The Year of the Runaways

by Sunjeev Sahota

  ‘Same time tomorrow? Or are you too busy now?’

  She was smiling, pleased with herself. Tochi just said he’d come tomorrow as normal.

  *

  He got to know the city well. All the branching bazaar alleys that hid the frilly-roofed salons and Danish-style tea rooms. After dropping Sarasvati Madam off at Charlie’s Chai Corner, he’d take the newly built flyover and collect Bimlaji from Nalanda University and go from there to Sheetal’s, via Radhika Madam’s compound. That used to make him late delivering Jagir Bibi to the gurdwara, but once Susheel shared with him the tanners’ lane shortcut Tochi could avoid the bulk of the afternoon mandir rush and the old lady would be at the gurdwara well before the ardaas. The late afternoons were busier still, full of school pick-ups and last-minute runs to the market. Over time, passengers began to recommend him to others: an opportunistic friend and his daily visits to a dying ‘oil-in-law’, a father whose driver had taken to drink. It felt as if no sooner had he washed the auto and set off from his village, than the next time he paused and looked up from the road the sun was sinking away, and he’d again forgotten to eat the rotis his sister had packed, and the night was starting its smoky occupation of the sky.

  ‘I hear you’re doing well,’ Susheel said.

  They were at the Drivers’ Dhaba, sipping sweet tea.

  ‘Maybe you’ll earn as much as me one day.’

  Tochi nodded. ‘How old are you?’

  Susheel’s face turned serious. He understood. ‘Seventeen, bhaji.’

  ‘Family?’

  ‘Just my ma and papa. My ma’s ill.’

  Tochi nodded.

  His last stop in the city before heading home was always to pay the brothers their share of the day’s takings. They lived in a one-roomed shack under a stairwell, behind a new hotel, with both their families. At least eleven different faces he’d counted over the weeks. He’d duck to enter and the children would huddle off into a corner to give this uncle room to sit. A sister handed him tea and as he drank the brothers liked to hear of his day. Where he’d been, who he’d taken. Afterwards, they’d say that the auto truly was proving much luckier for him.

  *

  He slept in the back of the auto, as a precaution. One night, Dalbir lay collapsed over the handlebars. He’d been working in the field and, Tochi noticed, had forgotten to wash the mud from behind his ears.

  ‘We should buy another auto so I can be a driver too,’ Dalbir said.

  ‘Who’ll work the land?’

  Dalbir thought on this. ‘I’ll hire a manager.’

  He heard a woman rustling down their lane. It was Palvinder. She brought Tochi a glass of milk – they could afford to drink it themselves now – and collected his dirty bowl and plate.

  ‘Ma is asking for you,’ she said to Dalbir.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Since when did you start asking “why”?’

  ‘I have my rights.’

  ‘Go,’ Tochi said, and, grumbling, Dalbir rose and went slouching up the lane. Tochi gulped at his milk, handed back the glass. ‘Did Ma tell you?’

  Palvinder nodded.

  ‘And you’re happy with the match?’

  ‘Would it make any difference if I wasn’t?’

  Tochi nodded. ‘I’ll see what they say tomorrow.’

  She stood the emptied glass upside down in the bowl and followed her younger brother.

  The servant showed Tochi through to the breakfast room, where Babuji was sitting at the scoop of a long kidney-shaped table, spooning sugar into his tea. When he glanced up, sunshine seemed to fill his face and he reached for his walking stick.

  ‘Don’t get up,’ Tochi said, touching the old man’s feet.

  Babuji tapped his stick against the nearest chair and Tochi sat down, balancing on the lip of the seat. ‘I came as soon as I returned. But you were away.’

  ‘Calcutta business,’ the old man said dismissively, because what he really wanted to hear was what Tochi had been up to. Where he’d been and what he’d done and how long he’d been back. Was it true he’d bought an auto? Tochi said it was.

  ‘Wonderful! Well done! You’re moving in the right direction.’

  He’d aged in a grand way. His hair had turned as white as milk and the skin was terrifically lined, making a noble feature of the large loose face that many still said reflected too soft a character. His hands clasped the ivory handle of his stick and the hem of his silver kurta made a valley in his lap. He’d known Tochi’s grandfather. They’d been great friends, Tochi’s mother had said. Babuji had even attended Papaji’s funeral pyre, and as far as anyone in the village could remember that was the first time a landowner had attended the rites of a chamaar. But that was all back when they’d worked for the family, in the years before Tochi’s father had asked Babuji if they might quit their servant jobs and instead rent some land.

  ‘I wanted to let you know we’ve found a good match for Palvinder.’

  Babuji nodded. ‘So I hear.’

  ‘I’m sorry I didn’t come and ask for your permission first.’

  ‘Oh, those days are gone, Tarlochan. Is the girl happy with the match?’

  ‘If the match has your blessing, then the rest of us don’t need to question it. They’re from Jannat.’

  ‘On the Margiri side? I know the seth who owns the land. They’re a good family.’

  ‘I’ve no doubt. But he’s the only son and if we can’t pay the full dowry they say they’ll refuse. And she’s already been refused once. She won’t get another chance.’

  Babuji sighed. ‘It’s a monstrous business. “I want five motorbikes and ten cows before your daughter can marry my son.” But it’s the way these things work.’

  ‘I just wanted to check that you think their demands are reasonable.’ He paused, then decided to add, ‘If they insist I’ll of course pay.’

  ‘I think it’s monstrous, like I said, and I hope one day it changes and we all start practising the religions we preach. Until then . . .’ He opened his hand in a gesture of resignation. ‘If you find you can’t pay, we’ll give them my Contessa. It still drives like a dream.’

  ‘I didn’t come here to ask—’

  ‘I know you didn’t.’

  Tochi nodded. Somewhere in the house a clock chimed out the hour. He’d be late for his first job. He put on the table the following quarter’s rent. ‘It’s the same as before I left. Aren’t you ever going to increase it?’

  ‘Can you afford it if I do?’

  ‘I’ll just have to give them one less motorbike.’

  Babuji feigned horror. ‘Not the motorbike. People will think we’re animals if we only give four.’

  That afternoon, Radhika Madam asked why he wasn’t going the usual way, via the maidaan, and Tochi explained it was because of the election. There were rallies. This way would be quicker.

  ‘I’ll be glad when election season is over,’ Madam said, fanning herself with the end of her pallu. ‘And the rains are taking so long, na?’

  He took the hairpin turn onto Lohanipur Road and sped towards the bazaar. But it looked like here, too, there was a rally, and he gently braked into the crowd. He tried intimidating his way through, delivering long bursts on the horn.

  ‘Might be quicker to walk, Madam.’

  ‘In this heat? And give his mother more reason to complain I’m not fair enough? I’ll wait, thank you very much.’

  So he forced his way to the side, parking beside a few other drivers, and switched the engine off.

  It was the Maheshwar Sena. And the same white banner Tochi had seen at the maidaan all those weeks ago now hung in a taut smile across the entrance to the bazaar: Bharat is for the pure of blood and blood we will shed to keep it pure. Three, four, five people were on the stage, dressed in saffron and passing between them a microphone boxed in an orange collar. Their words boomed – loud and fuzzed with static – through speakers tied to tree trunks all around. They spoke of the need to regain control. That their religion
was becoming polluted, the gods were being angered. The land was increasingly infested by achhuts, churehs, chamaars, dalits, adivasis, backwards, scheduleds – whatever new name they decided to try and hide behind. They needed to be put back in their place. Not given land and handouts and government positions.

  ‘Maybe I will walk and you can go,’ Madam said.

  ‘If you want.’

  Clearly she didn’t, and stayed put. ‘Such backward logh. And how useless is our government that they can’t do anything? Do you know, our maid, Paro, told me that one of these goondeh made her husband get off the bus and walk home?’

  Tochi said nothing.

  ‘They’ve no shame.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Don’t be clever.’

  Though there were shouts of support and one or two tatty saffron flags above the roving mass of heads, mostly the crowd was impatient and kept calling for the swamijis to move their holy backsides out of the way. ‘I’ve got work, bhanchod!’

  ‘Let there be no doubt,’ the speaker went on, as if someone had turned up the volume. ‘We will fight to keep our country pure. We will shed blood. We will not back down. Let’s put it even more plainly: we will kill.’ The crowd quietened a little. The speaker seemed pleased by this. ‘There will be revenge for the murder of our brothers by the Maoists. There will be a purge. No one can stop it. And it will start at the beginning of Navratri. In respect for our murdered brothers and sisters, on the first day of Navratri we will allow none of the impure to work in the city or be seen about the city. It will be a day for the pure only. So the pure can enjoy the parks and the streets as Ishvar intended. Anyone going against us will be exterminated.’

  Anger flamed inside Tochi, and Radhika Madam was tapping his shoulder, urgently. ‘Please, let’s go. This is too awful.’

  On his way home he stopped at the village of Jannat. He knew it was one of the houses behind the Hanuman mandir, but it took a schoolboy scoffing toffees on the temple steps to point it out. Tochi knocked and a voice – an old man’s voice – asked who he was. Inside, he took a seat on the low stringy charpoy, pulled down from where it stood against the wall. The house was dark save for the candles and their intimate light. There were just the two rooms, with an empty doorway between them. Tochi could see the mirror in the second room and reflected in the mirror was a woman lying under a blanket. At her side was Susheel, hands on his knees. The old man was busy apologizing for asking Tochi who he was, but there was so much trouble about these days, what with these Sena logh. Only two days ago he’d heard they’d killed a man because he’d refused to take part in their protection racket.

  ‘It’ll pass,’ Tochi said.

  ‘This is your first time to Jannat?’

  ‘I came three months ago. Looking for work.’

  ‘Did you speak to the thakur?’

  Tochi said he did.

  ‘He’s getting old. Forgetful. But a good master. He gives us no difficulty.’

  ‘The land is good here. Rich.’

  ‘We work hard on it. Though not hard enough, it seems. I like your auto.’ His lips thinned into a sly smile, his pinched little face made even more so by the ratty white turban.

  Susheel came forward to shake Tochi’s hand and pass him a cup of tea. His hair was parted to the side, the usual quiff flattened down. Despite the cockiness at work, he seemed like a caring boy. A good match.

  ‘You know my son,’ the old man said.

  Tochi nodded. ‘Did you have a date in mind, uncleji?’

  ‘When would suit you?’

  Tochi understood the inference. When would he be in a position to fulfill the dowry? ‘I’ll speak to my parents. I just wanted to ask if you had a date in mind. Or if you had any other demands.’

  The father shook his head. ‘I’m sorry if we’re asking for a lot. We’re not greedy people. But he’s my only son. You understand?’

  Tochi said he did.

  ‘And his mother is not well. But I promise you that, if you perform your duty, we will perform ours and your sister will be treated well here. You’ll have nothing to worry about.’

  Tochi shook hands with them both and folded back out of the doorway. He was about to drive off when Susheel appeared at his side.

  ‘Bhaji, I wanted to say I’m sorry if my father offended you. He doesn’t mean to, I promise.’

  Tochi nodded.

  ‘And would you please . . . ?’ Tentatively, smiling embarrassedly, Susheel held up an envelope.

  He’d only been home a few minutes when his sister arrived with his food.

  ‘Quick today,’ he said. He made a plinth of his knees and began mixing the white butter into his sabzi. Palvinder stood there holding his glass of water.

  ‘You can put it down.’

  She did. Still she stood there.

  ‘You going to stay there all night?’

  ‘Uff, just give it to me.’

  He gave her the letter, asking how they managed to contact each other, but she was skipping up the lane and out of his sight.

  *

  The Maheshwar Sena were more and more on the city streets. It seemed as if around every corner there was a jeep loaded with men in saffron bandanas. They spoke through megaphones, reminding people of the upcoming day of the pure. Any low castes, or anyone protecting a low caste, would be committing a crime against Hindutva, would be spitting on the burning bodies of their murdered brothers and sisters, would be dealt with. Some shops had already been targeted. A jeweller’s was destroyed, the glass bangles smashed on the road, the cash register launched through the window. And one day Tochi saw a suit-boot man with a briefcase stopped and badgered for his ID. He tried to look imperious as he handed it over, only to receive a wide stinging slap and an instruction to make sure he didn’t leave his house on Navratri.

  Radhika Madam asked if he shouldn’t just stay at home until all this madness passed over. He said he couldn’t afford to do that.

  ‘Well, at least you won’t be working on Navratri.’

  Tochi remained silent.

  ‘Tell me you’re not?’

  They’d arrived at Sheetal’s. Madam stepped out, hitching up her sari with one hand.

  ‘You know, money won’t buy back the dea—’ She caught herself, perhaps thinking how easy it was for her to say that.

  For days they all urged him to not work on Navratri. Bimlaji, Jagir Bibi, Saraswati Madam. None of them would be leaving the house – no one would – so what was the point in coming into the city? Didn’t he understand that? Especially now things were getting worse. Rumour was that a poor young man had his hand chopped off for hitting one of these crazy orange-brained dacoits. And now it seemed the Maoists were getting involved.

  ‘As if one set of murderers wasn’t enough,’ Radhika Madam said.

  His mother, too, begged him not to go into the city now. ‘Wait a while, na? Work in the field for a few days. With us. You can make up the money afterwards. I’ll help you.’

  But Tochi said it wasn’t the money.

  ‘What use your pride when we find you dead in the street?’

  But it wasn’t pride, either. Or not just pride. It was a desire to be allowed a say in his life. He wondered if this was selfish; whether, in fact, they were right and he should simply recognize his place in this world.

  The night before Navratri, on his way home, he stopped outside Kishen’s. His friend was pulling the shutter down.

  ‘You going into the city tomorrow?’ Kishen asked.

  ‘Do you think I should?’

  ‘I think you should at least leave your licence at home. And anything else with your name on it.’

  ‘Mera naam he tho hai.’

  ‘Vho he tho hai mera naam,’ Kishen finished. A schoolyard phrase, about their names being all they owned. The tailor took up his folded newspaper and flicked it twice with the back of his hand. ‘Our brothers-in-arms. The Maoists. They say they’ll fight fire with fire.’

  Tochi shoved into gear, driving
off. ‘The pyres! The pyres!’

  He didn’t go. He stayed at home and went into the field with his brother. They worked all day, hacking, twining, carrying. Every hour he stood and slicked away the sweat from his forehead with the hem of his dhoti. Over the city, the sky was clear. He could see no column of smoke and he could hear no cries. All was silent save for his brother’s scythe a few rows back.

  His mother beheaded and cooked a whole chicken for the evening meal and afterwards Tochi returned to the auto, lying on top of the yellow roof with his hands behind his head. The sky was delirious with stars. The air was damp. The rains couldn’t be long. He heard his mother coming down the lane and turned to look. She was holding something; a box, which she placed on the rear wheel arch. She unfurled a long iron key from the end of her chunni and rattled the tin open, lifting it up to Tochi because she didn’t know how to count. He sat up on the roof, legs out in a wide V, and made equal piles of the notes.

  ‘Two more months,’ he said. ‘Maybe three.’

  ‘Shall we set a date, then?’

  He nodded. ‘I’ll speak to them.’

  Three days after Navratri, the rains came, blasting the red earth. Scooters began to lilt in the softened ground and dogs yelped under jeeps. Tochi rushed back from tying down the auto’s rain-covers and stood shivering wet in the doorway, watching the manic fall of water and the sewage running fast beneath his feet. He said tomorrow he was going to the city. He couldn’t wait.

  ‘So soon?’ his mother asked.

  ‘This is when we earn.’

  He was right. The first day back and he couldn’t go ten metres without some man waving his briefcase at him, a woman calling for him to please stop before her umbrella collapsed on her. People fought over him, proffering double, triple the fare. It was the same the next day, and the one after that, and he motored through the splashy streets while the single black wiper did its squeaky work. Each day he kept a lookout for the Maheshwar Sena, but all he’d seen were two men in orange standing under the dripping awning of a tractor repair shop, waiting for the rain to lessen. Radhika Madam said the weather had forced them off the streets, and, anyway, they’d not achieved anything with their so-called day of the pure. Thank God.