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 heard Pala’s voice tell him to go north, cross the boundary into British Columbia, assert his rights as a fellow subject of the empire; the English king owed it to him. But no, Ram wanted to return to Punjab. He had twelve dollars in his pocket. It was not enough for passage home, but it was enough for a train ticket to the Imperial Valley. He had been ignoring Karak’s letters, his invitations, but he knew the man would forgive him. Perhaps Karak would lend him money for the journey home. Perhaps Karak would look after him awhile . . . the way he had in Hong Kong, the way he had on the steamship during their passage west. He could go to Karak and take some time to plan his next step.

He heard Padma’s voice: Yes, my life, this is what you must do.

He picked up his bag and his blanket. He would slowly make his way to the trolley, which would take him to the train, which would take him to Karak Singh. He would know what to do next.

Letters

15 December 1918

My husband, Father of Santosh,

By the time you receive this letter it will have been almost two months since I stepped on American soil. I am writing, ashamed, on the ship traveling back to India. Shankar’s telegram will have given you the news that we were not allowed off the ship to join you. But now I will give you the complete explanation. If you no longer want to call me your wife, I do not blame you. But it is not my fault, Father of Santosh. I fear that I will never again see you.

I was so relieved when we docked in San Francisco, for while we were at sea in the belly of the ship, I was sick every day. In San Francisco, we were taken to a building on an island, where Shankar and I were asked to talk with the officers separately. It is a type of jail there, my husband. I took Santosh with me and followed a man to a room that was unkempt, and without sunlight.

He left me by myself there for a few minutes and another man, looking like an inspector, came and sat behind the desk. I was scared to be alone with that inspector. He looked so odd—his skin was so pale, I did not get a good feeling. He kept speaking with me in Bengali. Did he think that is my language? You know I have never been alone with a strange man, much less one that cannot speak my language. He kept looking at some papers and I sat in a chair in front of him.