“They came to help hold the river back. It was the reason they came. The entire country knew the dam had broken and the land was flooded. The Imperial Land Company did not know what to do. The Valley towns were new, some of them did not have even a post office. Most everything was built only with wood and canvas. Some families lived in tents. Shacks served as bank, hospital, jailhouse. They were swept away. Gone just like this.” He flicked his hand. “The water took them. Every day, I saw a wagon being carried off, sometimes horses and cows—one time, a man. So many fields completely flooded. Roads and paths gone.”

“Seeing it now, bhai-ji, it seems impossible,” Ram said.

“Everybody living here labored to hold the river back, rich and poor, women and even children. We used shovels to keep piling dirt on top of dirt to make levees. But still more workers came to build jetties and new embankments. Government paid them, fed them, made places for them to sleep.”

“Who would come for such a job?” Ram said.

Jivan was struck by the boy’s innocence. Had he never known real hardship? He was clicking to the mules now, urging them ahead, unaware of the insult he had given.

“I would,” Jivan said.

The boy glanced at him, brushed his hair away from his dark eyes. “Forgive me, bhai-ji.”

Yes, the boy was naive, but Jivan liked his deference.

“So many different people living together?” Ram continued, more cautiously, it seemed. “By their own choice?”

“Why not? For two days without sleep I bailed water to protect the power generator, side by side with the sheriff. We hauled sacks filled with gravel to make barricades. We kept the water back. I was so exhausted. From that time on he has been a friend to me. He introduced me to Stephen Eggenberger, and Stephen gave me a place to live and eat and work.”

HE HAD COME TO ESCAPE. That is what Jivan told Ram when he asked. They were once again clearing the silt in the irrigation canal, heaving the mixed weight of soil and water.

“Escape from what?” the boy asked.

“Escape the death of my son,” Jivan said, surprising himself with his honesty. “He would have been your age.”

The boy was quiet. He and Jivan both knew he did not know what to say. Jivan let the silence linger.

“So bhabhi-ji came then too?” Ram finally said.

“No. After he died, I did not want Kishen Kaur with me.” Jivan thrust the shovel into the brown ooze. He felt perspiration trickle through his hair, seep to the cotton edge of his dastar. “But I knew my duty. And I did not want to be tempted here. I did not want to look at other women. In 1910, I went back to fetch her. My brother sent Amarjeet with me then.”