Sunjeev Sahota - The Year of the Runaways

‘ Where-is-your-pugri? ’

Harbhajan closed his eyes, dreamily, and slopped his face onto Avtar’s shoulder. He found the keys to the motorbike in Harbhajan’s pocket and shoved them into his own jeans. Then he carried him out, down the stairs and through the lanes until, two hours later, they arrived at the bike. He arranged Harbhajan on the seat, then niftily, without letting go of his friend, sat down himself.

‘Just keep hold of me acha, yaar? Don’t let go.’

He got the engine going at the third kick and turned a few dials until an amber cone struck up before him. He said a quick prayer and haltingly, wobblingly, moved forward.

The journey back took three times as long as the journey there. Twice Avtar turned off the GT Road and made a detour through the villages because a passing autowallah warned there were police checks up ahead. So it was close to 3 a.m. when he entered Harbhajan’s neighbourhood and braked outside a fish-and-liquor dhaba. He asked the owner to bring out a coffee and forced Harbhajan to drink it. It made no difference. Outside the black gates of Nirmalji’s house, Avtar killed the engine. He wiped both their faces with the hem of his shirt — he hadn’t realized how much he was sweating — and coaxed his friend from the saddle. Avtar had to hold him upright.

‘Arré, giani, come on.’ He slapped him. ‘We’re home. Look.’

Harbhajan opened one yellow eye, shunted Avtar away and veered back down the road, careering across the asphalt. Avtar caught up, his hands on Harbhajan’s shoulders to try and still him. ‘Home.’

His yellow eyes weren’t blinking and with his beard and long girlish ringlets he looked like a madman haranguing the night. ‘I hate it. I hate him. I hate him.’ He sprinted to the gates, crashing into them, then looked up into the sky, his mouth pulled into an ugly stretch, and screamed, ‘I hate you! I hate you!’ He kicked the gates — ‘I hate you! I hate you!’ — and the iron shook and clanged. The more Avtar tried to restrain him, the louder Harbhajan screamed. ‘I hate you! I hate you!’ Lights came on in the neighbouring houses and the large balcony window in Harbhajan’s own house lit up too. Nirmalji appeared, tightening his dressing gown resentfully as he came down the path. Harbhajan’s arm extended through the bars, pointing, identifying. ‘You! I hate you! I hate you!’

‘Where is your turban?’ Nirmalji said.

‘I hate you!’

Nirmalji found his key and forced the lock open. ‘That bhanchod chowkidar,’ he muttered. ‘Avtar, would you take him to his room, please?’

‘Is everything OK, Nirmal Sahib?’ a voice asked from behind. A neighbour. ‘Is that young Hari?’

‘It’s fine, thank you. High spirits only.’

Harbhajan quietened as soon as they were away from his father. Now he complained of feeling sleepy.

Harbhajan’s mother was standing inside the front door. She was a short, dutiful-looking woman, her eyes puffy, as if she’d been crying. Avtar had never met her before. He touched her feet, then with his fist at Harbhajan’s back drove him into the house. ‘Aunty, can you tell me where. .?’

‘It’s the third door on the second floor, beita.’

Avtar steered Harbhajan towards the marble staircase. He kept his eyes down. He felt embarrassed by how much they had. The huge dining table, the leather sitting suites. Two just-glimpsed servants exchanging looks. Harbhajan kept on wanting to turn back, saying he’d left something at the tiger’s house. ‘We’ll pick it up tomorrow,’ Avtar said and that seemed to placate him.

The bed was square and plain and stranded in the centre of the room. The left-side wall was taken up with a fish tank, the fish dingily aglow in the low blue murk. Avtar sat Harbhajan on the end of the bed and removed his shoes and socks for him, and then Harbhajan flipped over and scrambled under the covers. Soon he was snoring gently. Avtar stood up, hands on hips, relieved. The window behind the bed had a deep ledge and balanced on it was an unframed black-and-white headshot of a younger, preoccupied-looking Harbhajan, cheek scrunched up against his fist. Next to it, a fizzled-out joss stick, some rupees, dried-up marigolds to one side. Maybe his mother was conducting prayers for him.

Back downstairs Nirmalji and his wife were standing by the dining table, talking quietly. She was shaking her head.

Avtar said that he would bring the motorbike in now, if that was all right.

‘Were you with him all night?’ Nirmalji asked.

‘Yes, sahib.’

‘Did you take drugs also?’

His wife let out an anguished groan. Avtar didn’t know what to say and in the end mumbled, ‘I don’t know.’

‘How much is he stealing from the company?’

‘I don’t know, sahib.’

‘So you do know he is stealing?’

‘I don’t know, sahib.’ His voice getting quieter now.

He could feel the threat, because he knew the rich were the kind of people who find fault with the pet and not the leash.

‘I’ve never cheated you, sahib. I do my job well.’ Maybe Nirmalji was annoyed that the neighbours had all seen. ‘I would have taken him to a hotel but you know how people talk. I thought you would want him home.’

‘You did the right thing. Under the circumstances.’ Then: ‘Go. Leave the bike where it is.’ He turned to his wife. ‘Wake Satram.’

‘I can walk, sahib.’

‘You’ll go in the car. Your parents must be worried. Have you called. .?’ But he stopped, perhaps thinking they were too poor even to own a phone and he’d only be embarrassing the boy. In fact, Avtar had called earlier in the evening and spoken to his mother and said that they’d had a puncture, it was late, and he’d be staying at Harbhajan’s house tonight.

Avtar walked out the front door and into the garden and through the gates. He felt guilty and he wasn’t sure what he’d done to feel guilty about. He kicked a stone hard and it went prancing off down the road. The car pulled up and the window wound down and a man with a droopy moustache and tired eyes told him to get in and shut up. Driving young bhanchod layabouts around in the middle of the night. As if he didn’t have better things to do.

*

At work, he assumed driving duties with old Sreenath as his conductor. The wrinkled Brahmin seemed to know everyone and he’d sit there on his fold-down seat and welcome passengers in, exclaiming how nice it was to see Keshav again, and Rana Bhai, and — be still my heart — Namrata Devi, too? How is the hip these days, sister?

Avtar brought his knees up to the steering wheel, fingering absent-minded circles into the flaky window dirt. He wished he’d gone into Nirmalji’s office when he’d had the chance yesterday and demanded to know if his job was in danger. All this not knowing was making him feel ill. He closed his eyes and heard Lakhpreet’s voice from the night before, saying she was sorry for being mad that he couldn’t come again this month, and that she loved him and would see him soon. Opening his eyes, Avtar felt suddenly certain everything would be all right.

As he was pulling into the depot that evening, he saw Harbhajan’s motorbike, and then Harbhajan himself in the office, feet up and paging through a newspaper in a bored way. Avtar locked the wheels left and parked at the end of the line, making himself invisible. He couldn’t afford to be friends with him any longer.

Sreenath flicked his toothpick to the floor. ‘You are doing right. When father and son are firing bullets at each other, don’t get caught in the crossfire.’

‘I’ve not done anything wrong.’

‘He’s stealing from the workers’ funds. Someone will have to pay.’

Avtar looked helplessly at the old man. ‘But I’ve not done anything wrong.’