They mounted the wagon and Karak turned the mules toward Jivan’s home. But something dark and almost tangible had moved between the two men. Karak was talkative at first, pointing out more landmarks than he had previously, more enthusiastic than before; then he grew silent and they traveled the last minutes without speaking. Ram remembered a moment on the SS Minnesota when Karak had mocked a shipmate—a chappal maker from the Deccan—for not knowing that western women wore corsets. What, brother, do you think they are shaped that way naturally? Karak had spoken in Urdu so that everyone could understand. The fellow was known to be dim. The Hindustanees sitting in the steerage communal room had laughed loudly; the man himself had joined in. The joke had lasted for many days. It had helped to pass the time.

6

HE HAD PROMISED PADMA HE WOULD COME BACK. WHAT IF HE FARMED for two years, or three, and had three bad harvests; what money could he send home? Would he be required to stay longer? That was his worry.

They had argued on the last night that they had spent together, during the peace of day’s end, when the hut’s cool walls released their mud scent and he stretched his bare legs on the charpai. This time of day, this small space, was their haven from the searching eyes of his family. Padma stood with her back to him, lighting the oil wick before the small collection of deities, the flame reflecting off their metal frames. Goddess Durga fixed him with the sacred gaze, questioning, and he felt a spasm of anxiety, a shadow of conscience. But then it passed.

“It is not right that Chacha-ji is sending you away.” Her head was bent, her hand was by her cheek, and he wondered if she was smoothing away a tear. “My mind is disturbed about it.” Her voice was always beautiful to him, dark and deep, almost like a man’s.

He did not answer for a moment. She had never been so bold before. She spoke as if she believed that he did not want to go. He had said months ago—when Chacha-ji had decided to send him and Ishwar together, when twenty acres east of the canal were mortgaged to buy their passage—that he did not want to leave, but he suspected that she always knew the truth. It had been a dishonest game between them: Ram acting as if he wanted to stay, Padma silently berating his uncle for sending him.

He wanted to go, he did not want to go; both were true. She still stood with her back to him, although the flame was lit. He could see her shape through the kurta: the square shoulders, the small waist. He suddenly remembered their wedding night, when she had laughed with him as they sat by the waterwheel. His longing felt like a blade in his belly, a wound.

“I will come back,” he said. He was standing now, because the statement required it.