Free The Year of the Runaways by Sunjeev Sahota Page A

asking how they managed to contact each other, but she was skipping up the lane and out of his sight.
    *
    The Maheshwar Sena were more and more on the city streets. It seemed as if around every corner there was a jeep loaded with men in saffron bandanas. They spoke through megaphones, reminding people of the upcoming day of the pure. Any low castes, or anyone protecting a low caste, would be committing a crime against Hindutva, would be spitting on the burning bodies of their murdered brothers and sisters, would be dealt with. Some shops had already been targeted. A jeweller’s was destroyed, the glass bangles smashed on the road, the cash register launched through the window. And one day Tochi saw a suit-boot man with a briefcase stopped and badgered for his ID. He tried to look imperious as he handed it over, only to receive a wide stinging slap and an instruction to make sure he didn’t leave his house on Navratri.
    Radhika Madam asked if he shouldn’t just stay at home until all this madness passed over. He said he couldn’t afford to do that.
    ‘Well, at least you won’t be working on Navratri.’
    Tochi remained silent.
    ‘Tell me you’re not?’
    They’d arrived at Sheetal’s. Madam stepped out, hitching up her sari with one hand.
    ‘You know, money won’t buy back the dea—’ She caught herself, perhaps thinking how easy it was for her to say that.
    For days they all urged him to not work on Navratri. Bimlaji, Jagir Bibi, Saraswati Madam. None of them would be leaving the house – no one would – so what was the point in coming into the city? Didn’t he understand that? Especially now things were getting worse. Rumour was that a poor young man had his hand chopped off for hitting one of these crazy orange-brained dacoits. And now it seemed the Maoists were getting involved.
    ‘As if one set of murderers wasn’t enough,’ Radhika Madam said.
    His mother, too, begged him not to go into the city now. ‘Wait a while, na? Work in the field for a few days. With us. You can make up the money afterwards. I’ll help you.’
    But Tochi said it wasn’t the money.
    ‘What use your pride when we find you dead in the street?’
    But it wasn’t pride, either. Or not just pride. It was a desire to be allowed a say in his life. He wondered if this was selfish; whether, in fact, they were right and he should simply recognize his place in this world.
    The night before Navratri, on his way home, he stopped outside Kishen’s. His friend was pulling the shutter down.
    ‘You going into the city tomorrow?’ Kishen asked.
    ‘Do you think I should?’
    ‘I think you should at least leave your licence at home. And anything else with your name on it.’
    ‘Mera naam he tho hai.’
    ‘Vho he tho hai mera naam,’ Kishen finished. A schoolyard phrase, about their names being all they owned. The tailor took up his folded newspaper and flicked it twice with the back of his hand. ‘Our brothers-in-arms. The Maoists. They say they’ll fight fire with fire.’
    Tochi shoved into gear, driving off. ‘The pyres! The pyres!’
    He didn’t go. He stayed at home and went into the field with his brother. They worked all day, hacking, twining, carrying. Every hour he stood and slicked away the sweat from his forehead with the hem of his dhoti. Over the city, the sky was clear. He could see no column of smoke and he could hear no cries. All was silent save for his brother’s scythe a few rows back.
    His mother beheaded and cooked a whole chicken for the evening meal and afterwards Tochi returned to the auto, lying on top of the yellow roof with his hands behind his head. The sky was delirious with stars. The air was damp. The rains couldn’t be long. He heard his mother coming down the lane and turned to look. She was holding something; a box, which she placed on the rear wheel arch. She unfurled a long iron key from the end of her chunni and rattled the tin open, lifting it up to Tochi because she didn’t know how to