Sunjeev Sahota - The Year of the Runaways

All the time Narinder was shaking her head. ‘It’s illegal. It’s against the law. People could go to prison.’

‘Think of the number of people you’ll be helping. Not just us. But our children, and their children. We’ll love you till we die.’

‘No one has to die,’ Narinder said, facing Savraj full on. ‘Come to the gurdwara. We’ll get advice. We’ll help Kavi find a job. In India. A good job.’

‘There are no jobs. There is only corruption. Or if there are jobs they go to the fucking chamaars with these government quotas.’ Savraj reached for Narinder’s hand. ‘Please. Help us.’

Narinder shook her head, said sorry, that she couldn’t take the risk, couldn’t do it to her family, her father, and she kept shaking her head and saying sorry until Savraj gave up and left the langar hall for the dingy evening outside.

She told her father what had happened. Baba Tarsem Singh had been marking out passages in his gutka when Narinder appeared in the doorway and asked if she might interrupt him.

‘It’s not enough that they trick you, they also have to make you feel guilty,’ he said afterwards.

‘I’m scared they’ll do something dangerous.’

‘You’ve tried harder to help them than anyone else ever has. It’s between them and God now.’

‘What if her brother comes to harm?’

‘Let’s pray that doesn’t happen.’

She knew he was right. And yet: ‘I’m worried I should be doing more. That I’m not doing enough.’

‘There is nothing more you can do, beita. It’s in God’s hands. You’re getting married. Did you tell her that?’

Narinder hesitated.

‘Narinder?’

That evening she was summoned down from her bedroom. In the rocking chair sat her father, a guilty look on his face. Her brother stood with his back to the portrait of their mother. His arms were folded across his chest, hands arranged in a way that cupped each elbow, and his beard shone blue in the mix of lights playing through the different windows. He’d set his turban on the sideboard, so his topknot flopped like a loose apple. When they were children, he used to let Narinder pull on this funny-looking hairball.

‘Are you happy with this match?’

She’d been prepared for this. ‘Of course. It all seems fine to me.’

‘You’re sure? Certain?’

‘Get off my case, Tejpal.’

‘Don’t be too hard on her,’ Baba Tarsem Singh said.

Tejpal raised his hand and their father withdrew into the chair.

‘If you’re not happy tell me now. While I can still do something about it. Because if you leave it any longer I won’t be able to do anything. And I won’t let you shame us. I won’t let you make it impossible for Dad to walk into the gurdwara with his head held high.’

He approached, the blue light falling abruptly from his beard to his feet.

‘Well?’

She could feel herself glaring at him, at the idea that she would ever do anything — had ever done anything — to shame their father. ‘I’ve told you. Get off my case.’

*

Every so often she’d try calling India or Savraj. She wanted to know that the family was OK. That they’d not been ensnared by the kinds of agents she’d read up on recently. The ones who took all your money in exchange for a shoddy visa that wouldn’t even gain you entrance to the airport. But the information from India was sketchy — the PCO she called didn’t really know the family she was asking after — and Savraj never returned her messages. In time, winter broke to spring, and then summer, and somewhere along the way Narinder gave up trying to contact them. She was getting married in December and she needed to start coming to terms with that fact.

She’d seen Karamjeet twice since their introduction. Once when he’d come with all his relatives to drape a phulkari chunni over her head and officially claim her into the family. They’d not spoken that day. She wasn’t absolutely certain she even remembered having seen him. The second time, they met secretly in Hyde Park on a Friday afternoon in late May. He brought along a small hamper full of posh vegetarian bits and pieces and they’d found a bench by the Serpentine, the basket of food balanced awkwardly between them.

‘More juice?’

She said no, thank you.

He put the carton back. ‘You’re not going to Anandpur Sahib this summer?’

‘There’s too much to do. For the wedding.’

‘Well, maybe we can go next year. Together. It’s a while since I’ve done some proper seva.’

She nodded. ‘That’d be nice.’

He nodded, too. Seconds ticked.

‘So, have you thought any more about where you’d like to go? After our wedding?’

‘I don’t mind. Hemkund Sahib sounds nice. Isn’t it only open in the summer?’

‘June to October. But I have contacts. It is a lot of walking, though. I wouldn’t want you to be bored.’

‘It’ll be worth it.’

‘Maybe we can ask them to read an ardaas. For us. For our future together.’

‘That would be nice.’

Nice, nice, nice. She wished she could think of something else to say.

‘It’s funny we both wore the same colour,’ he went on. Their turbans, camel-brown. ‘Maybe it’s a sign. We think similarly.’ He was smiling determinedly through his beard.

‘It’s good that we have shared interests,’ she said, relieved to have landed on something positive.

‘Yes. Though I think shared attitudes is more important. And I think we have that as well. Don’t you?’

‘Yes. I do. You definitely need that because otherwise things can be very. . very. .’ She didn’t know how to end the sentence.

‘Not nice?’

On their way to the Tube at South Kensington, past the Science Museum, he spoke more about his job teaching physics in a secondary school, the joys and frustrations of it. As she listened, she realized that she was fond of him. He was gentle. He was patient. He made allowances for her nerves and understood how much bigger a step this was for her. He had so many sweet qualities that surely it didn’t matter that she felt no. . No what? Sometimes she remembered the moment Kavi had nearly touched her elbow. That flare of desire. She felt none of that walking beside Karamjeet. Instead, the thought of lying next to him one day soon came trailing a strong undertow of disappointment.

He followed her through the barriers before calling her back. ‘Mine’s the District.’

‘Oh, OK.’ She smiled. ‘I guess I’ll see you at the wedding.’

He was looking at her. He seemed on the brink of something. Then he stumbled in for a kiss, his eyes open and intense. She recoiled, and perhaps even made some sort of sound.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said.

‘No, I just. . You surprised me.’

‘I know. Anyway — ’ he shook his hamper pointlessly — ‘I’ll telephone you?’

‘I’d like that.’

He nodded — he didn’t seem to believe her — and headed for the escalator. Narinder watched him descend, his turban last to disappear. He looked crestfallen and she felt terrible.

For the wedding everything had been more or less decided. It would be a simple occasion, with none of the ostentation that most families engaged in these days.

‘I hope you don’t mind not having a reception,’ Karamjeet said. ‘The sooner we get you home the better. Only six months to go,’ he added, laughing anxiously.

She closed her phone and felt better, lighter, their conversation set aside for another three days. She was fond of him, though, she reminded herself, as the front door opened and Tejpal came hurtling towards her.

‘She’s here.’

‘What? Who?’

‘Your friend. The whore. I can’t believe Dad let her in the house.’

Savraj was sitting on the sofa, fingers threaded around a mug of tea. Her black PVC coat was several sizes too small, straining at the armpits, and her white chunni had fallen off her head. Baba Tarsem Singh sat beside her.