Passage West

by Rishi Reddi

  “Have you ever had Jagdish Singh’s wife’s saag-roti? In Yuba City?” asked Gugar. “It is fantastic; it cannot be beaten.”

  “It is good,” Ram agreed.

  “I do not fancy saag-roti,” Hukam said.

  “When did you have it? Jagdish Singh’s wife’s saag-roti?” Gugar challenged Ram.

  “In 1913, my work gang mate in Hambelton had an uncle there in Yuba City. We jumped on board the train to visit him,” Ram said.

  “So tell me, whose saag-roti was better?” Gugar asked. “Kishen Kaur’s or”—he raised his eyebrows—“Jagdish Singh’s wife—Ranjeet Kaur’s?” He was smiling slyly. Ranjeet Kaur was known to be quite beautiful.

  Ram laughed.

  “Why are you shaking your head, Harnam? Did I offend you?” asked Gugar.

  “No, no. No offense.”

  “Then tell, Ram, which saag-roti is better? Who is the saag-roti princess of California?”

  “What is all this fighting and argument about?” Inder Singh asked. He was lying on another bench near them, his hat covering his face. “Saag-roti, of all things. Are you mad? Can’t a workingman get some rest?”

  “I don’t mean anything disrespectful,” Gugar said, still smiling.

  “Fundamentally you are a dishonest man, Gugar,” Inder called out, without removing the hat.

  Ahmed and Ram laughed.

  “I am asking a reasonable question of this young man who has tasted the food of both women,” said Gugar.

  “Your dirty mind puts us all to shame,” Inder said.

  “There is also Raghubinder Singh’s wife, Priti Kaur in San Francisco,” Ahmed said.

  “That may be,” Gugar said.

  “She is very nice to look at,” Ahmed said.

  “That is not the criteria here,” Gugar said. “I want to know from Ram who is the better cook.”

  “I cannot say such a thing in public,” said Ram. “That is a private conversation.”

  “This is a private place, bhai,” Gugar said. “Who is going to tell anything?” He looked at Ahmed and Hukam.

  “I am!” Inder said from under his hat.

  “What happens here in the park is private,” Gugar insisted. “No one tells secrets. But let it go. You have a good situation. You have one of our own women cooking for you; now you have a car. I am having the next best thing, having one wife in India and one wife here. One Indian, one Mexican. We all do what we can to survive. There is no harm.”

  “You are comparing a car to having two wives?” Inder said, lifting the hat from his face. “I’ll talk to you when all your children come looking for their inheritance. Better not to marry. After all, we’re in America; these women give you all the privileges of marriage without marrying.”

  “What privileges have you had?” Ahmed asked.

  “You are naive, my friend,” Inder said.

  “Yes, yes,” Ahmed said, making a face at Ram, but responding to Inder, “and you are very worldly.”

  The men stopped talking when the group returned in the car. “Beautiful!” One of the men said, with gravity. Doors were opened and closed. The three men who had gone with Karak sat down in the park, but Karak said, “Come on, let’s go.” Ram, who had grown uncomfortable with the conversation, was glad to oblige.

  A LETTER CAME FROM PADMA, written in her fine hand, answering the questions with which he had presented her twelve weeks before.

  Father of Santosh! You tell me that Karak has been blessed with a child. You ask what our son smelled like the night he was born. What a question, my life. I will never forget that night. He smelled like God. O my husband—he smelled like God.

  THE NEXT MORNING Ram hitched the mare to the buckboard, retrieved the letter that he had written days before and made his way into town to post it. Later, when he told Jivan what he had done, the older man asked him only one question. “Does she know how to read, Ram?”

  “Bhai-ji?”

  “Does she know how to read?”

  “Yes, and she writes her letters without the help of a scribe. She even writes poetry,” Ram could not help adding.

  “Good. With the new law, any immigrant must read. It may be in Punjabi. It need not be English. But you cannot go and fetch her, because the British will not allow you to return. That is how it is now.” Jivan gave him the name of the lawyer he knew. Ram visited him the next day.

  HE STILL FELT AFFECTION FOR HIS WIFE, after these five long years. He did. But there was something else. Ram waited a day before going to town to see the lawyer, telling himself he had work to do at the farm. He knew Adela’s schedule in the seamstress shop. She was there on Tuesdays and Fridays and Saturdays, when she took work for the americanos, making dresses and evening gowns. The rest of the week she helped Esperanza with her sewing in the barrio, making baptism gowns and confirmation dresses. After word got out about Rosa’s baby, she had sometimes been called to attend women during childbirth too. He knew all this because Adela had told him as they worked together on the farm with the animals. She spoke in Spanish, and he tried very hard to understand every word.

  The lawyer told him, yes, Padma should be able to come join him. She was his wife and that was reason enough, but also she was literate; she would have the entry fee when she arrived at the port. All of that would comply with the latest laws.

  Ram was satisfied. He stopped at the Edgar Brothers store to buy a disc harrow that Karak had insisted on having, and told the salesman he would come later to pick it up. He went to Main Street, wandered in the commercial part of town where the Anglos and Orientals and Negroes and Mexicans mixed and, making a left here and a right there, arrived at Bessie Mae Belvidere’s seamstress shop.

  At the counter, a middle-aged woman looked up when he entered. “Can I help you?” she asked. She looked surprised.

  Ram had not expected to see her, either. “No,” he said at first. Then, “Yes, I am looking for Adela Rey Vasquez.”

  “She is in the back. Working,” she said sternly. “Is it a matter of some clothing that we’ve completed for you?”

  “No.”

  “She’ll be free for her break at noon.”

  He told himself it was acceptable to wait for Adela. He had written to his wife to join him. He was still safe.

  He left and wandered about town for an hour. Advertisements for Liberty bonds, recruitment, appeared everywhere. Make the World Safe for Democracy. Wake Up America! Civilization Calls Every Man, Woman and Child! Our Boys Need Sox, Knit Your Bit. Food Will Win the War. Women! Help America’s Sons Win the War! He went to the bank and saw through the window Jasper Davis, who had lent them money for the first cotton crop. He was suddenly filled with a feeling of great goodwill, generosity. He went to the bank counter and, in a rush of exuberance, bought one war bond. He went to the children’s clothing store and left a credit of three dollars there for Daisy Davis, Jasper’s wife, to buy something for their daughter next time she was in town. At the general store he bought a box of chocolates, and left them for the girls at the telephone switchboard office. He had seen Karak do all these things before. Somehow, this morning, he felt like doing them too.

  “Awfully nice of you, Mr. Singh,” the receptionist said, smiling. “Did Karak put you up to this?”

  He shook his head. “Just on my behalf. For your help when baby was born.”

  “That’s mighty sweet of you and your family.”

  He returned to the seamstress shop and there stood Adela, a cloth purse slung over her wrist, as if waiting for him. How solemn she was, wearing a simple green dress, her hair pinned away from her face. Her chin drew back in a delicate line to her jaw. Her face brightened when she saw him, but she composed it quickly.

  “Hola, Ram. What brings you here?” She was smiling, but puzzled.

  He stammered. “I rode in on the horse. Would you have a look at her?” His explanation sounded like a lie. He felt a churning in his belly. She was a Mexican. Wasn’t she something unfamiliar, unclean? He could not answer that que
stion. Was he contemplating the unthinkable? And why was it unthinkable?

  “¿Almorzaste?” Adela asked.

  “No,” he said, surprised at her informality.

  She suggested that they walk to the edge of the barrio, where an elderly woman sometimes sold tamales out of her kitchen. On the way, they passed the mare. She stooped to inspect its leg. “She has healed well,” Adela said. “Very good!” she added, in English. Her smile was sincere, without reservation. She did not worry about what might be unthinkable.

  He asked her about the store, about the seamstress for whom she worked. He gathered bits of information and knew that he would remember them later, turning them over and over in his mind: what she laughed at, despite her solemnity; how she spoke of Mrs. Belvidere, how she cooed to the dog that was crossing their path. He was losing himself. He could no longer assess what this look could mean, or that smile. He felt too much weight in every one of her actions. He was breathing in her air of sadness and longing and loneliness; it somehow matched his own. But it would not matter. Padma would soon be here with him. He was safe.

  They crossed the railroad tracks and stopped at the tamal maker’s home. They ate standing under a ramada. Beside the tracks, a stray dog was lying in the shade. Some boys kicked a ball down the dirt road. Two women with tubs and washboards sat in front of a tent house.

  “You are a quiet man, Ram,” she said, looking up at him.

  He nodded but could not meet her gaze. She put her hand on his arm. The world stilled. They stood together alone, among the people, the mesquite, the crusted earth, the chickens. He felt the opening of possibility, perhaps an empty hut in the barrio, perhaps a bed that waited just for the two of them. What a comfort that would be, after all these years.

  He moved his arm away. It was the slightest of movements, and yet he saw its full import on her face, how she pulled back into herself, how she once again became capable and serious. She was hurt; he knew. “Goodbye, Adela,” he said.

  On his way home, he remembered what Rosa had told him: that Adela had roamed with Villa’s army. Had she wielded a gun? Had she ever killed a man? Rosa had said she had escaped when she could. Could Padma have done all that? He felt again the touch on his arm, the slow sensation traveling to his spine, to the hollow of his belly. Adela was aware of his marriage and son; Rosa would have spoken about them. Of course Adela knew everything.

  She was a widow. Perhaps widows in the west did not know shame, and thought only how they missed the company of men and the pleasures of married life. Perhaps they did not think how they might dishonor their families.

  As he turned onto the dirt path to the farm, he was filled with regret. Oh! He should have kissed her! He should have kissed her!

  30 May 1918

  My dear husband, Father of Santosh,

  When I read your letter my heart leaped at your desires—that you would want me to join you, that you would take the trouble, pay the cost to have me with you.

  I confess I am scared, thinking about that voyage over the water, and how I would be hindered by my bad leg. For several days, I kept your letter with me. You can imagine that. I woke early to milk the cows, to make meals in the kitchen, serving food to Uncle and your cousins, all the while I had this secret harbored in my breast. The paper burned next to my heart. Every time I thought of the ocean voyage, my heart began to race. But that evening I held Santosh. The thought came to me: “We can go to your father! Soon we will be together!” Can you imagine my feelings, husband? It was as if God were speaking through the child. That is how I knew that God wished us to be together.

  Now I am courageous. To be with you, in my rightful place, I could travel to a new home, I could live in a new country, learn a new language. I will stay for as long as you want. I consider what my life here has been and I know I could stay with you in a foreign place for my whole life, if you asked that of me. I will miss my parents, but my place is by your side, and Santosh’s place is there too.

  Theri,

  Padma

  10 June 1918

  My wife,

  I have decided that you and Santosh must travel here with your brother. I cannot come and fetch you because the British government is not allowing Hindustanees out of India once they return on a visit. It is because of the dire political situation that has developed through Ghadar Party and the Germans. In April ending, there was a huge court case here. Pandit RamChandra was killed in the courthouse itself by one of our own countrymen. Perhaps the news has traveled there, I do not know. It was a huge scandal, and the white people trust us even less, but do not worry. I tell you only so that you know the whole truth when you arrive and you do not wonder why some Americans may treat you with suspicion. But they are not bad people, Padma-ji. It will do your brother Shankar much good to bring you, and perhaps the misfortune in his poor wife’s dying will be made better by coming here.

  Because of all these issues I consulted with a lawyer. He asked me if you could read and write, and I assured him that you could, but only in our Punjabi. I had to tell him that sometimes you even wrote poetry, and that you used to do that when we were children together. I almost showed him the poem you wrote about the trees near the waterwheel. You know that I carry it with me in my billfold and read it when I miss home. He asked me also whether you suffered from any illness. I told him no. He asked me if you were my lawfully wedded wife, and did I have any way to prove that. I told him that in our country we do not have certificates like they do in the U.S. to show that we are married, or that we were born, that everyone in the village knows these things, and that most of all you were bringing my son, and if that was not proof of the marriage between us, what could be? The lawyer seems like a man with a good mind, and in the end he said that you should be able to enter, along with Santosh. He was not as sure about brother Shankar, but after I gave some information, he saw no reason why he would be turned away, if you both had the money required. It is a matter of $8 for each of you, which I will wire to Shankar so that you can give it to the authorities at the proper time.

  I am telling more details than you need, for your brother will take care of everything. But you must be prepared for all that might happen. The journey is not easy, Padma, but you must come. I hope that you feel the same. I have written a letter simultaneously to Shankar with a full explanation. A steamship will leave from Calcutta at the beginning of October for Hong Kong, and there you will go to the gurdwara to wait for the steamer to San Francisco, where I will come and collect you. I know the granthi at the Hong Kong gurdwara and he is a holy and good man. That is where I met Karak Singh for the first time, before we voyaged together on the ship to Seattle.

  It seems impossible that I should see you and Santosh before the year’s end, but it can be so.

  Your husband,

  Ram Singh

  21 June 1918

  My son, fragment of my heart,

  What is this I hear from your wife? That you are sending money so that she may join you and take my grandson away from me? These past two days I have thought of nothing else—can it be true what she tells me? Sometimes she lies to me out of spite. She says nasty things about your younger cousin. That he was looking at her inappropriately—such nonsense! As if Ishwar would do such a thing, with her limp! Why should she treat Ishwar in such a manner? I have kept this a secret from you because I did not want to hurt you when you are far away.

  But I must tell you how she told me—that she is taking away my grandson . . . that silly girl that I have known since her birth! We were making rotis in the kitchen. Perhaps I spoke a little too harshly when she burned a third one that morning. At that moment she said sharply, as if an ant bit her, “I don’t have to work like this anymore!” I asked her why, what nonsense was she talking? Then an expression came over her face and she abruptly ran out of the kitchen. I had to cook all the rotis by myself that morning, because your Sita Didi was ill! None of your cousin’s wives do any work at all!

  My son, all this time I
have been thinking that Padma is a nice girl. I felt sorry for her because of her ugly leg. What a fool I have been. But do not be too concerned. Ishwar has been looking after me so she cannot do me any harm.

  But you must tell me the truth, son. For if it is true, what shall I do without my grandson here? For all these years, I suffered without you, sacrificing for the good of the family. I know that Padma must have manipulated you to do this, for you would not have taken such a harsh decision on your own. Can you not change your mind?

  Oye! It is my fate to have been made into a fool by my own son. If this is how you have meant for it to be, then, of course, I cannot stop you. You have contributed so much to the household that no one will go against you. What a pity that now that so many depend on you, you cannot think of me, your poor mother.

  Your Ma

  23 September 1918

  Dear husband, Father of Santosh,

  We are preparing to depart next week. How happy I am to go. I thought that I would miss the family here—miss these trees and this land and this home. But I will not.

  I will have no difficulty adjusting to life in America. I am sure of this. The local people will speak a different language, that is true. But I will learn it. And what will I have to do with them? You will handle all where they are concerned. People are the same no matter what the country. All have sons and daughters—women everywhere love their husbands. I cannot wait to see your face again and to be in your presence.

  I have made a mistake, my husband. Before your letter came telling her, long ago, I revealed to Mother-in-Law that I was coming to you. I do not know why I did this. Although she spoke sharply to me that morning I should have forgotten it—but I did not. In my pettiness, I let slip the information that I would not be here much longer. A strange expression came to her face, as if she already knew, as if she had triumphed over me because I had lost my temper and revealed myself. But how could she know? You had not told her, had you? When I realized what had happened, I ran from the house like a child. It was shameful. It has been months since that has happened, and still she has not forgiven me. I hope that you can. I want only to be with you, and for you to see your son, and to experience all that you experience.