Sunjeev Sahota - The Year of the Runaways

It was the hospital deskman with the bad teeth who’d first told him about Pocket Bhai. He’d said if Avtar needed serious money and quickly, he really only had two choices. Either give up some part of himself — a kidney, say — or go to Pocket Bhai. In some ways it didn’t matter, the deskman went on, chuckling, because if things went wrong with Pocket Bhai both options resulted in the loss of an organ. Avtar ignored the man and had gone to the bank instead, to ask if they’d increase the loan against the business, and then, when they’d refused, he’d gone back the next day, to see if they’d change their mind. There was another week of unsuccessful job searching before he caved in.

Some said Pocket Bhai acquired the name in England during the Seventies — apparently, in that country, if you’d made lots of money you were said to have deep pockets. Others said it was because he always kept one hand stuffed inside the pocket of his kurta, even when eating. And fucking, some joked. He had the sinewy, tough body of a strict self-disciplinarian, and his face was as neat as a ball, with its nothing chin and absent earlobes, its extreme baldness. A small pot of raw orange lentils lay on the table before him. It wasn’t clear what the shop sold. There were a few bits of furniture here and there. Avtar supposed it was all a front for the moneylending. He had already explained his situation on the phone to one of Pocket Bhai’s people — about the student visa, about working in England — but had to go over it all again. He’d pay the money back as soon as possible.

‘Name?’

Avtar told him.

‘Address?’

He thought about lying, but had a feeling he’d only be found out.

‘Come back tomorrow.’

He did, and the orange lentils were still there. Pocket Bhai threw down a stapled wad of notes next to them and Avtar felt himself take a pace backwards. It was bewildering to see that much money made available to him. Beside it Pocket Bhai placed a lemon-pale piece of paper detailing the repayment schedule.

‘My nephews live in the UK. They’ll collect the money every month in person. These are their numbers. As soon as you land you tell them where you’re living. You understand? We give one month to find work and the next month you start paying. You understand?’

He was looking at the amounts he was expected to pay back. It would end up costing more than five times what he’d borrowed. ‘Uncle, I can’t afford that. Maybe lower the rate a bit?’

‘And yet you can afford your brother’s school fees?’

The man had done his checks. He wondered what else he’d learned. Avtar couldn’t do it. It’d be impossible to repay that much on top of the loan against the shop, and who knew what these people would do to his family if he defaulted on his payments. He apologized and said he’d manage without. Pocket Bhai laughed. ‘You’ll come back. They always do.’

And now, not even a month since that visit, Avtar was indeed back, salaaming Pocket Bhai and taking a seat on the bench against the wall. He sat with his weight across his right hip, which dulled the pain slightly.

‘Kidney?’

Avtar nodded. Pocket Bhai sighed.

‘You silly boys. You silly desperate boys.’

When he walked through the door his mother and father were standing at the photo of Guru Nanak hanging on the wall. They’d been worried, they said. He’d been away so long. But was there work, like Nirmalji had promised him?

He nodded. ‘Lots of work. That’s why I stayed longer.’ He took out the yellow envelope and the money from Pocket Bhai and handed it all to his father. ‘I earned enough.’ He sat on the settee. His parents looked at him. He looked at the floor. ‘I’ll see the lawyer about buying me that visa.’

The summer months passed, hot and fume-filled, the air ferrying around spicy waves of shit and diesel. Even the monsoon, when it finally came, gave little respite, and by September Randeep was still wearing his thinnest cotton shirts. He turned up the wall fan and went back to the clothes he’d laid out on his bed. There was a knock on the door behind him.

‘We bought you something,’ his mother said, moving to reveal it. A suitcase: brown, shiny, expensive-looking leather. A red bow around its middle. She put a hand to his damp back. The fan made her chunni all fluttery over her head. ‘So tall you’ve got these days,’ and then: ‘Let’s pack together.’

The next morning at Delhi International Airport Avtar spotted Lakhpreet in the departures terminal, standing around with her family. Though they spoke every Sunday, and had been on the phone last night for a full two hours, this was the first time he’d seen her since she took him to the lawyer. She seemed anxious, her gaze darting, trying not to look as if she were searching him out. They’d agreed not to meet each other’s eyes today, and definitely not to talk: it was too risky, she’d said.

‘But I talk to unmarried girls all the time,’ he’d replied, joked, though neither of them felt like laughing.

Her brother, Randeep, was dressed much more smartly than him. Shirt, tie, trousers. Even the kid’s suitcase had a fucking bow tie. Avtar adjusted his pen to conceal the fact that his shirt pocket was missing its button, then pointed out to his mother that Aunty was over there.

The two families met, the mothers embracing, commiserating, reassuring one another — and, therefore, themselves — that God willing all would work out well for the two boys. Again — because she had already made several phone calls over the summer — Avtar’s mother pressed her thanks on Mrs Sanghera. It was so very, very kind of them to let Avtar stay with Randeep and his massiji in London.

‘Please, pehnji, you are embarrassing me. And my sister’s London house is very big. It is zero trouble for them.’

Avoiding Lakhpreet, Avtar moved to Randeep and extended his hand. ‘I used to see you sometimes. In the block. Just hanging around looking lost,’ Avtar added, laughing in what he hoped was a friendly way.

Randeep smiled miserably. Everything about his long, skinny frame — shoulders sloping in, feet crossed shyly — suggested an innocent view of the world.

‘Have you been on a plane before?’ Avtar asked.

Mrs Sanghera interjected. ‘We used to fly all the time. With Randeep’s father’s postings. We even went to Colombo once. But Randeep was very small then. You probably don’t remember, do you, beita?’

‘It’s my first time,’ Avtar said. ‘So you can help me, na?’

At this the boy smiled more openly, showing his large, straight teeth.

They checked in their luggage, anxiously showing their visas and passports to the sour-faced man behind the counter. At the security gates the guard advised that it was strictly passengers only beyond this point.

‘Tell Papa not to worry,’ Avtar said, embracing his tearful mother. ‘It’s all going to be fine. I promise.’

He looked across and saw Randeep stroking his sister’s hair. She was crying against his shoulder. ‘I love you, too,’ he said, but still she wasn’t letting go.

‘Don’t be silly, Baby,’ Mrs Sanghera said, pulling her daughter away. ‘This isn’t like you.’

On the plane, whenever he closed his eyes, Avtar kept seeing Lakhpreet’s face, tears rolling down. How helpless he’d felt standing there. He sighed. It was for the best, he reminded himself. Just think how much he’d make. Save. He’d save so much in a year. In fact, he’d have a savings pile, he decided, and add to it every month. Before he knew it, their lives would have turned round. He allowed himself a smile at the thought of Mrs Sanghera’s face as he married her daughter. And Randeep’s. Though Avtar doubted Lakhpreet’s brother would be that bothered. He seemed pretty reserved, not at all like his sister, and it was hard to believe he was the elder, even if only by a year.