Rosa and Karak went as far as the furniture store, where the wealthy Anglos shopped, much farther than they would have wandered on any working day. Through the window, they saw the Persian rugs hanging in the back, a mock room displayed with a home telephone hanging on the wall, a showroom for faucets and sinks. A very few houses, the expensive ones close to town, had running water in them.

“So many beautiful things!” Rosa said.

“I can buy them all for you.”

She was still looking through the window when she said, dreamily, distractedly, “We will have such beautiful children.” That was when Karak knew. Just a moment later her face flushed and she giggled, her eyes darting about as if she did not know exactly where she was. She turned away; surely she had not meant the thought to be articulated.

“You feel so sure about me?” he asked, but he was talking to her back. Her hat sat at an innocent angle.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because of the harvest, last spring. I saw how you acted when Señor Cruz fell in the field. You have a good heart, a strong heart. You jumped on the horse and went immediately to fetch the doctor, like a son.”

Goodwill swept through him, as it had long ago, when he had loaned Ram money in Hong Kong to buy medicine for his cousin. He had not wanted to ride for the doctor for Ángel Cruz that day. But as he gazed at Rosa’s delicate back and shoulders, he thought he could be who she thought he was.

That night Karak approached Jivan alone near the settling pond. Jivan was turned away from him, facing the water with his head bent in prayer, whispering the sing-song of Rehras Sahib. Karak had to pay the man the proper respect. He had already failed by not asking him to come to the barrio, but he would try to fix his mistake now. He waited until the prayer was finished, then spoke. “Bhai-ji, as you are the head of our family here, I request your permission to marry.”

Jivan raised his head but did not turn around. If he was surprised, he did not show it. “You do not need my permission, Karak. You are a grown man.”

So he had been right that Jivan had minded.

“If you do not grant me your blessing, then to whom can I go?”

“Is it the Mexican girl Rosa?”

“Yes.”

“How is the family?”

“They keep a tidy house. They are clean. They are respected by their neighbors. She is an innocent, bhai-ji. And they are not hesitating despite our differences.”

Jivan turned to face him. “But why are you not hesitating? You are not Catholic. Your children will be raised by a Mexican. They will be strangers to you. They will not speak Punjabi.”