The Year of the Runaways (35 page)

The woman bit into an apple that Narinder only now noticed had been in her hand the whole time. She spoke as she chewed. ‘I don’t know. Perhaps it has. She don’t live here no more, does she. Hasn’t done for months.’

‘Oh, I see.’

‘Did your friend not tell you?’ the woman said, smiled.

‘Do you have a forwarding address?’

She shrugged.

‘Please?’

The woman, seemingly tired, seemingly bored, dropped her shoulders and looked away. ‘Nothing for free, turban lady. Not in this life.’ Then, with something of the full sadness of things: ‘We all need help, now, don’t we?’

Later, she stood outside the estate agent’s – Randhir Chahal Lettings – and stared at the brown-framed windows of the flat above. It must be round the back, the stairwell. She walked for perhaps fifty metres, the street spawning buses, until a gap between two launderettes led to a partially concreted car park. She cut a diagonal towards the rear of the estate agent’s, where a metal staircase led to a carrot-bright front door, a rose painted into the glass. Narinder knocked once and took a careful step back, mindful of the drop. The door opened.

‘Sat sri akal,’ Narinder said.

The young woman nodded, smiled.

‘Is – I was told my friend lives here?’ She didn’t know whether to use Savraj’s name, or if that would blow whatever cover she might have created for herself.

‘Your friend?’ the young woman said, just as Savraj walked into view behind her and Narinder lifted her hand to wave.

Savraj’s room-mate brought Narinder orange squash in a china cup riven with cracks and asked her to take a seat. ‘Please, sister.’

Savraj was quiet. She wore the same blue-grey apron as her friend – it said
Dasbwood’s
in a modern font along the hem – and sat on a straight wooden chair near the fan heater. The heater’s clackety whirring was pretty much the only noise in that sparse room.

‘You go,’ Savraj said, and Narinder looked up, but no, it wasn’t aimed at her. ‘I’ll follow.’

The friend asked Narinder to forgive her leaving – ‘But I hope we meet again’ – then grabbed her phone and went. They listened to her quick tread on the metal staircase.

‘That’s Karthika. We work together.’

‘At Dashwood’s,’ Narinder said.

‘It’s owned by him downstairs. One of our former “customers”. We clean offices.’

Narinder smiled, encouraging. ‘That’s good. That’s so much better.’

Savraj frowned, as if unconvinced. The lines, Narinder thought. The two lines that widened down from her nostrils to the twin tips of her mouth. How much deeper they’d got. Furrows now. And her eyes. They seemed dimmed. Grey hairs, too. She hadn’t noticed it last time. Perhaps it had been too dark. She’d aged so much in a few months. The winter, the work, the worry.

‘I hope you’re taking care of yourself,’ Narinder said.

Savraj stood and went into a doorless room in which Narinder could see only the corner of a candy-striped mattress. She came back pulling a slim roll of notes from a maroon purse. ‘I can give you the rest later. Next month. I’m sorry you had to come all this way.’

Narinder stood up too, so they faced each other. ‘I didn’t . . . I don’t . . .’ She shook her head. ‘Please keep it.’

Savraj’s arm fell to her side. She moved to the grubby white settee and perched on its edge. ‘I need to ask for more money.’

Narinder sat beside her. ‘What’s the matter?’

She stayed silent, staring.

‘Tell me, please. I want to help.’

Savraj rubbed together the notes in her hand, the crisp insect rustle of them. ‘Mamma’s not well. They say it’s cancer.’

Narinder put an arm around her friend.

‘We can’t afford the treatment. That’s why I came round. It doesn’t matter how hard we try. We were hoping the rice would pay for it, but the land caught a disease and my brother doesn’t know what else to do. None of us do.’

Narinder squeezed her friend’s shoulder. ‘Stay strong. God will find us a way.’

‘There is no way,’ Savraj flashed. She looked up to the ceiling as the tears coursed down.

No brother, no mother, no father. She sits with face turned, no turning known.
These lines kept coming to Narinder. For several nights now, she’d lain awake in bed thinking of Savraj cold in that flat, face turned away from God, and the thought seemed to clot into a physical ache along Narinder’s abdomen. Throwing back her duvet, she headed downstairs and into the kitchen. She put the japji sahib on a low volume and closed the kitchen door. She prayed for Savraj’s family. Her lips moved in rapid silence, hands clasped in her lap, thumbs together and knuckles directed to heaven. She spoke to Him and He spoke back, the wingbeats of His presence changing the air around her. When the stereo clicked off, she raised her clasped hands to her face and finished her prayers. So deep had those prayers been that she hadn’t heard her father come in and sit beside her. It was still dark outside.

‘Your kesri?’ Baba Tarsem Singh said.

‘Upstairs.’

It was strange how unprotected, fearful even, she felt without her turban during the day, but how much closer to Him she felt without it at night. She didn’t understand it.

She told her father about Savraj and the hardships she and her family were facing and how much she wanted to help them.

‘I went yesterday and gave her food and a little more money. But I want to do more, Baba. Please don’t be angry.’

‘You’ve done what you can. She’ll find her own way to Him. Let’s just hope your brother hasn’t found out.’

‘You’ve always said we should help people find their way.’

‘She’s as loose as dust. The night will bark before she thinks of anyone but herself.’

Narinder looked away, at the night shadows along the wall. ‘Her mother’s dying,’ she said flatly. A long silence followed. Then, something that had been bothering her: ‘Baba, why does God make people suffer?’

‘Hm?’

‘I’ve asked Him. Maybe I’m not listening hard enough, but I don’t know why some people have to suffer so much.’

Baba Tarsem Singh sighed. ‘You do ask difficult questions, beiti. Must we know all the answers? Might not we trust Him?’

Narinder looked down at the table and pressed her thumbs together until the tips blushed.

‘Our gurus suffered. They gave their lives for us. There’s an answer of sorts there.’

‘Yes.’

‘Why would we do anything, feel anything, for anyone else? If there’s no pain, how can there be love?’

‘Yes,’ she said again, and put her hand on his.

*

One spring evening, she brought Savraj kadi-chawl and munghi-di-dhal, food that could be preserved and eaten over several days. ‘How is massiji? Have you spoken?’

Savraj nodded, ate, running her tongue over grey teeth. ‘Same. Hopefully soon we’ll have enough for the operation. My brother found a job.’

‘See? I said God would show a way.’

Before she left, she reminded Savraj that, as normal, she’d be going to India in the summer. ‘To Anandpur Sahib.’

‘Oh good, out of this cold. Does it ever get warm?’

‘Anything you want to send your mother?’

‘You’re going to visit?’

‘Of course I’ll visit. I’ll even stay a few nights and help if I can.’

Narinder buttoned up her cardigan, her duffel coat. Savraj walked her out of the door, onto the metal landing, and said, ‘Mamma will be so pleased you’re coming.’

It was the hottest summer. Only ten o’clock, and the men were out of the fields and rushing indoors, to ceiling fans and chilled glasses of nimbu-pani. In the bazaar, shopkeepers lay asleep on their menjhe, not expecting any trade. A buffalo lay sprawled in the tree shade, blinking fatly each time a guava fell onto its wide head. Standing at the bottom of the marble steps, she took the metal pin from its neck pocket and scuttled it along the brim of her turban, and as the turban loosened the sweat oozed down her forehead. It felt nice. She heard her name and saw her mother at the top, holding a basket. Then they were together and the basket was piled high with slippers.

‘It doesn’t matter,’ Bibi Jeet Kaur said. ‘I’ll do it myself.’

When Narinder woke, she lay still, recovering, gaze fixed on the three dazzling white blocks the sun had painted on the ceiling.

She couldn’t remember the route to Savraj’s house and all she had to help her was the family name. The teller at the grotty municipal bank waved her away, saying couldn’t she see it was deposits this morning? Further on, outside the mandir, a man with pyramids of Spanish apples arranged on his cart accepted a ten-rupee note and directed her to an alleyway about twenty paces back.

She recognized the gate, the solid metal and slope of it. Even the wild spiderbush sprouting from the wall cast a shadow at her feet that seemed familiarly menacing. She knocked two, three times, pushing the tall hatch open.

‘Massiji?’

There was no one in the courtyard, just the same buffalo that had been there the previous year. She stepped through the hatch, hitching up her salwaar so it didn’t snag on the rivets. A television played in the back room, and maybe that was a foot dangling over the menjha. She started across the yard, head tilted, peering. Something shot down beside her.

‘Bibi!’ she called out, arms protecting her head. But it was a man, only a man. She looked up to the roof from which he’d jumped, then back at him.

He clapped the dust from his hands. He had the same sharp nose as Savraj and his white shirt was so full of sweat she could see the hair underneath. Narinder averted her eyes.

‘Sorry,’ they both said.

He laughed. She didn’t.

‘I’m Savraj’s friend. From England. I’ve come to see massiji.’

‘Oh, Narinderji?’ He took a step towards her, so close she was forced to lean back slightly. ‘Savi’s always talking about you.’

Other than siblings and cousins, no boy had ever stood this near to her. She wished he’d move away, though he appeared to be enjoying her flutter of awkwardness.

‘Mamma’s just lying down.’ He bowed, making a sweep of his arm. ‘Please allow me to take you before her.’

‘No, no, please don’t wake her. Let her rest. I’ll come back tomorrow.’

He had a languid, appraising smile. ‘It’d be like turning away the Rani of England.’

Savraj’s mother lay propped against the wall, a gold cylinder of a pillow squashed behind her. The TV showed a game show, similar to one Narinder thought they had in England. She slipped out of her chappals, her feet warm on the stone floor.

‘Massiji?’

She said it twice more before the eyes opened and a greyer face than she remembered turned to look at her. Narinder spoke softly: ‘How are you? Would you like some water? Did you get my messages?’

Massiji pulled herself up straight and blew the hair from her eyes. ‘When I’m dead, then talk to me like I’m a baby. And even then I’d still wipe the floor with you, chikni, cancer or no.’

They talked. Narinder reassured the woman: Savraj was doing fine. Working, eating, living with friends. Nothing to worry about.

‘Tell her we need double next month. The rent on the bike is due.’

‘Any other message? How much you miss her?’

Massiji looked across, doubtful. ‘I don’t understand.’

Later, Narinder asked how the treatment was going –
they want to slice off my breasts,
Massiji said – and put forward her plan to stay around and help for a few days.

‘You don’t have to.’

‘But I want to.’

The older woman snorted.‘I can imagine the look on everyone’s face.’

‘No one will mind. It’s a form of seva, in my eyes.’

Savraj’s brother returned with three glasses of pomegranate juice. He must have been to the bazaar to get it.

‘Maybe you can sleep in Kavi’s room,’ Massiji said, laughing, and Narinder blushed.

She didn’t stay, in the end. She didn’t seem to be needed. And Savraj’s brother unnerved her, with his smile and the way he’d whistled for a rickshaw even though she’d have preferred to walk. She passed the following week improving her harmonium skills: a renowned ragi was visiting from Bikaner and offered to help the young ones with their playing. It was a beautiful time, full of devotion and song. On the Sunday Narinder was chosen to play for the evening rehraas prayers and afterwards the famous ragi told her that her singing was like a balm for the troubled soul. Pleased with herself, she packed the instrument away into its wrinkled leather bag and heaved it to the metal cupboard in the adjoining room. Coming back through the alcove, she saw Savraj’s brother – Kavi – lounging around with his friends at the back of the darbar sahib. A blue ramaal was tied around his head like a bandana and his feet were bare. He saw her too and pressed his hands together in respectful greeting. Narinder responded likewise, and then one of the granthis ushered the boys out, saying this was God’s house, not one of their cricket grounds.

She started seeing him everywhere – in the market, near the hostel, eating at the dhaba she passed on her way home. She saw him one gruellingly hot afternoon in the langar kitchen, handing out cold lilac sweat towels to the women. And there he was the next day, too, praying with his head bowed. His kara was as it should be: chunky and clean on his wrist. And his hair, she noticed, wasn’t slopping with smeary oil like that of his friends. It was blowier, the lengthier strands tidied away behind his ears.

‘You have a lovely voice.’

He’d caught her in the tiny garden outside Sisganj Sahib, singing to herself, as she did sometimes of an evening. One of the best things – perhaps the very best thing – about coming to India was being able to roam, to breathe. She drew her chunni onto her head. ‘Sat sri akal, ji.’

By rights, she should have addressed him as bhaji, as brother. That would have set the proper and chaste tone for their encounter. But she hadn’t. She didn’t know why. And of course he’d picked up on it. Look at him smiling.

‘How’s massiji? I keep meaning to visit.’

‘I thought maybe you were avoiding us.’

‘Of course not.’

‘Avoiding me, then.’

Her mouth moved, until: ‘The seva this year is more than usual.’

He plunged his fists into his pockets and sighed deeply. Irritatedly? His top two buttons were undone. He had long eyebrows. She could feel something at base start to unstitch, releasing into her feelings she’d not experienced before.