Passage West

by Rishi Reddi

  Their eyes met, but Ram looked away. An emptiness swept over him, an intensity of emotion he did not know he possessed. He put his palms together. “Sat Sri Akal, bhai-ji.”

  He was rude to leave so abruptly. He was sorry that he would not see Jivan Singh again. He hoped the man would not think less of him.

  AT THE HOUSE, Kishen was serving Amarjeet breakfast. Awkwardly, after he finished the meal, Ram told them he was leaving. “I have to go quickly,” he said, “they need me back.” He looked from one to the other. Leela sat on the floor, talking to her doll, but even she was silent at Ram’s words.

  “Amarjeet, will you send me off at the train?” he asked.

  “What about Karak Chacha?”

  “I told him last night. I cannot find him today.”

  He could feel the weight of Kishen Kaur’s gaze. “Thank you, bhabhi-ji,” he said quickly, palms together, not sure what was expected of his manners. “Please excuse my haste.” She made a slight gesture of acknowledgment. “Goodbye, Leela,” he said, bending down to the girl. She tolerated his hand tousling her hair, and smiled, as sweet as a sparrow.

  DURING THE RIDE IN THE WAGON he told Amarjeet the same lie that he had told Jivan: that he had heard from his friend Pala and been called back to the mill. The lie sounded more believable this time. Even so, when Amarjeet asked innocently, “Did a telegram come?” he mumbled a response and commented instead on the strength of the wind.

  Now he had begun to regret his decision, but the path toward his departure had been laid. He had lied to protect Karak. What else could he do?

  Within a mile of town, images from his dreams of the previous night returned to him. Lamplight piercing the darkness. Jodh Singh crumpled on a bench. The snap of an axe splintering wood. Laughter. The sound wounded his ears.

  Amarjeet was mouthing words he could not hear. Ram pressed his eyes shut and shook the images out of his brain. The day before he had felt like a coward for staying so long in Fredonia, and now he felt like a fool for returning to Hambelton.

  “Ram-ji?” Amarjeet said. “Ram-ji?”

  “Yes—”

  “I said, it is funny Karak Chacha is not around and—”

  “Yes. Yes.”

  At the depot Amarjeet jumped from the wagon to tie the mules, but Ram insisted he leave. The more Ram insisted, the more Amarjeet objected, until at last Ram shouted, “Amarjeet—go!”

  Confusion appeared on Amarjeet’s face. He reluctantly climbed back on the wagon, gathered up the reins, and nudged the mules forward. He looked back, waving at Ram, until Ram could no longer tolerate it and took up his bag and blanket and crossed to the platform. He asked the clerk for a one-way ticket north, third class, and barely registered the clerk’s response, the counting of his money, the giving of change. He did not understand why Amarjeet had grown so attached to him in such a short time.

  The train arrived with the screech of metal against metal. The passenger cars were almost empty. He boarded, put his things on the seat beside him, and looked out the window. The car was searing hot. The train belched and groaned as the engine built up steam. The sound vibrated in his belly, his wounded chest.

  In the safety of the train, for a moment, he felt calm. Karak had invited him to the Valley as his guest, had offered work and a partnership. No one in his uncle’s household would have thought him worthy of such honor. He felt another flicker of regret. But Karak was not honoring him. How long had he been plotting? Since the moment Ram had shown off his knowledge on the steamship? The constant talk of his younger age, his lack of worldly knowledge . . . Forcing Ram to accept a lower profit . . . Was Ram not a man? Was he not worth more than that?

  He remembered suddenly the long nights near the River Chenab, waiting by the canal for the water to flood his uncle’s land. He would stand on the bank, awake but tired, carrying a spade, ready to use it against anyone who would try to divert the water before his uncle’s allotment was full. That is what he would be doing here, again. Working hard to make another man rich. Karak was wrong; it would be years until he earned enough money to go home.

  From the corner of his eye he saw movement on the platform, the glimpse of a scarlet dastar, then the hand at his window knocking hard. Karak was speaking to him, but the sound was muffled by the train’s rumble, by the glass between them. Karak’s face smiled at him—a crooked smile, a quick tilt of the head inviting him to come back out, as if nothing had happened. At first, Ram felt a flash of satisfaction. He breathed in a molecule of hope. Karak had come back for him. But the grin was false; the man was false.

  He shook his head slightly, then looked at his hands in his lap, his palms that still bore the cuts from the attack. The train belched loudly. The wisps of steam swept past the window. The train shuddered. He would be gone soon. Karak’s knuckles hit the window again, harder. He heard the man’s voice inside his head. You take things too seriously—such a naive boy. Ram turned to look. Karak was yelling. Ram did not know if he heard faint words or read his lips—“Oye, come out! What are you doing in there?” A vein appeared on the side of Karak’s temple. He wasn’t smiling now. Ram swallowed. The train swayed, the beginning of the long passage north. The whistle blew like an alarm, blocking out all other sounds. Karak was still mouthing words. Ram clenched his jaw.

  He saw Karak run to the ticket stand, talk briefly to the man, scribble on paper with a pen. The train nudged forward. Karak strode in long steps to the platform. The paper appeared in the window, slapped against the glass. 1/3, 1/3, 1/3.

  Ram stood and gathered his blanket, his bag. Wheels clicked against metal track. He grasped the back of a bench to keep his balance. At the door, the dust-wind caught his cheek. Wooden floorboards flashed past his foot. He jumped easily, landing at the western edge of the platform.

  Letters

  20 July 1914

  Meri Pyari,

  I am writing after taking a big decision. I will stay in the Imperial Valley and farm cotton, which the Americans value as we do. It is a place much like our land in the colony outside Lyallpur. It is a desert that, through canal irrigation, has been made into fertile soil. Just as in our Canal Colonies, there is everything that a village could need: market, general store, school, banks, hospital with doctor, courthouse, inns. All of this has been built in just ten years.

  But because it is America, the colony is even more advanced than ours. Here, they have even an electric generator. Think on it, Padma—our old villages in Punjab have existed for fourteen to fifteen generations, perhaps even since Time’s beginning, and we do not have electricity, but this Fredonia colony does. Government, or maybe an industrialist, built the generator along with the settlement itself. Yesterday I was in the town as the sun was setting, and I saw the gleam of electric current shining through so many windows at once. The current is so different from the light of kerosene lamps that it seems a ghost has visited each home and place of work, lighting up the interior with its glow. And it does not cause one’s eyes do not burn; one’s breathing is clear . . . Like a fairy land . . . Padma-ji, can you imagine?

  I must tell you that I hesitate about my decision. To make my uncertainty worse, last night I had a dream that I was living in a village that was not familiar to me, but it was also very familiar, as if the bricks of its buildings were made of the substance of my bones, as if its fields and roads were made of my muscles and sinews. Then came a movement in the ground, as if this village were not stable, as if its foundation were not built on the earth, as if what I stood upon would move and shift. I woke up and, despite the threat of snakes and scorpions, walked in bare feet to the canal from where the water enters the cantaloupe field. My heart was beating too fast. I stood there for a while in the darkness—long enough that the moon changed its position in the sky. Only then could I return and lie down on my cot. I thought of you and imagined our son and it calmed me.

  The day I took my decision, I had my supper as usual in Jivan Singh’s home. He congratulated me, but I said that I could not
accept unless Kishen Kaur, his wife, also extended an invitation. Jivan Singh gave me a funny look, but then he called her to come to the table and give her opinion on whether I should stay. At first she would not, but Jivan pressed her and she answered yes. The others cheered like boys playing kabaddi. I hope I did not embarrass her. Sometimes our people here, after staying away from Punjab for so long, have strange customs.

  How is our son, Padma? Watch over him, take care of my mother. I count the weeks until I return.

  Your devoted husband,

  Ram Singh

  15 November 1914

  My esteemed husband,

  You flatter me by writing of your choice to stay in this Imperial Valley. I know that whatever decision you take will be only the best one. Why do you need bother with telling me? Yet I am happy to hear of it. That you are staying with a family of our people. That you will have something of a home. Last month when Father went to the district headquarters, I asked him to find information on this Imperial Valley. He came back saying it was a new place, a good place. Of course I know you will find success in farming, for that comes naturally to us and is our honorable lot in life.

  Husband, you will be glad to know this. We have finished with our son’s naming ceremony. Uncle has chosen a name: Santosh. What do you think of it, my husband? I am so anxious to know your thoughts and feelings. I believe that Mother-in-Law may have believed it to be proper for her grandson to have such a happy name. When Uncle whispered it into his ear, in front of the sacred fire with everyone watching, our son laughed. I would not lie to you. It was a small affair, but still, I was proud. What mother is not proud at her son’s first birthday? Yet, you were missing. You, who are the only person who should be present most of all, even more than me—a son’s father.

  Yesterday I was remembering the circumstances of his birth. You did not know this, husband, but when he was born there was so much blood, and I had a great wound, and the midwife did not believe that it would heal properly. Of course our son’s spirit is so large there must be something to mark his arrival! The midwife summoned four villagers to carry me in a palanquin to the hospital. It is only four miles distant, as you remember, so it was not too strenuous. At the time I did not think this at all important, dear husband, but I am writing it now in case you should hear of it later from others, and wonder that I did not tell you. My health is good and all that happened before is of no consequence and there is never any cause for you to worry about me here. I would not lie to you.

  You have told me that you have been sending money to Uncle. This makes me happy, but not at all for my sake. I care only that it puts you in a good light, that your reputation is good and strong.

  Theri—,

  Padma

  Part Two

  East Indians are the least desirable race of immigrants to have in the community. They are industrious, but not adaptable, and require a great deal of supervision in order that the work may be properly done.

  —Immigrants in Industries, United States Immigration Commission report, 1910

  Why do we feel low and humiliated?

  —Ghadar protest song

  8

  September 1914

  IN THE VALLEY, BEFORE AND AFTER THE GREAT FLOOD, EVERYONE HAD come from somewhere else. This is what Jivan told Ram when he asked. Five thousand people lived there, about seven hundred in the town of Fredonia itself. Over the past weeks, since Ram had decided to stay, Jivan thought he asked too many questions, like a boy, like a naive lad, even though he was married. Jivan listed the places they had come from, the people who came: Germans, Chinese, Greeks, Filipinos, Swiss, Portuguese, Japanese, Italians, Irish, the Africans who had been slaves, moving west from Dixie because freedom had not yet arrived. The Texans and Kansans and New Yorkers. Of course, the Mexicans, who had once owned it, and the natives too, who knew the land best of all.

  Jivan and Ram were in the wagon, going to town to pick up a seeder that had been repaired. Ram had insisted on driving. “But how did they know there would be work for them?” Ram asked. “Why would they come when the river had destroyed so much?”

  “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.”

  “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 famili
ar 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.