They would not quiet down. Not even after their plates were emptied of food. Not even when Karak laughed with a small group in the back—“Make your tongues quiet or I’ll cut them out and dump you in the pond.” Only after RamChandra emerged from the Eggenberger house and appeared under the tent did the men, realizing him to be a stranger, sensing his importance, grow still.

Jivan introduced him. “Today Pandit RamChandra Bharadwaj has chosen to speak at this humble home.” Jivan faltered; he did not know what the man would speak about. “May some of his light shine on us.”

RamChandra took his place in front of the gathering. Jivan felt a flash of disappointment; he was without a warrior’s build, and perhaps unmanly. But when he opened his mouth to speak, when the attention of all was upon him, something great, something beyond the air of the Imperial Valley settled upon them.

“How many of you men are missing your families?” he asked, in the lilt of educated Punjabi, the language of a man who had read many books, who had spoken with political leaders, who had published newspapers read by the elite. “This man”—he indicated Jivan—“is also your family. For each of you, he has done some supreme good, just as your father would do. But tell me, are you not sick with the absence of your children and wives, who can never join you?”

Jivan stood to the side and watched as the men shifted their bodies. RamChandra had struck upon the quiet truth that bound them together. Perhaps his talk would not be about revolution after all.

“The American government will not allow them to come, yet other men, from other countries, bring their families. The Irish, the Germans, the Swiss—any European is accompanied by his bride. Or they tell their sweethearts, before they leave for this shore, ‘Wait for me. I will send for you.’ Even the Mexican, the African, the man from Japan may bring a wife.

“Just like these others, we Hindustanees have come to America for betterment.” His eyes scanned the gathering, as if he spoke to each man about his particular concerns. “But after arrival, we become the target of race prejudice. We are not invited into restaurants, or theater halls, or homes. The locals give us trouble in the streets and knock our dastars to the ground. They publish newspaper articles against us.”

The men were quiet. Every one had experienced the truth of RamChandra’s words.

“What is the difference between us and them? As men, there is no difference. Thomas Jefferson, the great American patriot, the third president, wrote these words in English, but I will say them in Punjabi: All men are created equal. We have certain inalienable rights. In the course of human events, it sometimes becomes necessary for one people to dissolve the bonds which connect them to another.