The Strangest Christmas Party
A Sikh American Christmas story from 1911
In 1911, the San Francisco Call published a Christmas short story about a Sikh immigrant who takes in a group of cold and tired railroad workers trudging through the Sierra Nevada mountains.
This was a time of significant anti-Indian sentiment, just a few years after the Bellingham Riots, when hundreds of White men attacked a community of Indian immigrants. I discovered the story in 2017, the year of the Muslim Ban, and the murder of brown immigrants like Srinivas Kuchibhotla.
In light of the time, it’s particularly significant to find an old American Christmas story celebrating a complicated non-Christian turbaned brown immigrant who doesn’t celebrate Christmas — but happens to be a good man.
Here’s the full text of the story…
The Strangest Christmas Party: The Unbelieving Hindoo Who Played Santa Claus in the California Mountains
by Jack Cumberland, from the San Francisco Call, December 17 1911, page 31
Now, why the powers that ruled the destinies of the new Transcontinent should have elected to stop construction and close down the camps, just when four unlucky wights had returned from a month’s lay off, nobody knows. We took it as a blast of fate. We were broke. The list of financial derelicts included Donald, a small station contractor; Kelly, shift foreman of a grading camp; Jimmy, a nondescript laborer and tunnel man, who had worked everywhere between Oroville and the desert stations; and I had been connected with an engineering party.
The most important member of our party was undoubtedly Ranje Singh, but we met him as we were walking toward California. Ranje Singh was a product of the gorgeous orient, a teacher of maxims and precepts to the swarming bands of Hindoos who worked along the new line. The teacher was educated to eat of the white man’s food without thought of caste. Purification may be obtained in India even when one has been defiled to the uttermost. When the blow fell we saw the steady men and savers pack trunks and suitcases with envy.
They were going home to a merry Christmas. We must pay the price of riotous expenditure. But we envied them and felt injured by fate for we, too, would have enjoyed the delights of going home to be petted by the folks and made a lot of; who wouldn’t? Most of us could have written to friends for money, and most of us were too proud to do so, being in the savage humor to taste the fruits of our own folly.
By a strange coincidence we met within five miles of Chilkoot pass, and, stranger still, we were all in the same plight from the same cause, except Rande Singh. But he was different — in a class by himself. We shall never forget Ranje Singh, especially at Christmas, when “peace on earth and good will toward men” is being heralded around the world.
Anyway, it was Christmas now, and there we were. The altitude was 5,000 feet, and a mountain snowstorm eddied and seethed in the high peaks above.
We trudged along the uncompleted “right of way” between huge yellow banks of clay which lined the cuts. A dismal wind howled and raved throughout the gray morning, and lowering banks of white clouds warned us that snow was coming in quantities.
Five miles beyond Chilkoot we overtook Ranje Singh. He greeted us gravely, with a singular, sweet smile; then his face took on an abstracted look, and he fell into line; he had forgotten us even as he walked behind the party.
We were headed west for ‘the land of sunshine, orange trees and flowers, which lay hid somewhere behind the rampart of white peaks down the river. Strangers, we were bound together by the universal tie of hard luck, and the fact that each of us had fallen into our unpleasant predicament from the same cause drew us closer together. Men who find their life work in canyons and tunnels become good fellows, tolerant even of grave faults in fellow men.
“How much did you spend?” Donald broke a silence which had lasted several miles.
“About three hundred; and you?” queried Kelly.
“Twice as much, and then some, groaned Donald. The rest of us gave sympathetic assent to this bewailing of our common lot, for we were taking our Christmas hard.
From the first there was manifested a strong affinity between Jimmy the nondescript and Ranje Singh. Jimmy didn’t care a continental and Ranje Singh was a fatalist. Fate could harm neither of them, provided it bestowed three meals per day — upon Jimmy. The Hindu could fast — he looked the part. They were a tower of strength to the rest of us, who, as Ranje said, “lived too much in the present.” Then the teacher offered material consolation.
“Cheer up, poor western men. Beyond Beckwith I know [undecipherable] where one Ranje Singh taught [undecipherable] maxims of Budda. It may be a small store of provisions is there. Behold the key.” And Ranje flourished the key as a benevolent talisman.
“You’re all right, Ranje Singh,” approved Jimmy. Jimmy always gave respectful salutation to the Hindoo.
Ranje Singh, a man of urbane politeness, inspired respect. He combined the vocation of priest and teacher with that of a skilled camp cook. He was also a doctor of philosophy with an Oxford degree. also a traveled man of the world. In literatures and life he exceeded the combined knowledge of the band. He was affable and tolerant of us; we could see that he felt sorry for us as men sacrificed to materialism on the altars of western civilization. No spoken word gave us Inkling of this thought — we divined it.
Sometimes for hours together Ranje Singh lagged behind lost in contemplation of life and things which were entirely apart from us.
Jimmy thought Ranje was penniless even as we were, though he had not enlightened us as to his circumstances.
“He’s a dead game sport; ain’t kicking a bit,” whispered Jimmy to Donald, looking at the Hindoo’s face, which was shining with exalted thought. But Ranje was a fatalist — he would take starvation and death as the natural sequence of an inevitable must.
The snowstorm which had been raging in the high peaks all day enveloped us toward evening, driven by a furious gale of wind. It was a cold and piercing wind, tearing through the pass as if bent on sweeping living things to death. We had traveled thirty miles below Chilkoot that day, and as the storm broke we came within sight of a few black low cabins standing in the shelter of a grove of trees. “Behold heaven,” said Ranje Singh.
“Heaven for the night, with food, fire and friendship.” Ranje Singh unlocked the door of his cabin and bowed us ceremoniously inside with a grave welcome.
“Cheer up, poor western men.
Beyond Beckwith I know [undecipherable] where I one Ranje Singh taught [undecipherable] maxims of Budda. It may be a small store of provisions is there. Behold the key.” And Ranje flourished the key as a benevolent talisman.
“You’re all right, Ranje Singh,” approved Jimmy. Jimmy always gave respectful salutation to the Hindoo.
Ranje Singh, a man of urbane politeness, inspired respect. He combined the vocation of priest and teacher with that of a skilled camp cook. He was also a doctor of philosophy with an Oxford degree. also a traveled man of the world. In literatures and life he exceeded the combined knowledge of the band. He was affable and tolerant of us; we could see that he felt sorry for us as men sacrificed to materialism on the altars of western civilization. No spoken word gave us Inkling of this thought — we divined it.
Sometimes for hours together Ranje Singh lagged behind lost in contemplation of life and things which were entirely apart from us.
Jimmy thought Ranje was penniless even as we were, though he had not enlightened us as to his circumstances.
“He’s a dead game sport; ain’t kicking a bit,” whispered Jimmy to Donald, looking at the Hindoo’s face, which was shining with exalted thought. But Ranje was a fatalist — he would take starvation and death as the natural sequence of an Inevitable must.
The snowstorm which had been raging in the high peaks all day enveloped us toward evening, driven by a furious gale of wind. It was a cold and piercing wind, tearing through the pass as If bent on sweeping living things to death. We had traveled thirty miles below Chilkoot that day, and as the storm broke we came within sight of a few black low cabins standing in the shelter of a grove of trees. “Behold heaven,” said Ranje Singh.
“Heaven for the night, with food, fire and friendship.” Ranje Singh unlocked the door of his cabin and bowed us ceremoniously inside with a grave welcome.
“‘Tis Christmas eve, RanJe, the night me foregather with the old folks at home. I was homeless the night, I’m obliged to ye.’ JImmy voiced his gratitude gracefully.
“Bah, Christmas! A new festival given to overmuch eating and drinking,” replied the Hindu, gravely.
“Holy virgin, man! “Tis 1900 years old.” Jimmy’s voice bore a shocked tone.
“It is but the dropping of a grain in the sands of time. Nineteen centuries, the flirt of an insect’s wing.”
Jimmy subsided. There may be something in psychic control, for the Irishman felt awed.
“The Hindus is the old people, older than the Irish by hundreds of years,” whispered Kelly for Jimmy’s enlightenment.
Ranje Singh’s cabin was neat and clean, furnished with a sheet iron stove for cooking and some rugs, which had evidently been used for a bed. Stock taking showed an ample supply of staple provisions — bacon, rice, curry, flour, chocolate and sugar.
“How could you teach your countrymen and live like this without losing caste?” asked Donald.
“They are children,” smiled Ranje Singh. “I taught them virtue, sobriety and cleanliness. Every night I cooked my evening meal outside; It was of rice, and I always gave it away. My bodily well being they ascribed to the favor of the gods. ‘Faith nourishes as food’ is a proverb in the temples. It was not deception, for they followed my teachings the better, thinking I was favored by the Invisible power.”
Ranje Singh prepared a meal fit for an eastern potentate. Who would scoff at curried cornbeef and rice after a 30 mile walk over the Chilkoot?
When night fell the storm Increased In fury. The wind howled through the ghostly pine trees Ilke the wall of lost souls, shaking the walls of the cabin with furious blasts. We had prepared a stock of fuel torn from the walls of deserted cabins, and clouds of tobacco smoke putted from contented lips enveloped us in a haze.
“It is the Christmas time for you. Who will tell a story, for I have one to relate later,” said Ranje Singh.
I can give you a bit of a sketch the way I celebrated one Christmas In Canada,” said Donald.
“It was on the Georgian bay in Ontario. My father’s farm ran sheer to the water’s edge by a little sheltered cove, where he kept a small schooner used for freighting lumber or cattle over to the small islands off shore.
“That season was what is called an open winter, coming maybe once in ten years; not much snow or long spells of severe weather. Dad had cut the hay sloughs on a lIttle Island three miles out and had ferried over the old cows to eat the crop.
“On Christmas eve the old man decided to bring the cows over to the mainland, for the feed was getting low
“My youngest sister, a strapping blue eyed Canadian girl, was the best sallor in the family, for she could handle the boat like a coast beachcomber. She and I were told off to bring the cattle across.
“We set out about noon, the old man coming down to the cove to help us off. The weather was cold and clear, though it looked a bit hazy toward the northwest.
“‘You won’t have no trouble with the critters; them cattle walks aboard rational as humans.’ shouts the old man as the schooner heeled over to a spanking off shore breeze. This was true, for they’d been ferried over twice a year ever since the yearling age, an’ most of ’em was old cows.
“Sis was in her glory and she steered us over to a little wharf on the island raised to deck level. We’d put hay along the tying rail, an’ them cattle just bellowed for joy at sight of us. They knew the old man had a turnip cellar on the home farm, and that turnips was dished out liberal in the winter along with bran and hay. With an old cow in the lead they walked aboard quietly and orderly, and we tied them up without fuss of any kind.
“We shoved off the landing with pike poles and started across. Then Sis gave a little frightened cry, grabbing my arm.
“‘We’re in for It, Donald. We’ve got to run back Into the shelter of the cove. it was time, though we were only half a mile out. The ugliest looking squall you ever saw was bearing down upon us. Even the cattle were scared, setting up a great mooing and bellowing.
“Out in the west, about five miles away. was a milky white storm, traveling ahead of a sixty mile wind ahead of it we could see big waves rearing and falling, looking 15 feet high at least. The water was boiling and churning In white foam, and behind It was a lake blizzard God! how it did snow. A solid wall of feathery particles dry as sand. You couldn’t see into it five feet.
By the time we made the landing and turned the cattle loose to scamper off to the sheds, the snow was six inches deep in deck. Tying the schooner up with two inch ropes, Sis and me scooted up to the log house. the old man was a Scotchman, and native thrift made him look ahead for emergencies. Stowed away In a locker we found bacon, flour, coffee and rais. ins, enough to feed a crew of lumber jacks for a month. The rations was all right; we couldn’t starve.
“That blamed storm blew for a week, bringing four feet of snow; the open winter had gone a glimmering for a false alarm.
“Sis was clean grit, an’ didn’t care a whoop only for worrying about the folks thinking us dead, maybe. She got a Christmas dinner ready that was the real thing, and we sung Christmas hymns to the tune of a roaring blizzard outside.
“About two weeks after the storm blew out the ice formed thick enough for a safe crossing, and on January 16 Sis and I got home driving the cattle ahead of us on the ice. The folks was glad to see us. Dad had been worrying a bit about the coffee running out, thinking he hadn’t left much. When the old lady would go to fearing, Dad would say cheerful:
“‘I ain’t raised that girl to go sailing the Jakes in a blizzard, where the ice devils would freeze on the schooner ’til she’d sink, and that cheered mother up.”
When comment on Donald’s story ceased, Ranje Singh looked around at the circle inquiringly, but nobody volunteered a story, for we felt that our host could entertain better.
“Mine is not so much of a Christmas story as of a man,” began the Hindoo. “A good man is a good man whatever his race may be. This man was not in- tellectual, but of a kind heart; not brilliant nor clever, but he had that which is beyond mere attainments, a nature gentle and kindly.
“My story is of the home of Christmas. England was the scene of the story I shall tell you. In those days I studied at Oxford, languages, religions and philosophy. Over there — Ranje pointed to the east — “we do not think much of western thought. but your schools are good training grounds — that is all. I sought knowledge — eastern, western world knowledge — the desire to learn was in me.
“I had only two friends, one a Singalese [sic] student from Ceylon and young country squire Englishman. Harold Knowles was a type of his country, for he was strong and aggressive, also firm in the belief that Britain was the safeguard of the universe.
Hus den was next to mine, and often he called to talk, and stayed long after his roystering companion had gone to seek further pleasure. I explained oriental thought to him; he was not a student, but he loved to listen to the knowledge of others. Again and again he came until we were friends.
“In the second year of our friendship Christmas came, as usual, with the college deserted. Everybody went, each to his home. I alone was left. Everywhere faces shone with more than usual friendship. Once a year the English show emotion — it at Christmas. All that was nothing to me. though it caused me to speculate. They lived in the present and I was studying in eternities.
Late on the last night of the exodus I sat alone in my study immersed in speculative thought. The fire had burned low and outside the snow fell gently. A knock at the door aroused me; it was my friend Knowles.
I came in to say goodby, Ranje Singh.’ Then he shivered and hesitated.
*I say, old chap, It’s a bit lonely for you and it’s cold here. The mater would welcome any friend of mine: come home with me for the holidays.’
“I shook my head and pointed to the bookshelf.
“I am not lonely; there are my friends; but I wish you well, was my reply.
“Knowles placed in my hand a book of Persian poetry for a gift; then he stood embarrassed, with his face very red as he spoke.
“Old fellow, you’ll find a poem on friendship that will explain my meaning.’ Then he was gone, still blushing like a woman.
“In the morning I opened my book seeking the passage Knowles had spoken of. Its message was that a friend may do aught for a friend, and pinned to the page was an English banknote to the value of $100. Knowles had scribbled a line underneath to me, his friend of an alien race: I do not know your circumstances; it may be that you need a friend’s friendship.’
“Three days later I received news that Harold Knowles had been killed in the hunting field.”
Ranje Singh’s voice was cold and even, but the fire gleaming in his somber eyes told that he was moved.
There were no more stories, but Jimmy and Kelly were furtively wiping their eyes at the conclusion of Ranje Singh’s story.
The storm still blustered and raved around the cabin. The wind moaned and sobbed around the eaves. as we made bed for the night. On the next day it was still too stormy to travel.
By this time Ranje Singh had become a riddle to all of us. Sometimes he spoke of going to India in a few weeks. Money apparently gave him no concern, and we thought perhaps he would make the journey with an astral body. We thought a great deal about money, for we had none and our necessities were pressing.
The morning we left Ranje Singh remained at the cabin, for he said that many of his countrymen along the line were nearly destitute and might need his services to get them relief from the British consul in San Francisco.
On parting he gave to each one of us a little packet which he said contained a maxim which might be of service to us some day. He requested us not to open them until the end of the day’s travel. Ranje Singh accompanied us to the “right of way,” shook hands and bowed courteously, then his eyes took on the usual speculative look. “I bet he forgets us before we’re out of sight,” said Donald.
That day we walked to Spring Garden, the second long tunnel on the road, and found quarters for the night at the engineer’s camp. The boys were all away for the holidays, but the cook and the commissary man were there.
Before retiring for the night we examined the packets presented by the Hindoo. Ranje Singh. Each packet contained $25 In bills. A slip of paper twined around the money was written with the maxim, “A friend may do aught for friends.”
It was the text of the kindly Englishman, Harold Knowles, who had been a friend to Ranje Singh.
The good deed of a gentle heart had been passed on to needy men of Knowles’ own race. “God! boys,” cried Donald. “I’ll remember that story and its lesson as long as I live, especially at Christmas time.” And that is the way we all felt. And that is the way we all The dead English fox hunter had not lived in vain, for his generous, kindly soul still lives on as an inspiration to rough men. Every Christmas the thought will come back to each of them: “A man may do aught for a friend,” for it contains the message of “Peace on earth and good will toward men.”
See the full original page, including illustrations, in the Library of Congress’ Chronicling America.
