by Bali Rai
‘Where’s Dad?’ Sukh asked Parvy, as we sat down.
‘At the gurudwara – he’s gone to see the Gianni.’
‘Oh . . .’
‘Should be back soon enough. He rang to tell Mum that he wants to take you with him to see Rani’s father—’
‘He can’t!’ I told them.
‘It’s OK, Rani,’ replied Sukh. ‘Once he sees what they did to you he won’t want to go anyway—’
‘I don’t want him to. Can’t we just leave it? I can tell the police and maybe they’ll stop my family from coming after me and . . .’
Sukh put his arm around me. ‘Ssh . . . it’s all right. Everything is all right. They won’t ever touch you again . . . I promise . . .’
‘Really . . . ?’
He kissed me. ‘Really. You and me are together now. For good. Nobody and nothing is ever going to change that . . .’
I pulled him close to me and listened to his heartbeat, took in his smell. I felt safe. Secure . . .
I woke up with a jolt to an argument going on outside. I couldn’t hear what was being said or make out who was there, but there were raised voices and for a moment I thought that Sukh’s family were arguing. Over me . . .
I got up, went to the window and looked out into the drive. I saw Parvy, Ravinder and Sukh arguing with three men. One of them was the bouncer I had seen Divy talking to outside the bar in town. The other two were my brothers. There were five or six other men there, neighbours maybe, and Divy was being held back by someone. Then the someone turned his face to the house and I saw who it was. My dad.
It took me a few seconds to register the scene before me. To check that I wasn’t still asleep.
My heart jumped and my stomach knotted up. I ran to the hall and out into the driveway, screaming at them to go away.
Parvy saw me first and grabbed me, pulling me back towards the house. ‘Come inside,’ she told me sternly. ‘I’ve called the police—’
‘NO!’ I shouted. ‘I want them to leave!’ I started to cry.
‘It’s OK, Rani – the police will be here any minute . . .’
I heard the sirens in the distance, wondering why the police were responding like they would to an emergency. Surely for a verbal dispute they wouldn’t put on their—
Then Divy pulled free from my dad. I saw the flash of steel in his hands as he lunged at Sukh, his face contorted with rage. Everything felt as though it were slow motion, like time was tired . . .
Sukh jumped out of the way and Divy stumbled to the floor. I saw the bouncer pull something from his pocket and as two of the men I didn’t recognize tried to block him, he smashed one of them in the face. The man cried out in pain and went down, blood spurting from a cut.
I screamed again and again. The sirens were closer now, maybe just round the corner . . .
Sukh kicked out at Divy as he tried to get up. The kick caught Divy in the mouth and he went down again . . . Then Gurdip kicked out at Sukh and caught him in the stomach. Sukh retched and went down on one knee, holding his middle . . .
I couldn’t move. I was numb. I wanted to stop them but my legs were frozen and my mind was spinning.
One of the neighbours grabbed Gurdip and threw him to the ground, going down on a knee, holding him there. Divy got to his feet, wiping blood from his mouth. He screamed abuse at Sukh in English and Punjabi. Ravinder, Sukh’s brother, tried to intervene. The blade swished through the air in a murderous arc and caught Ravinder on the arm, cutting through to the bone. Ravinder screamed and went down . . .
A police car screeched to a halt on the drive and two policemen jumped out. Another arrived, then another, followed by a van. The sirens wailed and flashed; tears blurred my vision.
Divy’s friend, seeing the police, punched one of the neighbours and started to run. A policeman gave chase. I saw Divy lunge again, his arm out in front of him, the glint of sunlight on that cold blade . . .
I saw Sukh on the ground and forced my legs to work. I broke away from Parvy. The policemen were shouting at everyone to get on the floor. Divy was screaming abuse . . .
I ran to Sukh as my dad grabbed Divy. I helped Sukh up and held onto him for my life, sobbing uncontrollably. My dad saw me. His hold on my brother loosened slightly. I held his eyes for a moment and then buried my face in Sukh’s shoulder, happy that the police had arrived.
My dad called out to me. His words seemed slurred and distant. I made out my name – he called me his little girl, pleaded with me to go to him. Sukh had his back to the scene and held me tightly. I screamed, ‘NO!’ and looked into Sukh’s eyes, seeking out his strength.
RESHAM
GIANNI BALWANT SINGH and Resham Bains pulled to a stop outside Asda on the A6, letting the police cars pass them, lights flashing, on their way to some crime scene or other. Resham mumbled something about the world in which they lived and then returned to staring out of the window of the priest’s Ford Fiesta, as they moved off once more. They had talked at great length about what they were going to do and the priest had decided that the boy, Sukhjit, was man enough to accompany them when they went to meet Mohinder Sandhu. After all, he had reasoned, the boy had been man enough to father a child.
More police cars sped by in the outside lane of the dual carriageway. Then a van.
‘There must be something very serious up ahead,’ remarked the priest.
‘Yes,’ agreed Resham Bains.
‘Perhaps someone’s fate has conspired against them today,’ added the priest.
‘It is the will of our Lord,’ replied Resham.
‘Only His . . .’ confirmed the priest.
They pulled up behind a police van outside Resham Bains’s home. The priest turned to say something to Resham but spoke to an empty passenger seat. Resham had left the car almost before it had come to a halt and was making his way slowly towards the aftermath of an altercation. The Gianni-ji noticed that Resham’s shoulders had sagged and that his legs nearly buckled.
‘Lord, what fate is this that you have put before me?’ he asked in a whisper.
Resham Bains walked slowly towards the people that he loved. He caught a glimpse of his wife and daughter, crying. He saw the policemen holding onto members of the Sandhu clan, talking into radios. Lights were flashing and sirens wailed . . .
Resham made his way to his son, kneeling before him. He saw blood seeping from a wound, discolouring the driveway. Gently, he touched his face. His son opened his eyes and tried to speak but the words failed . . .
‘Ssh . . . do not try to speak, Ravinder,’ he told him.
He stood up, looking to find his other son. He saw Sukh holding onto Rani, relieved that his youngest was fine. He saw Mohinder Sandhu, standing two metres from the lovers, holding onto Divy, tears in his eyes, his face racked with pain. Resham started to speak, to say something to his old friend—
And then Resham watched Divy break free from Mohinder and lunge at his youngest son . . .
Frozen to the spot, Resham saw the flash of steel and heard the cry of rage as Divy pushed the blade in with all his strength . . .
He blinked. Saw his son stagger, still holding onto Rani, and then fall to the floor.
He blinked again, saw the police spray something into Divy’s eyes, smelled the pepper. He turned and saw his old friend once more. Mohinder said something . . .
Resham looked back to his son, heard women screaming, watched blood pooling on the ground underneath his boy. Memory played a cruel trick and flashed Billah before his eyes . . .
Resham fell to his knees, broken beyond repair. He cried out to the Heavens . . .
RANI
I NEVER SAW it coming. Didn’t realize until it was too late . . .
Sukh smiled weakly, kissed my forehead and told me he would love me for ever. Then something changed in his eyes. A light began to sparkle in the pools of soft amber honey and then it seemed to just dance away . . .
NEW YORK
TWO YEARS LATER
SHE CROSSED
THE intersection of West Broadway and Murray Street, ignoring the ‘DON’T WALK’ sign flashing at her. Her mind was elsewhere, filled with images of blood and memories of screams . . . A taxi driver shouted at her as she walked. She put his voice out of her mind. There was only one voice she wanted to hear . . .
The crossing at West Street flashed ‘WALK’ at her and she hurried across, heading down towards the Hudson River. Tears worked their way slowly down her cheeks and her heart pounded in her chest. Her honey-brown hair was piled on top of her head, and the combats and tight T-shirt she was wearing clung to her in the humidity of a New York summer. She brushed another tear away and walked on.
At the corner of New Murray and North End Avenue a hot-dog vendor tried to cheer her up by flipping forward and walking on his hands. ‘Smile, lady,’ he said to her, once he’d stood upright again, his accent a curious mixture of New Jersey and Ethiopia. She tried to smile at him but it didn’t come. Just more tears . . .
Ahead of her, a group of tourists got off a bus fresh from JFK Airport and stood outside the Embassy Suites Hotel. She walked past them, wishing that his face would appear from amongst them. Knowing that it was never going to happen but wishing all the same . . .
Where North End Avenue met Vesey Street she stopped and, just for a moment or two, looked up at two memorials: the first to the great Irish Famine and the second to a much more recent tragedy. She looked down at the single rose she was carrying and wondered if it was enough of a memorial to her lost love. Whether any memorial was ever enough for people to forget that their love had been taken from them . . .
She found her way down to the Esplanade, a river walkway that ran down through Battery Park City to the park itself. Reaching the railings, she found a bench and sat down, placing the rose beside her. She looked out at the Hudson and wondered what he would have made of Manhattan.
Across the water she saw the Statue of Liberty looming through the slight mist just to the left of Ellis Island, and she wished that he were there too, sitting where she had placed the rose, talking excitedly about their holiday in Manhattan, taking a boat out to Liberty Island, or heading uptown to Central Park to laze around in the sunshine and eat hot dogs, maybe visit MOMA. She knew exactly what he would have said. How his face would have looked. She would never forget it. He was with her every day . . .
A boat sped past as she remembered. She thought about her mother and father. The brother – who had taken her life from her and thrown away his own. She thought about his father, sad and broken inside, with a sense of loss set in his eyes, as if for ever. How his mother longed . . .
She wiped more tears and stood up. She didn’t want the thoughts she was having. Didn’t want to mark the date with tears and bitterness and blame. She had done enough of that . . . It couldn’t define her life for ever, the anger and pain. She refused to end up bitter, if only for the sake of—
Behind her she heard the sound of wheels clattering over paving. She walked to the railed edge and leaned over, holding the rose out in front of her. She looked up at the clouds and pictured his face. She whispered words of love and released the flower. A slight breeze caught it and it floated down into the water. She wiped another tear and said, ‘I love you.’
‘I thought you’d got lost, honey,’ said a voice from behind her, in a fake New York accent.
She turned and smiled weakly at Natalie. But she couldn’t reply. Natalie sensed this, let go of the pushchair and gave Rani a hug.
‘I’m sorry . . .’ whispered Rani.
Natalie realized that her friend was talking to the rose, heading out into the unknown.
‘Let’s look at the river, baby,’ she said, turning back to the little boy in the pushchair.
The boy looked up at his godmother through amber-coloured eyes and grinned.
‘Shall we take a walk down to the park?’ said his mother.
‘Yes,’ replied Natalie, ‘unless you’d like another few minutes . . .’
‘No, it’s OK,’ replied Rani. ‘Besides, I told Parvy we’d meet her outside Trinity Church in an hour.’
‘Come on then, baby boy,’ Natalie said to the toddler. ‘Let’s go see Aunt Parv . . .’
The boy gurgled with delight.
About the Author
BALI RAI is still a writer from Leicester. If anyone asks, he is also still young and often exciting. Mostly he is too busy trying to get his next project in on time. As a Politics graduate, if he absolutely had to get a real job, he’d pick journalism. For now, he is happy to write, although he quite misses working behind a bar. However, this is more than made up for by the fact that he can now get out of bed when he likes and that nice people keep asking him to visit them in wonderful places all over Europe. Long may they continue to do so.
Rani & Sukh is his third novel for Corgi. The first, (un)arranged marriage, appeared on a number of award shortlists and won the Angus Book Award, the Leicestershire Children’s Book Award and the Stockport Schools’ Book Award. He was also threatened by an old Punjabi woman with what appeared to be a sandal. He thinks it may have been his mum but isn’t too sure. Until he finds out he’ll carry on writing his next story and try to stay out of sight.
Also by Bali Rai
(un)arranged marriage
The Crew
RANI & SUKH
AN RHCP DIGITAL EBOOK 978 1 446 49886 6
Published in Great Britain by RHCP Digital,
an imprint of Random House Children’s Publishers UK
A Penguin Random House Company
This ebook edition published 2011
Copyright © Bali Rai, 2004
First Published in Great Britain
Corgi Books 9780552548908 2004
The right of Bali Rai to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
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