The Year of the Runaways

by Sunjeev Sahota

  ‘Madam!’

  She came hurrying in, bunny slippers shuffling on the floor. ‘Lie back! Lie back!’ She applied her hands to his shoulders and pushed him down. ‘You must let it mourn. Your body is calling for its missing part. You must let it mourn.’

  So he lay there, one hand tamping down the bandages. He lay there all afternoon staring at the damp ceiling. Breathing hard. Gulping down the pain and starting to sweat. The tears slid from the corners of his eyes and pooled into his ears.

  In the evening Nurse Gomes placed her shrivelled little hand on his brow and asked if the dear wanted to stay another night.

  ‘What cost?’ he managed with enormous difficulty.

  ‘Normal, dear. Always normal.’

  ‘Thank you, madam, but I’ll be asking your leave if you don’t mind.’

  He hauled himself up, head hanging low. Sickness threatened. Sweat dripped from his nose and soaked into the wood. She went away, still singing, and came back with a fussy yellow envelope. He thanked her and secured the envelope into his shirt pocket. She explained that she’d deducted Mr Bhatia’s cut. The hospital desk-man. Avtar thanked her again, pushed off the bed, and, holding his numb left leg, hobbled out.

  At the gurdwara, the beds were all gone. He’d have to find a hotel, the granthi said, but first he rested a while, marshalling his strength. When he tried to move on, he couldn’t get up. The priest returned with two younger men who helped Avtar to his feet and pointed out a nearby guest house where he could try and rent a bed. But only mattresses were available there, no beds, so he chose the cheapest one – sheetless, springless, and yellow-stained. He spent two days and nights on the foul, damp thing until the pain began to dissolve. Till his body stopped mourning. Then he washed his face in the sarovar at the gurdwara, tidied his shirt into his trousers and did some calculations. The loan against the shop, plus what savings they had, combined with the operation money, and still he was short. He added it all up again, and then a third time. He looked over to the temple. Why was He making it so hard for them? He walked out of the gurdwara’s gates and took the route across the flyover. Pocket Bhai had been right.

  It was the hospital deskman with the bad teeth who’d first told him about Pocket Bhai. He’d said if Avtar needed serious money and quickly, he really only had two choices. Either give up some part of himself – a kidney, say – or go to Pocket Bhai. In some ways it didn’t matter, the deskman went on, chuckling, because if things went wrong with Pocket Bhai both options resulted in the loss of an organ. Avtar ignored the man and had gone to the bank instead, to ask if they’d increase the loan against the business, and then, when they’d refused, he’d gone back the next day, to see if they’d change their mind. There was another week of unsuccessful job searching before he caved in.

  Some said Pocket Bhai acquired the name in England during the Seventies – apparently, in that country, if you’d made lots of money you were said to have deep pockets. Others said it was because he always kept one hand stuffed inside the pocket of his kurta, even when eating. And fucking, some joked. He had the sinewy, tough body of a strict self-disciplinarian, and his face was as neat as a ball, with its nothing chin and absent earlobes, its extreme baldness. A small pot of raw orange lentils lay on the table before him. It wasn’t clear what the shop sold. There were a few bits of furniture here and there. Avtar supposed it was all a front for the moneylending. He had already explained his situation on the phone to one of Pocket Bhai’s people – about the student visa, about working in England – but had to go over it all again. He’d pay the money back as soon as possible.

  ‘Name?’

  Avtar told him.

  ‘Address?’

  He thought about lying, but had a feeling he’d only be found out.

  ‘Come back tomorrow.’

  He did, and the orange lentils were still there. Pocket Bhai threw down a stapled wad of notes next to them and Avtar felt himself take a pace backwards. It was bewildering to see that much money made available to him. Beside it Pocket Bhai placed a lemon-pale piece of paper detailing the repayment schedule.

  ‘My nephews live in the UK. They’ll collect the money every month in person. These are their numbers. As soon as you land you tell them where you’re living. You understand? We give one month to find work and the next month you start paying. You understand?’

  He was looking at the amounts he was expected to pay back. It would end up costing more than five times what he’d borrowed. ‘Uncle, I can’t afford that. Maybe lower the rate a bit?’

  ‘And yet you can afford your brother’s school fees?’

  The man had done his checks. He wondered what else he’d learned. Avtar couldn’t do it. It’d be impossible to repay that much on top of the loan against the shop, and who knew what these people would do to his family if he defaulted on his payments. He apologized and said he’d manage without. Pocket Bhai laughed. ‘You’ll come back. They always do.’

  And now, not even a month since that visit, Avtar was indeed back, salaaming Pocket Bhai and taking a seat on the bench against the wall. He sat with his weight across his right hip, which dulled the pain slightly.

  ‘Kidney?’

  Avtar nodded. Pocket Bhai sighed.

  ‘You silly boys. You silly desperate boys.’

  When he walked through the door his mother and father were standing at the photo of Guru Nanak hanging on the wall. They’d been worried, they said. He’d been away so long. But was there work, like Nirmalji had promised him?

  He nodded. ‘Lots of work. That’s why I stayed longer.’ He took out the yellow envelope and the money from Pocket Bhai and handed it all to his father. ‘I earned enough.’ He sat on the settee. His parents looked at him. He looked at the floor. ‘I’ll see the lawyer about buying me that visa.’

  The summer months passed, hot and fume-filled, the air ferrying around spicy waves of shit and diesel. Even the monsoon, when it finally came, gave little respite, and by September Randeep was still wearing his thinnest cotton shirts. He turned up the wall fan and went back to the clothes he’d laid out on his bed. There was a knock on the door behind him.

  ‘We bought you something,’ his mother said, moving to reveal it. A suitcase: brown, shiny, expensive-looking leather. A red bow around its middle. She put a hand to his damp back. The fan made her chunni all fluttery over her head. ‘So tall you’ve got these days,’ and then: ‘Let’s pack together.’

  The next morning at Delhi International Airport Avtar spotted Lakhpreet in the departures terminal, standing around with her family. Though they spoke every Sunday, and had been on the phone last night for a full two hours, this was the first time he’d seen her since she took him to the lawyer. She seemed anxious, her gaze darting, trying not to look as if she were searching him out. They’d agreed not to meet each other’s eyes today, and definitely not to talk: it was too risky, she’d said.

  ‘But I talk to unmarried girls all the time,’ he’d replied, joked, though neither of them felt like laughing.

  Her brother, Randeep, was dressed much more smartly than him. Shirt, tie, trousers. Even the kid’s suitcase had a fucking bow tie. Avtar adjusted his pen to conceal the fact that his shirt pocket was missing its button, then pointed out to his mother that Aunty was over there.

  The two families met, the mothers embracing, commiserating, reassuring one another – and, therefore, themselves – that God willing all would work out well for the two boys. Again – because she had already made several phone calls over the summer – Avtar’s mother pressed her thanks on Mrs Sanghera. It was so very, very kind of them to let Avtar stay with Randeep and his massiji in London.

  ‘Please, pehnji, you are embarrassing me. And my sister’s London house is very big. It is zero trouble for them.’

  Avoiding Lakhpreet, Avtar moved to Randeep and extended his hand. ‘I used to see you sometimes. In the block. Just hanging around looking lost,’ Avtar added, laughing in what he hoped was a friendly way.

&
nbsp; Randeep smiled miserably. Everything about his long, skinny frame – shoulders sloping in, feet crossed shyly – suggested an innocent view of the world.

  ‘Have you been on a plane before?’ Avtar asked.

  Mrs Sanghera interjected. ‘We used to fly all the time. With Randeep’s father’s postings. We even went to Colombo once. But Randeep was very small then. You probably don’t remember, do you, beita?’

  ‘It’s my first time,’ Avtar said. ‘So you can help me, na?’

  At this the boy smiled more openly, showing his large, straight teeth.

  They checked in their luggage, anxiously showing their visas and passports to the sour-faced man behind the counter. At the security gates the guard advised that it was strictly passengers only beyond this point.

  ‘Tell Papa not to worry,’ Avtar said, embracing his tearful mother. ‘It’s all going to be fine. I promise.’

  He looked across and saw Randeep stroking his sister’s hair. She was crying against his shoulder. ‘I love you, too,’ he said, but still she wasn’t letting go.

  ‘Don’t be silly, Baby,’ Mrs Sanghera said, pulling her daughter away. ‘This isn’t like you.’

  On the plane, whenever he closed his eyes, Avtar kept seeing Lakhpreet’s face, tears rolling down. How helpless he’d felt standing there. He sighed. It was for the best, he reminded himself. Just think how much he’d make. Save. He’d save so much in a year. In fact, he’d have a savings pile, he decided, and add to it every month. Before he knew it, their lives would have turned round. He allowed himself a smile at the thought of Mrs Sanghera’s face as he married her daughter. And Randeep’s. Though Avtar doubted Lakhpreet’s brother would be that bothered. He seemed pretty reserved, not at all like his sister, and it was hard to believe he was the elder, even if only by a year.

  ‘So. You’re a married man?’ Avtar said.

  There was a ripple of confusion down the boy’s face, tiny movements that finished in a slight parting of his mouth. ‘Yeah. I suppose so.’

  ‘You don’t sound so sure?’ Avtar smiled.

  ‘No, no. I am. A married man,’ he repeated, almost to himself. Randeep felt a strange dissonance, how the bald fact of it made him instantly adult, and yet their handling of it all, of his life, was like a regression to childhood. He couldn’t work it out. He felt too young to be married, though. He felt too young to be anything. ‘She’s a kind person.’

  ‘Yeah. A real gutkawalli,’ Avtar said, repeating Lakhpreet’s description.

  ‘Hmm? How do you know?’

  ‘Your mother said. To mine,’ and Avtar turned to the window, telling himself to be more careful next time.

  At Heathrow, a short woman with a frazzled look approached them. Her salwaar kameez was a plain cranberry, and her widow-white chunni covered her full grey head.

  Randeep took the lady in his arms. ‘Massiji. Sat sri akal.’

  ‘Welcome, beita.’ She had a soft voice. She held his face and pulled it down to kiss his forehead. ‘You had no trouble?’

  ‘None. This is Avtar bhaji. My friend.’

  Avtar touched her feet, but she seemed unused to this and mixed up her blessings.

  ‘Where’s Jimmy bhaji?’ Randeep asked, looking around. ‘I thought he was coming.’

  ‘Oh, something came up. But he’ll be at home. They’re both looking forward to seeing their cousin.’

  She lived in Ilford, in a small semi on the straight edge of a keyhole-shaped cul-de-sac. There was a mean black hatchback with a phat exhaust on the drive and behind this she parked her grey, spluttering metal bucket of a motor. Home, she said, as if amazed to have made it back in one piece. She held the front door open while they wheeled their cases over the step and found themselves immediately in the living room. Two lime leather sofas and a massive TV dwarfed the space. There were video consoles, too, and boxes of computer games, a clutch of keypads tangling about the carpet. An archway led to the kitchen and at the table sat a young man hunched over his bowl of cereal. Long shorts, gym vest. A buzz cut and a goatee. Glassy studs in both lobes.

  ‘Jimmy bhaji! How are you?’ Randeep paused at the table, waiting for Jimmy bhaji to jump to his feet at seeing his cousin after so many years. Jimmy remained sitting. He looked up and with his spoon still in his hand nodded at Randeep.

  ‘Hey, man. Welcome to England. I forgot Mum said someone was visiting for a bit.’

  Randeep smiled, a little chastened.

  ‘This your first time? To England?’

  ‘Ji.’

  ‘Well, wrap up warm. You know what they say about England.’

  A door closed somewhere above and from a staircase partially obscured by the archway a girl – a woman – entered the room. She wore denim shorts over thick black leggings, and an old grey T-shirt. Her vast frizz of crunchy-looking curls was mushroomed high up on her head, fountain-like, and earplugs emerged from her neckline to noodle about her chest.

  She looked at Massiji and Avtar, and then at Randeep. ‘Oh, hi.’

  ‘Pehnji? I didn’t recognize you.’

  ‘It’s Aki,’ she said, with emphasis.

  ‘Sorry.’ He tried again: ‘I can’t believe it’s been, how long, more than ten years since we were all together? Do you remember when we milked those cows and how it went all over us? We talk about that all the time.’

  She gazed at him, then glanced at Jimmy and the two of them exchanged smiles. Abruptly, she turned to Massiji. ‘I’m going for a jog and then to Lauren’s. I probably won’t be back tonight.’

  ‘Akaljot, we agreed. I told you.’

  ‘Sorry, Mummy dearest. It’s her birthday.’ Then to Randeep: ‘Enjoy your stay.’

  She left via the back door, fixing her earplugs in as she went. Then Jimmy pushed his chair back, screeching it along the linoleum, and dumped his dishes into the sink. He patted the pockets of his shorts, checking for keys, said laters to Randeep and whoever the other freshie was and followed his sister out. The glass panel in the door rattled as it closed. Randeep turned to his massi and smiled in an effort to convey that he wasn’t offended. But Massiji was looking out of the window, altogether embarrassed.

  She tried to give them her room – the children have college, you see, they need their sleep, otherwise absolutely they would have given up their rooms for you – but the boys insisted they’d be fine on the settees in the front room. ‘Please, Massiji, it’s much more comfortable than we are used to.’

  The next morning, rooting in his suitcase, Avtar found the manila folder of student stuff Vakeelji had given him. He recited a short prayer in front of the Guru Nanak calendar hanging in the kitchen and set off to enrol. In his hand he had an old Tube map Massiji had found and over which she’d penned in careful blue Panjabi a list of directions Avtar was to make sure he followed. She didn’t want him getting lost in that big city.

  Even so, it was long past two o’clock when he passed under the grey concrete frame of Edgware Station and looked around for some helpful street sign. He was exhausted, and late: the ticket-wallah on the Underground had sent him off towards Edgware Road, not Edgware, and hours seemed to pass before he found a Panjabi-looking man willing to explain that Avtar would have to buy another ticket because he needed to be in another part of London altogether. Thankfully, the friendly man demonstrated how to use the ticket machines, which saved Avtar having to queue at the counter again.

  He walked straight on, towards what looked like a major road, and kept to the right-hand side of the pavement. He reminded himself to ask Massiji about changing up some money and to then give her some for letting him call home. They were fine, his parents had said. Pleased he’d arrived safely, his father added, a little formally. They weren’t used to speaking to their son in this way – generally, without a real reason for the call – so it was a short conversation, the main thrust being that Avtar wasn’t to worry about them. He was to concentrate on making something of himself in England now God had blessed him with this opportunity. To that end,
Avtar allowed himself a little optimism. The trains had come when the electronic signs had said they would. The guard hadn’t expected money to point him in the right direction. Cars were only driven on roads and only in nice long columns. Even the air was a clear and uniform blue. All the signs of a well-run country. A fair country. A country that helps its people. A country that might even help him.

  A brown signboard read ‘Coll. of NW London’ and indicated the first left at the big grassy roundabout up ahead. He wondered how to cross the road. Grey railings lined the kerbside, and it was surely against the law to jump them. He tailed a woman with wheatish hair, hoping she’d show the way, but at the roundabout she followed the road as it curved off and Avtar was left behind. Cars flowed round as if in a deliberate rush to fill in any gaps. He returned to the railings. Perhaps they were low precisely so that people who needed to cross the road could do so. Maybe it wasn’t illegal at all. He secured the folder into the back of his black trousers and, with one foot lifted to the top of the railing, jumped over. The cars were so close. Drivers glanced confusedly over and one or two pointed at the ground, mouthing words. He hoped that now he’d made clear his intention the traffic might stop, but there seemed to be no sign of that. He ventured a foot forward, then took it back as a white van came roaring down. He was breathing hard. He looked about again: nothing. No traffic lights. He had no chance. He waited. When the moment came he felt the cold of the railings leave his body and he was running as hard as he could. The road felt coarse under his thin soles. He could feel his folder coming loose from his trousers and as he reached behind to hold it in place a long brassy horn sounded. Avtar looked over his shoulder. The cars were coming. He wouldn’t make it, and as he launched towards the central mound of the roundabout his foot gave and he felt one of his shoes slip off. All he could do was squeeze between the black-and-white arrow signs and clamber onto the grassy circle. Safe at last, he covered his ears. He felt stupid and angry and through the legs of the arrow signs saw his poor shoe being flipped about like a fish.