Pay some attention to what I am suggesting now, instead of that past nonsense. You are making $2.00 per day. That is fine, if you want to labor for another man, but it is a pittance compared to what I will earn here. I have cultivated forty acres with my father’s cousin-brother, Jivan Singh, growing cantaloupe. If it brings the expected price, calculating the hours I have spent over these months, my share will come to $5.00 per day. Compare that to your circumstances. Do you understand my meaning? Think of your new son and how you will heighten his status. Think how much you will lift Padma’s position in your home—with your uncle, with your cousins—as the wife of such a provider! Think of the benefit for your mother!

Perhaps you are wondering—what is a cantaloupe? It is our kharbooj, only a little smaller—our simple kharbooj! Anglos are mad for this fruit. Our shipments go as far east as Boston and Philadelphia. The soil is rich and we have a system of canal irrigation, like your own Lyallpur. You won’t suffer the humiliation of a work gang and an American boss. Ram, you come from a farming family, so you understand the importance of independence and honor and cultivating your own land. It is something I am only now learning. I think often of the laughs we enjoyed together, not only during the nights in Hong Kong, but that bloody long journey on the ship itself. Your company made those endless weeks seem like days. The other passengers were too serious, but I felt that you could take a joke. Come and join me and remain positive in your outlook. I can teach you one or two things about life’s realities. Think about it.

In chardi kala,

Karak Singh

22 April 1914

Ram,

Why have you not responded to my letter? Did you receive it? How is your health? It is odd to neglect an invitation such as the one I extended. Perhaps you thought I was falsely boasting about prospects here? You should know the profit from our crop was larger than I thought possible. The Philadelphia market was very high and Jivan Singh and I made more money than you lumberjacks can imagine. Now will you come?

Your brother,

Karak

26 May 1914

Ram,

Do you remember me or not? I am the man who saved your cousin from certain death and still you have given no answer to my request to join me—what should I think of that? Does our friendship mean nothing to you? Do you still wear the kara I gave you or have you forgotten me? After all I have done, isn’t it your duty to meet at least once after our arrival on this shore? If you will not come to farm, then come for a visit. In early August it is too hot to work and I’ll have a few days of leisure.

—Karak