, scheduleds — whatever new name they decided to try and hide behind. They needed to be put back in their place. Not given land and handouts and government positions.

‘Maybe I will walk and you can go,’ Madam said.

‘If you want.’

Clearly she didn’t, and stayed put. ‘Such backward logh. And how useless is our government that they can’t do anything? Do you know, our maid, Paro, told me that one of these goondeh made her husband get off the bus and walk home?’

Tochi said nothing.

‘They’ve no shame.’

‘Who?’

‘Don’t be clever.’

Though there were shouts of support and one or two tatty saffron flags above the roving mass of heads, mostly the crowd was impatient and kept calling for the swamijis to move their holy backsides out of the way. ‘I’ve got work, bhanchod!’

‘Let there be no doubt,’ the speaker went on, as if someone had turned up the volume. ‘We will fight to keep our country pure. We will shed blood. We will not back down. Let’s put it even more plainly: we will kill.’ The crowd quietened a little. The speaker seemed pleased by this. ‘There will be revenge for the murder of our brothers by the Maoists. There will be a purge. No one can stop it. And it will start at the beginning of Navratri. In respect for our murdered brothers and sisters, on the first day of Navratri we will allow none of the impure to work in the city or be seen about the city. It will be a day for the pure only. So the pure can enjoy the parks and the streets as Ishvar intended. Anyone going against us will be exterminated.’

Anger flamed inside Tochi, and Radhika Madam was tapping his shoulder, urgently. ‘Please, let’s go. This is too awful.’

On his way home he stopped at the village of Jannat. He knew it was one of the houses behind the Hanuman mandir, but it took a schoolboy scoffing toffees on the temple steps to point it out. Tochi knocked and a voice — an old man’s voice — asked who he was. Inside, he took a seat on the low stringy charpoy, pulled down from where it stood against the wall. The house was dark save for the candles and their intimate light. There were just the two rooms, with an empty doorway between them. Tochi could see the mirror in the second room and reflected in the mirror was a woman lying under a blanket. At her side was Susheel, hands on his knees. The old man was busy apologizing for asking Tochi who he was, but there was so much trouble about these days, what with these Sena logh. Only two days ago he’d heard they’d killed a man because he’d refused to take part in their protection racket.

‘It’ll pass,’ Tochi said.

‘This is your first time to Jannat?’

‘I came three months ago. Looking for work.’

‘Did you speak to the thakur?’

Tochi said he did.

‘He’s getting old. Forgetful. But a good master. He gives us no difficulty.’

‘The land is good here. Rich.’

‘We work hard on it. Though not hard enough, it seems. I like your auto.’ His lips thinned into a sly smile, his pinched little face made even more so by the ratty white turban.

Susheel came forward to shake Tochi’s hand and pass him a cup of tea. His hair was parted to the side, the usual quiff flattened down. Despite the cockiness at work, he seemed like a caring boy. A good match.

‘You know my son,’ the old man said.

Tochi nodded. ‘Did you have a date in mind, uncleji?’

‘When would suit you?’

Tochi understood the inference. When would he be in a position to fulfill the dowry? ‘I’ll speak to my parents. I just wanted to ask if you had a date in mind. Or if you had any other demands.’

The father shook his head. ‘I’m sorry if we’re asking for a lot. We’re not greedy people. But he’s my only son. You understand?’