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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

* * *

17 December 1918

Meri pyari, my dearest,

Did you see me, my love? I stood on the hilltop as your ship approached the port. I saw you there, wrapped in a blanket, holding our son, standing next to your brother. I waved at you then. Did you see? Our boy—he is beautiful.

I have asked the lawyer. He says there is no hope. He says that you should have been allowed inside the country; you are married to a man who is a legal alien. But—now that you have been turned back once, they would not allow you in again. They perhaps would not even allow you to board the ship in Hong Kong.

It is cruelty, Padma. Is there another word for it? I cannot think of another.

Just hold on for two more years, so that I may finish the task that Uncle has asked of me. Hold on for two years and your husband will return.

Thera,

Ram

22

SEVERAL DAYS AFTER RAM’S RETURN, JIVAN TOLD HIM TO JOURNEY TO Stockton to visit the gurdwara, a day’s ride on the Southern Pacific. Kishen was sitting with them after serving breakfast, after Leela had left for school. “There is comfort there for a hurt soul,” Jivan said. “For a hurt man.” They were looking at Ram with concern. He had risen late again, when the sun was already warm in the sky.

Ram chewed his food slowly; he had no appetite. “Bhai-ji,” he said, not wanting to disagree. Several times, for holidays in January or April, he had been to the gurdwara: a modest temple raised by fieldworkers and students on sparsely populated land. Before it existed, the laborers sometimes carried the sacred book out into the fields with them, a version of Guru Granth Sahib so small it fit in the front pocket of their dungarees. They had raised money for the building through donations from the lumberjacks and the farmers, the intellectuals and railroad workers. All those who knew and needed what the building would be.

Now they came by rail or by wagon or by foot, they came if they were too tired or sick to work. They came from Oregon and Washington and Texas and Arizona and Michigan and Illinois. They came from New York. They came to discuss politics, to pray, to organize against employers and to organize against the British. They came if they needed a meal or a bed. They came when life was too difficult or if they needed money to repay a debt. The men ate home-cooked food in the langar, they performed chores around the grounds, their laundry was sent to the washers, they enjoyed one another’s company in the evenings.

They came to worship too.

“Gurdwara is like mother,” Jivan said.

“Go, Ram,” Kishen said gently, pleading. Ram had never heard her voice an opinion about his affairs before. Something about the way she said it made him believe that the idea had first been hers. She had asked Jivan to speak with him.