‘I’m sorry I embarrassed you, Baba.’
She’d been desperate to say this and as the words left her mouth a channel seemed to open up between them.
‘I know you are, beiti. As I keep telling everyone, I know my daughter and even if she can’t tell me her reasons they must be noble ones.’
‘I think they were.’
‘But you say it is all over now?’
She nodded. She still hadn’t heard from Randeep. If he didn’t get in touch by the end of the year she’d contact Vakeel Sahib herself and ask him to get the divorce done with. He’d said it would take a month or two only. For now she’d remain here, with her father. Next June she’d marry Karamjeet and spend the rest of her life with him and his family.
‘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 wh
at 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.’
‘I’m getting less and therefore you’re getting less. Simple economics.’
‘But I can’t live on this. I can’t pay back anything earning this.’ Bal would be calling soon. Perhaps as soon as next week. He didn’t know what he’d say to him. ‘I’m leaving. I’ll find better work.’
‘Arré, yaar . . .’ Sony said, as if Avtar was going too far.
‘Where do you think you’ll go without your papers?’ Jagdish said. ‘You should be thankful I provide a roof over your heads.’
‘You lock us in your shed.’
‘It’s an outhouse.’
The van stopped. They must have arrived. It was hard to tell from the back. As they filed into the shed, Avtar turned round. ‘I mean it. I want to go. Give me my passport.’ But Jagdish just laughed, as if Avtar had made a very pleasing joke, and locked the door.
Whenever a phone rang, he flinched. He prayed nothing was happening to his family. He needed to earn more. He needed to get out. Then, round the side of the cash-and-carry, in a grassy trough that had become a sump for several waste pipes, he found a pole, a short lilac metal one with flattened ends. It looked as if it might have once belonged on a girl’s bicycle. He put it in his bag, and, that night, hid it in the gap between his mattress and the wall.
A week passed while he waited for his chance. The evenings darkened and a stiff wind blew in through the bottom of the shed door. Avtar pulled out one of his jumpers, which lay on him sloppily, as if on a coathanger, which, he supposed, he was.
‘It’s starting to get cold at night,’ he said to Jagdish. They were on their way home. ‘We need a heater.’
‘Put some more clothes on.’ Then, perhaps feeling guilty: ‘Maybe I can get an extension lead.’
He told them there wasn’t any work tomorrow. They could have the day off. His treat.
‘Why?’ asked Avtar.
‘I’m busy. So you’ll have to stay in. You’ll get your food.’
‘Will we still get paid?’
He saw Jagdish staring at him via the rear-view mirror. ‘I’ll think about it.’
In the shed, Avtar pressed himself against the door, his stomach to the iron and arms raised, as if someone had a gun to his back. He wanted to know what was happening tomorrow, but all he could hear was a car running, indistinct laughter, maybe a football being kicked against a wall. He rejoined their card circle, squeezing in between Biju and Sony.
‘At least he might pay us,’ Biju said.
‘He won’t,’ Avtar said. ‘He’s just saying that so we’re still here when he comes back.’
‘Where would we go?’ Sony asked, chuckling drily, and he accidentally flipped a card over while dealing and had to gather them all up and shuffle again.
The door opening woke them all up. Sudden, unfriendly light. Avtar wanted only to remain in his dream, but he could smell popcorn, fresh, and yawned and removed his arm from his eyes. It was a woman. He sat up – they all did. He’d seen her sometimes at the kitchen window, a scrunchie in her hair. Today, her hair was down and wet and pulled forward over one shoulder. She looked like she was from India, an impression given by her make-up, perhaps: a thickly applied bright pink to go with her salwaar kameez. She was holding a red beach bucket and placed this on the wood floor. A steel plate covered the top, to which she added a foil-wrapped bundle.
‘Dhal-roti,’ she said, simply, kindly. ‘I’ll collect it later.’
‘Eating out of a bucket?’ Avtar said, disgusted.
‘It’s what Papaji said.’
‘Tell your father-in-law we’re not his pets.’
‘Won’t the dhal be cold by lunchtime?’ Biju asked. ‘I don’t think I can eat cold dhal.’
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I wish I could reheat it.’
‘Why can’t you reheat it?’ Avtar asked.
She looked worried, as if she’d said too much already, and backed out of the shed and turned the key. They heard her soft tread on the grass.
‘Did she look dressed up to you?’ Avtar asked. ‘Like they were going to a wedding? What day is it?’
‘Friday,’ Biju said.
‘Sunday,’ Sony corrected him.
‘They’ll be gone all day,’ Avtar said.
‘Did she smell of popcorn to anyone?’ Biju said, trying to find an opening into the roti bundle.
Avtar listened at the door, until he heard voices hurrying each other on and car doors shutting. Then, nothing.
‘They’ve gone.’
‘What are you going to do?’ Sony asked, sceptical.
He took the pole from the side of his mattress and drove it into the gap above the doorjamb.
‘You’ll ruin it for the rest of us,’ Sony said.
‘Just let him go,’ Biju said. ‘More work for us.’
Avtar yanked the pole out and drove it back in, until finally it stuck, slipping far enough through to act as a lever. He left it hanging there, half out of the door, while he recovered. Then he secured his feet and pushed hard against it. He could feel himself grimacing – ‘You look like you’re having the world’s biggest shit,’ Biju said – and at times it seemed as if the pole might snap, but then, and without the explosion of noise Avtar had prepared himself for, the lock retracted and the door clattered open. He stumbled to the ground, it had happened so unexpectedly.
‘It’s open,’ he said, turning round, as if anticipating applause.
He went back for his rucksack, then down the garden, the pole reassuring in his hand.
The drive was empty and when he pressed his forehead to the window he could see no one inside. The kitchen door held a glass panel which he smashed with the pole, snaking in his arm to reach the lock. As soon as he stepped inside, a siren sounded, a careening wail of blue noise. Desperately Avtar rifled through some post on the counter, hoping to find his papers there. Nothing.
Sony and Biju and the others came hurtling past with their bags.
‘You fucking bhanchod cunt!’ Sony said.
He wanted to look upstairs, in Jagdish’s bedroom. He was sure his passport would be there. But the siren. It was blaring murderously. He picked up the pole – ‘Fingerprints,’ his mind said – and ran. He ran round the corner of the house and up the drive. There were fields far off to the left and Sony seemed to be making for them, Biju many metres behind. Avtar went right, sprinting towards the main road.
*
Halfway up the stairs, Narinder heard her phone. It never rang these days. Maybe it was Randeep. She scrambled across the landing and into her room, finding the thing on her dressing table. She didn’t know the number. She answered anyway. Hello? Randeep?
‘Hello. Is that Narinder Kaur?’
He sounded familiar. ‘Yes. Hello. I’m Narinder Kaur.’
‘Oh good. It’s David Mangold here. From the immigration office. Remember me?’
He said they were due their second and final insp— meeting. Meeting, he repeated. But the office hadn’t received a reply to either of their letters over the last month.
‘I trust everything continues to go well for you and your husband?’
‘There’s another meeting?’ she asked, c
losing her bedroom door.
‘Routine, of course. So we can cross you off our list, so to speak. Are you still in the same place? I can easily pop over again. Some time next week, say?’
She held on to her dressing table. She sat down. ‘Could I ask my husband to call you?’
‘I took the liberty of contacting your landlord and he said you left quite unexpectedly. Apparently, the front door sustained some damage. It all sounded very dramatic.’
Narinder hunted madly through her mind for something to say.
‘I’m sure it was nothing to do with you.’
‘No,’ she said, glad of the out.
‘As I thought. So, next week, then?’
Her hand went to her throat. Her mouth felt dry. ‘I’ll get my husband to call you.’
‘Is he not there?’
‘He’s working.’
‘Do you have a work number?’
She winced. ‘No, sorry.’
‘And you are?’
‘Pardon?’ He knew who she was.
‘And you are where, if you’re no longer at the flat?’
‘I’m at home,’ she said carefully.
‘Right.’ She heard his voice change. ‘You do know that, under the terms of the visa, you’re required to notify us of any amendment to your personal details?’
‘Yes. I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.’
‘I’m sure it won’t. I’ll just take down your new address and we can update our systems. Fire away.’
She didn’t know what to say. She felt herself being ground down.
‘Ms Kaur?’ he said, with deep insincerity.
‘Yes. My husband will call you and he’ll explain.’
A pause, as if he was thinking things through. She waited for him to say he was sending the police round this very minute.
‘Right you are. But do make it soon. According to our database the second inspection needs to take place by the end of this month. Otherwise the wheels start turning and warnings get automatically dispatched and things can get a bit messy.’
The Year of the Runaways Page 40