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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

Jake Smiley—native of Pittsburgh; owner of the cotton gin, cotton broker

Clarence Simms—Fredonia lawyer, well known for criminal defense

Jonathan Hitchcock—native of Atlanta, Georgia; wealthy vice president of Consolidated Fruit Co.

Pala Singh—Ram’s family friend; leader of Hindustani work gang in lumber mill in Hambelton, Washington

Jodh Singh—Ram’s fellow worker at the lumber mill in Hambelton

Part One

Know for certain

nothing endures.

One cherishes the shade

of the most regal tree, and

when it ages and dies

mourns what is lost.

All that is visible

passes away;

only the ignorant, unseeing,

cling to it.

—from the Sukhmani, Guru Granth Sahib

1

April 1974

YESTERDAY IN THE HOSPITAL, WHEN HE WAS STILL ALIVE, KARAK SINGH Gill had sat up in the bed and, with trembling fingers, placed the key to his apartment in Ram Singh’s hand. Ram protested; he did not want it. Karak thrust it toward him. “Keep the box,” he insisted, “of things only you and I know about.”

There was the occasional beep of the heart monitor, the bounce of light on the telemetry screen, the tang of urine and Dettol together; it could have been a hospital in Jullundur, but it was the Los Angeles sun that glared through the window. Occasionally a loudspeaker in the hall was heard calling for a doctor. But mostly, in Karak’s small room, it was the chants of the sacred paath that were heard, Ram rising to flip the cassette tape every forty-five minutes. When the evening nurse entered, a tear glistened in her eye. She was very young. As she took Karak’s temperature she was too cheerful, speaking loudly, smiling too broadly, and that was how Ram knew Karak had only a few hours left.

Ram asked if the sound of the prayer was too great, and Karak shook his head. They both knew—how could it be otherwise—that Ram had won. Karak had faded first. They both knew—this too was inevitable—that Ram found some satisfaction in this, but it did not matter. Women had loved Karak; he had always been dashing. Now that his fine eyes had melted into the hollows of his skull, Ram knew that he, Ram, had had the better life. He felt a twinge of regret.

His fingers closed around the key and he slipped it into his pocket. It was not easy to forget, it would never be forgotten, what had happened only fifty years ago. The mind does not know time. What had happened was ever present between them, made itself known in every meeting, every conversation, every occurrence, as when Karak allowed a breath to escape him, neglected to draw another, and Ram stood, solemn and empty, in acceptance of this fact.