Sunjeev Sahota - The Year of the Runaways

‘Your chunni,’ her father said.

‘Hm?’

‘It’s fallen, beiti.’

‘Oh, sorry,’ and she reached behind her neck and lifted it up and over her turban.

‘So, you lived alone? In Sheffield?’

‘Yes, Baba.’

‘You were never lonely?’

‘No more so than here,’ she heard herself say.

Her father paused mid bite, nodded. ‘No friends?’

‘No.’

‘Neighbours?’

She hesitated. ‘No. No one.’

She waited a few minutes so her father might not make a connection.

‘Baba, in India, did you ever meet chamaars?’

‘Every village has them. Why?’

‘They spoke about them in the gurdwara yesterday. Are they treated very badly?’

‘Chamaars? Better now than they used to be.’

‘How did they use to be treated?’

He finished his mouthful. ‘There was a boy working on our farm. We used to call them achhuts back then. Not chamaars. But he was only ever allowed to eat our leftovers. And not on plates, either. Your dadi would use a rag to scrape it all into his hands like this — ’ he cupped his palms together in front of his beard — ‘and I remember the dhal would be dripping between his knuckles and the vegetables would still have our teeth marks. And he’d walk off, stuffing it all inside his mouth.’ Baba Tarsem Singh sipped water, perhaps to get the taste of the memory out of his own mouth. ‘I’ve seen it still happen today.’

She’d stopped eating. She was looking down at her food. ‘That’s so cruel,’ she said, quietly.

A pause. ‘Why do you look so sad?’

She could hear the suspicion in his voice.

‘Was he one of them? Who you went to Sheffield for?’

She imagined saying yes and seeing the terror on his face. ‘I was on my own. Please believe me.’

‘You promise me?’

She nodded and he seemed to accept this, though the concern remained in his voice. ‘Of course. What was I thinking? But you were lucky. A girl your age living alone in a strange city. Anything could have happened.’

‘It was exciting as well.’

Another worried look, a slight compression of the brow. Silent minutes passed.

‘I forgot to tell Tejpal to change the bulbs in your room. Remind me in the morning.’

‘I did them all earlier.’

He looked up from his spoon. ‘You can change lights now?’

‘It’s not hard, Baba.’

‘No, I guess not. What else can you do?’

‘Fuses. And electricity meters. I can work them.’

Afterwards, she started piling the dishes into a small stack which she could carry in a single trip to the kitchen. Her father struggled to his feet, his hand tensing until it docked on the safety of his cane.

‘Baba,’ Narinder began. ‘I wanted to ask how you’d feel about me getting a job.’

He said nothing at first, only stared. ‘My pension does this family fine.’

‘I nearly had a job in Sheffield. I think I’d enjoy it.’

He was looking at her strangely, eyes darting over her face, as if trying to follow where this was all going to end. ‘We’ve spoken about this before. You agreed.’

She put the final plate on the pile and looked across. ‘Maybe I’ve changed.’

She wasn’t allowed to look for a job. Tejpal came charging into her room and told her that once she was married she could speak to her husband about it, but while she was under this roof things were going to stay as they were. ‘You’ve done enough damage. Spare us any more shame.’

As Tejpal left, her father shuffled to the doorway. ‘I’m sorry, beita. I did try. But you know what he’s like. He’ll never change.’

‘Will you? Change? Or do you still expect me to follow your rules?’

He looked to the floor, sheepish, then reached for the doorknob and closed the door. She crashed her fists down on the bed, letting out a frustrated growl. They might never change, but she knew she had. She knew this wasn’t how things used to look, that it was as if a filter now stood between her and the life she left, and what had at one time seemed clear was now a confusing grey.

She went to the gurdwara with her father that evening and sat behind the palki beside her fellow brothers and sisters. She thought it might help. She thought it might lend her mind some peace. Midway through the rehraas she opened her eyes. The others were still reciting, beautifully, tunefully; their faces lifted and ardent. She knew what they were feeling and knew she no longer felt it herself. Something had gone wrong. She found her baba at the back of the hall.

‘Can we go, please?’

‘You look like something’s scared you.’

‘No. Nothing. Please. I’d like to go home.’

She continued going to the gurdwara, every evening, with her baba. If she spent enough time in His presence she was certain these strange bottomless feelings would go away. The alternative was to parse her anxieties and discover what was wrong. She’d tried that, one morning at the window of her room. She looked out and saw Tochi being forced to eat some blank-faced master’s leftovers and tried to connect that image with some idea she’d always held of His goodness. She couldn’t do it. And then her whole being seemed to react in opposition to what she was in danger of glimpsing. Frightened, shaking, she stepped back from whatever thought lay on the other side of the sky.

In a roundabout sort of way, she asked Karamjeet about it on the afternoon of his visit. He’d been talking about whether they still had time to visit Hemkund Sahib after the wedding, and asked if she’d seen the news on DD, about the pilgrims who’d died trying to climb there out of season.

‘Three of them. All young jawans. They thought they’d be fine.’

‘Obviously they thought they’d be fine,’ Narinder said.

‘Pardon?’

‘Why did they have to die?’

‘Because it was out of se—’

‘Why did God let them die? They were His people, coming to see Him.’

‘I’m sorry, I don’t understand. I don’t think God killed them. He let them choose. They knew the risks.’

Her gaze dropped to the plain black leather of her shoes. If it pleases Him, she thought.

‘Narinder, is everything OK?’

She nodded, looked up. ‘I suppose it has to be.’

She didn’t know why she was being so difficult — perhaps she just wanted reassurance — but it was unfair to take it out on him. He’d been so nice, defending her to his parents, not once bringing up the subject of her time away.

‘I’m so glad to be marrying you, Narinder. I hope you’re looking forward to the wedding as much as I am.’

They were sitting at opposite ends of the long settee, bodies angled towards the centre of the room so they were never quite looking at each other. She could think of no reply and reached for the prissy white teapot and refilled their cups.

When Karamjeet got up to leave, Tejpal escorted him to the door. Narinder stayed in the room, collecting the tea things onto a silver-plated tray. She could hear them in the hall.

‘Thanks, Karamjeet. I don’t know what to say. I don’t know how Dad would’ve coped if you’d broken it off.’

‘Stop apologizing. It feels like that’s all you’ve done for the last nine months. We all make mistakes.’

‘But she made a big one. Not many families would forgive and. . Anyway, you’ve made it possible for Dad to show his face to the world again.’

She carried the tray to the kitchen, teacups rattling, and shut the door and stood with her back flat against it.

*

They’d been at the warehouse job for two weeks when, on the evening drive home, Avtar accused Jagdish of robbing them blind.

‘Less than one pound an hour you’re paying us.’ He took a crumpled blue paper from his rear pocket — a cash-and-carry invoice — and pointed to the calculations on the back of it. ‘I worked it out. Less than one pound an hour.’