by Rishi Reddi
A week after the wedding reception, Karak rented a motorcar, and he drove Rosa to the barrio. She would spend a leisurely Sunday with Esperanza. He did not stay. He drove for hours on the new Plank Road, crossing the sand dunes, heading east to the Colorado River. The wooden box sat on the seat next to him. It was late June; even at sunset the heat was strong and stifling, but the river still flowed with the strength of the spring rains draining from the Rocky Mountains.
Sacred things must not be thrown away, his mother had said long ago, to a different boy who had borne his name and whom he no longer was. But they may be placed in water, and the water must be flowing, and the flowing water must merge with the sea.
He parked off the roadway near Winterhaven. The sky was filled with birds that were not of the desert, that flew from the green lagoons of the Colorado River Delta, where life teemed on the boundary of sea and land. He had been there before, when he had first arrived in the Valley. He picked his way through the shrub and grass and kneeled by the water. He opened the box.
The hair lay in a neat coil, gleaming black. Quickly, before he could think, he topped the box and released the coil into the river. His gut clenched. The hair unwound and swirled and floated off, downstream.
17
August 1916
FOR A MONTH, RAM STAYED AWAY FROM THE EGGENBERGER HOUSE AND its newly curtained windows, its swept porch, its painted trim. He could not name his feelings. Karak had not acted properly in marrying outside his community, but it was more than that. Was Ram jealous of him? Ram already had a wife and child. What, then?
He and Karak still needed to work as partners, to review accounts together so that Ram could plan how many harvests it would take to earn the dowry for his cousin. When Karak did not emerge from the Eggenberger home at the agreed-upon time one morning, Ram climbed up the porch steps and knocked on the door.
There was no answer. Because Karak would enter Jivan’s home without knocking, Ram found himself doing the same, stepping into the parlor, peeking into the bedroom, assessing the furniture, the kitchen.
A rug lay under the new couch. There was a piano, which Ram had heard Rosa play in the evenings; lamps, tables, an armchair wrapped in a dust cover. He had seen so many deliveries to the home in the previous days, wagons drawn by draft horses. Ram could not deny it; he felt a great wave of jealousy.
Suddenly, he heard a sound near the front, and he rushed toward the door. He startled Rosa, who jumped and gave a yelp, dropping the basket she was carrying. It was full of onions she had picked from the garden she now shared with Kishen.
“PerdÓn, señora,” he said, bending to pick them up, ashamed at being caught.
He hesitated. He formed the Spanish words in his mind. “I look for Karak Singh. He said he would be here.”
Rosa drew herself up. She answered in English, “He has gone to town.”
The English surprised him, then he understood the pride behind it. Padma would have done the same. “My excuses. I will come back later.” Karak should not have married her, but, really, what had she done wrong? The answer presented itself to him in a flash. She had had the arrogance to accept him, he thought to himself. How had this couple deserved that much freedom? Still, he backed away from her politely, half bowing, regretting his actions.
She hesitated, then her expression grew soft. “You must stay,” she said in Spanish. “He will come soon for his lunch. We can eat together.”
“I will return later.”
“Please—you must stay and eat.”
He was reminded of Padma’s first days in his uncle’s household, soon after they married. She had also been desperate as a new wife, trying to make a place for herself. Ram took off his hat, squeezing it without meaning to. Why should he be stern with Rosa?
“Fine, I will stay, señora,” he said in Spanish.
“Good—” She clapped her hands together.
“If you let me help you. I do help Kishen Kaur—”
“Oh no!”
“I am a good cook. I made so many meals for my work gang.”
She smiled at him. “Among Mexicans, men do not cook if a woman is near.”
He did not push further. He sat in the front room and she took the basket of onions to the back. He could hear her at the stove, stepping in and out of the back door, clattering the pans. Ram sat for a long time, feeling it would be rude to leave, but Karak did not return.
He got up and joined her in back, where she stood at the stove. She smiled, embarrassed. “Do you like it?” she said.
He looked at her with a question.
“We ordered it from the Sears catalog,” she said. He realized that she meant the stove. It was royal blue in color, made of gleaming steel. He had seen it delivered by wagon a week before.
She was flustered now and her face had flushed, but she did not stop working. She was adding water to cornmeal and kneading it with her hands. She was strong and worked quickly. Ram pulled up a wooden stool and sat and watched.
“In India, we do just the same. Our rotis.”
“Sí—Karak has told me. So many things, señor. They are the same. He has taught me to make roti, chicken curry.”
He thought she was nervous in his presence. Her hand hit an empty tin and it clattered across the table. He could have told her to call him Ram, but he did not want to. Still, he handed her a pan without her asking for it. He struck a match for the stove when it was time. She began to make the tortillas. “But Karak says they do not taste the same,” she said. She cared about pleasing her husband, and suddenly Ram’s jealousy clarified itself. It was not for her—it was for Karak’s having her, having someone.
“I have made arroz con leche for today. It is not a holiday, but it is his favorite.”
She dipped a spoon into the bowl and handed it to him. The familiar rich taste filled his mouth.
“This is Punjabi only! Pukka Punjabi.”
She smiled broadly, relaxed. She had beautiful eyes. “That is what he said too.” Yes, she was pretty, but he didn’t feel anything for her, he thought with relief.
Karak arrived just then, calling to her as he stepped inside the door. They both looked up as he entered.
“Ram?” Karak’s eyes darted between them: Rosa working at the stove, Ram seated near her. But Ram had realized that he did not desire her, and he did not feel guilty.
“I came looking for you,” Ram said in Punjabi.
“You have found me,” Karak said.
“He is eating with us,” Rosa said in Spanish. She was too cheerful, as if to excuse Karak’s discovery.
“Good,” Karak said. He put down the satchel he was carrying, slinging it over the chaise. “Good,” he repeated. He forced a smile.
They ate at the small table outside, set in the porch’s shade. It was the first time Ram had been with them alone. Rosa spoke of finding him in the house, and Ram could sense Karak’s mood lifting. Her openness and obvious pleasure, her smile, her description of how Ram sat with her as she made the tortillas—Ram found himself joking along. She felt so familiar.
Karak laughed with them, his dark eyes half-closed, his body stretched back, legs crossed at the ankles, arm draped around the back of Rosa’s chair. Ram sensed a great space opening inside Karak, the air of freedom, satisfaction, ease. Perhaps even kindness. Karak glanced at him, as if to say—I told you, see, I made a fine choice for my wife. It was an intimate gesture—that glance—full of knowing. Perhaps the two men were closer than Karak and his wife would ever be.
Letters
10 August 1916
My dear,
Karak Singh has taken a local girl for his wife. She is a Mexican, her family crossed the border some time ago—like those families that live in Patiala who were born in Kabul. She was under the guardianship of her sister’s husband, who arranged the match. They are living now in the Eggenberger house, separately from the rest of us, but only a furlong away.
He sleeps indoors often now, like a respectable householder,
even when the night is warm. He no longer comes for breakfast every morning to Kishen’s table.
It is strange that he is comfortable with marrying an outsider. In so many ways he and I are different! But I can admit to you, my wife, that I am jealous of their happiness. When I see them together, I am reminded only of me and you. This letter-writing is strange, isn’t it? I can admit things that I would not if you were standing in front of me. We had too little time together after our wedding. I do not know how you feel about these things, perhaps good women feel differently, but I miss the scent and the feeling of you, and think about these more often than I would admit to anyone. Perhaps they are bad thoughts, but I have them. I cannot think that it is bad for a man to miss his wife. Why should it be that Cousin Ishwar has been allowed to remain home, while I was sent away, when I have a wife and child? The thought makes me sick, day after day, and I am filled with resentment and growing venom. I have given three years of my life without seeing you. It is true that Uncle raised me in his household, but I cannot say that I was like one of his own sons. That would be a lie—all his sons are there while I am here. Am I thinking too much like a westerner? It seems that he looked after me only for his own self-interest. Sometimes I rent myself out to the farms nearby so that I can send even more money to him.
Enough of this bitterness. Here, I have become something that I was not before: a person with knowledge. I am not yet rich, but I have done well with several harvests. Others sometimes approach me for advice. Perhaps that is the only reason that I can look back with this clarity, free of my childhood loyalties. I send kisses to Santosh. My thoughts are with you.
Your husband,
Ram
30 August 1916
My dear saintly uncle, may God keep you in good health.
Greetings to you! With your blessings, I am hale and hearty in all respects. The cotton has grown well, and with God’s grace we have harvested a second crop of the plants and sold it for high prices. The war in Europe is creating a great demand. My esteemed partner, Karak Singh, has married and established a good home with these earnings. I hope that with the amount of Rs.3,500 (three thousand five hundred) that I send today, dear little cousin’s wedding will be the grand affair that we desire.
If you have no objection, and it is in line with your own thinking, I will make some plans for my return, to see for the first time my son’s face. Is it possible? I pray for your well-being always. Please reply soon. Greetings to all.
Your humble nephew,
Ram
21 November 1916
My good nephew,
I trust that this letter will find you in good health and spirits. You know that I seldom engage in letter-writing. But you have been such a boon to this household that I thought it wise to inform you of this in my own words. After all, you are like a son to me.
Here at your home, everything was well until last week. Your cousin had a beautiful wedding. Everyone was happy and singing your praises. The money you have sent these years has accomplished so much. Ishwar and I went to the village and inspected and purchased 32 acres of land of the best soil. It is very near to our ancestral plots, and only 4 furlongs from the district headquarters. You have made me proud, and you have made your mother proud.
But recently, there has been misfortune in our household. Early morning on Saturday last week, the barn caught on fire and burned down. We were lucky that Ishwar rose very early for some purpose that day and roused all of us and we moved all the animals. But the barn will have to be rebuilt. Also, we need to build another home on our new lands, for Ishwar and his soon-to-be wife, so that they may bring those lands into proper cultivation. Please, just accomplish these tasks and then you may return. Your home will be waiting for you.
From the hand of your uncle,
Chanda Lal
18 January 1917
Dear Ma,
I hope this letter finds you in good health. Probably Padma is reading it to you, and I am picturing the scene in my mind. Perhaps Uncle has informed you, the money I sent has paid for the land that he and Ishwar bought in our Shahpur village. I am telling you so that you should not feel obliged to him. He should express to you clearly his gladness. But he has asked that I send more money for repair of the barn, and also for constructing a home on the new lands. I do not understand why so much money is needed. What sort of grand structures will these be? But I will do as Uncle says. It is my duty. My heart is sore with the thought of staying away from you and my wife and my son, who is still a stranger to me. I hope Padma is looking after you well.
Your son,
Ram
30 March 1917
My dear son, my world,
You cannot know how happy I was to get your letter. Now I am holding my head up high. At first, your uncle did not tell me about the money at all. But when I indicated that I knew that, with it, he had bought lands in Shahpur, he could no longer hide it from me. Now he has admitted that the money you are sending has made so much possible, also the rebuilding of the barn here and the new home in Shahpur.
I am proud of you, son, and you have given me more izzat in this household. For that, I am grateful. Your aunt has become quite arrogant after the wedding of her daughter with Gopal Singh’s son. To have our family in relation to that one is beyond what she thought possible. But she is kinder to me than before, because it is through your hand that such wishes are granted. Oh, you are my treasure, you are a fragment of my own heart.
I am writing this letter through the son of the tailor in the neighboring village, who has been making a good business of this letter-writing. He is a good boy and from what I can tell, he holds his secrets well.
Your Ma
1 April 1917
My dear esteemed husband,
Will you not come back to me? Today I have already written a letter to you, but I must write more. You have abandoned me, and left me without your protection. How can I go on living? Have you not earned enough to keep this family fed for years to come? Must the responsibility be only yours? You are not even a son of this family, yet you are bearing all the burden.
Forgive me for writing like this.
Theri,
Padma
Part Three
I am a rielera and I’ve got my man
I have a pair of stallions
for the Revolution
one is called Canary
the other is Sparrow.
Farewell to the boys of Lerdo,
of Gómez and Torreón,
the cutthroats have said their adios,
and now they are long gone.
I have a pair of pistols
their aim is straight and true,
one for my rival
the other for my beau.
—based on the corrido La Rielera
18
April 1917
THE UNITED STATES JOINED THE WORLD’S WAR. THIS FOLLOWED WEEKS of indecision, after Germany had sunk four more U.S. merchant ships, and American flags waved on every storefront on every street in the Valley from Calexico to Calipatria. War posters hung on the sides of movie theaters and post offices, beckoning to pedestrians as they strolled past. Every day, Amarjeet followed the news and reported to Ram what he learned: in its quest for Indian freedom, the Ghadar Party had allied itself with Germany, Britain’s enemy, and now America’s enemy too.
RamChandra Bharadwaj, Ghadar’s leader, who had visited them three years earlier, recruiting Valley farmers and drawing Jivan’s ire, was arrested with several others in San Francisco. A month later, he was indicted.
Now, at the dinner table, at the park on Sundays, any occasion when the Hindustanees met, Jivan warned: “Buy war bonds, and buy many of them. We must show our allegiance to the American government.” He insisted that Kishen expand her vegetable garden, that she sign and mail a pledge card stating that her household would follow the practice of meatless Tuesdays, wheatless Wednesdays. He spoke about this with Clive Edgar and the banker Jasper Davis, with Ste
phen Eggenberger, with the sheriff, with the clerks at the general store, and made sure they knew. Amarjeet was aware why he was doing this: if they were ever suspected, even though they had done nothing wrong, all this would protect them.
Amarjeet did not like Jivan to pretend to be more loyal to the United States government than he truly felt. At one time, three years ago, he had wanted to fight for the Ghadar, but that was when Ghadar had aligned itself with the words of Thomas Jefferson and Patrick Henry, not gone against America. It was true that when the Singhs went into town, some Anglos would stare at them, but he did not like the way his uncle cowered. He would not hide behind the purchase of Liberty bonds. Not even when Ghadar’s impending trial and RamChandra’s face appeared on the front page of the San Francisco Chronicle.
AMARJEET TOLD RAM that he was required to register for the selective service. “We will go together,” he said.
“Register for what?” Ram asked.
“The draft,” Amarjeet clarified.
“Only the Americans are required, Jeetu,” Ram said.
“Everyone,” Amarjeet said. “Between the ages of twenty-one and thirty years. You and me.”
“Everyone between those ages,” Jivan agreed.
“What does it matter?” Ram said. “I am a foreigner. I will not have to fight.”
“We must follow the law. We must be faultless,” Jivan said. “If they ask us to register, we should register.”
ON THE MORNING OF JUNE 1, Amarjeet woke early and hitched up the mare to head into town. For once, he was awake before Ram. He was excited to register.
“Don’t take long,” Jivan said, when they were ready and had climbed onto the buckboard.
“Chacha-ji, there is a full day of parades,” Amarjeet said.
“Why must they have parades for such a thing? We do not have need of their parades. Finish the registration and come back.”
Amarjeet said nothing, feeling reprimanded.
On the road into town, Ram said, “The problem is, Jeetu, you are bored.”