“When will they be released?” Ram could hear the alarm in his voice. “Three days have passed. It is too long.”

The man looked at him. He was not being unkind, Ram would think later. “Steamer left this morning, mate,” the man said slowly. “Early, right at dawn. That means they were not allowed in.”

The building swayed, as if the earth had moved beneath him. Later, he would not know why he ran. What did he think he could do? In a cold mist he arrived again at the outcropping where he had seen the ship pass on the way to the island. Of course, the ship was not there. The rain pelted his face, pooled at his collar, saturated his boots. He stood at the rock, leaning against the lighthouse rail for more than an hour.

In despair, he walked back to the city. He was a pragmatic man; he found a telegram office. They would have to be told: his uncle in Punjab, Padma’s parents. The third one he sent to Jivan: RETURNING P.M. TRAIN TOMORROW. He returned to Yugantar Ashram.

Years later, he would allow himself to forget his desperate return to the rock outcropping, looking for the steamer. If ever asked to tell the story, he would say, I went to collect her, and she was not there, and that was that.

IT WAS FAMILIAR TO HIM: The mesquite, the dunes, the ocotillo, the desert, the fierce sun, the boy waving at the gate. The crooked sign at the Fredonia depot, AMERICA’S DREAM. He watched without feeling as the scene flashed past the train window. Then with anger. So much anger.

They all came, as would have been proper and loving to welcome his wife to her new home, emerging from Karak’s gleaming black car. Was it so obvious in the way that Ram walked, or stood, or looked at them through his tired eyes? They did not need to ask. He felt the weight of their collective gaze and wished he could escape it. His muscles were too heavy to move. He had lost all strength. Grief devours everything. Hadn’t she died? Hadn’t she?

* * *

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.