Ram made himself look at the television screen. He deserved the boy’s comment. He should not be provoking a child—his grandson, most of all. What was the matter with him? The truth was, long ago, some of those Sikhs had not liked being called Hindus at all. He sat like that, quietly, while the boys, Anika, the parents, the dog, the broadcaster’s comments filled the room. The Negro man hit the ball. Ram’s family erupted in cheers. Anika jumped on the sofa; his grandsons pummeled the air. Two white teenagers ran the bases with the black athlete, the reporters hooting, the fans’ static hum in the background. The television camera went in close. The black man had confidence, and a smile, and something else—humility.

“Dignified,” Ram said, meaning it. He felt the others look at him.

He rose slowly and made his way to the telephone. It was situated on a table in the corner, away from the noise. He had memorized the phone number. When Karak’s daughter answered, he told her simply, “Yes, I will do it.”

“Mr. Singh?” Grace said.

“Yes, yes. This is Ram Singh. I will speak about Karak. I called to tell you.”

There was a pause, then a small sound. He did not know if she was crying, or merely quiet, or if she had heard him at all. “Thank you. Thank you, Mr. Singh, very much.”

Her English words unsettled him. For years now, Karak had been the only person with whom he spoke Punjabi. The language was harsh, loving, the bearer of truth. Spanish was warm, comfortable. But English was cold, the language of strangers. Karak’s daughter spoke with him in English, because she did not know everything that had happened. That because of Adela, Karak’s life was spared, and he spent only ten years in San Quentin. That it was Ram’s threshold that her father crossed first, after that decade was done. That when she was a small girl, before her childhood memory lapsed, Grace Singh had called Ram “Uncle.”

Epilogue

SHE WAITED FOR HIM. A YEAR AT FIRST. THEN TWO, THEN FIVE, THEN more. In those years she waited for him with every breath she took, while she walked the outskirts of Lyallpur on that childhood path, the one she had walked with him. When the rain came, she waited for him, watching it fall, smelling life in the soil, sitting just under the roof’s edge, because he loved the rain. She waited for him while she washed clothes by the river, or gathered with the women at the waterwheel, or tasted the first mango of the season. She waited for him when she removed the rag, red with blood because another moon had passed, another chance lost to bear him another child.