“You wanted to live here, bhai-ji, to settle here? You stayed on purpose among strangers?”

“Stephen gave me land to sharecrop. He introduced me to men who operated the banks, who knew the laws, who controlled the water in the canals.” Jivan stared into the soil, the wet grains of sand in the dryness of the desert. “I did not know such people in Ludhiana. Why should I not stay?” he said. But he knew the boy came from a better family than his, and might not understand.

“THERE IS A PLACE FOR US HERE.” That is what Jivan told the boy when he asked again. They sat in a circle of dim lamplight on the porch, breathing in the sting of kerosene. The desert night pressed against the screen. Ram, who had been reading the Ghadar paper, had just flung it aside.

“They need us,” Jivan said. “Nothing here is settled yet. Fredonia is only seven years old. Brawley and Calexico are only slightly older. They need us to cultivate the soil, to build the towns. In Mexicali, Chandler hired three hundred Chinese to dig the canal from the river. Everyone says he did not want white workers.”

Something in the Ghadar paper had agitated the boy. Jivan unfolded it and spread it out on the table. He pointed to a string of Punjabi letters, then felt a familiar surge of shame. “I read too slowly,” he said, not meeting the boy’s gaze. “It is difficult for me—” Understanding flashed across the boy’s face. He leaned over the paper quickly—more quickly than Amarjeet ever had—and began to read out loud. Jivan felt a tinge of relief.

HINDUSTANI WORKERS ATTACKED AND EXPELLED. ONE MAN DEAD. NO PROTECTION PROVIDED. There was a photo of a mill worker. Jivan saw Ram swallow; his face turned pale.

“What is it?” Jivan asked, but the boy ignored him.

“‘In Hambelton, Washington, on the night of July fifth, men attacked the homes of five hundred Hindustani work—’” Ram’s voice quivered. There was the slightest intake of breath. “‘Police were approached for help. Our countrymen were locked up in the city hall basement and told it was for their own protection—’”

Ram stopped reading, but his eyes did not leave the paper. The night closed in on them. The hum of cicadas swelled, then receded.

“Ram?”

Ram shook his head. “Bhai-ji,” he said quickly, then read more. “‘One countryman had a broken leg, another a—’” Ram took out his handkerchief and wiped his forehead. “‘We at Ghadar say—Is this not the country that promises freedom? Are we not entitled to life, liberty, the pursuit of happiness? Are we not men?’” Ram sat staring at the paper, silent.

In Jivan’s mind, the events came together like the parts of a machine, precise and metal cold. Suddenly, he knew. “You were there, son,” he said.