The Canal by Our Fields

The phone began vibrating against the kitchen worktop a little after six, just as Surinder was pouring tea.

He glanced towards it without moving. Kuldeep was at the cooker, stirring the tadka into the dal, and the television in the adjoining room carried the early-evening news, neither of them properly listening. Outside, the August light still held over the gardens at the back of the house, flattening the brick walls and sheds into long bands of yellow.

The phone buzzed again.

Jugs Sandhu

Surinder smiled to himself.

“Hun ki hoya?”

Kuldeep looked over her shoulder. “Who?”

“Jugs.”

“Ask him Sunday coming or not. Last time also he—”

Surinder waved a hand and picked up the phone.

“Haan, Jugs, bol.”

There was no answer.

“Hello?”

A breath came through the line, followed by a woman’s voice.

“Uncle?”

Surinder took the phone away from his ear and looked again at the screen.

Jugs Sandhu

“Simran?”

“Yeah. Hi, Uncle.”

Something in her voice made him put the tea down.

“What happened, puttar?”

For a second there was only the faint sound of movement at her end: a door closing, somebody speaking farther away.

Then she said, “Dad died this afternoon.”

Surinder did not understand the sentence at first.

“Dad’s gone, Uncle.”

Kuldeep turned from the cooker. Surinder lifted one hand towards her without looking away from the window.

“What you are saying?”

“He collapsed at home. I came round because he wasn’t picking up. I called the ambulance, started CPR, but…” Simran stopped. When she spoke again, her voice had changed. “They took him to hospital. They tried, but he’d already gone.”

“When?”

“About three.”

“Three today?”

“Yeah.”

“But he was fine.”

“I know.”

“Then how?”

“They think it was his heart. We don’t know properly yet.”

“Heart? What heart?”

“I don’t know, Uncle.”

“No, he never told me any heart problem.”

“I don’t think there was one.”

Surinder leaned his hip against the counter. Three weeks earlier Jagtar had sat opposite him at Gill’s anniversary dinner with a chicken drumstick in one hand, complaining that his GP had told him to lose ten kilos.

Bloody doctor. First make you wait three weeks, then tell you stop eating everything.

He had taken another sip of whisky before finishing the sentence.

“Uncle?”

“Hanji. I am here.”

“Aman is with you?”

“Yeah. He came down from Manchester.”

“You are at hospital?”

“No, I’m at Dad’s now. Aman is here. They’ve taken Dad to the mortuary.”

“Hmm.”

Surinder looked at the cup of tea on the worktop. A thin skin had already begun to form across the top.

“Uncle, I’m calling people from Dad’s phone. There’s loads of numbers I don’t have. I wanted to tell you myself.”

“You did right.”

“I knew you’d want to know.”

“Thank you, puttar.”

“I’m sorry.”

Surinder frowned. “For what you are sorry?”

“I just mean…” She stopped. “I know you and Dad were close.”

Surinder could think of nothing to say. He looked again at the name on the screen. Jugs Sandhu. The same name that appeared when Jagtar called to complain about somebody, ask if he was free on Sunday, send a photograph of a car he had no intention of buying, or tell Surinder to put the cricket on because something had happened.

“I am coming over.”

“You don’t need to, Uncle. Honestly. There are people here.”

“What you mean don’t need? I am coming.”

“It’s all right.”

“Simran, I will be there in twenty minutes.”

“Okay.”

“You eaten?”

“No.”

“We are bringing dal.”

“Thanks, Uncle.”

“And don’t sit alone.”

“I’m not alone.”

“Good.”

Surinder wanted to say something else. Something that would be appropriate to a daughter whose father had died three hours earlier. He thought of himmat rakho, then rejected it before the words reached his mouth.

“Simran?”

“Yeah?”

“Bas, puttar. We are coming.”

The call ended.

Kuldeep had turned the cooker off.

“What happened?”

Surinder put the phone slowly onto the worktop.

“Jugs chala gaya.”

She stared at him.

“Ki?”

“Jagtar.”

“What happened?”

“Heart attack.”

For a second her face remained unchanged, as though the meaning had been delayed somewhere between them.

“When?”

“Three o’clock.”

“Waheguru.”

She pulled out a chair and sat down.

“But he was all right.”

Surinder nodded.

“You only met him three weeks back.”

“Haan, at Gill’s.”

Kuldeep stared at the table. “Poor children.”

From the living room came the weather forecast, the presenter speaking about showers moving in overnight from the west.

Since Manjit died five years earlier, both children had tried more than once to persuade Jagtar to move. Simran wanted him closer to her; Aman said the house was too much for one person. Jagtar dismissed them both.

Why I should move? My house is here.

When Surinder told him that seventy-plus was not the age to be proving independence to anyone, Jagtar had laughed.

Sunny, I am in Smethwick, not Himalayas. If I fall down, you are twenty minutes away.

Kuldeep stood.

“I’ll change quickly.”

She went upstairs.

Surinder remained in the kitchen. He picked up his phone again. At the top of the recent calls was:

Jugs Sandhu

7 min

It looked exactly like what it had always looked like: another call between them.

He opened WhatsApp.

Jagtar’s photograph was still the one from a holiday somewhere in southern Europe: white polo shirt, dark glasses, one arm resting across the back of a chair. Behind him was a strip of intensely blue water. Spain, perhaps. Jagtar had told him the name of the place more than once, but Surinder could not remember it.

Their last exchange was four days old.

Sunday?

Surinder had replied almost an hour later.

Not this week. Next one pakka.

Below it sat Jagtar’s yellow thumbs-up.

He looked at the messages for a moment longer than he needed to. He could not now remember why he had said no. Kuldeep had wanted to go somewhere, perhaps. Their daughter might have been coming. There had been a reason, but it had already lost its shape.

He scrolled upwards. A photograph of an old Mercedes Jagtar had seen for sale. A complaint about council tax. Something about the cricket. A video neither of them would have remembered sending. Brief exchanges stretched across months without apology.

Free?

Call kar.

Tomorrow.

Sunday?

They had never needed much arrangement. Since retirement, they had seen each other once or twice most months—sometimes at Jagtar’s, sometimes at Surinder’s, sometimes over tea on Soho Road or at somebody else’s function. If one Sunday did not work, another one would.

Kuldeep came down wearing a cardigan and carrying her handbag. She quickly packed the dal into disposable containers.

“Ready?”

Surinder locked the phone.

“Chalo.”

They left the tea untouched.

The drive from Handsworth to Smethwick usually took less than twenty minutes. Surinder had made it so often that he barely registered the route. He turned off before Kuldeep had finished fastening her seat belt, took the familiar lanes through the evening traffic and moved across at the next junction well before the signs told him to. The roads were still busy: buses pulling away from stops, delivery riders slipping between cars, people coming home from work. Outside a row of shops, two men were dragging crates of vegetables back inside while a barber swept hair into a dustpan.

Kuldeep sat quietly beside him.

After a while she said, “When did you speak to him last?”

“Message kita si, four days back.”

“Phone?”

Surinder thought.

“Last week maybe.”

“And he said nothing?”

“What he will say? He was fine.”

Kuldeep looked out of the window.

At the next set of lights Surinder said, “Absolutely fine.”

She did not answer.

By the time they turned into Jagtar’s road, cars had already begun collecting along both sides. Surinder slowed automatically near the house, saw there was nowhere to stop and carried on another fifty yards before pulling partly onto the pavement.

Kuldeep looked back through the rear window.

“So many people already.”

The front door was open. Two men stood near the gate, one of them someone Surinder recognised from the gurdwara. The man stepped forward when he saw him.

“Surinder.”

The man stepped closer and touched his arm.

“Bada maada hoya.”

“Hanji.”

The man lowered his eyes. “Waheguru.”

There was nothing more to add.

Inside, shoes had already gathered along the hallway wall. Jagtar’s own brown walking shoes were beneath the radiator, toes pointing neatly towards the door, the laces tucked inside the way he always left them. Surinder noticed them because he nearly stepped on one.

The house smelled of tea, perfume, damp coats and something fried that someone had brought in a foil tray.

Simran was standing near the fireplace with her phone in her hand. She wore grey jogging bottoms and an old university sweatshirt, her hair tied back without much care. When she saw Surinder, her face changed.

“Uncle.”

He went to her and she put both arms around him.

Surinder had thought during the drive about what he might say when he saw her. None of it came.

He placed one hand against the back of her head.

“Bas, puttar.”

She began to cry.

Kuldeep came around him and took Simran into her arms. Aman was in the kitchen when they arrived, still in the shirt he had worn to work, speaking quietly into his phone. Babbu, one of Manjit’s nephews, was answering the door, and every few minutes another phone began ringing somewhere in the room.

Surinder stepped aside.

The house looked exactly as it had three weeks earlier.

The large television was fixed to the wall opposite the sofa. Manjit’s photograph stood near the window beside a vase of artificial flowers she would never have allowed there herself. A small brass khanda sat on the mantelpiece. Photographs of Simran’s children filled one side table; on another lay a stack of envelopes held down by Jagtar’s reading glasses.

His chair was beside the window.

Nobody was sitting in it.

Someone handed Surinder tea. He thanked them without seeing who they were and sat on the edge of the sofa.

Over the next hour the story of the afternoon was repeated several times as new people arrived.

Jagtar had not answered Simran’s call, so she had gone round and found him in the lounge. The ambulance came quickly, but by the time they reached hospital there was nothing anyone could do. His body was in the mortuary for the night. They would know more in the morning.

Each telling grew slightly shorter.

Aman had been in the kitchen most of that time, taking calls. When he finally came into the living room, his shirt sleeves were rolled to his elbows and his phone was still in his hand.

“Sunny Uncle.”

Surinder stood and pulled him into an embrace.

“Puttar.”

Aman held him for a moment before stepping back.

“You okay?”

He shook his head. “Don’t know, Uncle. It’s all a bit mad.”

“Haan.”

“I spoke to him this morning. Some problem with one of the properties.” He looked towards his father’s chair. “He was completely normal.”

Aman’s phone rang again.

He looked at the screen, then back at Surinder.

“Go, puttar.”

Aman nodded and returned to the kitchen.

Later, Simran brought Jagtar’s phone to Surinder.

“Uncle, do you know who this is?”

A name was flashing across the screen.

“Bhatti. Coventry one. Give.”

He answered and moved into the hallway.

The next caller was someone from Jagtar’s foundry days whom even Surinder knew only by name.

Over the next three days, Surinder went to Jagtar’s house more often than he went anywhere else.

There was always someone there. Old friends from the foundry years, men he had worked with in construction, people from the gurdwara, tenants, neighbours, relatives Surinder had not seen since Manjit’s funeral. Some came carrying fruit or packets of biscuits nobody opened. Others brought trays of food and left them in the kitchen until there was barely room on the counters. Tea was made continuously. Cups appeared on windowsills, side tables and the mantelpiece. Someone was always asking where the sugar was.

By the second day, Simran no longer explained what had happened unless someone asked directly. She had learned to reduce the afternoon to a few sentences.

Dad had not answered. She had gone round. He was on the floor beside the sofa. She called the ambulance and started CPR. They came quickly. They tried.

After that there was little more to say.

Aman spent much of his time with his father’s phone in one hand and his own in the other. Between calls he dealt with the properties Jagtar had left behind: a tenant without heating in West Bromwich, a contractor waiting for payment, keys nobody could find. Twice Surinder heard him begin a sentence with, “Dad normally sorts that,” then stop.

Jagtar was cremated three days after his death.

Four days later, the family gathered again at the gurdwara for the final prayers and bhog.

The morning was grey, the sort of Birmingham morning in which the light seemed to arrive without the sun. Surinder and Kuldeep reached early. By eleven, the car park was full.

People from every part of Jagtar’s life were there. Men who had known him at different times greeted one another quietly, sometimes needing a name before recognition came. There were people Surinder knew well, others he remembered only by face, and several he had never seen before.

Simran sat among the women inside the prayer hall, her hair covered, wearing a plain dark suit. Aman sat with the men. From where Surinder was, he could see only part of his face.

The service passed more quickly than he expected.

There was kirtan, familiar prayers, the rustle of people settling and shifting on the carpet. At times Surinder lowered his head; at others he found himself looking towards Simran and Aman.

For most of their lives he had known them through Jagtar. Simran was Jugs’s daughter. Aman was Jugs’s son. Even after they had grown into adults with careers, homes and lives of their own, some part of Surinder had continued to see them that way.

Now people were approaching them directly.

After the prayers, the congregation moved towards the langar hall. Conversations began quietly and then gathered around the tables. Someone spoke about Jagtar’s years in the foundry. Another remembered the construction days. A man Surinder knew from the gurdwara said Jagtar could argue for half an hour over five pounds and then spend fifty buying dinner for everyone.

A few people laughed. Surinder did too, and for a moment he could hear Jagtar objecting to the story.

By the time people began leaving, the morning had warmed slightly, though the sky remained colourless. Small groups formed again outside the entrance and beside the parked cars. Nobody seemed quite ready to go, even though there was no reason to remain.

Surinder was speaking to an old acquaintance when Simran touched his arm.

“Uncle?”

Aman was standing beside her.

“Can we have a word?”

“Haan, puttar.”

They moved a little away from the others, towards a low wall at the edge of the car park. Kuldeep was talking to one of Manjit’s cousins nearby.

Simran glanced at Aman before speaking.

“You know what Dad always said about his ashes.”

There had been no secrecy about it. Jagtar had mentioned it often enough over the years, sometimes seriously, sometimes after a drink, sometimes when news came that somebody else had died.

When my time comes, take me back.

Not Kiratpur. Not some large river. The little canal by our fields.

“Yes,” Surinder said.

“We want to do it,” Simran said. “The way he wanted.”

“Yes. You should.”

Aman slipped his hands into his trouser pockets.

“The thing is, we don’t actually know where it is.”

“The canal?”

“Yeah.”

Simran gave a small, almost embarrassed smile. “Dad talked about it loads. The fields, the canal, the road from the village. I’ve heard the stories since I was little. But if you put me there now, I wouldn’t know where to go.”

“You have been to pind.”

“When I was about nine.”

“Later also.”

“Once for a wedding. But we weren’t actually in the village. It was at some palace.”

Aman said, “I barely remember going at all.”

Cars moved slowly out of the gurdwara car park behind them.

Then Simran said, “Dad always said you’d know.”

“Of course I know.”

Her face relaxed slightly.

“It ran beside your family’s fields,” he said. “Ours were further along. There was a small crossing there, just enough for a tractor.”

Simran nodded, as though fixing the details in place.

“So, you could take us?”

The question surprised him.

“What you mean take you? You think I will send you alone?”

A faint smile appeared on her face.

“I was hoping you’d say that.”

“When you want to go?”

“We need to sort the ashes, flights, everything. Maybe next week if it works.”

“Theek. You tell me dates.”

“I might have to stay here, Uncle. There’s loads with the properties, probate, everything. But Sim will go.”

Simran looked at him. “We’ll work it out.”

“No problem. Just let me know.”

He had grown up there. Jagtar had grown up three houses away. They had walked those fields hundreds of times, cycled beside the canal, crossed it when the water ran low and come home with mud on their clothes.

Behind them, someone called her name.

“I’ll come in a sec.”

She turned back to Surinder.

“Thanks, Uncle.”

He shook his head.

Simran touched his arm once before walking away.

Surinder remained beside the wall with Aman.

“Dad really wanted this,” Aman said.

“I know.”

“He used to go on about that canal.”

Surinder smiled.

“He fell in once.”

“What?”

“Your dad. Maybe fourteen, fifteen. Monsoon time. Water was high. We told him not to cross from that side. He thought he was some hero.”

“What happened?”

“Nothing. Came home wet. His father beat him.”

Aman laughed softly.

“He never told us that.”

“Good. Don’t tell Simran now. She will make a whole story of it.”

Aman smiled.

For the first time that morning, Surinder saw something of Jagtar in his face—not in the features; Aman had always looked more like Manjit—but in the way the smile appeared first on one side.

“Chalo, puttar. We will see you soon.”

Surinder crossed the car park to where Kuldeep was waiting.

Once they were in the car, she pulled the seat belt across. “Sab theek hai?”

“Jugs’s ashes.”

“They are taking?”

“Haan.”

“To pind?”

“Haan. Just like he wanted.”

“And you?”

“I am going with Simran.”

“When were you last there?”

Surinder frowned.

“Where?”

“Pind.”

He started to answer, then stopped.

A wedding came first to mind. Baljeet’s daughter. But that had been at a marriage palace outside Garhshankar. Before that, another wedding near Hoshiarpur. Someone’s bhog on the main road. His uncle’s grandson’s reception in Nawanshahr.

He searched further back.

“I went when… two thousand… three, maybe.”

She stared at him.

“That long?”

“No.” Surinder shook his head. “After also.”

“To functions, yes.”

“Haan.”

“I mean inside the village.”

Surinder looked across the car park. People were beginning to leave now. Engines started, doors closed, small groups broke apart.

“Must be after that.”

Kuldeep adjusted the strap of her handbag.

“Maybe.”

Surinder said nothing.

He could still see the road.

At least, he thought he could.

A week later, by the time they reached Mohali, it was almost evening.

The journey had left Simran quiet. She sat in the back seat with her head against the window, answering the occasional message on her phone. The small bag containing Jagtar’s ashes rested beside her, wedged between her handbag and the door.

Surinder sat in front. He had spent most of the drive talking to the driver. Which road was better now. Where the traffic usually built up. Whether the new flyover had made any difference. What land was selling for around Kharar. The driver complained about tolls; Surinder complained about the way people drove through roundabouts. By the time they entered Mohali, the two of them had disagreed about three things and settled none of them.

Simran looked up as they stopped at a light.

“You two done?”

“What?”

“You’ve been arguing since the airport.”

“Arguing? We are talking.”

The driver laughed.

A faint smile crossed Simran’s face before she looked back out of the window.

They passed apartment blocks, clinics, banks, coaching centres and shopfronts beginning to light up for the evening. Traffic thickened around the crossings. Scooters gathered ahead of the cars wherever a space opened, then scattered again when the signal changed.

At the next junction, Surinder leaned forward.

“Take left from here. This side is shorter.”

The driver glanced at the navigation screen.

“Sir, map is showing straight.”

“Map can show whatever. You take left.”

The driver took the left.

Five minutes later they were moving freely again.

Surinder glanced back at Simran.

“See?”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were thinking.”

“I definitely was.”

They reached his sister’s house shortly before seven.

Harpreet was waiting inside the gate.

She came forward as soon as the car stopped, but there was none of the usual calling out from a distance. Surinder stepped out. Brother and sister simply looked at one another before she embraced him.

“Safar theek reha?”

“Haan. Theek si.”

Then she looked towards Simran.

Simran had come around the other side of the car carrying the bag.

Harpreet went to her first.

“Puttar.”

Simran bent instinctively to touch her feet, but Harpreet caught her by the shoulders and pulled her up.

“Nahi, beta. Daughters don’t touch feet.”

She held her.

Harpreet’s eyes moved to the bag in her hand and stayed there.

“Dad,” Simran said.

Harpreet placed her palm lightly against the top of the bag, then brought the same hand briefly to her forehead.

“Waheguru.”

Surinder looked away towards the house.

Harpreet’s husband had come out by then. He embraced Surinder and said nothing beyond, “Pahunch gaye.”

“Hanji.”

He took one of the suitcases from the driver.

Inside, the house seemed unusually quiet. Someone was making tea in the kitchen.

“Come, sit.” She pointed towards the sofa. “Pehlan cha pee lo.”

Simran placed the bag carefully on the side table beside her chair.

Harpreet noticed.

“Room is ready upstairs. If you want, keep it there.”

“Better,” Surinder said.

Harpreet picked up the bag herself.

“Main rakh dindi aan.”

She carried it upstairs with both hands, and Surinder watched her go. Only after she disappeared at the landing did he sit down.

For a while nobody spoke much. Harpreet’s husband asked about the flight, whether Aman had stayed behind, when the bhog had been. Surinder answered. Simran held the cup of tea between both hands without drinking.

When Harpreet came back down, she sat beside her.

“Your father came here last time…” She looked towards Surinder. “When was it?”

“Maybe six, seven years.”

“No. More.”

Surinder thought.

Harpreet shook her head.

“He sat exactly there.”

She pointed towards the chair beside the window.

“He kept saying Mohali had become too crowded.”

A small smile came to Simran’s face.

“That sounds like Dad.”

“Haan.”

“Tomorrow you are going to pind?”

“If Uncle says.”

“Haan,” he said. “Morning.”

Harpreet nodded. “Go after breakfast. No need to rush.”

After a moment she said, “Anyone knows you are coming?”

Surinder shook his head. “No need.”

Harpreet picked up her tea.

“Who is left there now?”

“Plenty people.”

“Like who?”

Surinder gave one name.

“Canada.”

He gave another.

“Jalandhar. They shifted.”

“What about Darshan?”

“Haan. Darshan is there.”

Surinder leaned back.

“See.”

Harpreet took a sip of her tea and said nothing.

The next morning, they left after breakfast.

Harpreet stood at the gate while the driver loaded their bags into the boot. Simran carried the smaller bag herself.

“Phone kar dena when you reach,” Harpreet said.

“Haan.”

“And meet Darshan.”

“You have told me three times.”

“Then remember once.”

He ignored that and got into the front seat.

The morning traffic had already thickened by the time they left Mohali. For the first half-hour Surinder said little. The city thinned slowly around them—apartment blocks giving way to workshops, tyre shops, building-material yards and stretches of road lined with newly built commercial units.

Simran sat behind him, looking out.

“Dad used to hate this road.”

“Which road?”

“This one. Or maybe another one. He said every time he came back there was another flyover.”

“Your dad complained about everything.”

“He did.”

“Road bad, complain. Road good, complain they spoiled old road.”

Simran smiled.

“That also sounds like him.”

They passed Kharar and continued towards Ropar. Surinder began talking more as familiar names appeared on signboards. He pointed out where an old acquaintance had once run a transport business, where a relative’s family had moved after selling land, where a dhaba used to stand before the road was widened.

Some things he remembered exactly.

At one junction the driver slowed, uncertain between two roads.

“Right,” Surinder said.

The driver looked at the navigation screen.

“This is also showing right.”

“Then why you stopped?”

The driver laughed and turned.

A little later Simran leaned forward between the seats.

“Were you and Dad in the same school?”

“Same school. He was three classes ahead.”

“And after school?”

“He went to Hoshiarpur. I went to Nawanshahr for college.”

“Dad never mentioned that.”

“What he will mention? He was hardly going college anyway.”

Simran laughed.

“You make him sound terrible.”

“I am telling truth.”

“Convenient now he can’t defend himself.”

Surinder turned halfway in his seat.

“He had forty years in England to defend himself.”

“That is fair.”

They drove on.

The villages along the route came and went quickly. Some still began with a cluster of older houses close to the road; others announced themselves through pharmacies, welding shops, mobile stores and boards advertising IELTS coaching or overseas education. New houses stood behind high gates where Surinder remembered open plots. At several places, painted signs offered land for sale in square yards.

He read the names as they passed. Some still brought people immediately to mind; others did not.

Near Ropar, Simran asked, “How much farther?”

“Not much. Another forty-five minutes.”

The driver glanced at him but said nothing.

“Ki gal?” Surinder asked.

“Nothing, sir.”

“You want to say something, say.”

The driver smiled. “Maybe one hour.”

“Forty-five.”

“Okay, sir.”

Simran looked out of the window to hide a smile.

Surinder shook his head.

A while later, he recognised a petrol station before they reached it.

“This was there before also.”

Simran looked at it.

“That exact one?”

“Not like this. Earlier small pump. Same place.”

They continued towards Garhshankar.

Garhshankar appeared more gradually than Surinder expected. There were more shops now, more traffic, more signs above the road. They got off the highway. A jewellery showroom occupied a corner where he remembered a row of smaller businesses. Beyond it stood a diagnostic centre, then a bank, then a marriage palace whose gate rose higher than the houses around it.

They crossed Garhshankar and took the road towards the village.

From here, he began watching more closely.

The road itself was familiar, though wider in places. He recognised a gurdwara on the left and, farther ahead, a cluster of shops around a bend. There had once been a cycle repair stall there. Now a medical store stood where he thought it had been.

He did not mention it.

A few minutes later the driver asked, “Sir, village turn from where?”

“Straight. I will tell you.”

He knew the turn came after a brick kiln.

Or had.

There had been a long wall first, then the kiln set back from the road, its chimney visible well before the entrance. After that, perhaps half a kilometre, the road to the village went off to the left.

There was no chimney.

A warehouse appeared instead, then a petrol pump, then another side road.

The driver slowed slightly.

“Not this,” Surinder said.

They passed it. Simran had stopped looking at her phone, and when another road came up on the left, Surinder watched it until they were almost level.

“No. Next.”

The driver continued.

For the first time since leaving Mohali, Surinder leaned forward far enough that the seat belt tightened across his chest.

The road ahead looked familiar.

But not in the order he remembered it.

The next turning came almost immediately.

Surinder saw it late.

“Here. Left.”

The driver braked and swung in.

For a few seconds Surinder said nothing. Then, farther ahead, beyond a row of newly built houses, the white dome of a gurdwara appeared above the roofs.

He settled back into his seat.

“Haan. This is it.”

The road narrowed now. A tractor came towards them with one wheel riding the broken edge, forcing the car to slow and move partly onto the shoulder. Two boys on a motorcycle overtook them without waiting for space. A school van stood outside a gate while children climbed in, their bags knocking against one another.

Simran leaned forward.

“This is the village?”

“Not yet. Village starts ahead.”

A few hundred metres later the road bent.

Surinder recognised the bend.

The houses there were new to him, the drains had been covered, and a concrete electricity pole stood where he remembered nothing at all. But the road still turned in the same shallow curve before straightening towards the first houses.

“There.”

“What?”

“Now pind.”

There was no clear point at which it began.

A cement and hardware shop occupied the front of one house. Next to it, a narrow pharmacy had been fitted into what looked like an old room facing the road. Scooters stood outside a general store beneath a faded board advertising mobile recharge and money transfer. Between the older shops, newer ones had appeared with glass doors and illuminated signs.

The car slowed for a speed breaker.

“This lane used to go to the school.”

“Used to?”

“Still does, probably.”

It had been widened. A small signboard now pointed towards a government school and an anganwadi centre.

“See,” he said. “Same.”

Simran smiled.

They went farther in.

A man on a scooter stopped ahead to speak to someone standing by a gate. The driver waited, then gave a short horn. Neither man moved.

Surinder lowered his window.

“O veerji, side de deo.”

The man on the scooter turned, looked at the car and moved aside.

As they passed, his eyes stayed on Surinder.

Surinder looked back.

Neither seemed certain.

Then the man raised his chin.

“Kaun… Shinda?”

The car had already gone a few yards when Surinder told the driver to stop.

He opened the door.

The man had turned his scooter around.

“Shinda?”

Surinder stepped out.

“Haan.”

The man stared at him for another second, then broke into a smile.

“O teri.”

Surinder laughed, but kept looking at him.

The man slapped one hand against his chest.

“Main Mohna. Kartare ka Mohna.”

Surinder looked harder.

The face offered him nothing at first.

Then something in the eyes did.

“Mohna?”

“Haan!”

“Tu?”

“Hor kaun?”

They embraced.

Mohna held him by the shoulders afterwards and looked him up and down.

“Buddha ho gaya.”

Surinder pushed his hands away.

“Apne vall vekh.”

Both men laughed.

Simran had stepped out of the car.

Mohna noticed her.

“Eh?”

“Jagtar di kudi.”

The change in his face was immediate.

“Jagtar?”

Surinder nodded.

“Chala gaya.”

Mohna became still.

“Kadon?”

“Last week.”

“Waheguru.”

He looked towards Simran again.

“Sat Sri Akaal, puttar. Badi maadi gall hoyi.”

Simran nodded.

“Thank you.”

Mohna briefly placed his hand on her head.

“You came for…?”

“His ashes. He wanted them here.”

He seemed to understand without needing anything more.

Surinder asked, “Darshan is still here?”

“Darshan? Haan, haan. But he is usually at his shop in Garhshankar.”

“Same house?”

“Same where?”

“Old one.”

Mohna gave a small laugh.

“Bahar khet ch kothi payi aa hun.”

Surinder frowned.

“And old house?”

“They broke it. All shops now.”

He pointed farther along the road.

“You go straight, then right after the dairy. Go towards the fields. Big grey gate, on the right.”

“Dairy?”

“Haan, dairy.”

Mohna smiled.

“Where are you staying?”

“Mohali.”

“Then today only?”

“Haan.”

Mohna looked dissatisfied with this but did not argue.

He turned towards Simran once more.

“Your father…” He paused, searching. “Good man.”

Simran gave a small smile.

“Thank you.”

Mohna nodded.

“Canal side ja rahe ho?”

“Haan. Jagtar de khetan wal.”

“Achha.”

Mohna adjusted his hand on the scooter handle.

“You meet Darshan. He will be happy.”

A motorcycle sounded behind them.

He started the engine before Surinder could ask anything else.

Surinder watched him ride away.

When he got back into the car, Simran said, “Shinda?”

He pulled the door shut.

“Village name.”

She smiled.

“Dad never told me that.”

“Good.”

“Why good?”

“Because then you people would use it.”

“I’m absolutely using it.”

Surinder looked towards the driver.

“Straight.”

The driver moved off.

Behind them, Simran was still smiling.

“Big grey gate,” he said. “After dairy.”

The dairy was easy to find.

It stood at the corner where the road divided, a narrow shop with a blue-and-white board above it and several steel milk cans lined against the wall. A motorcycle was parked across the entrance.

“Right here,” Surinder said.

The driver turned.

The houses thinned almost immediately. The road ran between a few newly built homes before opening onto fields. Some distance ahead, on the right, a high grey gate stood between two lengths of boundary wall.

“That one.”

They stopped outside.

Surinder got out first and knocked on the gate. Somewhere inside, a dog began barking.

A young man appeared after a moment.

“Hanji?”

“Darshan Singh’s house?”

“Papa?”

“Haan.”

“He’s at the shop.”

Surinder nodded. “Garhshankar?”

“Hanji.”

“Tell him Surinder Singh is here.”

The name meant nothing to him.

“From England.”

The gate opened.

“Come inside. I’ll call Papa.”

“Nahi, we will meet him later at Garhshankar.”

“No, no, please come inside.”

He led them through a paved courtyard towards the house. The house was larger than Surinder had expected, two storeys high and painted pale yellow, with a covered verandah running along one side. A tractor stood beneath a tin shed at the back.

Simran remained close to Surinder, carrying the bag.

Darshan’s son brought out two chairs, called out to his mother and pressed the call button on his phone. The conversation was brief.

“Papa, Surinder Singh aaye ne… England ton…”

He listened. “Theek aa.” Then he ended the call.

“He is coming. Ten minutes.”

“No need. We could have gone to shop.”

“He has already left.”

He went inside. When he came back, a woman was with him.

“Sat Sri Akaal, Surinder bhaji,” she said.

“Sat Sri Akaal, bharjai.”

“It’s been years.”

Surinder smiled.

She turned to her son. “Beta, your papa and he grew up together.”

“Tusi baitho, main cha le awaan,” she said.

“No, no,” Surinder said. “We just had breakfast.”

She ignored that and walked towards the kitchen.

Across the courtyard, beyond the boundary wall, paddy stood green in one field while another was planted with maize. A narrow concrete watercourse ran beside the wall, dry except for a little dark water collected at one end.

Simran nodded towards it.

“Is that it?”

Surinder followed her gaze.

“No.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

She raised both hands slightly.

“Just asking.”

“That is for fields. Small watercourse.”

“What’s the difference?”

“Plenty difference.”

She smiled.

“All right.”

Within a few minutes tea had appeared on the table.

Before Surinder had taken more than a few sips, Darshan came through the gate.

He had become heavier around the middle and his beard was almost entirely white, but Surinder recognised his walk before he properly saw his face.

“O Shinda.”

Surinder stood.

The two men embraced.

“Ki haal aa?”

“Theek.”

Darshan stepped back and studied him.

“Mohna called me also. Said some England people have landed in pind.”

“He has nothing else to do.”

“Neither do you.”

Surinder smiled.

Then Darshan noticed Simran standing beside the chair.

“This is Simran. Jagtar’s daughter.”

“Bahut maada hoya, puttar. Mohna told me.”

“Thank you, Uncle.”

Darshan nodded.

“I had not seen your father for many years.”

Simran gave a small smile.

“He talked about the village a lot.”

“Haan.” Darshan looked towards Surinder. “Talking he was always good at.”

Surinder smiled.

“Only his own version.”

Darshan gave a quiet laugh.

“That also is true.”

Then Surinder said, “He wanted his ashes in the canal.”

“Which one?”

Surinder frowned.

“What means which one?”

“The one near their fields?”

“Haan. Small one. Past his grandfather’s land. There was a tractor crossing.”

Darshan considered this.

“The old fields?”

“Yes.”

Darshan leaned back in the chair.

“That land is not theirs now.”

“I know land can be sold. Canal is there.”

“Haan, canal is there.”

Darshan looked towards the fields beyond the wall.

“But crossing you are talking about…” He shook his head. “That is not there now.”

“Crossing doesn’t matter.”

“No.”

“We need the canal.”

“Haan.”

Darshan stood.

“Come. I’ll take you.”

Surinder rose with him.

Simran picked up the bag.

Ahead of them, Darshan was already explaining something to the driver.

Surinder caught only the end of it.

“…Not the old road. We will have to take the other road.”

Surinder looked at Darshan.

“Why?”

“That way isn’t used now.”

“What happened?”

Darshan opened the passenger door.

“Nothing. They made a better road from the other side.”

Darshan sat in front beside the driver. Surinder and Simran took the back, the bag between them.

“Go back till the dairy,” Darshan said. “Then straight past it.”

Surinder leaned forward.

“That goes away from the fields.”

“Old way, yes.”

Darshan pointed through the windscreen.

“Now road goes from other side.”

The driver reversed out through the gate.

At the dairy they continued straight instead of turning back towards the centre of the village. The road narrowed after the last few houses, then opened between fields. It was properly surfaced, wide enough for two cars to pass without either leaving the tarmac.

“This road wasn’t here.”

“No.”

“When made?”

“Must be fifteen years. Maybe more.”

A tractor approached from the opposite direction, its trolley empty. The driver moved slightly left and both vehicles passed without slowing much.

Darshan nodded towards the road.

“Earlier everything went through the village. Tractor, trolley, all. Too much trouble. So they made this.”

“Hmm.”

They continued between fields lying almost level with the road. Paddy stretched across much of the land, broken by stands of maize and occasional concrete pump houses. Tubewell pipes rose beside small brick structures; electricity lines crossed overhead.

After another few hundred metres, Darshan said, “Slow here.”

The driver eased off.

Darshan told the driver to turn onto a narrower metalled road. This one ran between fields and dropped slightly before crossing a culvert.

“There,” Darshan said. “After this.”

A cluster of eucalyptus trees stood some distance away.

He straightened.

“That side.”

Darshan followed his gaze.

“What?”

“Jagtar’s fields. They started there.”

Darshan shook his head.

“No. That was Bhajan Singh’s.”

“Bhajan’s were after ours.”

“Shinda, Bhajan’s land was here. Jagtar’s was farther ahead.”

Surinder looked past him towards the trees.

“There used to be a kikkar near the boundary.”

“There were twenty kikkars here.”

“Not like that one.”

Darshan laughed softly.

“Trees also you remember individually?”

Surinder did not smile.

The driver slowed without being asked.

Darshan pointed ahead.

“Go. I’ll show you.”

The car moved on.

Simran shifted beside Surinder.

“Have you ever been here since you moved to England?”

“What?”

“To these fields.”

“Many times.”

“When?”

He started to answer, then looked back out of the window.

“Earlier. When we used to come.”

She waited, but he added nothing.

Darshan pointed to the right.

“Look, that used to be Tari’s tubewell.”

Simran leaned forward.

“Sorry—whose?”

Darshan looked back at her.

“Tari’s.”

She looked at Surinder.

“Who’s Tari?”

“Your dad.”

“My dad?”

“Haan.”

“Tari?”

Darshan smiled.

“Whole village called him that.”

Simran looked from one man to the other.

“He never told us.”

“Why he will tell?” Surinder said.

“Because that was apparently his name.”

“Not name.”

Darshan laughed.

A small smile remained on Simran’s face.

“Tari,” she repeated quietly.

Ahead, the road dipped again.

Darshan raised one hand.

“Stop here.”

The driver pulled to the side.

They got out.

Outside, there was little shade along the road, and the air above the fields seemed to hold still. Somewhere beyond the paddy, a tubewell motor ran with a steady mechanical hum.

Simran lifted the bag from the car.

Darshan pointed towards a narrow track running along the edge of the field.

“We walk from here.”

“Canal is that side?” Surinder asked.

“Haan.”

“How far?”

“Five minutes.”

Surinder frowned.

“It wasn’t five minutes.”

Darshan had already started walking.

“What?”

“From road. It was closer.”

“This road is not your road.”

Surinder did not move at once.

The track was dry and firm beneath their shoes. Paddy rose on one side; on the other, the land had been recently cleared and lay in rough brown furrows. The driver remained with the car.

Darshan walked ahead.

After a short distance he pointed across the field.

“Jagtar’s grandfather had land from there till somewhere near that pump.”

Surinder stopped.

“No.”

Darshan turned.

“Their land came till the crossing.”

“No. The crossing was farther down.”

“No, Shinda. It was here.”

“It was before their field ended.”

Darshan shrugged.

“Maybe.”

“Not maybe.”

Simran stood between them, the bag held against her side.

The pump house was new. The boundary lines were different. There had been no electricity pole where one now stood near the far edge. But the distance—

He had been certain about the distance.

Darshan started walking again.

“Come. Canal is ahead.”

Surinder followed.

A little farther on, Darshan stepped towards the edge of the field.

“There.”

The canal ran below them, narrower than Simran had imagined, its sides lined in concrete and darkened near the waterline. The current moved steadily between patches of weed along the bank.

Simran looked at Surinder.

“This one?”

He walked closer.

He remembered the banks as earth. The tractor crossing was gone, and the channel itself looked straighter now.

“Where is the crossing?”

“Gone,” Darshan said. “They lined the canal years back. Changed this stretch also.”

“Jagtar’s land was this side?”

Darshan pointed farther along. “From there, more towards that pump.”

Surinder followed his hand.

The boundaries no longer matched what he carried in his head.

Jagtar had always said the canal by our fields.

Not the crossing. Not the bend.

The canal by our fields.

“This is the same canal?” Simran asked.

“Haan,” Darshan said.

Surinder traced the channel upstream, then back towards the fields.

“Shinda, land changed hands many times. Boundaries also changed. But the channel is the same.”

“It should be.”

Simran had stopped a few steps away.

“Uncle?”

She was holding the bag against her with both hands.

“Where do we do it?”

A little farther ahead, the bank dropped close enough to the water for them to stand without climbing down.

“There.”

They walked towards it. Darshan came with them.

At the lower bank, Simran placed the bag on the ground and crouched beside it. For several seconds she did nothing. Surinder stood next to her.

“You okay?”

“Yeah.” She opened the bag and took out the container Aman had collected after the cremation. “I thought it would feel different.”

“What?”

She shook her head. “Nothing.” Then she stood. “Do I just…?”

“Slowly,” he said.

Simran removed the lid and stepped closer to the edge. Surinder put one hand lightly beneath her elbow.

The first ashes struck the surface before the current caught them. Some disappeared at once; the rest spread briefly across the water before being drawn downstream.

The wind lifted a little of the finer ash towards them.

“Other side,” Surinder said quietly.

She shifted her hands and continued.

Near the bottom she stopped.

A few small fragments remained.

“All.”

She emptied the rest.

The container was suddenly light in her hands.

For a while none of them moved.

The water continued past the concrete bank. There was nothing left in it they could distinguish from the silt and reflections on the surface.

Simran lowered the empty container.

“Dad used to say you’d know exactly where.”

Surinder kept his eyes on the canal.

“Haan.”

She waited.

He looked upstream, then towards the fields.

“I think this is it.”

Simran crouched and rinsed her fingertips in the canal.

Surinder watched the water close around her hand and continue downstream.

They walked back from the canal without hurrying.

By the time they reached the car, the driver had opened the doors to let the heat out. Darshan got into the front.

“Back to Mohali?”

Surinder looked towards the village.

“First, one place.”

“Where?”

“Our house.”

“Haan. Chalo.”

Simran glanced at Surinder but said nothing.

They drove back towards the village. Near the dairy, Darshan directed the driver into a narrower lane.

“This one?” Surinder said.

Darshan looked back. “I know where it is.”

The lane bent between houses built close to the road.

“Slow,” Darshan said.

The car slowed down. Surinder watched through the window: a high wall, a steel gate, a house with one wall still unplastered. Then another house.

“Somewhere here,” he said.

Darshan looked ahead. “A little more.”

The car moved slowly along the lane.

Surinder leaned towards the glass.

“I thought it was before the bend.”

“No,” Darshan said. “After.”

A few yards farther on, Darshan raised his hand.

“Stop here.”

The driver stopped.

Surinder remained in his seat, looking across the lane.

“This one?” Simran asked.

“Haan,” Darshan said.

Surinder kept looking at it.

The house stood two storeys high behind a wide steel gate, with a balcony running across the upper floor and an air-conditioning unit fixed beneath one of the windows.

There was nothing about it he recognised.

The old house had been lower. There had been an open courtyard, a verandah, three or four rooms around it, the kitchen against the far wall.

None of it was visible now.

Darshan called through the gate.

A man came out after a moment.

“Sat Sri Akaal, Tayaji.”

Darshan gestured towards Surinder.

“They used to live here. Long time back.”

The man looked at Surinder.

“Achha?”

“Haan.”

“Come inside.”

Surinder hesitated.

“Only two minutes.”

He opened the gate.

The courtyard inside was paved with cream-coloured tiles. A car stood beneath a covered section on one side. The staircase to the upper floor rose beside the boundary wall. Through an open door Surinder could see a sofa, a television fixed to the wall and, beyond it, part of a dining table.

He stepped farther in.

“This was rebuilt?” he asked.

“Haan,” the man said. “Long back. Before we bought it.”

“Completely?”

“I think so.”

Surinder tried to place the old courtyard inside the new one.

The verandah should have run along one side. His parents, Harpreet and he had slept in one of the rooms; his uncle’s family in another. Charpais were brought into the courtyard on summer nights. The kitchen had been open, blackened above the chulha despite his mother scrubbing the wall whenever smoke built up too badly.

But there was nowhere to put any of it.

The proportions were wrong.

Simran stood beside him.

“So this was the same place?”

“Haan.”

She looked around. Surinder did too, until his eyes stopped at the far corner.

The bougainvillea climbed along the boundary wall.

Its trunk was thick now, twisted into itself near the ground before dividing into several woody branches. Someone had trained them upwards along a metal frame and across the first-floor railing. Pink flowers hung above the wall in heavy clusters, with others scattered across the tiles beneath.

Surinder walked towards it.

“This was here.”

Simran came closer.

“The same one?”

“Haan.”

He reached for one of the lower branches.

The bark was rough beneath his fingers. He ran his thumb along it until a thorn caught lightly at his cuff.

He pulled his hand back.

“This bloody thing.”

The man laughed.

“Every year we cut it. Comes back double.”

A few flowers moved in the warm air.

“It was much smaller,” he said.

Darshan smiled.

“So were you.”

“That much I know.”

The man asked if they wanted tea.

“No, thank you,” Surinder said. “We should go.”

He stepped away.

The man closed the gate behind them.

They began walking towards the car.

After a few steps Surinder said, “Everything has changed.”

“Haan.”

“Nothing is where it was.”

“People went. Others came. Children grew up. They made new rooms, broke old ones.”

Darshan walked a few more steps. “Shinda, you remember the village from when you were here.” He stopped beside the car. “People here kept living in it.”

Then he looked at Surinder. “Next time stay longer.”

Surinder smiled. “Haan. Next time.”

Darshan opened the car door.

“Phone kari when you reach Mohali.”

“I will.”

They embraced.

Darshan placed a hand briefly on Simran’s head.

“Take care, puttar.”

“Thank you, Uncle.”

She got into the back seat.

Surinder stood beside the open door.

“Changa.”

“Changa, Shinda.”

He got in.

The driver pulled away.

Simran placed the bag beside her on the seat.

Surinder watched the houses pass through the window.

The lane seemed narrower from this direction. Gates, balconies and boundary walls moved past one after another, each blocking the one behind it.

At the bend he turned in his seat.

He could still see the upper part of the house.

Above the boundary wall, the bougainvillea caught the sun, a scatter of pink against the first-floor railing.

Then another house came between them.

When he faced forward again, they were approaching the dairy.

Surinder glanced at the clock on the dashboard. In Handsworth, it would still be morning. He remembered the cup of tea on the kitchen counter, the thin skin forming across the top.

A man stood outside lifting one of the steel milk cans onto a motorcycle. The driver slowed to let a tractor turn across the road.

Then they carried on towards Mohali.