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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

He remembered suddenly the long nights near the River Chenab, waiting by the canal for the water to flood his uncle’s land. He would stand on the bank, awake but tired, carrying a spade, ready to use it against anyone who would try to divert the water before his uncle’s allotment was full. That is what he would be doing here, again. Working hard to make another man rich. Karak was wrong; it would be years until he earned enough money to go home.

From the corner of his eye he saw movement on the platform, the glimpse of a scarlet dastar, then the hand at his window knocking hard. Karak was speaking to him, but the sound was muffled by the train’s rumble, by the glass between them. Karak’s face smiled at him—a crooked smile, a quick tilt of the head inviting him to come back out, as if nothing had happened. At first, Ram felt a flash of satisfaction. He breathed in a molecule of hope. Karak had come back for him. But the grin was false; the man was false.

He shook his head slightly, then looked at his hands in his lap, his palms that still bore the cuts from the attack. The train belched loudly. The wisps of steam swept past the window. The train shuddered. He would be gone soon. Karak’s knuckles hit the window again, harder. He heard the man’s voice inside his head. You take things too seriously—such a naive boy. Ram turned to look. Karak was yelling. Ram did not know if he heard faint words or read his lips—“Oye, come out! What are you doing in there?” A vein appeared on the side of Karak’s temple. He wasn’t smiling now. Ram swallowed. The train swayed, the beginning of the long passage north. The whistle blew like an alarm, blocking out all other sounds. Karak was still mouthing words. Ram clenched his jaw.

He saw Karak run to the ticket stand, talk briefly to the man, scribble on paper with a pen. The train nudged forward. Karak strode in long steps to the platform. The paper appeared in the window, slapped against the glass. 1/3, 1/3, 1/3.

Ram stood and gathered his blanket, his bag. Wheels clicked against metal track. He grasped the back of a bench to keep his balance. At the door, the dust-wind caught his cheek. Wooden floorboards flashed past his foot. He jumped easily, landing at the western edge of the platform.

Letters

20 July 1914

Meri Pyari,