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

Karak Singh has taken a local girl for his wife. She is a Mexican, her family crossed the border some time ago—like those families that live in Patiala who were born in Kabul. She was under the guardianship of her sister’s husband, who arranged the match. They are living now in the Eggenberger house, separately from the rest of us, but only a furlong away.

He sleeps indoors often now, like a respectable householder, even when the night is warm. He no longer comes for breakfast every morning to Kishen’s table.

It is strange that he is comfortable with marrying an outsider. In so many ways he and I are different! But I can admit to you, my wife, that I am jealous of their happiness. When I see them together, I am reminded only of me and you. This letter-writing is strange, isn’t it? I can admit things that I would not if you were standing in front of me. We had too little time together after our wedding. I do not know how you feel about these things, perhaps good women feel differently, but I miss the scent and the feeling of you, and think about these more often than I would admit to anyone. Perhaps they are bad thoughts, but I have them. I cannot think that it is bad for a man to miss his wife. Why should it be that Cousin Ishwar has been allowed to remain home, while I was sent away, when I have a wife and child? The thought makes me sick, day after day, and I am filled with resentment and growing venom. I have given three years of my life without seeing you. It is true that Uncle raised me in his household, but I cannot say that I was like one of his own sons. That would be a lie—all his sons are there while I am here. Am I thinking too much like a westerner? It seems that he looked after me only for his own self-interest. Sometimes I rent myself out to the farms nearby so that I can send even more money to him.

Enough of this bitterness. Here, I have become something that I was not before: a person with knowledge. I am not yet rich, but I have done well with several harvests. Others sometimes approach me for advice. Perhaps that is the only reason that I can look back with this clarity, free of my childhood loyalties. I send kisses to Santosh. My thoughts are with you.

Your husband,

Ram

30 August 1916

My dear saintly uncle, may God keep you in good health.