Short-listed for the 2015 Man Booker Prize, “The Year of the Runaways” has recently been published in the United States to the acclaim that it undoubtedly deserves. British-Indian author Sunjeev Sahota’s sophomore novel is a political statement that addresses many difficult topics—from familial duty and faith in God to casteism and disillusionment of the world we live in—for an intensely immersive story that, through its forthrightness, shines light on the harsh realities of undocumented immigration.

The novel follows four characters in Britain, three of whom are undocumented immigrants from India, over the span of one year. After his father’s breakdown leaves his family with no income, Randeep goes to England on a marriage visa to become the family breadwinner, though he struggles to learn what it is to be a man. Avtar, on a student visa, must decide between sending money back home and paying off the thugs who lent him the money to get the visa in the first place—the same thugs threatening the family for which he left to provide. Tochi, an “untouchable” chamaar whose undocumented immigration on the back of a lorry is reflective of his low place in Indian society, suffers the ultimate price solely for having been born into a certain caste. And Narinder, faithful to her duties to both her family and her god, shirks the former responsibility in an eye-opening attempt to fulfill the latter. These characters, all from very different backgrounds come together to portray the experience of millions of voiceless young Indians who leave their countries, often illegally, in a desperate attempt to support their families and with the naive hope that their quality of life will vastly improve.

In keeping with his first novel, “Ours are the Streets," Sahota refuses to shy away from topics that would make many readers squirm. Ambitious in everything it tackles, “The Year of the Runaways” is a social critique of the many aspects of Indian society that Sahota has explicitly denounced in interviews. Narinder, for example, must surrender herself to God and a chosen husband to bring honor to her family, giving up the independence she never even knew she wanted. As Narinder questions and reconsiders the way she’s been living her life, Sahota’s feminist views trickle into his writing. Sahota’s other political opinions manifest in the narratives of his male characters. When Randeep questions the purpose for trekking into a foreign country, he naively believes that “it’s not work that makes us leave home and come here. It’s love. Love for our families.” Avtar immediately corrects him: “We come here for the same reason our people do anything. Duty. We’re doing our duty.” The characters start out believing that the years of destitution and deplorable work conditions in England are worth the lies they spew to themselves and their loved ones—lies about their success meant to ensure their families’ safety and well-being. But Sahota, through Tochi’s voice, presents a different viewpoint: “I used to think I had duties. That I had to know my place,” Tochi says. “It doesn’t work. People will be hurt. Don’t hurt yourself instead.” Tochi himself and his experiences as a victim of prejudice and hatred as a chamaar are the manifestation of Sahota’s poignant criticism of casteism. The characters not only are crucial elements of the narrative but also serve as tools that Sahota uses to denounce both aspects of Indian culture and Britain’s treatment of immigrants.

The novel prevails not only in the power of its myriad messages but also in the experience of reading it. Through its straightforward and candid language, the novel creates a rich depiction of the many darker facets of Indian life and culture, leaving readers disillusioned with the exoticized India they may be familiar with. Furthermore, Sahota makes palpable through his words a part of the United Kingdom many of its residents may not even know exists. His unapologetic use of untranslated Indian words—chunni, gurdwara, waheguru, dhal, sabzi, and soti, among others—enlaces aspects of the country in his diction. This technique fully captures the Indian culture not just when the characters are in India but—even more impressively—when they are in Sheffield, the city where their stories intertwine.

“The Year of the Runaways” offers parallels that reflect the core of what it is trying to do: denounce and demystify Indian immigration. From the juxtaposition of life in India and life in Sheffield to the conflict between duty to oneself and duty to one’s family, two different sides of the same coin are always in opposition to one another. “The weakest are those who stay put and call it sacrifice, call it not having a choice,” realizes Narinder near the end of the novel as she struggles with finding a balance between agency and obligation. Sahota’s novel succeeds in its criticism of the social pressures that put millions of Indians in these very positions by marrying the two sides of each character’s coin in a telling tale of the ends to which people will go for the sake of what they feel must be done.

—Staff Writer Mila Gauvin Il can be reached at mila.gauvin@thecrimson.com