Sunjeev Sahota - The Year of the Runaways

She couldn’t hear a thing — usually there’d be laughter or some sort of exaggerated exclamation as they discovered an acquaintance in common. But there was nothing. Perhaps they’d gone already. Maybe the boy had rocked up puffing smoke into Tejpal’s face and been straight away sent packing. The thought made Narinder smile. She stepped across to the window and held aside the net. The car was still there. A black estate-type thing.

When Baba Tarsem Singh did come up he held Narinder by her shoulders and said he thought this might be it.

‘They seem like a decent family.’ He kissed her forehead.

Eyes lowered, she followed her father into the room and sat next to Tejpal. Her chunni hung far forward, like a veil. They could probably only see her mouth, her lips. Through the crêpe of her chunni she counted seven maple-cream biscuits, brought over by some massi in Calgary. There were half-empty cups of tea, too, and samosas arranged into a squat pyramid. Beyond the table was the boy and his parents, or their knees, at least. His must be the middle pair of legs, in trousers a delicate shade of green. The parents continued chatting as if she hadn’t even entered the room. What plans did they have for vaisakhi next year? Do they go to the nagar kirtan? And then the boy’s mother asked if the girl might be shown and Narinder felt her father’s hand on her elbow. She raised her head and pulled back the chunni a few inches. Still, her eyes were cast down, fixed on a woody knot in the coffee table. This was always the worst bit. Wondering what they’d make of her face. It never seemed to get any easier. ‘Beautiful,’ the boy’s mother said, like all the boys’ mothers have to say.

‘Karamjeet said he’d like to talk to the girl alone,’ the boy’s mother went on. ‘If you don’t mind?’

Perhaps her father looked to Tejpal, because after a pause it was her brother who spoke. ‘What’s there to mind? We’re as modern as anyone else.’

They left — ‘I’ll show you the conservatory’ — in a rustle of salwaars and closing doors.

Alone with him, Narinder looked up. His turban was a deep royal blue and maybe a touch big for his round face. His beard was nice and full — no trim-singh, he — and a neat little kandha hung on the chain around his neck. Just like the one she wore.

‘Hey,’ he said. ‘You as nervous as me?’

‘I thought I was going to be sick.’

He nodded — he knew the feeling. ‘I’m Karam, in case no one’s thought to tell you.’

‘They did,’ she said, relieved he had a sense of humour. ‘And your age, job, education, height and complexion. Always complexion.’

‘You practically know me inside out, then. Let’s get married.’

A silence formed, which Narinder tried to find words to dispel. She settled for an inadequate smile.

‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Nerves. You nervous, too?’ A shake of his head. ‘Sorry You answered that already.’ A sigh. ‘I’m making a hash of this, aren’t I? I was aiming for funny-but-sincere.’

Narinder took hold of the situation. ‘Did you have any questions? They’ll be back soon.’

‘Oh. OK. Well, I think your father said you go to Anandpur Sahib every year?’

‘I try to. I enjoy the seva there. And I fully intend to carry on even after my marriage.’ She said this with conviction, ready to argue her case, though he didn’t seem to have been listening.

‘To be honest, I just wanted to make sure you weren’t being forced or anything. I’m five years older than you and. . Well, you hear stories, don’t you?’

She assured him no one was forcing her to do anything.

‘And you’d be happy living in Surrey?’

‘I don’t see what difference that makes.’

He seemed like a good person. They’d spoken on the phone a few times this last month and often she’d found herself smiling into the receiver. He was kind and honest and had twice now said how happy he was and how lucky he felt that she’d agreed to become his wife.

Narinder felt a hand on her shoulder, making her start. It was her baba, come to walk her home.

‘I was calling you.’

‘Oh, sorry, Baba. Is it time?’

‘What is this?’

He gestured to the posters on the gurdwara notice board, of Panjabi men and women who’d died trying to cross into the UK.

‘It’s very sad,’ Baba Tarsem Singh said.

She hadn’t really been reading them. The posters had been on the board for many months now. ‘Yes. I’ll pray for the families.’

‘Is that what’s been on your mind?’

‘Nothing’s been on my mind.’

‘You’ve been lost in your thoughts a lot recently.’

‘I’m sorry, Baba.’

‘You’ve been very quiet.’

She smiled. ‘I’m always quiet.’

He tried a different approach. ‘Is it the wedding? You are happy with the match?’

‘Yes, Baba.’

‘It’s a good family.’

She nodded.

‘It’s natural to be nervous.’

‘I’m fine. Really.’

‘And excited. Nervous excitement, they call it.’

She wondered whether to tell him that she didn’t feel excited. Not at all. But she couldn’t. Instead, they linked arms. ‘Why don’t you take the evening off?’

‘Oh?’

‘Yes. I’ll escort you,’ she finished, emphasizing the pronouns.

*

During dinner one evening she received a text message: call me. urgent. Savi di. Narinder slid the phone under her thigh. That ‘di’, she knew, had been calculated to remind Narinder that she was the younger of the two, the one who should obey.

‘Still enjoying your new phone?’ Baba Tarsem Singh said, reaching for the pot of raita.

‘Who was it?’ Tejpal asked.

‘No one. A friend.’

‘You don’t have any friends.’

‘And how would you know?’ Narinder said.

He really was getting insufferable these days. With his collection of Khalistan turbans and Puffa waistcoats. Only last week he’d had a go at Narinder for not bathing before evening prayers.

She deleted the message. They’d not spoken once in the last year. Probably she needed money. Probably she was only going to feed Narinder more lies. A week later another text arrived, Savraj threatening to turn up at Narinder’s house if she didn’t agree to meet.

‘I don’t want to meet you or any of your family,’ Narinder said, on the phone. ‘You’re all liars.’

‘Meet me for Kavi’s sake.’ Before Narinder could work out how to respond, Savraj said, ‘The gurdwara at six? Today. For Kavi’s sake.’

They met in the langar hall and sat cross-legged on one of the runners. Opposite them, two young girls raced to finish their bowls of rice pudding. She’d changed her hair, Narinder noticed. Even shorter, with streaks of cheap copper. She’d given up her cleaning job and gone back to the sheds.

‘More money for less time,’ she said, pulling a few notes from her gold lamé purse. ‘What I owe you.’

‘Is that it? Is that why you wanted to see me? Can I go now?’

She made to get up. Savraj stayed her with a hand to the knee. ‘Do it for us.’

‘Do what?’

‘What Kavi asked of you.’

It was so ridiculous she nearly laughed. ‘I’m leaving.’

‘They can’t survive. Kavi’s even talking about selling his organs.’

‘Lies. More lies.’

‘Do you think we’d have lied if we weren’t desperate? Do you think I wanted to go back to the sheds?’

Narinder turned her face away; she wished Savraj would stop.

‘It would be one year only. And no one would have to know. Not even your family. I thought if when you’re over there this summer you could go with Kavi to see the agent, then it could all be taken care of before you have to come back.’