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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 blinked. He could not imagine that Karak Singh would keep a letter of his. Karak had not been a sentimental man; this was yet another difference between them. Ram had saved many letters, some from Karak in the early days, many from his mother, even a few from his uncle. And from Padma, of course, before and after 1918. The letters told the story of his life. So many men he knew from those days did not know how to write; the country—the world—thought they did not have stories to tell.

Ram picked up the envelope. The paper was thicker than he expected, stiff and dark at the edges. For a moment, he thought he remembered writing it, sitting cross-legged in the corner where he stored his blanket in the cursed house in Hambelton. His fingers shook as he eased the letter out. The paper trembled on his palm.

Dear Bhai Karak Singh-ji, he read, Sat Sri Akal. He slapped the letter down on his lap. His twenty-one-year-old hand had written this Gurmukhi script—had he once addressed Karak in that formal way, with that much respect? Had he followed Sikh custom so closely, when he was not himself Sikh?

Ram rose and went to his closet, reaching up to the top shelf, feeling under the kurtas that he had worn while visiting Punjab twenty-five years earlier. He found the stack of manila envelopes that contained his old letters, sifted through them until he found what he wanted. He settled back into the chair with his letters and Karak’s own, allowing them to rest for a moment on his lap. He was at the end of things now; he could not resist the return to the beginning. Not when he was the only one who remained. Not when all the others—Jivan, Amarjeet, Kishen, even little Leela—had died years before. He sat until he could no longer bear the loneliness. His letter to Karak was sixty-one years old. Slowly, he picked it up and began to read.

2

Ram Singh

13 K Street

Hambelton, Washington

Mr. Karak Singh Gill

In the care of Jivan Singh Gill

Rural Route 9

Fredonia, Imperial Valley, California

25 November 1913

Dear Bhai Karak Singh-ji,

Sat Sri Akal.