by Rishi Reddi
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.
May this letter reach you and find you in good health after six months on this shore. You see, I lost the paper on which you had written your cousin’s information when I left you at the depot. Somehow in the confusion of my disembarking at Hambelton, seeing the new people, and feeling deprived of the safety of your company—I was almost struck by a carriage in the bazaar—your slip of paper must have flown from my pocket and landed on the doorstep of some puzzled shopkeeper. Bhai-ji, it is only by memory that I have written your cousin’s postal address on the envelope, and that too using English letters. You know they are not familiar to me. I pray that you located his home without any obstacles and that you are comfortably settled in California State. If you hold this paper in your hands, it is by the Guru’s grace.
After leaving you at the train station I walked more than twenty furlongs to find the home of my village-mate, Pala Singh. I wandered from the main street of the colony to a dirt path. I was soon lost. I returned to the depot and asked the ticket seller, “How to find K Street?” For hours I had practiced the pronunciation of the English words just as you taught me, but still this fellow—so pale, so very pale!—looked at me with a question on his face. He said, “K Street?” and I felt fear straight to my backbone, thinking I had left the train at the wrong stop. He studied my face, my clothing, my shoes. He asked, “You are from British India, or China, or Japan?” From your tutoring, I knew enough to understand him. I told him I was from Hindustan. Suddenly, giving me a big smile, he said, “Ah, Hindu Alley . . . Hindu Alley is what you mean—” and he gave me directions for turning right at the power generator, crossing the railroad tracks, and going straight. He asked me, gesturing with his hands, why I don’t wear the dastar on my head. I was taken aback by his question.
Must I tell him—this first man that I meet in this strange country—that my father was Sikh but that he is no more, that I was raised by my Hindu mother and her brother . . . must I tell a stranger these things? Would he know the meaning, anyway? For they call us all Hindu, Karak-ji, whether we are Hindu, Sikh, or Mussulman. I do not take offense, for we are all sons of Hindustan. What is the use of feeling insulted when our motherland is so distant? We are as familiar to each other as brothers are, and we should stay united against these local people. From what I have seen, they have little affection, their skin is too white, their women are too forward, their clothes are too fitted, their food is like a punishment. How I will survive here for two years, I do not know. But the children—they are so beautiful! Like fairies! How can that be?
This place that I have arrived in is not at all like busy Seattle with its markets. What my humble Shahpur village is to worldly Delhi, that is this place as compared to Seattle. Still, I am comfortable here due to the influence of Pala Singh. Like you, he speaks English because of his British army service and so he is leader of our work gang; sometimes he is even asked to enter the company offices to speak about some labor matter. The bosses trust him.
Through Pala Singh my uncle will know of all the work I do for the good of our family. I must earn enough so that Chacha-ji can buy the acres he wants in our ancestral Shahpur. It is his great dream to leave the canal colony and return to our home, to shift the entire family back, before he grows too old. Now I am contributing American dollars to the family earnings. Mother tells me that they are depending only on me. You know I am a fatherless man who was raised on my uncle’s generosity. How much my standing in the family will be improved if I can send enough money to buy that land! That is my wish now. This is the lot of a man such as myself, bhai, I must always work for my good name! I am joking, but in every joke there is a kernel of truth. I have heard you say the same.
There are 120 of us now, living in ten houses on K Street, about four furlongs from the lumber mill. I am operating the machines to cut and chop the wood as it is brought in from the forest. The work is hard. But I am making $2.00 a day and am satisfied. The locals do not like us. There are so many strange people here from other lands, and their faces are not natural: men from Japan, or the children of the African slaves, and so many workers from China. I am suspicious of all these people. Still, it does not matter much. We keep to ourselves, and they keep to themselves, and in this way harmony is maintained.
Here our people cook and live together, so I do not miss home that much. A few days ago a meeting was held for all our countrymen, and leaders came from San Francisco City to give speeches on the topic of India’s status under British rule. You know I do not believe strongly about such things, bhai-ji, but I felt so so happy to be with that many of our people. They asked for money because a newspaper has been started under the name of Ghadar and printed in Urdu and Gurmukhi and distributed everywhere here in the U.S., so you see, we need not feel homesick at all.
At the meeting I met Asif Khan, who says he knows your younger brother and fought alongside him for the English king in Shanghai. Every Sunday at the mill we have a wrestling match. The top winner to date has been Bishan Singh Grewal, from Ganeshpur near your own village. He is not tall but he is very strong, and his skin is so fair I think he cannot be a farmer. Do you know him?
Bhai-ji, I thank God every day that I have the good fortune to know you. Even when I am an old man, lying on my deathbed, I will remember our three weeks together in Sri Guru Singh Sabha in Hong Kong. I am sending you a check for the amount of the medication that you bought for cousin Ishwar. Forgive my delay in getting the money to give you. He has recovered fully and instead of coming onward to America, he has gone back to Punjab. My uncle has stated that there is no doubt you saved him. When Ishwar returned, my uncle gave a celebration in your honor, Karak-ji. You will always be welcome there at my home.
Just this morning, I received a telegram from home saying that my wife has given birth to a boy. While you and I were together in Hong Kong and on board the ship, I did not know the happy news that I was to be a father. It seems my son is a large and healthy boy. He has not yet been given a name, and being a devout Hindu, my uncle will insist on waiting the proper amout of time before holding the naming ceremony.
Did I tell you the name of my wife, bhai-ji? It is Padma. I neglected to tell you during all that time we were together. Now I have such a strange feeling, both happiness and homesickness together, and everything seems half-half, broken and split inside. Think of this letter as if I am putting a sweet in your mouth as we do at home, telling you of good news.
Bhai-ji, when I feel discouraged here, I remember the night we walked to the border of the cantonment in Hong Kong, near your old army posting. We dared to drink with the British officers—served by those local women, do you remember?—and how the Englishmen la
ughed at your jokes.
From the hand of your brother,
Ram Singh
25 December 1913
Ram, my brother,
Many thanks for the money, but you did not need to return it. I am much relieved to hear that Ishwar has recovered. It is better that he returned home. We both know that life is not always easy here. I am happy to learn that you are settled in a good place. But it is a shame that you did not go to the real Hindu Alley in Astoria, near you, in Oregon. Have you heard what they say of that place? Mutton and chicken cooked every day, all the whiskey you desire, the North Country girls who come for love? I wish to go myself and enjoy life there for a while—but perhaps your lumber town is similar and you are too shy and respectable to tell me the truth.
Ram, do not be such a naive boy. You are married and have family obligations—you must become more worldly in your outlook. You feel suspicious of all those people in Hambelton, but they are just as you are, making a living here and sending money home. They are no different.
Pay some attention to what I am suggesting now, instead of that past nonsense. You are making $2.00 per day. That is fine, if you want to labor for another man, but it is a pittance compared to what I will earn here. I have cultivated forty acres with my father’s cousin-brother, Jivan Singh, growing cantaloupe. If it brings the expected price, calculating the hours I have spent over these months, my share will come to $5.00 per day. Compare that to your circumstances. Do you understand my meaning? Think of your new son and how you will heighten his status. Think how much you will lift Padma’s position in your home—with your uncle, with your cousins—as the wife of such a provider! Think of the benefit for your mother!
Perhaps you are wondering—what is a cantaloupe? It is our kharbooj, only a little smaller—our simple kharbooj! Anglos are mad for this fruit. Our shipments go as far east as Boston and Philadelphia. The soil is rich and we have a system of canal irrigation, like your own Lyallpur. You won’t suffer the humiliation of a work gang and an American boss. Ram, you come from a farming family, so you understand the importance of independence and honor and cultivating your own land. It is something I am only now learning. I think often of the laughs we enjoyed together, not only during the nights in Hong Kong, but that bloody long journey on the ship itself. Your company made those endless weeks seem like days. The other passengers were too serious, but I felt that you could take a joke. Come and join me and remain positive in your outlook. I can teach you one or two things about life’s realities. Think about it.
In chardi kala,
Karak Singh
22 April 1914
Ram,
Why have you not responded to my letter? Did you receive it? How is your health? It is odd to neglect an invitation such as the one I extended. Perhaps you thought I was falsely boasting about prospects here? You should know the profit from our crop was larger than I thought possible. The Philadelphia market was very high and Jivan Singh and I made more money than you lumberjacks can imagine. Now will you come?
Your brother,
Karak
26 May 1914
Ram,
Do you remember me or not? I am the man who saved your cousin from certain death and still you have given no answer to my request to join me—what should I think of that? Does our friendship mean nothing to you? Do you still wear the kara I gave you or have you forgotten me? After all I have done, isn’t it your duty to meet at least once after our arrival on this shore? If you will not come to farm, then come for a visit. In early August it is too hot to work and I’ll have a few days of leisure.
—Karak
* T E L E G R A M *
originating: Portland Depot, Oregon, July 6, 1914
destination: Fredonia, California
RE LETTER 26 MAY ARRIVING 9 JULY A.M. TRAIN FROM LOS ANGELES
RAM
3
July 1914
THE TRAIN DEPOT IN FREDONIA WAS ERECTED ON SILTY CLAY, WITH A floor of coarse wood and walls of canvas, flapping against the desert’s dust-wind. It was an appropriate location. Farther east and the tracks would lay in shifting sand; farther north would have been a misuse of fertile loam. The wood and canvas had arrived by an eight-mule team and wagon in January seven years prior; the loam and the dust-wind had come eons before that, when the ocean had receded and the sea creatures had died, leaving only bones and chalk, salt and silt.
The ticket agent glared at Ram, his stare as harsh as the dust-wind itself, so Ram turned back to the platform with his blanket and carpetbag and stood in the shadow near the belching train. The man had no reason to stare; all of Ram’s wounds were hidden under his long pants and a work shirt buttoned at the wrists. The pain in his side softened when Ram was standing. Gazing west from the platform, he saw storefronts with awnings lining the dirt road: HANSON’S IMPLEMENTS. EDGAR BROS GENERAL STORE. CHARLIE’S HORSE AND MULE RENTAL. Farther along stood a brick building with arched promenades. To the east sat a string of shacks, and beyond them sky and air and earth stretched away in every direction. A mound of sand rose in the near distance covered with gray-green brush; odd trees stood upon it, tall and waiting, tentacles reaching to the clouds. To the south, a jagged line marked the edge of mountains on the horizon.
A cluster of men strolled toward him, too slowly, and too pale, but Ram searched their faces anyway. Behind them, dark clouds sailed in the distance. The dust-wind played with a nest of brambles near his feet. Still, Karak Singh did not appear.
The horizon seemed to shift, falling away on his left; he gripped the fence rail to regain his balance. A horse whinnied from the road. He heard the jangle of spurs. The sun, the ache in his side, the blood-scent that rose from his bandaged arm, all of this unmoored him. He smelled coal ash mixed with manure and dust and heat and something else he could not recognize. A fragment of the wooden fence pricked his wrist, stinging him, and the earth righted herself.
He was not well, he knew that, even though Pala had wrapped the wounds so capably, stopping the flow of blood with a torn piece of his own clean shirt. Three days traveling down the Pacific coast and he had slept so much, but he still did not feel rested. He had not wasted money in the dining car. When the train stopped, he had struggled into the depots and found only almonds and toast for sale and washed them down with milk. The heat had alarmed him. The car had been a prison; the small windows, mounted high, had allowed only a whisper of a breeze. In Portland, they had taken on a hundred new passengers and the cars had been overcrowded, grown men sitting shoulder to shoulder, knee to knee, backs forced upright. He had struggled to walk through several cars before he found one in which he could rest. He didn’t mind the sound of the whistle and the ash coming off the engine. Other passengers stared at him. But he could lie on the bench while the train groaned and shuddered and rocked underneath him. He used his folded blanket as a pillow, covering his face with a bandana to block the light. With his back jammed against the hard bench, half-conscious, he heard the sounds of the attack again: The smashing of glass. The snap of axe against wood. The sounds woke him in daylight, just as they had that night; he could not escape the fear. He imagined his mother coming to soothe him. As a boy, when he had startled awake while napping on his charpai, she would whisper that dreams dreamed under the moon came true, those dreamed under the sun did not.
After two days, the pain in Ram’s chest had begun to lessen. After four, he’d begun to use both arms.
With each stop, the train had moved farther away from the lumber mill and he had felt safer, looking forward to this moment of seeing Karak Singh again. But now that he had arrived to stand in the dry heat on this wooden platform, reeking of sweat and soot and the third-class car, blinking as the dust plagued his eyes, now that he had trusted Karak Singh and his invitation so completely, he wondered if he should not have come.
The Imperial Valley was not like Seattle, or even Hambelton. Here, the sky and the gray-green earth felt familiar, like the desert surrounding Lyallpur. A sign announcing C
ITY OF FREDONIA, AMERICA’S DREAM hung crookedly from a rusted chain and piece of wire. Only five other passengers had disembarked from the train and they had stared at him too: a Chinese man and an elderly Negro had emerged from the car next to his, and three Anglos had come off a front car, wearing suits and carrying briefcases. He had seen them board in Los Angeles. Now, they seemed out of place, but he could see they were coming home. The men walked past the depot to the road, where a motor car had raised a cloud of dust and stood sputtering, its honk calling playfully. A woman—the first he had seen here—and her driver were inside. One of the Anglo men stepped up toward it, leather shoes gleaming, pocket watch smartly jangling on his vest. The woman smiled widely. The driver opened the door.
Had Karak Singh forgotten him? Was he punishing him for not accepting his invitation sooner? Had he not received the telegram Ram had sent from Portland? Ram had stood so long that his calf had begun to throb again. He found a wooden crate abandoned near the track, turned it over to sit. Two men, wearing wide-brimmed hats, sat on a bench under the awning of the general store, watching him silently. He thought of the $5.50 he had in his billfold. What would he do if Karak did not show up? One of the men said something to the other, and Ram thought—the way he tilted his head, the way his companion responded—that the comment was about him.
Ram sensed them at the edge of his vision: three men with dastars regally wrapped about their heads, as if they were soldiers, as if they were farmers; he knew they were both. He felt a relief akin to love.
The earth swayed again. His vision blurred. Ram could not help himself. Despite the flash of pain, he picked up his bag and blanket and raced to meet them.
KARAK SINGH EMBRACED HIM, slapped him affectionately on the back, sending a dart of pain along Ram’s side. The men laughed for no reason. “You are so anxious to see me?” Karak said in Punjabi. “Did you think I would not come?” Karak grinned broadly at him. Both knew that Karak had intended to keep Ram waiting. Both knew what the other knew: that Ram had minded this, had felt fear. Ram felt the humiliation sweep through him, then he pushed the feeling away. Karak put his hands on Ram’s shoulders and turned him toward his companions, presenting him to the older man. “Ram Singh,” he said, “originally from Shahpur village in Jullundur; now his family is settled at Chenab Canal Colony near Lyallpur. Father is Sikh. Expert in irrigation farming. They helped the British clear the jungle there.”
