It’s 6pm when we arrive at Sukhbir’s father’s house. Dad pulls onto the verge to park then phones him. He soon emerges from his parents’ house, greeting us, and takes us around to their back garden. Their garden is beautiful and very private. Sukhbir asks us to take a seat on garden furniture, then disappears inside. After a few minutes, his father wanders out. Seeing him, dad stands up, greeting him respectfully.
‘Mr Ben ji,’ says the old man, ‘this is a nice surprise.’
‘Likewise,’ says my dad, offering a modest smile.
The old man gazes down the garden, as if he is thinking what to say. Perhaps he’s embarrassed or uncomfortable. But he’s soon offering us a seat. He takes one himself at the end of the table. For a second he looks at my mum. Then at me. Then finally back at dad.
‘It’s nice to see you again,’ says the old man finally.
‘Yes,’ whispers dad.
Mum smiles politely, thinks for a moment. Then: ‘Sorry?’
‘Sorry what?’
‘To see you again?’ asks mum. ‘You’ve met before?’
We watch the old man winking at dad, his face creasing into a smile.
‘Oh, Mr Ben and I go back a long way, don’t we lad?’
‘You do?’
There’s no response to that and an awkward silence descends. Mum’s staring at dad. Dad’s pushing his lips together, his gaze wandering all around him. And the old man: he’s just sitting there, smiling at us all. At home I would’ve chipped in by now to crack a joke to make everyone laugh. No but not here. I’m not good around old men I don’t know. You never know if they’re going to have a sense of humour, or will bite your head off like that one cross uncle at the mosque. No, but the old man is chuckling to himself now. Perhaps he has some humour in him after all.
‘If I’m not mistaken it was 1994…’ he starts all of a sudden. ‘The middle of March, I believe.’
Dad puts on that face he wears when he’s embarrassed, gazing down at the table top. He squeezes his mouth together so tightly, that his lips disappear completely.
‘Yes,’ says the old man, ‘it was a cold, dark, wet Wednesday afternoon. That was the day you first wandered into my life.’
‘Perhaps,’ whispers dad.
Mum glances at him, perplexed. Taking in the look on her face, the old man smiles even more. ‘Do I gather Mr Ben hasn’t told you this story?’ he asks. Of course mum shakes her head. ‘No? Well then I must tell it,’ he says.
‘There’s no need,’ says dad, his skin turning red, ‘let it remain a secret between us.’
‘There are no secrets,’ says the old man. ‘I’ve told everyone this story.’ He glances at my mum and smiles at her. ‘Yes, I don’t know who I haven’t told, in fact.’ I notice my dad is shaking his head, his finger pushed to his lips, but the old man just ignores him. ‘There’s no need to be embarrassed, Mr Ben. It’s a nice story, this one.’
Before he can continue, Sukhbir returns with a tray full of glasses and snacks, which he sets down on the table. He hands a drink to each of us. Dad takes a sip. He seems to be relieved by the interruption.
‘Mango juice,’ smiles dad. ‘My favourite.’
‘Everyone’s favourite,’ says Sukhbir, offering him the crisps.
‘This one’s good,’ says dad, ‘nice and thick. Not all watered down and filled with gunk.’
‘Only the best for my honoured guests,’ smiles Sukhbir. ‘Bombay mix?’
‘I’ll have another giant Wotsit. Those are rather good. Rather moreish.’
‘That’s the monosodium glutamate,’ laughs Sukhbir.
‘Yum,’ says dad, helping himself to a handful.
‘It won’t work,’ says mum.
‘My diet?’ asks dad.
‘No, changing the subject. I’m interested in hearing this story.’
‘Mr Singh has better things to do than tell stories,’ says dad.
‘No, I’m curious,’ says mum, looking at the old man. ‘Go on…’
‘Please,’ whispers dad, shaking his head. ‘Leave it.’
‘He hasn’t changed a bit, your husband,’ smiles the old man. ‘It’s just like that day we met.’
Beside him, Sukhbir glances at my dad, sensing his discomfort. ‘Come,’ he says, ‘I’ll show you the garden. Bring the crisps with you.’ Dad smiles and follows after him. Dad’s always happier munching on crisps. Mum wouldn’t let him normally.
‘So it’s a dreary, cold winter’s day,’ says the old man, refocusing on my mum. ‘I’d say it’s about 4.30pm. It’s quiet in the shop and I’m just pondering whether to wrap up for the day. That’s when this young man wanders in. He’s wearing his school uniform, so I know he goes to the same school as my children. I’m watching him because… well, he’s a kid. I don’t sell sweets or magazines. I watch him hovering about, fiddling with utensils in the kitchenware section.
‘At first I’m thinking, is he a shoplifter? Is he just waiting for me to get distracted so he can make a run for it? But then I’m thinking, why would you come to rob a shop in your school uniform, knowing I could easily identify him to the police? So now I’m really curious. It’s like he’s in deep thought, mulling over whether to talk to me or not. He keeps looking over at me, only to look away whenever our eyes meet.
‘It takes him almost a quarter of an hour to muster the courage to come over to speak to me. I remember this so clearly. He stands next to me, but doesn’t make eye contact. He’s shaking. Then all of a sudden he blurts out: “Are you Satya’s dad?” I look at him, a bit bemused, but I just nod my head. And then he says to me: “I need to talk to you, but I want you to promise you won’t get cross with Satya.” Well, of course, I couldn’t promise anything, because I had no idea what he was going to tell me, but I agreed anyway and offered him a seat beside me.
‘At first the lad doesn’t say anything at all. He’s nervous. I give him a glass of water, but he can’t pick it up, because his hands are shaking too much. And now tears start flooding out of his eyes. He says sorry, apologises. Nearly gets up to go, but then he stops and turns back to me. He looks me right in the eye and says: “I’m in love with someone.” And…’ The old man stops and chuckles to himself. ‘And as he says this, I’m thinking to myself, if he doesn’t get out of my sight… I don’t know what I’m going to do.’
He looks at my mum and then laughs again. Over there, I can see my dad getting agitated. He starts walking back towards us.
‘You see, I was half expecting something like this. But the young man just stares straight into my eyes and says: “Don’t worry, it’s not your daughter.” And now I’m just… baffled, confused.’
Arriving back, my dad shakes his head at the old man. ‘Please don’t tell this story,’ he mutters. ‘It’s all done. All finished.’
‘I’m sorry, Mr Ben, but I must. I’ve told everyone this. I want them to know why I have so much respect for you. Why I always have.’
‘Astaughfirullah,’ says dad, annoyed, ‘I did nothing worthy of respect.’ Dad’s forgotten his politeness now. His voice is angry, cross. ‘I was just trying to keep what was mine. I did nothing noble. I was just trying to hold onto my dreams. Why? Because I was desperate. So yes, I visited you at your shop and I told you everything. I told you that I’d never known anyone as kind-hearted as your daughter. I told you that she’d taken it upon herself to fix me. I explained to you what all her requests for help were in aid of. I told you that the pressure cooker you’d donated now sat in my kitchen at home. Yes, I told you everything.’
‘You certainly did,’ says the old man, gazing up at my dad amiably, ‘and then you pleaded with me not to be cross with her. You made me promise. Demanded that I take no action against her. Asked me to understand that her intentions were good.’
‘And they were,’ says dad, ‘And that was all true. But in spite of all that… yes, I just wanted to be left alone. Because I was still holding out for my beloved. I just wanted to be left alone to be with her again. I didn’t want to be fixed by anyone but her.’
Hearing him, the old man looks at my mum. ‘Would you believe it?’ he smiles, ‘That man of yours came to see me, knowing full well that there was a high probability that he’d be beaten to a pulp for his efforts, all because he wanted to be with you.’
‘Oh, my darling,’ says mum. ‘Did you really do that?’
‘It’s true,’ says dad, ‘but what I did that day… it was nothing worthy of praise. It was selfish. It was just me trying desperately to hold onto the one person I truly loved.’
‘But it was so much more than that, Mr Ben. You see, I already knew my daughter was worried about someone. My father had told me that much. Yes, Satya’s very own beloved dadaji had told me all about a conversation she’d had with him, concerning a young man in her class at school. My father was worried by all that talk, and he wanted me to put a stop to it. But instead, the story had piqued my interest, for he spoke of a young man who’d stood up for my daughter, defending her from bullies. Naturally, my father was worried about that boy’s intentions. I suppose I was too. But it turns out I needn’t have been.’
‘Well that was true,’ says dad.
‘But my respect for you only grew when I found out who you really were. Because I knew your dad, and I knew his cowardice in the face of his brothers. You could’ve been just like them too, but you chose not to take that path.’
‘If you knew the path I took, you wouldn’t be saying this. No, in the end I was a coward too.’
‘Untrue. For no coward could ever have walked into my shop to tell me to my face everything you told me. No coward could ever have made my son have second-thoughts. And no coward could have achieved all that you’ve done in your life.’
‘It’s kind of you to think so, but really, none of this is true. It’s just conceit. Ego. Everything I did back then was in pursuit of one thing: to marry my girl. I wasn’t brave. I didn’t do anything deserving of respect. If anything, it was the opposite. I just wanted to restore everything I’d broken. It’s just I never knew then it would take a quarter of a century to fix.’
‘Well, for what it’s worth, that’s not how I see it Mr Ben. If I was your father, I’d be proud to call you my son.’
‘You have a son to be proud of already,’ says dad. ‘Tell him. Tell him you’re proud of him. As for me? I did nothing to be proud of at all. What I did that day was seriously stupid. It could so easily have ended in the most horrific way imaginable. If you were a different kind of man, or a different kind of family, I shudder to think what might have happened as a result of that conversation we had.’
Sukhbir returns inside at this point, and dad looks at the old man seriously. ‘At the time, I couldn’t see that, of course: all I could think of then was me. But the truth: it was the most selfish thing anyone could possibly have done. It was idiotic. One of the most stupid things I’ve ever done in my life, and, believe me: I’ve done a lot of idiotic things. In fact, that’s the only way my dad could possibly have been proud of me: if, as a consequence of my actions, Satya had come to serious harm. I know she could’ve done. It only took me another two weeks to see that. And when I did, I threw up for days. I kept having visions of her being tortured because of me, and it made me so sick that I turned to drink. I’ve regretted that conversation we had my whole life. Not because it wasn’t true; no, but because it could so easily have ended in catastrophe.’
‘We’ll have to agree to disagree,’ says the old man. ‘I have never forced any of my children to marry against their will. Why would I? I well knew the pain of parental opposition, having married the woman of my dreams myself. No, I had always taught them that the choice was theirs.’ He looks at my dad. ‘So no, Satya would never have come to harm at my hands,’ he says. ‘She’s the comfort of my eyes, and always has been.’
‘I’m glad,’ says dad, ‘but that doesn’t change a thing. Nothing I did back then was worthy of any kind of respect. I was a mess. A walking disaster. And the truth: it’s taken me all these years to finally feel content in myself. Only now do I really feel at peace, with my beloved at my side. You can ask her.’
Mum looks at dad lovingly. ‘We’ve both been a long term project,’ she smiles at him. ‘Perhaps we’re whole again at last.’ She thinks for a moment. ‘As long as there are no more surprises awaiting us. This weekend has been a rollercoaster ride and a half.’
‘I’m sure it has,’ says the old man. ‘My daughter said the same thing.’ He looks at us all. ‘But let’s forget about all that. We’re here for a celebration. It’s the first time I’ve seen my son smile in a very long time. He’s had it tough the last few years. I worry about him. So thank you. Thank you for what you did today.’
Mum and dad just smile at the man, and take to munching snacks from the table. I sense there are things they want to talk about without me listening in, so I decide to go wandering around their garden. In the end, I settle on a bench under winding creepers, grateful for its privacy. I’ve sat there ten minutes before I’m called back. When I return, dinner is served. Sukhbir’s mother now sits opposite mum, Sukhbir opposite my dad. I’ve been given a place on the end of the table, opposite the old man.
‘Tuck in,’ says Sukhbir.
‘It’s meat?’ asks dad, surprised.
‘Yes, but it’s all halal.’
‘I thought you were vegetarian.’
‘Only my sister’s into all that,’ he says. ‘No, she’s never managed to convert me, despite her best efforts. You remember this, I’m sure.’
‘Convert?’
‘You know: believe. She wanted us to be real Sikhs, like she’d read about in some book in the library. But it was never going to happen.’
‘And your parents?’ asks dad.
‘Yes, we were always the same,’ smiles the old man. ‘Satya always was the pious one. The rest of us: always a bit of a disappointment, I think.’
‘Remember when she used to tell us we had to grow our hair long and wear a turban?’ laughs Sukhbir.
‘Yes, and grow a big long beard,’ chuckles his dad. ‘Poor Satya.’
‘But she landed on her feet in the end,’ says mum, watching them. ‘Surjan seems nice.’
‘That’s true,’ says the old man. ‘She certainly found what she was looking for in him.’
‘And then some,’ says Sukhbir.
‘I’m glad,’ mutters mum, ‘she deserved to.’
As she says this, Sukhbir gazes at my parents intently. ‘Seems she wasn’t the only one,’ he says. ‘Look at you two. Nothing could keep you apart. Not me, not my sister, not…’
‘A fascist cult? A riot? A spell in intensive care? Years of depression? Yes, alhamdulilah,’ says dad.
‘I’m sorry,’ says Sukhbir once more.
‘That’s finished now,’ says dad. ‘Isn’t it?’
‘I thought saying sorry would lift my gloom, but seeing you together: it just makes me feel even worse, because now I see that you always meant to be together. I’m so sorry I caused you so much pain.’
‘Forgiven and forgotten,’ says dad, smiling at him.
‘If only I could forget,’ says Sukhbir.
‘Give it time,’ says dad. ‘I’ve forgiven you. Anjana’s forgiven you. I’m sure your father’s forgiven you too. And here we are, sitting in your parents’ garden, sharing a meal together. Did you ever imagine that? Could this ever have happened in your wildest dreams? No, nor in mine. But here we are. It’s been a very strange weekend, coming back here after all those years away. If you knew the regrets I’ve carried with me for the past thirty years: you’d be amazed by the past three days. These three days alone have eased three decades of hurt. It’s as if I’ve finally made peace in my heart.’
‘And me too,’ says mum, smiling reassuringly. ‘I’ve carried three burdens with me for years. Two of them were related to your family. The first, jealousy of your sister. I’ve carried that in my heart since 1994, and it never left me until last night. The other, my utter hatred of you. I carried that ever since your sister told me what you’d done. That was October 1995. Twenty-five years and five months ago. And that hatred never left me until, well, about a minute ago. My husband forgave you earlier, but, truly, only now have I really, sincerely, let go. Now you’re forgiven, and now my heart feels at rest.’
‘And the other burden?’ asks Sukhbir’s mother, leaning in.
‘That one: I don’t know if that will ever heal.’
‘Your husband’s family?’ she asks.
‘Yes.’
‘Do you want to make peace with them?’ asks Sukhbir’s father.
‘Are you going to tell me you know them, and you’re best friends now? Nothing would surprise me after this weekend.’
‘No,’ he chuckles, ‘I don’t know them. But perhaps you can still make peace some other way.’
‘No,’ says mum, ‘that’s a step too far.’
‘But you forgave me?’ says Sukhbir.
‘I was never terrified of you.’
‘And we’re not going there,’ says dad. ‘That one is a topic we don’t discuss. I’m linked to my dad only by virtue of the fact he never took no for an answer.’
‘It sounds like these are still open wounds,’ says the old man.
‘Yes, they are,’ says dad, ‘And they will never heal.’
‘Never say never,’ says the old man. ‘For look at us.’
Dad glances at mum. ‘Let’s not spoil our evening together,’ he says. ‘My wife only mentioned all of that to give your son hope. He’ i’s forgiven because he expressed remorse. Satya is forgiven because she redeemed herself. We all make choices. My choice was to choose love over hate. It seems that Sukhbir has done the same, so may God grant his heart rest.’
‘Amin,’ says mum.
‘And there’s the man I grew to respect,’ says the old man. ‘You’re a good man, Mr Ben.’
‘Astaughfirullah,’ says dad.
‘No,’ says mum, ‘he’s right. If only you could see it. If only you would believe in yourself.’
‘We’re not here to congratulate ourselves,’ says dad. ‘Let’s not get carried away. Regardless of the little we’ve achieved this weekend, we’ve still a lifetime of sins to make up for. May Allah have mercy on our souls.’
At the end of the table, Vijay Singh pushes his back upright.
‘Yes,’ he says, ‘it seems the pandemic… lockdown… all of this… it seems it has been making us all introspective. I thought I was alone in perpetually dwelling on the past until the past week. It seems we have all been doing the same thing.’
‘True,’ says Sukhbir, nodding.
‘All of us: stuck back in the distant past, digging it over, so desperate to change everything, then just growing frustrated because we find that the past is a room we can no longer enter. There is no key to unlock those doors, to go back to rectify all of our mistakes of the past.’
Hearing him, Sukhbir’s mother nods her head. ‘It’s true,’ she says, ‘locked in our homes, it certainly feels like there’s no future ahead of us. It feels like there’s nothing to invest our hope in. That’s how I’ve felt anyway. So we should rejoice in this impromptu gathering.’
‘Yes,’ says her husband. ‘Thank you, Sukhbir. Thank you for bringing us together.’
Sukhbir nods his head shyly, gazing at his father. ‘Thanks to these two,’ he says.
‘These days I’ve been thinking a lot about my beloved father,’ says the old man, ‘It’s a decade since we lost him, but I miss him every day. He had a good innings, that’s for sure, and we couldn’t have asked for more. But one thing I’m sure about: he would’ve been so proud to see us gathered together like this. I can just imagine what he would say. Yes, I think I would finally have made him proud.’
‘Dadaji was always proud of you,’ says Sukhbir, but his father only offers him a reticent smile.
‘My father had great dreams for his sons: my brother and I. He spent all of our childhood reading to us. He collected books like the people collect lottery tickets and lucky dips. When we came home from school and he came home from work, he devoted all his free time to tutoring us. That humble factory worker was a polymath. He came home smelling of fish, but spent his evenings teaching us algebra and Shakespeare. We were all destined to great things, he always told us, but only my brother believed it. He put his head down and studied hard. He went off to study accountancy, got himself a good job down in the midlands and won awards and great acclaim all around.
‘Me? I left school at sixteen and just tried my hand at anything and everything. I started with a market stall, selling socks and Tupperware. I dropped the socks after a few weeks. Nobody wanted my socks, but those plastic containers: who knew tubs with lids could be such a fad? I soon diversified into all kinds of housewares. I was eighteen when I took my first leasehold. That’s when I set up my first shop.
‘And my motive? I wanted to make my father proud, to show him that I wasn’t a failure for dropping out of school at sixteen. I knew I could never compete with my brother, but at least I was standing on my own two feet. I asked nothing of anyone. I have never claimed a benefit in my life. I started with a seed: cash I earned from a newspaper round. I invested that in my first box of socks, which is why I always laughed when my children said I worked my socks off. But indeed I did.
‘I wasn’t satisfied just selling sieves and ladles. I imported a load of kettles: the first plastic ones that didn’t scold your hands when you lifted them up. They sold like hot cakes. I bought a load of toasters too, then vacuum cleaners… and then I realised I needed a bigger shop, so I signed my second leasehold. From then on, I focussed on electrical goods, white goods: fridges, freezers, cookers, washing machines. And I thought then that I’d achieved what I set out to: to make my father proud.’
‘And he was,’ says Sukhbir again.
‘Perhaps,’ he says, ‘but through this Covid nightmare: it has been difficult to recall anything positive from the past at all. All that occupies me are my many mistakes. Whatever I achieved in life, it has all seemed to be dwarfed by my regrets. My biggest regret: that I was so busy trying to make my father proud, that I neglected my own family: my wife and my children. I was so focussed on growing my business and my reputation, that I didn’t see my family falling apart right under my nose. I regret that so enormously. My reputation, then, was more important than the happiness of my entire family.’
Vijay turns to his son, glancing along at him.
‘You, my dear son: I know I failed you. I projected onto you all my anger at myself for dropping out of school at sixteen, despite every effort of my parents to give me a life of ease. My father wanted me to get a profession, and I wanted the same for you. So I told you what my father told me: to study hard, to put in your all. I was inattentive to the racism you faced in your life: to the daily struggles just to get ahead.
‘Of course, I had my father tutoring me every night after school; but you: I was too busy at the shop to think about that. I just left you to your own devices, thinking you’d muddle through. But of course you didn’t, because you were dealing with the exact same racism that had caused me to drop out of school at sixteen. All I was focussed on was what I had achieved, and I was going to do everything it took to preserve my reputation. I wasn’t going to have anyone call me a failure.’
Now Vijay looks at my dad.
‘And it was here that our lives collided. This fellow at my side. I fear I am to blame, in part, for that dreadful day. I was the one who told my son that your family would never change. I was trying to console my son, to say it wasn’t his fault: that the obstacles he faced as a young man had nothing to do with anything he had ever done. It was just that some people are like that: no matter how you try to life your life, they will attack you anyway. I was trying to explain that their behaviour was not because of something we had ever done. It was just that they thought themselves better than us. Yes, so I told my son: they’re just a family of racists. Your dad, his brothers, and now their sons too. Yes, so it was my fault: I set my son on that path.’
He looks at my dad intently.
‘And I didn’t think anything of that, until I was forced to, locked in a police cell, forced to account for the actions of my son by a sneering officer who insisted on reminding me who I was and all I’d ever amount to. That day, I returned home furious, and I laid into my son, hitting him until he cried out, “No more!” All I could think of then was my reputation, my reputation, my reputation. I’d taken myself down to the police station on my own, hoping to salvage the situation. Fortunately, all everyone else was worried about was a riot, so they sent me home with a warning, demanding that I’d never speak of what my son had done to anyone.’
His eyes are back on his son now.
‘That was where our relationship disintegrated. You and I: we never saw eye to eye again. I just threw myself back into my work, and avoided home as much as I could. I couldn’t face any of you for what happened that day. I just tried to salvage my reputation, keeping my head down, hoping and praying every day that you’d stay out of trouble: that I wouldn’t just forever be known as Sukhbir’s dad. How I regret thinking that way!’
Vijay smiles at his son.
‘In you, my dear Sukhbir, I see me. You’ve spent your whole life trying to make me proud too. But the truth is, I am proud of you. I’m proud of all my children. I know life hasn’t been easy for you. I know you’ve struggled with everything life threw at you. I know you’ve felt you’ve had to say sorry for all that happened back then, but I think you’ve forgotten that you’ve been saying that for twenty-five years. All is forgiven, Sukhbir. Long ago. If there’s anyone who should apologise, it’s me: for being so absorbed in my work to remember to behave like a dad. No Sukhbir, I’ve long been proud of you, my son.’
Vijay looks at my dad intently now, and touches his arm.
‘And you, Mr Ben…’ He pauses for quite some time. ‘I’ve thought a lot about you. For many years, too. I’m sorry that we wronged you. I’m sorry that my daughter came between the two of you. I’m sorry my son did too. I’m sorry that things I said caused so much harm. But I’m proud of my children too, for all they did afterwards to make up for all the wrong they did. I’m so proud of Satya for putting everything right. And I’m proud of Sukhbir for striving to do the same.’
He glances down the table towards his wife. ‘It’s a shame our daughters couldn’t be with us this evening. I should have liked them to hear this too. For if I have accomplished anything at all in my life, my joy and pride is the four children we raised, and the fourteen grandchildren they’ve raised themselves. I will never say I was a good father, but I tried my best. And I’m proud of each and every one of my children. They are indeed my greatest accomplishment. This gathering now is proof of that.’
‘Peace it is, till the rising of dawn,’ says dad, smiling.
‘Make a dua, Ben,’ says mum, gazing at him. Dad is shy at first, but Sukhbir’s dad encourages him. Eventually he raises his palms out before him and begins to pray silently.
‘Let us hear your voice,’ says the old woman from her place.
Dad’s not really a man of many words, so he just quotes a verse of the Quran instead: ‘Our Lord, grant us from among our spouses and offspring comfort to our eyes and make us leaders for those mindful of God.’
‘Beautiful,’ says mum, smiling at him. ‘A fitting close to an exhausting rollercoaster of a weekend. Thank you for your hospitality. I don’t know if we will ever see each other again after this, but we will treasure these moments. Thank you for sharing your lives with us.’
‘No,’ says the old man, ‘thank you.’
