The Year of the Runaways (37 page)

Narinder felt a hand on her shoulder, making her start. It was her baba, come to walk her home.

‘I was calling you.’

‘Oh, sorry, Baba. Is it time?’

‘What is this?’

He gestured to the posters on the gurdwara notice board, of Panjabi men and women who’d died trying to cross into the UK.

‘It’s very sad,’ Baba Tarsem Singh said.

She hadn’t really been reading them. The posters had been on the board for many months now. ‘Yes. I’ll pray for the families.’

‘Is that what’s been on your mind?’

‘Nothing’s been on my mind.’

‘You’ve been lost in your thoughts a lot recently.’

‘I’m sorry, Baba.’

‘You’ve been very quiet.’

She smiled. ‘I’m always quiet.’

He tried a different approach. ‘Is it the wedding? You are happy with the match?’

‘Yes, Baba.’

‘It’s a good family.’

She nodded.

‘It’s natural to be nervous.’

‘I’m fine. Really.’

‘And excited. Nervous excitement, they call it.’

She wondered whether to tell him that she didn’t feel excited. Not at all. But she couldn’t. Instead, they linked arms. ‘Why don’t you take the evening off?’

‘Oh?’

‘Yes. I’ll escort you,’ she finished, emphasizing the pronouns.

*

During dinner one evening she received a text message:
call me. urgent. Savi di.
Narinder slid the phone under her thigh. That ‘di’, she knew, had been calculated to remind Narinder that she was the younger of the two, the one who should obey.

‘Still enjoying your new phone?’ Baba Tarsem Singh said, reaching for the pot of raita.

‘Who was it?’ Tejpal asked.

‘No one. A friend.’

‘You don’t have any friends.’

‘And how would you know?’ Narinder said.

He really was getting insufferable these days. With his collection of Khalistan turbans and Puffa waistcoats. Only last week he’d had a go at Narinder for not bathing before evening prayers.

She deleted the message. They’d not spoken once in the last year. Probably she needed money. Probably she was only going to feed Narinder more lies. A week later another text arrived, Savraj threatening to turn up at Narinder’s house if she didn’t agree to meet.

‘I don’t want to meet you or any of your family,’ Narinder said, on the phone. ‘You’re all liars.’

‘Meet me for Kavi’s sake.’ Before Narinder could work out how to respond, Savraj said, ‘The gurdwara at six? Today. For Kavi’s sake.’

They met in the langar hall and sat cross-legged on one of the runners. Opposite them, two young girls raced to finish their bowls of rice pudding. She’d changed her hair, Narinder noticed. Even shorter, with streaks of cheap copper. She’d given up her cleaning job and gone back to the sheds.

‘More money for less time,’ she said, pulling a few notes from her gold lamé purse. ‘What I owe you.’

‘Is that it? Is that why you wanted to see me? Can I go now?’

She made to get up. Savraj stayed her with a hand to the knee. ‘Do it for us.’

‘Do what?’

‘What Kavi asked of you.’

It was so ridiculous she nearly laughed. ‘I’m leaving.’

‘They can’t survive. Kavi’s even talking about selling his organs.’

‘Lies. More lies.’

‘Do you think we’d have lied if we weren’t desperate? Do you think I wanted to go back to the sheds?’

Narinder turned her face away; she wished Savraj would stop.

‘It would be one year only. And no one would have to know. Not even your family. I thought if when you’re over there this summer you could go with Kavi to see the agent, then it could all be taken care of before you have to come back.’

All the time Narinder was shaking her head. ‘It’s illegal. It’s against the law. People could go to prison.’

‘Think of the number of people you’ll be helping. Not just us. But our children, and their children. We’ll love you till we die.’

‘No one has to die,’ Narinder said, facing Savraj full on. ‘Come to the gurdwara. We’ll get advice. We’ll help Kavi find a job. In India. A good job.’

‘There are no jobs. There is only corruption. Or if there are jobs they go to the fucking chamaars with these government quotas.’ Savraj reached for Narinder’s hand. ‘Please. Help us.’

Narinder shook her head, said sorry, that she couldn’t take the risk, couldn’t do it to her family, her father, and she kept shaking her head and saying sorry until Savraj gave up and left the langar hall for the dingy evening outside.

She told her father what had happened. Baba Tarsem Singh had been marking out passages in his gutka when Narinder appeared in the doorway and asked if she might interrupt him.

‘It’s not enough that they trick you, they also have to make you feel guilty,’ he said afterwards.

‘I’m scared they’ll do something dangerous.’

‘You’ve tried harder to help them than anyone else ever has. It’s between them and God now.’

‘What if her brother comes to harm?’

‘Let’s pray that doesn’t happen.’

She knew he was right. And yet: ‘I’m worried I should be doing more. That I’m not doing enough.’

‘There is nothing more you can do, beita. It’s in God’s hands. You’re getting married. Did you tell her that?’

Narinder hesitated.

‘Narinder?’

That evening she was summoned down from her bedroom. In the rocking chair sat her father, a guilty look on his face. Her brother stood with his back to the portrait of their mother. His arms were folded across his chest, hands arranged in a way that cupped each elbow, and his beard shone blue in the mix of lights playing through the different windows. He’d set his turban on the sideboard, so his topknot flopped like a loose apple. When they were children, he used to let Narinder pull on this funny-looking hairball.

‘Are you happy with this match?’

She’d been prepared for this. ‘Of course. It all seems fine to me.’

‘You’re sure? Certain?’

‘Get off my case, Tejpal.’

‘Don’t be too hard on her,’ Baba Tarsem Singh said.

Tejpal raised his hand and their father withdrew into the chair.

‘If you’re not happy tell me now. While I can still do something about it. Because if you leave it any longer I won’t be able to do anything. And I won’t let you shame us. I won’t let you make it impossible for Dad to walk into the gurdwara with his head held high.’

He approached, the blue light falling abruptly from his beard to his feet.

‘Well?’

She could feel herself glaring at him, at the idea that she would ever do anything – had ever done anything – to shame their father. ‘I’ve told you. Get off my case.’

*

Every so often she’d try calling India or Savraj. She wanted to know that the family was OK. That they’d not been ensnared by the kinds of agents she’d read up on recently. The ones who took all your money in exchange for a shoddy visa that wouldn’t even gain you entrance to the airport. But the information from India was sketchy – the PCO she called didn’t really know the family she was asking after – and Savraj never returned her messages. In time, winter broke to spring, and then summer, and somewhere along the way Narinder gave up trying to contact them. She was getting married in December and she needed to start coming to terms with that fact.

She’d seen Karamjeet twice since their introduction. Once when he’d come with all his relatives to drape a phulkari chunni over her head and officially claim her into the family. They’d not spoken that day. She wasn’t absolutely certain she even remembered having seen him. The second time, they met secretly in Hyde Park on a Friday afternoon in late May. He brought along a small hamper full of posh vegetarian bits and pieces and they’d found a bench by the Serpentine, the basket of food balanced awkwardly between them.

‘More juice?’

She said no, thank you.

He put the carton back. ‘You’re not going to Anandpur Sahib this summer?’

‘There’s too much to do. For the wedding.’

‘Well, maybe we can go next year. Together. It’s a while since I’ve done some proper seva.’

She nodded. ‘That’d be nice.’

He nodded, too. Seconds ticked.

‘So, have you thought any more about where you’d like to go? After our wedding?’

‘I don’t mind. Hemkund Sahib sounds nice. Isn’t it only open in the summer?’

‘June to October. But I have contacts. It is a lot of walking, though. I wouldn’t want you to be bored.’

‘It’ll be worth it.’

‘Maybe we can ask them to read an ardaas. For us. For our future together.’

‘That would be nice.’

Nice, nice, nice. She wished she could think of something else to say.

‘It’s funny we both wore the same colour,’ he went on. Their turbans, camel-brown. ‘Maybe it’s a sign. We think similarly.’ He was smiling determinedly through his beard.

‘It’s good that we have shared interests,’ she said, relieved to have landed on something positive.

‘Yes. Though I think shared attitudes is more important. And I think we have that as well. Don’t you?’

‘Yes. I do. You definitely need that because otherwise things can be very . . . very . . .’ She didn’t know how to end the sentence.

‘Not nice?’

On their way to the Tube at South Kensington, past the Science Museum, he spoke more about his job teaching physics in a secondary school, the joys and frustrations of it. As she listened, she realized that she was fond of him. He was gentle. He was patient. He made allowances for her nerves and understood how much bigger a step this was for her. He had so many sweet qualities that surely it didn’t matter that she felt no . . . No what? Sometimes she remembered the moment Kavi had nearly touched her elbow. That flare of desire. She felt none of that walking beside Karamjeet. Instead, the thought of lying next to him one day soon came trailing a strong undertow of disappointment.

He followed her through the barriers before calling her back. ‘Mine’s the District.’

‘Oh, OK.’ She smiled. ‘I guess I’ll see you at the wedding.’

He was looking at her. He seemed on the brink of something. Then he stumbled in for a kiss, his eyes open and intense. She recoiled, and perhaps even made some sort of sound.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said.

‘No, I just . . . You surprised me.’

‘I know. Anyway – ’ he shook his hamper pointlessly – ‘I’ll telephone you?’

‘I’d like that.’

He nodded – he didn’t seem to believe her – and headed for the escalator. Narinder watched him descend, his turban last to disappear. He looked crestfallen and she felt terrible.

For the wedding everything had been more or less decided. It would be a simple occasion, with none of the ostentation that most families engaged in these days.

‘I hope you don’t mind not having a reception,’ Karamjeet said. ‘The sooner we get you home the better. Only six months to go,’ he added, laughing anxiously.

She closed her phone and felt better, lighter, their conversation set aside for another three days. She was fond of him, though, she reminded herself, as the front door opened and Tejpal came hurtling towards her.

‘She’s here.’

‘What? Who?’

‘Your friend. The whore. I can’t believe Dad let her in the house.’

Savraj was sitting on the sofa, fingers threaded around a mug of tea. Her black PVC coat was several sizes too small, straining at the armpits, and her white chunni had fallen off her head. Baba Tarsem Singh sat beside her.

‘Savraj,’ Narinder said. The white chunni. ‘What’s happened?’

She couldn’t speak. Tears ran haltingly down her cheeks. Narinder looked to her father, who explained that the brother had died. He’d tried to make it across in a coach. Hiding in a gap cut into the ceiling. It seems they suffocated. Three of them.

‘They found the bodies in Russia,’ Savraj said. ‘They just dumped them in the snow.’

Narinder groped behind her for a table or chair to lean on. ‘That can’t be true.’ She spoke as if to herself.

‘I don’t know how we’re going to survive. Mamma’s on her own.’

Narinder saw her father nod at Tejpal, and perhaps Savraj did too because she suddenly tugged her coat about herself and said she should go. That she’d bothered them enough with her grief.

‘I just didn’t know what else to do. I’m sorry.’

Tejpal left the room briefly, returning with a small wad of notes which he passed to his father. He in turn pressed it into Savraj’s hand. ‘Take care of yourself, beiti.’

Savraj touched his feet, then tipped the money into her pocket and walked straight past Narinder and out of the door.

She couldn’t sleep and at first light she left the house and walked fast to the gurdwara. It was locked. She banged on the door and a sleepy-eyed granthi in white robes let her in. She raced up the steps, dragging her chunni on over her turban, and entered the darbar sahib, brought up short by the silence of it, as if she’d expected to find Kavi there. There was no one save for a second granthi, sitting with the holy book. Narinder fell to her knees and muttered prayers, rocking to and fro, speaking to Him.

When she returned home, her father called her into the front room. ‘It’s true. I made some phone calls and she’s not lying.’

It hadn’t occurred to her that Savraj might have been making it all up. She stood in the doorway, agitated, unsure where to put her face.

‘You mustn’t blame yourself,’ Baba Tarsem Singh said, coming to her. And the voicing of this possibility, that she could have averted this death, arrived as both relief and accusation, and Narinder slid down the doorframe and covered her face with her hands.

One night, a week later, her father came into her room and she felt his weight on the end of her bed, heard the slight rattle of his cane.

‘It wasn’t your fault, daughter. You couldn’t have known.’

‘But I did know. I knew they’d try something like this. And still I did nothing.’ She pressed her knees together to stop their shaking. Her bedside clock ticked gamely on.

‘You’re not sleeping. You’re not eating. Look how dark your eyes have become. From all this worry.’

‘I destroyed a family, Baba. My actions killed someone and I don’t know how I’ll ever forgive myself.’

‘God will forgive you. He knows your heart.’