BooksBarbecue
Back Passage West
Chapters (59)
  1. Cover
  2. Dedication
  3. Epigraph
  4. Cast of Characters
  5. Part One
  6. 1
  7. 2
  8. 3
  9. 4
  10. 5
  11. 6
  12. 7
  13. Letters
  14. Part Two
  15. 8
  16. 9
  17. 10
  18. 11
  19. 12
  20. 13
  21. 14
  22. 15
  23. 16
  24. 17
  25. Letters
  26. Part Three
  27. 18
  28. 19
  29. 20
  30. 21
  31. 22
  32. 23
  33. Letters
  34. Part Four
  35. 24
  36. 25
  37. 26
  38. 27
  39. 28
  40. Letters
  41. Part Five
  42. 29
  43. 30
  44. 31
  45. 32
  46. 33
  47. 34
  48. 35
  49. 36
  50. 37
  51. 38
  52. 39
  53. 40
  54. 41
  55. Epilogue
  56. Acknowledgments
  57. About the Author
  58. Also by Rishi Reddi
  59. About the Publisher

He thought she was nervous in his presence. Her hand hit an empty tin and it clattered across the table. He could have told her to call him Ram, but he did not want to. Still, he handed her a pan without her asking for it. He struck a match for the stove when it was time. She began to make the tortillas. “But Karak says they do not taste the same,” she said. She cared about pleasing her husband, and suddenly Ram’s jealousy clarified itself. It was not for her—it was for Karak’s having her, having someone.

“I have made arroz con leche for today. It is not a holiday, but it is his favorite.”

She dipped a spoon into the bowl and handed it to him. The familiar rich taste filled his mouth.

“This is Punjabi only! Pukka Punjabi.”

She smiled broadly, relaxed. She had beautiful eyes. “That is what he said too.” Yes, she was pretty, but he didn’t feel anything for her, he thought with relief.

Karak arrived just then, calling to her as he stepped inside the door. They both looked up as he entered.

“Ram?” Karak’s eyes darted between them: Rosa working at the stove, Ram seated near her. But Ram had realized that he did not desire her, and he did not feel guilty.

“I came looking for you,” Ram said in Punjabi.

“You have found me,” Karak said.

“He is eating with us,” Rosa said in Spanish. She was too cheerful, as if to excuse Karak’s discovery.

“Good,” Karak said. He put down the satchel he was carrying, slinging it over the chaise. “Good,” he repeated. He forced a smile.

They ate at the small table outside, set in the porch’s shade. It was the first time Ram had been with them alone. Rosa spoke of finding him in the house, and Ram could sense Karak’s mood lifting. Her openness and obvious pleasure, her smile, her description of how Ram sat with her as she made the tortillas—Ram found himself joking along. She felt so familiar.

Karak laughed with them, his dark eyes half-closed, his body stretched back, legs crossed at the ankles, arm draped around the back of Rosa’s chair. Ram sensed a great space opening inside Karak, the air of freedom, satisfaction, ease. Perhaps even kindness. Karak glanced at him, as if to say—I told you, see, I made a fine choice for my wife. It was an intimate gesture—that glance—full of knowing. Perhaps the two men were closer than Karak and his wife would ever be.

Letters

10 August 1916

My dear,