Sunjeev Sahota - The Year of the Runaways

‘You won’t find no theorems here,’ Abhijeet said.

And then Jaytha turned round. ‘Randeep!’ She beckoned him over. ‘Come sit, come.’

He looked to Abhijeet, who was nodding at him, so Randeep closed his wallet and strode across.

‘Hi, Jaytha. How are you this evening?’ It sounded stupid now, though she didn’t seem to notice.

‘Here, sit with me,’ and she tucked her feet underneath her bottom, making room.

He wavered, then slid in, jamming his hands into the crevice between his thighs. Her elbow jutted out and touched his own and that point seemed to be the epicentre for the wild buzz radiating through his body.

‘How was your weekend with your bhabhiji?’

She smiled. ‘That’s what I love about you. You remember things. You’re so thoughtful.’

Across the room, Abhijeet cheered. ‘Good on you, man! You got through her fortress. And believe me, many have tried; many have failed.’

‘Don’t be so vulgar,’ Jaytha said. ‘Not everyone’s a Neanderthal.’

There was a woollen blanket over her legs which she opened out and spread across both their laps. She nudged closer to him so that elbows, arms and shoulders all touched. It took a while for his heart to calm, and he didn’t dare move. He just sat there with the others, watching some American TV comedy. The only interruption came when two girls entered the lounge and asked if they could change channels. They must have been scheduleds because some of the other girls pinched their nostrils together. He felt Jaytha tense up, her eyes hard on the TV. He sought out her hand under the blanket and squeezed and this she didn’t seem to mind.

*

One morning, a week later, he was shaken awake by Abhi, looming groggily over him, saying something about a call.

Still in his pyjamas, Randeep went down to the stairwell where the receiver was gently bouncing on its blue coil. He put the phone to his ear.

‘Hello.’

It was his mother, which meant it was his father. Yesterday, she said, he’d had a fight with someone at work. He’d broken furniture. She’d had to go in and calm him down. It had taken nearly an hour to get him up off the floor. She paused. ‘They all saw him crying.’

‘I’m coming, Mamma.’

As he arrived home it took a moment to recognize the self-satisfied voice carrying up the hall. Vakeelji, his father’s lawyer. Randeep couldn’t face seeing him right away, so he slipped out of his shoes and curled his head into the twins’ room. They were sitting on the top bunk, in secret conversation.

‘I’m here,’ he said.

They stared at him, waiting. Eight years older, he felt he really didn’t know them at all. Their world was just their bubble of two.

‘How’s things?’

‘OK,’ Ekam said.

‘Yeah, OK,’ Raji agreed.

‘Where’s Daddy?’

‘In his room.’

‘How is he?’

‘It’s a difficult stage,’ Ekam said, and Raji sniggered.

He stepped across the landing and opened the door. His father was sitting on the other side of the bed, facing the window. Randeep shucked off his rucksack and went and sat beside him.

‘Daddy, it’s me. Randeep.’

Mr Sanghera nodded. ‘You didn’t need to come.’

‘Vakeelji’s here.’

‘Come to look at the tamasha, no doubt.’

‘What happened at work?’

‘Please tell them I’m sorry.’

‘Tell who?’

‘And your mother, too.’

In the main room, Vakeelji took up all of the tall red chair, and not for the first time it struck Randeep that the lawyer’s small pink lips surely belonged on the face of a little girl. He was sipping very daintily from the best china teacup. Mrs Sanghera sat on the two-seater and behind her Lakhpreet leaned against the wall. Randeep looked to his sister and saw the flicker, the slight tightening around her mouth that she’d always done to convey to him that she was all right. He touched the lawyer’s feet.

‘Bless you, son, bless you. How is college? NIT next year?’

‘With your blessings.’

‘Always, always.’

His mother explained Vakeelji’s presence. The DTTP had been in touch. They were concerned about his father’s application to his work. His ability to do his job. They were considering not formalizing his contract at the end of the trial period.

‘Can you believe it?’ Mrs Sanghera said. ‘So many years he has given to the government and this two-bit offshoot wants to cut him off like that. Who gave them the right?’

‘The chief minister, bhabhi.’

She was only fleetingly deflated. ‘He could do all their jobs with his eyes closed.’

Vakeelji smiled into his chins and very delicately set his cup down in its saucer, as if to make any noise was to risk some sort of detonation. ‘Bhabhi, we have to face the facts. Bhaji is not well. Inshallah, we all hope he reverts to his normal self soon but until then the department is naturally going to protect itself. In twelve months he will have his full government pension rights secured. Unless they are certain he is a viable long—’

‘Viable!’

‘Long-term associate, they will move to terminate before then.’

‘Then you must stop them, Harchand. We rely on you in these matters.’

The lawyer showed his palms. ‘I will do my best, but I fear. .’

The silence seemed to frighten Mrs Sanghera into temporary submission. She rallied. ‘So what do we do? For the first time in history are the women of this house to go and find work? Shall I start offering my services to clean my neighbours’ latrines?’ She thrust out her arms from under the pallu of her sari. ‘Perhaps you think I should pawn my wedding bangles?’

‘Oh, don’t make so much drama, Mummy,’ Lakhpreet said.

‘I can find work,’ Randeep said.

‘They will still pay his school fees, yes?’

The lawyer shook his wide head. ‘Given the ridiculous bureaucracy around our property laws, they will let you stay in this flat for one year until you move somewhere else. That is all. They will no longer pay for medicines, servants, transport, or, indeed, college fees.’

Mrs Sanghera didn’t know where to look. ‘Why do they make the children suffer?’

‘I’ll find work,’ Randeep said. ‘I can help.’

‘You are staying in college.’

‘I can do both.’ He looked at her. ‘Honestly, I can.’

She turned fiercely to the lawyer. ‘You see how brave my son is? He would never see his mother lower herself.’

The lawyer sighed. ‘Truly you are blessed, bhabhi.’

He found work quickly, doing weekend shifts for a British insurance firm who’d outsourced their call centre to Mirla Business and Technology Park. He enjoyed it. The office was bright, with potted-palm fronds down the aisle, and on the front wall hung a series of professional-looking world clocks: London, New York, Sydney. There was air conditioning, too, and he had his own piece of white desk space around which he’d made a fence of his textbooks.

It was near eleven at night when he’d reach his digs and show his pass to the security guard and enter the lounge. Usually, it would be empty, but occasionally Jaytha would happen to be there and they’d drink hot chocolate from chipped blue mugs and talk about their day. He wasn’t at all certain how to coax their relationship forward, into a corner more intimate.

At midnight he’d move to the stairwell and wait for his mother to ring. He’d asked her if he might buy a mobile with his wages — his wages were wired directly to her account — but she’d thought it unnecessary. Who would pay the bills, for one thing? The phone would ring and he’d lean tiredly against the wall and listen to her battles with the Chandigarh higher-ups. They were trying to cheat his father, she said. They are deliberately giving him impossible tasks to prove their point. I will not allow it. I will not let them make a fool out of him. Sometimes Randeep sensed glee in his mother’s voice, as though she were revelling in it all.