Sunjeev Sahota - The Year of the Runaways

‘I don’t have any money, you know,’ Michael said.

‘But I don’t want money,’ Randeep said, confused, hurt even. ‘I just want to talk.’

*

Three weeks before his finals Randeep was granted a few days’ leave. His mother and sisters were going to Anandpur Sahib to pray for his father and Randeep had been summoned to look after him until they returned. On the bus home his textbook lay open on his lap, the spine nestled between his thighs. None of it made sense. He’d missed too much, caught up on too little. He shoved the book back into his rucksack and stared out of the dark bus window.

The women left before daybreak. Mrs Sanghera said it was vital they make the morning puja, though Randeep suspected she just didn’t want to be seen standing in line at the bus stop. He closed the door after them and went back to his father, who was sitting in his red chair, barefoot, eyes closed. He had grey stubble. His kurta pyjama was buttoned up to the neck.

‘They’ve gone, Daddy.’

A nod, eyes still closed. Randeep, determined, moved to the cupboards. He found three eggs and some jam.

‘Scrambled?’

Nothing.

‘What about jammy toast?’ He turned the sticky jar around. ‘Gooseberry.’

He looked at his father. His hands were threaded across the small swell of his belly, as if he was only taking a short dreamy nap. And perhaps he was: the gentle rise and fall of his breathing suggested so. He looked peaceful. Randeep decided to cook his father brinjal later, and was thinking about the aubergines he’d seen in the fridge, when his father’s eyes shot open and he bolted out of his seat, screaming, with arms outflung. He had hold of Randeep’s throat and Randeep felt his head banging the cupboard.

‘You’re trying to poison me. You’re like the rest of them.’

But his father was the weaker of the two now and Randeep prised the fingers from his neck. He held his father’s hands down by his side until he stopped fighting, then led him back to his chair and sat him down. He fetched his pills and a glass of water and watched while he took his medication. For lunch Randeep cooked rice and vegetables and when his father refused even to look at the plate Randeep fed him forkfuls, as if his father were the child.

He seemed much improved the next day. When Randeep walked in he was reading at the table, his body washed in sunlight. ‘Morning, son.’

Randeep moved to the sink and pointlessly shifted around a few of the dirty dishes.

‘Looks like Farhan might just break the record after all.’

‘Maybe,’ Randeep said.

He heard his father crisply folding away the paper. ‘Shall we have tea and toast? With some of that gooseberry jam?’

Over breakfast, his father asked him about school — ‘College, Daddy!’ — and his new job and that girl he’d mentioned last time. What was her name again?

‘Jaytha.’

‘Well, let’s not tell your mother just yet, eh? There’s only so much dying with shame a woman can do in one year.’

They played backgammon long into the afternoon, hunched over the thick old board, fists curled to their throats. The sun had moved, now buttering the wall, and a late-afternoon tiredness hung in the air. Randeep started setting up the pieces again.

‘Five-four. I’m catching up.’

Mr Sanghera stretched, glancing at the oven timer. ‘I thought you were making brinjal?’

‘One more game.’

‘Afterwards.’

‘But—’

‘Tsk! Do as you’re told.’

Randeep stood, only pretending annoyance. He was glad to have been mildly rebuked, the way fathers should rebuke their sons. It had been such a good day. The best. He couldn’t wait to tell Lakhpreet how well their father had been. He’d turned a corner, he was sure of it. He took the brinjals from the refrigerator, washed them, and found garlic and cumin and onions and ghee and salt. Soon the aubergines were stewing.

‘Smells delicious,’ Mr Sanghera said.

Randeep lifted the lid, the steam pushing up his nose. He coughed. ‘Another twenty minutes.’

‘And what’s for dessert?’

Randeep paused. He hadn’t thought of that. He looked in the cupboard. There were some damp biscuits. A half-pot of cream. He knew there were apples in the cool box. ‘I’ll mix a fruit salad.’

Mr Sanghera made an incredulous face. ‘That food deserves more than a fruit salad. Let’s have custard. With bananas.’

A childhood favourite. ‘But we don’t have any powder. Or bananas.’

‘Then I’ll go to Stephen’s and fetch some.’ He bent down to look for his flip-flops.

‘No,’ Randeep said.

His father looked up.

‘I mean, it’s too far.’

‘It’s fifteen minutes.’

‘And cold.’

‘Randeep.’

Randeep turned away, still holding the cupboard open. ‘I’ll go. I’ll be quicker.’

He went down Santa Cruz Drive, his walk blooming into a run every few metres. The leaves were shading to pink. He took the flower-planters’ alley — a weedy strip of gravel — and cut across the commerce building gardens to get to the PCO, behind which was Father Stephen’s All Items Store. They didn’t have bananas so he settled on a chocolate roll to accompany the two jars of custard. He remembered they were running out of toothpaste and asked for some Pepsodent too. The thin, unsmiling boy put the items in a green bag, and it seemed to take him forever to tie a knot and push the bag across the counter to Randeep, who snatched it up and hurried out: round the PCO, across the gardens and up the alley. As he reached Santa Cruz Drive he tired, slowed, spun the clammy bag round and strangled the top of it into his fist. He looked up the long road to where their apartment block was. He patted his pocket but knew he’d left his phone behind. He could hear his footsteps beating the ground, the bag banging his thigh. He flung open the main door, not even waiting for the chowkidar, and took the stairs two, three at a time.

‘Daddy!’ He rattled the handle. ‘Daddy! Please open the door!’ He could hear the Schubert playing. ‘Open the door!’

He banged and banged until a hand on his shoulder pushed him aside. It was one of their neighbours, a man whose name Randeep couldn’t remember. He had a crowbar which he wedged into the door beside the lock. There was the sound of wood splintering and then the neighbour came at the door twice with his shoulder until it swung brokenly open. Randeep ran in. He could see his father’s naked dark-brown feet dangling in the main room, a chair in place. His head was tilted to one side, as if in mid apprehension of something. There was a piece of flex around his neck. Randeep wrapped his arms around his father’s feet as if to push him up, and the neighbour stood on the chair and untied the flex. The body slumped to the floor. Its eyes were wide and staring. Its lips opening and parting. It blinked, blinked again. Randeep knelt beside him. More neighbours gathered, puffing out their cheeks, saying how lucky he was. The music was still playing.

‘It would have been better if he had died,’ Mrs Sanghera said.

Four days had passed and she was coming back into the room from seeing off yet another concerned visitor.

‘Mamma!’ Lakhpreet said.

He heard his mother sigh, sit down. ‘Oh, I know. It’s. . I don’t know what to do any more.’

Randeep closed his father’s door and joined him on the bed. Mr Sanghera lay propped against the cushioned headboard, chin on his chest. The plate of jammy toast sat untouched by his side.

‘OK, Daddy, I’m going back to college now. I’ll see you soon, acha?’

Perhaps there was a nod in response. He couldn’t be sure.

The coach broke down and it was past midnight when he jiggled open the lock to his room. He waited a minute for the furniture to outline itself, then saw that Abhijeet wasn’t around anyway, so he clicked the lamp and a triangle of silver light split the room. He was sitting on the floor when his phone vibrated and Jaytha Hall flashed up at him.