Sunjeev Sahota - The Year of the Runaways

He knocked on the open office door — Room 625F, it said — and peered inside. ‘Sat sri akal, uncle.’

Dr Cheema was at his whiteboard, in the middle of drawing something. ‘Avtar! I thought you had forgotten all about us.’

They spoke for only a short while — the doctor had a lunchtime tutorial to lead — but Avtar was to wait, and when the doctor returned to his office he handed him a decent wodge of papers.

‘Handouts from your course. I just picked them up. I’ll keep sending them to you once you give me your address.’

‘Thank you, uncle.’ And then, after a pause: ‘I need a job. I’m running out of time.’

Dr Cheema sat down and picked up his pen and started to press the nib of it into his desk. ‘Do you have somewhere to stay?’

He lived in a large detached house towards Harrow-on-the-Hill. As they came up the long, winding gravel drive, the doctor said he was sure they’d find Avtar work, that there must be lots of jobs for hard-working men like him.

‘I don’t mind what it is, uncle. Building, cleaning, delivering. Anything.’

‘Don’t worry,’ Dr Cheema said, opening the front door. He fixed Avtar with a look. ‘You’re with your own people now.’

Everything in the front room was white or gold: the huge white leather sofas, the gold-trimmed coffee table with its glossy fan of magazines. A fashionably tarnished mirror hung above the fireplace, and on either side of this were. . paintings? Slabs of colour layered one on top of another.

‘Rachna?’ the doctor called.

A tiny bird of a voice replied. ‘Amo?’

The doctor strode into the next room — the massive kitchen — where a small baby of an old woman in a white salwaar kameez sat scowling at her reflection in the long table. There was a bowl of something in front of her. Dr Cheema helped her out of the chair and to the sofas in the front room. It seemed she was blind. ‘Just there, Biji. Sit. That’s it. Have you eaten?’

She made a face, nodded.

‘Do you want something else?’

‘What that witch gave is poison enough.’

Dr Cheema sighed. ‘Biji, I wish you wouldn’t.’ He gestured for Avtar to come closer. ‘I’ve brought someone with me. One of our students at the college. He’s from Nijjar.’

The old woman leaned forward, jutting her chin up slightly. ‘Who?’

‘My name’s Avtar Nijjar, Biji. Grandson of Jwala Singh Nijjar.’

She said the name sounded familiar and patted the space beside her. ‘It’s been so long. Did they live near the marsh?’

Dr Cheema sat on the sofa opposite, teasing out the stories, watching, listening, encouraging. He seemed desperate to hear, even at second hand, of this past of which he had no experience. An hour passed in this way, until there was the sound of a lock clicking, of heels on tiles. A magnificently tall woman in a business suit appeared in the doorway. The two halves of her sleek black hair met sharply, precisely, at her chin. Red lipstick, Avtar noticed.

‘Oh, hello,’ she said, seeing Avtar.

Avtar moved his head, a cross between a bow and a nod. ‘Sat sri akal.’

‘Why did you leave Biji alone?’ Dr Cheema asked.

She stepped across the room, sliding her earrings off with two swipes of her hand and placing them on the mantelpiece. ‘I had an emergency. I had to go. I paged you.’ She sounded tired.

‘You don’t leave Biji alone like that. Anything could’ve happened. She could’ve hurt herself.’

‘We live in hope.’

‘What was the point in us deciding that you go part-time if this still happens?’

‘Darling, I think you decided, not me. And I’m doing my best but I had no choice. I’m sorry. I made sure she had food and I came back as soon as I could.’

‘Well, don’t let it happen again,’ he said, conceding a little.

She looked to the ceiling, shaking her head. ‘My patient died, by the way. Thanks for asking.’ And with that she left the room.

The Cheemas’ son was off in America on something called a gap year, so Avtar was given his room.

‘Uncle, this is too much. I’d be happy on the floor downstairs.’

‘Let’s just concentrate on finding you work. Sleep well. We start tomorrow.’

‘Uncle?’

The doctor turned round.

‘Thank you for all this. I don’t know why you’re doing it, but thank you.’

The doctor’s mouth pursed up, then he said, ‘I remember my father telling me that back in the day people would open their houses to young men like you. To help you get started on this new life. That’s all I’m doing.’ He paused. ‘Something happened a few years ago that made it clear to me that I’m only ever going to be a guest in this country. That it didn’t matter how many garden parties I threw for my neighbours, this would never be my real home. It’s important that a man has a sense of a real home. A sense of his own ending.’

For over a week Dr Cheema drove Avtar around London — Harrow, Ealing, Southall, Hounslow, Grays, Brixton, Hackney, Uxbridge, Croydon, Enfield. They enquired in newsagents’, fish-and-chip shops, market stalls, in gurdwaras and factories. They criss-crossed the capital following leads, acting on tips, pursuing half-chances. They left each day at a little after dawn, packed lunches in the boot, eager to miss the traffic, and when they arrived back at the house it was long past ten o’clock. But none of their efforts resulted in a job for Avtar and after the tenth day of this he collapsed onto the sofa and said he wasn’t going to impose on Dr Cheema’s family any longer. He’d leave the next day.

‘Of course you can’t leave. Where will you go?’

‘But, uncle—’

‘Let’s give it a few more days, hain? We’re so close. I can feel it.’

That night, Avtar came downstairs and into the kitchen, textbook in hand. He couldn’t sleep. He had little money left and no job in sight. And now Pocket Bhai’s nephew had got in touch. They wanted the first repayment.

‘I still have a few weeks,’ Avtar had said.

‘Fair enough. A few weeks. I’ll be in touch.’

That was already two days ago and still he didn’t know what he was going to do. He heard footsteps on gravel and the kitchen door opened and Rachnaji stepped in with her briefcase. ‘Oh, hi. Up late.’

‘Studying,’ he said, indicating his book.

‘Good. Studying is good.’

She dumped the briefcase on one of the high stools and poured a glass of water from a hatch in the fridge. She drank deeply, then brought the glass down hard.

Avtar flinched. He took it as a sign of her frustration that he was still in their house. ‘Thank you, aunty, for everything you and uncle are doing.’

‘Huh? Oh, it’s nothing. It’s your uncle. Nothing to do with me.’

‘But I think I will be leaving tomorrow. It’s time.’

‘And you think my husband will let you?’

He wasn’t sure he understood. Was he held captive here?

Rachnaji slid out of her heels and sat a few chairs down from him at the table. Up close like this, he could see the powder-sheen of her face. The chalky grey at her temples. ‘The last one he brought home was here for nearly three months. A girl. How the aunties tittered.’

‘Ji?’

‘I don’t even pretend to know what it is. I used to think it was just nostalgia. Some attempt at connecting with his roots. Some regret at living the life he does. I don’t know. All I know is that it’s become much worse since he became president of that IndiSoc or whatever it is. He’s become much concerned with “ideas of belonging”,’ she said, holding up fingers.

Avtar nodded. But, no, he didn’t understand.

‘It really is a pathetic thing. To mourn a past you never had. Don’t you think?’