Read The Year of the Runaways Online
Authors: Sunjeev Sahota
Tags: #Fiction, #Literary, #Urban, #General
It was nearly six when the auto dropped her at the hotel, and she was tired. She felt as if she’d spent more hours inside the tour bus than out, the rapidly speaking driver-cum-guide shuttling them from one museum to another. It had seemed a good idea back in Kiratpur, after finishing her father’s rites, when she realized she didn’t have to go straight back to England this time. She changed her flights and flew to Thiruvananthapuram and from there took a coach to Kanyakumari. She remembered Tochi mentioning the place and came because she wanted to, and because she could.
‘Did you enjoy your trip, madam?’ the receptionist asked.
‘Yes. Thank you.’
‘If you would like to go down to the beach to see the theatre show we have a party leaving in one hour.’
‘I think I’ll just go to sleep. My flight’s tomorrow.’
‘As you please, madam. Goodnight.’
She packed her suitcase and washed her hair. She checked what time the early train would get into Cochin and how long she’d have to wait before boarding the onward flight to Mumbai. Then she slipped the Mumbai to Heathrow tickets inside her passport and placed them on top of her luggage. She found that she was no longer tired. She unfolded Sabrina’s printouts – a selection of grim high-rise apartments – and tried to focus on them. She couldn’t. It was her last night in India – perhaps forever – and that thought seemed to be batting around her brain. She’d never been back to Anandpur Sahib. Until she arrived at Kiratpur with her father’s ashes, she’d never been to a gurdwara again either. Not since her year in Sheffield. She went to the window. The beach was teeming, the theatre lit up.
She strapped on her sandals and smiled at the receptionist and said she was going out for a short walk. ‘I don’t think I’ll be long.’
‘Alone? Do be careful of pickpocketeers, madam. They like to bamboozle the tourists.’
She headed away from the lights and the crowds waiting for the play to start, and wandered down to a darker, quieter mile of sand. She bought a cone of pistachio ice cream and ate it while the sea purred at her side. The moon was low and enormous and the stars so many and so close that she felt as if she was walking among them. She was glad she’d done this. Glad she’d come to India to rest her father’s ashes. He’d have liked the service, she thought. He might have wished that she’d assented when the priest asked her to give a prayer, but she couldn’t. She was sorry, she told the priest, but if there was a God he’d know how false her prayer would be.
She stopped and turned round. The theatre lights were the tiniest bursts of silver and she realized she’d come further than she intended. She climbed up to the road and headed back. Down on the beach, people were taking their seats in front of the stage. There seemed to be a feeling of excitement, of expectation, a feeling that rose off the crowd and stroked its warm wing across Narinder’s face. She descended the few steps leading off the road and felt her feet sink nicely into the sand again. A yellow banner ran along the roof of the theatre:
Kanyakumari Theatre Group. All Donation Wellcome.
She’d stay for a bit, she decided, and found a seat at the end of the back row. From here she could see into the wings, where a young boy in gold armour, mace in hand, nervously recited his lines.
People were still filling the aisle, then fanning into the rows of metal chairs. She didn’t call out when she saw him. He was heading for the front row. He held a toddler high up in his arms and there was a woman with him too, vermilion in her hair, and one – no, three – children following on behind. His white kurta looked like it was glowing against the deep brown of his skin. His hair was longer, falling over his eyes, his stomach a little rounder. She was happy for him. Of course she was. What else had she expected? What else had she wanted? She looked down at her hands and smiled. She remembered that there was a night train which left Kanyakumari for Cochin at 2.30. She’d get that, she decided, instead of waiting for the morning. Trains were late all the time. Better to be safe. She stood up to leave. The lights dimmed and a hush spread over the audience. She could still see him, in the front row. He was saying something to his wife. Beside him, his children, who were whispering.
THE YEAR OF THE RUNAWAYS
S
UNJEEV
S
AHOTA
was born in 1981 in Derbyshire and continues to live in the area. He is the author of the critically acclaimed debut novel
Ours are the Streets.
Also by Sunjeev Sahota
OURS ARE THE STREETS
First published 2015 by Picador
This electronic edition published 2015 by Picador
an imprint of Pan Macmillan
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www.panmacmillan.com
ISBN 978-1-4472-4167-6
Copyright © Sunjeev Sahota 2015
Cover Design by Stuart Wilson
The right of Sunjeev Sahota to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
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A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
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Table of Contents
4. Avtar and Randeep: Two Boys