Passage West

by Rishi Reddi

  Now, in the lonely desert morning, he thought about his future and his past and the man that he had been in Manila and Hong Kong, when he’d worked for the white man in a country far from his home. He thought of the boy that he had been and about his father, who had also worn the British uniform. Even then, the British officers who commanded Indian troops would wear a dastar, in supposed solidarity. But were they not merely manipulating the Indians into compliance? Wasn’t it all a sham? He thought about Roubillard and the buttermilk. He pushed that thought away; the humiliation of the buttermilk threatened everything. He reminded himself: He knew the vice president of the bank. He was friendly with the sheriff. The buttermilk need not ruin him.

  “Is your country so hot as this?” Rosa had asked that day in the wagon, when her breast had brushed against his arm. “Is it not unbearable with that great turban and your beard?”

  Karak could have been angry, but he was not. “The turban gives dignity, Rosita,” he said. “It is a mark of honor and courage. I have worn it since I was a small boy.” Other men—Jivan—would have said the uncut hair was a divine gift.

  He could tell that she did not understand. He found himself wanting to please her. Here was a new beginning for him, and he wanted to meet it as a new man.

  His mother was in India and would not need to know. His father, if he had been alive, would not have approved. But even his father had been a man of practicality. It would have been his youngest brother, who had died during the famine, who would have chastised him. But that brother had not been shamed for drinking buttermilk or harassed on the street. The thought caught him, the innocence of his brother’s chastisement. He shoved it aside and felt the painful luxury of ignoring a dead boy’s opinion.

  He saddled up Jivan’s mare. He would not be gone long; on horseback, the trip was less than an hour. As he was about to leave, Kishen came to the porch. He told her in a soft voice that he would be back soon. He kicked the horse into a trot before she could ask any questions.

  The sun had risen by the time he arrived at Rosa’s home. Esperanza answered the door, puzzled. “It is him!” she exclaimed.

  Rosa was standing behind her, wide-eyed and startled. “Why do you come?” she asked.

  Esperanza interjected—“It is not right, but now I must go, Rosa. Otherwise there will be no flowers left in the market. We will have none for your bouquet.” She glanced at them both. “Alejandro will not be happy with me that I leave you two, but what can I do?”

  Rosa nodded her head, but she looked away.

  When Esperanza had gone, Rosa asked again, “Why do you come?”

  “To ask a favor.” His hand went slowly to his dastar and unwound it. Underneath he undid the patka and his hair, dark and heavy, fell to his waist.

  He felt vulnerable, naked before her. The ends of his hair had been with him for as long as he had been alive, thirty-three years of his life upon this earth, had traveled with him across the continents, as much a part of him as his organs and limbs. He folded the patka and dastar neatly and put them inside his leather pouch.

  “I need a haircut and a shave,” he said, the way the Americans said it. “Can you help me?”

  Her surprise flashed across her face.

  “I did not take this decision lightly,” he added. “I have given it much thought.”

  She nodded slightly. She walked into the other room and Karak heard the sound of items being moved, a clattering of possessions. On the table near the doorway stood Esperanza’s saints. He did not know them all, only the largest: the Virgin of Guadalupe. The early sun shone in at an angle and cast a shadow across her blue robe.

  When Rosa came back, she held a pair of scissors and a straight razor. He sat on a wooden stool near the stove. She poured water from a kettle into a small basin, placed it on a table beside him. “I used to shave my father,” she said. “I was the only one in the household he trusted.” She asked Karak to strip to his undershirt, and he complied.

  His face was level with her waist, at the place her blouse was cinched into her skirt. She was facing him as she drew a part in his hair. Her forehead glistened with moisture. Her arms glowed gold in the sunlight. He could smell the tang of her. She must have been outside before he arrived, perhaps caring for the chickens. She stood behind him now, her hands on his hair, loosening the tangles with a comb. He could feel the teeth sweeping across his scalp.

  “Why do you bother with the knots?” he asked, impatiently.

  “To keep it neat after it is cut.”

  Her fingers caressed his forehead, his ears. More water trickled into the basin. She pulled together all his hair at the base of his neck. He heard the scrape of the scissors’ blades as they worked. He thought he would not care as the hair fell away, but he did.

  When he saw himself in the handheld mirror, he did not know who he was. He felt light-headed. He would never again wear a dastar. The countrymen he met would no longer think he was part of the Khalsa. All this, Rosa had no way of knowing, and she never would. She silently showed him the long black locks, wrapping them around her fist. A part of himself. It was nothing, wasn’t it, only hair? He had never thought of himself as a religious man, but now it was evident to him: this was more than hair, and it was more than religion. He had had a choice. Other men would have chosen differently.

  “It is thick, no?” she asked, smiling. She twisted the strands, rolling them into a knot. “It is like a snake!”

  “It is like a snake,” he agreed, and laughed; he must not show that it hurt him.

  When this first cut was over, she hummed a tune that he recognized from the fields, soft and low. She tipped his head back to inspect the part, and he felt her breasts against the crown of his head, the sound of her voice vibrating against his scalp. He closed his eyes. The scissors clipped around his ears, around the crown.

  Then she stood before him and took up the shaving brush.

  She put soap on the beard, spread it with gentle strokes. She dipped the razor in the water. “Don’t worry,” she said. “You must trust me.” She raised her eyebrows for a moment, to tease him. Then their eyes met, and she was serious.

  The soap was cold against his skin, but when he felt the blade scrape his cheek he suddenly knew its danger. Small, even strokes. She could cut him on a whim and draw blood. It was in her power. He drew in a breath to calm himself. A small muscle under her collarbone flexed and moved. She breathed softly, intent on her work, concentrating on this spot on his face, the tender area under the jawline, her gaze fixed on him but not meeting his eye. He stared at her intently.

  When she was finished, she tipped his chin up toward her. “You are very handsome,” she said. He reached up and grasped her shoulders, pulling her toward him, with strength, kissing her full on the mouth. She had violated him, hadn’t she? Played with him as he sat, helpless? She kissed back, hard. If he hadn’t heard Esperanza return outside, her shoes scraping the gravel, he would have traced his hand up the back of her thigh, and, he knew—she would have been completely willing.

  KARAK RODE BACK TO THE FARM and from a distance, he saw Leela hold her arm up and point, and run back into the house, perhaps yelling. By the time he had arrived, others had come out too: Ram, Kishen, Amarjeet. Now he felt a sudden sadness, a knowledge that what had been done could not be undone, even if he had wished. He did not wish, he told himself. If they blamed this on the girl, he thought, he would not be able to contain himself; it was so much more than the girl. He dismounted without a word.

  Jivan was the last to appear. When their eyes met, Karak said only, “Bhai-ji.” Jivan turned and walked to the packing shed. Karak could feel the weight of Ram’s gaze, cold and judging, as he followed Jivan inside. When Karak entered, he realized Jivan was dressed for the wedding but he was bent over the work table, hammering to assemble a crate.

  “She did not ask me to do it,” Karak said.

  “No,” Jivan said. “She would not. She is too mild.” He looked Karak in the eye, as if to s
ay I know it was a decision only you took. So that Karak could not be absolved through Rosa.

  “There are many pressures, bhai-ji.”

  “Yes.”

  “I ask your pardon.”

  Jivan did not say anything. He looked down again at his work, but something in his manner suggested forgiveness, so much so that Karak stepped forward and said, “When we are before the judge, I will need two witnesses. Will you agree?”

  Jivan closed his eyes and nodded.

  “There is a position of honor in carrying the ring before I give it to Rosa. Will you do so?”

  “Find someone better suited to that task,” Jivan said.

  Karak knew what he meant: find someone to whom that honor would mean something. It was the correct response; he would feel foolish if another Hindustani man were helping him follow a western custom. Even so, for a fleeting moment, he considered asking Ram. But Ram was jealous of him; he was sure of it. How could he trust someone like that? Karak knew who he would ask instead.

  THE JUSTICE OF THE PEACE sat on a raised dais, wearing a black robe despite the heat. Sternness was expressed in the lines around his mouth and between his brows, in the straightness of his back. He scanned the entire party: Jivan’s and Amarjeet’s dastars, Rosa’s white dress and tiara, Clive’s presence as the only Anglo. He did not smile. “This is in anticipation of a wedding. . . . Is that correct?” he said to Clive.

  “It is, sir,” Karak said, stepping forward.

  “May I see the license, please?”

  Karak handed the clerk an envelope. Karak’s eyes followed as the clerk handed it to the judge, who slowly put on his spectacles and scrutinized the paper. Perspiration beaded on the judge’s forehead, wet the stray hairs that lingered on his balding head.

  “Says here you’re a native of India. Subject of Britain.”

  “I belong to Punjab Province.”

  “But your fiancée is from Mexico.”

  “Her family is here and in El Paso and Algo—”

  “She was born in Mexico,” the judge interrupted.

  “Sí, señor,” Alejandro said.

  The judge glanced at him.

  “Sister’s husband, señor. Her guardian.”

  “But she has reached adulthood? She has no need of a guardian?”

  Jivan explained to Alejandro in Spanish. The judge watched them keenly. “Sí, señor,” Alejandro said, when he understood. “She has eighteen years,” he said in English.

  “A member of the Indian race and a British subject wants to marry a woman of Mexican race and citizenship under the laws of California? I see here that a week ago the clerk identified you as being of the ‘brown’ race, Mr. Singh.”

  Karak glared at him. The judge did not seem to notice.

  “And she is listed as being ‘white.’” The judge took off his spectacles, clasped his hands on the desktop, stared at Rosa. “Can she understand me? Perhaps she doesn’t speak English.” He looked around the other faces.

  “I explain her,” Alejandro said.

  “I understand good,” Rosa said.

  “Mr. Singh, are you aware of miscegenation laws?”

  “Sir?” Karak said, closing his eyes and opening them slowly.

  “In California, people of different races cannot marry. I’d be breaking the law if I conducted this ceremony. I don’t know what the city clerk was thinking when he issued this document. He’ll get a reprimand from me.” He folded up the license, handed it to his clerk. “Give that back to him.”

  Karak took the envelope, unseeing, numb. He would have struck the judge if he could, if the judge did not have his clerk seated in front of him, if they were not separated by a thick wall of wood.

  “I don’t need a clerk’s license to tell me what my eyes can clearly see. You have brown skin. This young lady here has white skin. Although she’s a Mexican girl, she is still Caucasian.”

  Clive was hearing this, Karak thought. Clive was witness to this humiliation, fingering the ring in his pocket. Ram, Jivan—all who had judged him—they were hearing it too. He remembered a British officer who had befriended him while he had served in Hong Kong. Funny thing about you Indians. You’re Caucasian, but you’re black. No one ever expects to see a black Caucasian. Rosa, Esperanza, and Alejandro, who was his hired man . . . they were seeing this too.

  The room was still. In the far corner, the bailiff dropped something, a coin, a button. The noise echoed off the stone floor. Karak forced his voice through the stillness. “I too am Caucasian.” He could not allow himself to repeat the word “sir.”

  “I think not, Singh.”

  “You tell me that in America, I cannot marry who I choose to marry?”

  “Take your friends and go, before I have to call on the bailiff to help me.”

  Karak’s heart pounded in his ears.

  The judge rose to leave.

  Karak stood. He could not turn to face all those who had come with him. He was still standing there after the justice of the peace had left, after the bailiff was showing the others out.

  “Karak . . .” Jivan said. Karak felt the older man’s hand on his shoulder.

  He rubbed his face absent-mindedly, his fingers searching for the beard that was no longer there. His strength left him. He followed Jivan out of the room. A wooden bench stood outside in the hallway. It was a large bench. They had been sitting there, waiting for the justice, only a few moments before. The image taunted him. He bent and heaved and picked it up, threw it with full force. It landed with a thud, slid only a few feet. Even his rage was ineffective. Karak froze, staring at the bench, its small broken foot, the splintered wood, the mark on the floor.

  The bailiff ran back into the hallway. “Hey! What’s that you’re doing? What?” He grabbed Karak from behind, but Karak lowered his shoulder to slip out of his grasp, shoving him sideways, against the wall. The bailiff reached for the gun in his holster.

  “Arre’ bhai!” Ram said, inserting himself into the space between the two men.

  Karak felt his arms pinned against him. He did not have the strength to resist.

  The bailiff drew his weapon, held it poised to the side. His path to Karak was blocked by Ram’s body. Karak realized that it was Jivan who had grasped him from behind.

  “What’s happening here?” the bailiff asked, addressing only Clive, who stood farthest away from him. Cries echoed in the hallway. Kishen held Leela’s face to her waist. Amarjeet stepped in front of them.

  “Nothin’, officer,” Clive said. He’s a little upset is all. It’s been a rough mornin’ for him. You can understand.” Clive was smiling, too deferential.

  “Can’t say I do. I oughta bring him in for this—”

  “He’ll pay for it. The bench. Whatever the cost,” Clive said.

  The bailiff glared at Karak. Karak could not control his breathing. He could not control his heart.

  “I oughta throw you out on your ass right now,” the bailiff said.

  “You have my word. Here—” Clive extended his hand; he was holding a trade card. “Send the bill to this address. It won’t be a problem.”

  The bailiff took the card. He put his gun back in the holster. He sneered at Karak. “Get this bench straightened,” he said to Clive. “And get these people out—whatever business you have with them.”

  “Yes, officer.” Clive turned to Amarjeet. “Will ya help me git the bench up?” he said, though the boy had already done so. “I got it all under control.” He nodded at the bailiff. “You can see that.”

  IN THE SUNLIGHT OUTSIDE, it was a different world. Karak saw the tears welling in Rosa’s eyes, and he was reminded she was only eighteen. The tears irritated him, enraged him. He thought he could never love her now, he could never show her affection. Not after she had heard how that justice of the peace had spoken to him. Not after she had seen the bailiff lay a hand on him.

  Jivan fixed him with his gaze. “Calm yourself, Karak,” he whispered. “This is not the way to behave.” He was stand
ing so close Karak could feel his breath on his face.

  Clive clapped Karak on the back. Karak could not stand his touch. “Well? What do we do now?” he said, as if they were at a picnic that had been rained out.

  “Karak has a license to be married. He should be married,” Jivan said.

  They were looking at Karak, all of them: Ram and Amarjeet, Rosa and her family, standing in the bright sun, squinting at him. Suddenly, he could not stay there. Especially, he could not tolerate Rosa, innocent and regal in her white dress, full of expectation. He turned and walked away. To his relief, Jivan followed him. “Karak—” he said.

  “You lead, bhai-ji,” Karak said in Punjabi. “I will do as you say.”

  “Let us go to El Centro. The justice of the peace there is more open-minded.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Last month he married a Chinaman and a Mexican girl. So I heard.”

  Karak rubbed his face. The beard was not there; how long would that continue to surprise him? “I have become a strange peculiarity,” he said. “Something other people talk about.”

  Jivan’s eyes were full of compassion. “Don’t mind it,” he said.

  THE JUSTICE OF THE PEACE IN EL CENTRO, perusing the marriage license in his chamber, did not care that Karak had brown skin and Rosa’s was two shades lighter, or that the groom’s party was a group of ragheads, that the bride’s family seemed inconsequential. He was a worldly man in comparison to some; the Imperial Valley was not the only part of the west that he knew. He had been a lawman in Sonoma County. He had been on his own since he was sixteen. His father had dug for gold in ’49 before he grew peaches in the San Joaquin valley. After his mother died, a Chinaman had cooked for the family. A Negro had helped feed the livestock on the farm, and because there had been no other families for miles, these men had also been his playmates, had fed him supper and once rescued him from drowning in the levee. A man was a man was a man, as far as the justice of the peace was concerned. For that matter, a woman was a woman. Who a man wanted to marry, who a man wanted to have raise his children, why, that was no concern of his at all. And it was even less of a concern to those city folks with big educations who measured a Negro’s skull and jawline, measured a Chinaman’s limbs and waist, kept their scientific records of Oriental body types in their bound notebooks on their mahogany desks in the fancy schools out east. Had those fancy people ever lived at all? That was why the justice of the peace had come to the Imperial Valley; it was situated at the edge of things. It had not yet become society. Everyone here had come from somewhere else.