Chapter 6

Mom doesn’t stay long and thankfully Mariah is the resident cook. While she chops and scrapes and stirs in the kitchen, I slip back to my room to re-examine Akasha’s entries one more time. I re-read each of her notes in turn. There is nothing new.

I pull a fresh pen out of my backpack and sit cross-legged on the end of the bed with my diary in front of me. I look over at the open door. Sounds of Mariah preparing dinner still carry down the hall. No one else is in the house.

I close my eyes and try to picture the girl from my dreams. I’ve seen her reflection, but the image was fleeting. Flowing wavy ebony hair and honey eyes met me briefly. Pink lips and an oval face with skin like warm toffee. I picture the brown sari I saw looking down with my own eyes as Akasha crawled up onto the old Van-couver pier.

A thick fog flows over me and my mind’s eye grows dark. A light flickers in the distance, heading towards me, slowly opening up the scene around me.

I am seated at a writing desk in a finely appointed sitting room. My hands are brown again. The sleeves of my old-fashioned dress are navy-blue cotton with ivory lace trim at the cuffs. I am writing a letter.

Vancouver, September 10th, 1914

Laura, my friend, I can only pray that this letter reaches you some day. You may have learned that I stole away with Sanjay to come to Canada. Things went so terribly wrong. I was a stowaway in his trunk, our goal almost achieved. I was moments from being carried to freedom with my true love. God had other plans and I was cast overboard in an argument. I barely survived. The ship’s passengers were detained at the port. Only a few were admitted. I did not see Sanjay among them.

My misery does not end there. I am being held by a man who said he ran a home for girls. I quickly discovered he is a liar, but it was too late. How could I have been so naive? I should have let myself starve on the street.

I do not believe I will ever find the money to return home. I’m not sure if I can even afford to post this letter. If he finds this sheet of paper, he will tear it up and I will feel the back of his hand on my cheek.

If you read these words, do whatever may be in your power to put this letter in Sanjay’s hands. The Komagata Maru left Vancouver on July 23rd of this year. He may already be home as I write. I pray that he will come back to Canada, back to Vancouver. Whatever else you might do, please pray for me, and for my safety.

Your Loving Friend Always, Akasha

I fold up the letter and stuff it into a pocket in the skirt of my navy dress. I will not risk leaving home unescorted, but I must hide my letter. I may not get a chance to write unobserved again for a long time. Where to hide it? What spot can I trust to be both safe and secret?

I walk around the room anxiously. I need a hiding place and quickly. The porcelain flower vase? No, there are a lot of arguments in this house and the vase could get smashed. The underside of the sofa? No, not secure enough. Behind a painting? No, it could be moved or taken away. The fireplace? If I could find a loose brick, it might do until I have an opportunity to put it in the post. Is the grout old enough to crumble?

I test each outer brick around the fireplace. When I come to the top of mantle, one brick is slightly loose. I grab a letter opener from the writing desk and pry the brick out. I scrape frantically at the grout left behind. I make just enough room for my letter to fit comfortably before I replace the brick. I sweep the grout rubble and dust into the fireplace with the toe of my shoe.

“Akasha?” says a smooth, deep male voice from behind me. And blackness returns.

I open my eyes to find myself still sitting on my plaid bedspread in Arbutus House. No sounds come from the hallway. Only white noise knocks inside my ears. My heart thuds thick beats that prickle with primal fear. I had been Akasha again. I can feel her terror still gripping me. She was so afraid of being discovered.

I look down at my diary. There is fresh writing on the page, but it doesn’t look like mine. It looks like hers: Akasha’s. The text starts with “Vancouver, September 10, 1914 … Laura, my friend.”

It worked! I wrote her words again! It’s all in English to someone named Laura. Who is Laura? Does it matter?

“Girls! Dinner’s ready!” Mariah calls from the kitchen.

A blond girl pops her head around my doorjamb.

“Hey, new girl. Stop writing for a minute and come get some food.”

The blonde is gone again in a beat.

How can I eat dinner now? How will I get to sleep tonight?

No matter how I sleep tonight, I have something to do tomorrow. I have a fresh lead. And I now know for sure that I was right about the Komagata Maru. Suck it, Mom! Ha!

My next goal is to get more information about the house Akasha stayed in. If I’m lucky, it’s still standing — with the original fireplace intact.

Sleep doesn’t come easily after my outrageously successful writing session. But I finally drift off. I slowly blink awake, but I know I’m dreaming.

I am sitting in my favorite place in the whole world. The morning sun adds a sprinkling of tiny glass gems to the basin of water lilies in front of me. The square stone tiles on the ground have fresh green grass growing in place of grout. My stone bench has enough room for one other occupant. I am waiting for Sanjay. My heart is full of anticipation and love. A cool breeze kisses my cheek.

I am supposed to be meditating, practicing to clear my mind of thoughts. I had chosen a plain piece of linen to focus on. But how can I turn away the image of Sanjay’s face or the promise of rugged Canadian forests?

After serving our simple breakfast of dal and naan, I ate my own portion and cleaned basin after basin of dishes. After my meditation time is over, I will scrub the floor in the main hall. I should want nothing more than to serve at the temple. I am a failure as a devotee.

Guru Nanak, please send me enough strength to say no if Sanjay asks me to go to Canada with him. I will work hard on meditating properly. I will come here, stare at the lilies, and devote myself only to God. But first, I must have the strength to listen to my head and not my heart.

“Akasha,” whispers a voice in my ear. Sanjay is so quiet that I almost believe the word is still a mere thought.

I open my eyes and his square jaw and chiseled facial features clash with his giddy smile. Sanjay stands tall and confident before me, his bright eyes full of excitement.

“I hoped you would not come today.” I avert my eyes to the ground.

“Why not? Do you not love me?” Sanjay’s voice has a hint of panic.

“I will not lie. I love you still.” I take a deep breath to muster my courage. “But you must leave here and never return.”

“Nonsense. You must come with me.” Sanjay kneels on the ground in front of me.

“Your father would have me burned.”

“Father will never know. We leave for Canada next week. Agree to be my wife and I will smuggle you out in one of my trunks. I have spoken with a man who has done such a thing and he told me what to do.” Sanjay is looking at me intently and I risk making eye contact. He is so persuasive. I sit up straight to strengthen my resolve.

“So what if we make it to Canada? Your father will never allow you to break your engagement. He will stand at your side until you are married. Now that you have told him you want a love match instead, he will be all the more determined to see you married as he wishes.”

“If my mother still lived, she would soften his heart. Father has lost his compassion and his humility. He has become obsessed with the singular notion that our family must become Canadian.” Sanjay takes my hands in his.

“Suppose your plan works and we make it into Canada and run away from your father. How will we live? We will not be citizens. We will have no money and nowhere to go.” I can feel fear quickening my pulse as I look around the garden for witnesses.

“You are wrong again.” Sanjay grins. “I have written to my friend Pameer asking for help. He lives in Vancouver and can shelter us. His answer finally arrived!” Sanjay removes a folded piece of paper from his pocket and holds it out like a medal.

I look up again to meet Sanjay’s gaze. His energy is contagious. I allow the picture of our Canadian home back into my mind. My heart has won the battle.

“All right, Sanjay. I will try. I will go with you and pray for our success.”

Sanjay squeezes my hands.

“You will not be sorry, my love. We have a long and difficult path ahead, but all will be worth it when we marry.”

The sound of footfalls on the stone path behind me startles both of us and Sanjay drops my hands.

“Good day, Miss,” says Sanjay as he nods in farewell.

My heart surges with a mix of anxiety and happiness as he leaves.

The footfalls behind me grow louder and closer. I close my eyes to discourage the passerby from engaging me in conversation.

“Akasha,” says a stern deep voice. I open my eyes again to see Sanjay’s father standing before me, taller than Sanjay with a full beard and skin weathered by time. His dark eyes bear me no affection, only rage.

“I heard Sanjay’s voice here a moment ago. I take it you have not discouraged him as you should have done.”

“Sir, I have told him to go and do as you instruct.” Fear grips my chest as Mr. Hasan glares at me.

“You are a liar. Shiva will punish you accordingly. We are a Hindu family and my son will wed a Hindu bride, not a Sikh. Your attempt to ingratiate yourself to my household by adding Hindi to your linguistic skills was pointless. Do not worsen your fate by tempting my son any further. We are leaving for Canada in one week. If you cause him to disobey me, if you so much as write him a letter once we have gone, you will find me to be a ruthless enemy. My brothers will come to this place, take you, and sell you to a whorehouse in Agra. A year after that, they will come for you again and burn you in the street, you filthy orphan!” Mr. Hasan’s eyes blaze with hatred.

“I have not and will not convince Sanjay to do anything he does not wish to.” I am angry and terrified. Tears well in my eyes and sobs tug at my throat.

“I have nothing more to say to you.” I open my mouth to defend myself again, but Mr. Hasan is already walking away.

I hold my breath until his footfalls are gone again. And then I press my hands up to my face to contain the weeping. I rock back and forth on the bench until I regain control.

I wake up in a strange, dark room, terror pounding the air out of my lungs. I look over at the alarm clock. It is five-twenty in the morning. I am in Arbutus House. I am Katelyn.