Yet he was engaged, one of those betrothals arranged in infancy by Hindu parents, binding till death. It hung over Prem Singh like a sword of Damocles, exiling him forever from his native land.
“This country pretty good,” he told me often. “Girl wait all time my country. Twenty year old now, I guess, maybe. I stay America! Pretty good. Not any go back!” He shook his head emphatically. “Maybe some time my brother come this country. Thass good!” His eyes gleamed at the pleasant vision.
It was this dream of a reunion with his beloved black sheep of a brother in the great and good land of America, far from the cloudy danger of marriage that overhung all India, that more than any other illumined his long days and lonely evenings on the California mesa. He kept aloof from the other Hindus, from the large camps where they congregated, twenty and thirty together, for the clearing work that in time was to transform mesa into orchard land. He preferred to remain alone, apart, as my man.
“You pretty good man, Mester,” he told me. “I all time stay here, please. I your man. My life!” Then he smiled. “Maybe some time my brother come; then two your men! Both. Thass pretty good!”
And now the dream seemed likely to materialize. When he returned with the full milk pail, Prem Singh had a question to ask. He fidgeted awkwardly about it, remaining in the kitchen an unconscionable length of time, resting one foot and then the other. It came out at last with a rush.
“Mester, how much you think cost ticket, Shanghai this country?”
“I don’t know, Prem Singh. I’ll find out in Los Angeles, if you want. Steerage?”
“No, Sair!” He was indignant. “Not any! Maybe my brother come this country. Second class, sure. Thass pretty good.”
I learned the amount, and it went forward on the next boat by money order to Kala Singh, care Sikh Temple, Shanghai. Then followed for Prem Singh a protracted period of pleasant anticipation that ended dismally two months later when another letter arrived from China country, announcing that the money was gone.
“Too much gambler, my brother,” Prem Singh confided to me sadly. “I guess ticket more better.”