Sunjeev Sahota - The Year of the Runaways

‘Sat sri akal.’ She was the only one who’d said that. She’d even pronounced the t, which no one ever did. The others had all said Hello, or Hi. Maybe she wasn’t from abroad. Maybe this wasn’t at all what he thought it was.

‘Well, sit down,’ Mrs Sanghera said, and he balanced on the armrest beside her. ‘This is my son. Randeep.’

The woman nodded.

‘He’s a well-educated, well-mannered young man. Respectful of elders and loving of those younger than him. He’s handsome and enjoys to exercise.’

‘Mamma!’

‘What? Will you stop a mother from praising her son, her piece-of-the-moon?’

Vakeelji put his giant hands on his knees and pushed up onto his feet. ‘Bhabhi, show me to bhai sahib. I miss our chats.’

Mrs Sanghera sighed grandly, for she wanted to make clear that she understood the subtext, and led the lawyer out, taking the apples with her. Randeep heard them enter his father’s room, and the lawyer expressing exaggerated joy at seeing his old friend again. Then the door closed and Vakeelji’s voice cut out and it was just Randeep in the room with this strange, quiet woman.

He rose a little off the armrest and slid down onto the settee proper. She was some feet away, and she was staring at him. Randeep had the uncomfortable feeling of being appraised, or even judged.

‘Where are you from?’ he asked.

‘England.’

He nodded. ‘I have a friend there. Michael. He’s from Doncaster. Do you know it?’

‘Sorry I’m from London,’ she said, as if that explained everything.

He nodded again. He noticed she didn’t have a drink, but she said no, she was fine, that his mother had given her some Limca earlier. He nodded. The silence swelled. He noticed a hole in his sock, exposing his big square nail, and he rubbed his toes together until the hole dropped out of view and then he looked up and grinned, just in case. A job? He could ask about her job.

‘Are you employed?’

‘I teach a little at the gurdwara. That’s all.’

‘For the gurdwara?’

‘For everyone.’

‘My father works for the government.’ He paused. ‘Worked for the government. He’s not very well these days. He doesn’t leave his bedroom much. We don’t really know what to do.’ But probably Vakeelji had explained everything already, so he stopped there.

‘God will guide us,’ she said, firmly, and though he wasn’t sure whether she meant He’d guide the world at large or just the two of them, sitting in this room about to weave their lives together, Randeep nodded and said that perhaps she was right, and then they remained sitting there and let the silence grow into something that didn’t feel uncomfortable at all.

He thought about her that night. He flipped onto his stomach and sighed hotly into his thin pillow and wondered what it would be like to be married to her. He’d liked her laugh, the honest, open-faced shine of it. What had he said? Something about how the best Indian families were the ones big enough to get lost in. He should remember that line. Through the wall he could hear his mother’s voice, muffled. Talking to his father. About the meeting, no doubt. He hadn’t committed himself to anything. In fact, the woman had stepped into her sensible black shoes and left alongside Vakeelji without any talk of weddings or visas or money. It seemed like a magnificent thing to try and get away with. Enough had, if Vakeelji was to be believed. Which he should be, of course. And he needed to get away from all this. From his fear of being sent back to college. From the shame that made him want to smash every mirror. This girl seemed to offer a new start, another chance. He flipped onto his back again and held his fist to his forehead. He tried to remember what colour her eyes were.

Vakeelji came round again the next evening. It seemed to be a pre-planned visit, for Mrs Sanghera had the teapot ready on the table. Lakhpreet brought in a plate of apples, sliced and fried in cinnamon. Randeep was called in from his room and the lawyer got down to business.

‘If you want to go ahead with it, bhabhi, we’ll have to be quick. She’s leaving in four days.’

‘Four. .? How in God’s name can we be ready in four days?’

The lawyer raised his hand, as if swearing an oath. ‘All will be done. You just need to say yes to me now.’

Randeep sank into his seat, sinking further when his mother turned to face him.

‘Well?’ she said.

‘I don’t know.’

‘It’s simple. You either go back to college and complete or you do this.’

He felt the heat come into his face.

‘Don’t pull that face with me, Randeep. If you care about the long-term survival of this family, then you need to start making something of yourself. You’re nineteen now. You’re not a child.’

‘But I am making something of myself.’

‘In that electrical store?’ She looked to Vakeelji. ‘What dreams I had, Harchand. A husband high up in government. A son at NIT.’

‘We can all work,’ Lakhpreet said, resting a hand on Randeep’s shoulder. ‘You’re not being fair to him.’

‘And we will work. When we are all in England. With well-paid jobs worthy of a family like ours. What hope for that in this snake basket of a land?’

Vakeelji said, ‘She’s not asking for much money at all. And she’s a good, God-fearing girl. Some of them have all sorts of tricks, demanding more at the last minute and whatnot. But I think you can trust her.’

‘A very quiet, simple girl,’ Mrs Sanghera said, approvingly. ‘Jat Sikh, too. What more could we want? She’s landed in our lap from above.’

‘And you’d be her first transfer. When it gets to the second or third they start asking questions, but this should be straightforward.’

‘You see how much effort Vakeelji has gone to for you?’ his mother said.

Randeep nodded.

‘Is that a yes?’

‘What’s her name?’

‘Narinder. Narinder Kaur,’ the lawyer said.

‘A nice name,’ Randeep said absently, and his mother hid her smile in a sip of her tea.

Vakeelji was right. It was all done in four days. They drove the next morning to a small, isolated gurdwara about thirty miles outside the city and were married in a short ceremony witnessed only by Randeep’s family, the lawyer, his assistant, the priest, and a few locals who happened to have wandered in. Vakeelji’s assistant brought along a sherwani for Randeep to wear, a long gold-and-maroon kaftan, a little scuffed-looking. Randeep guessed it had been the assistant’s own wedding outfit and that this wasn’t the first time it had been reused. The red turban Randeep wore had been his own grandfather’s. When Narinder arrived, the lawyer took a wedding dupatta from the boot of his Ambassador. She accepted it with both hands, like a gift, and touched it to her eyes and forehead. Then she repaired to the outside toilets, emerging a few minutes later with the dupatta arranged and pinned over her head and chest and shoulders. She smiled at Randeep, who smiled back, and Mrs Sanghera led everyone into the temple, where the priest seemed to have a slight cold as he read from the book. Afterwards, the locals surrounded Mrs Sanghera, nagging her for their wedding gifts. She recoiled — the proximity of these chi-chi village folk was clearly too much. But it seemed Vakeelji had thought of this as well and his assistant proceeded to hand out boxes of sweetmeats. Randeep and Narinder stood apart from all this, looking on.

‘Are you OK?’ he asked.

‘It was so easy,’ she said. She sounded almost annoyed. ‘I don’t know why I didn’t do it before.’

He didn’t know what to say to this. ‘Thank you.’

Vakeelji was calling them. It was time to be going. Narinder ducked into the car and the rest of them watched as the assistant double-clanged the boot shut and drove her off. It was a strange sight: a red bride sitting alone in the back of a black Ambassador.