Finding Arun

by Marisha Pink

ELEVEN

  ‘YOU really shouldn’t have.’

  ‘It’s no trouble at all.’

  ‘I would have been fine staying somewhere simple; this is too much.’

  ‘Simple is not the same as secure. It’s important to make sure that you are safe out there, especially since you refused to take the phone that I gave you.’

  ‘It’s a nice phone; I didn’t want it to get damaged or stolen.’

  ‘And I don’t want you to get damaged, or worse. At least this way I know exactly where you are and how to reach you. I’m told the Mayfair has a very good reputation.’

  Aaron sighed to himself; it was pointless to argue.

  ‘Thank you, Arthur.’

  ‘You’re welcome. Now, make sure you look after yourself and don’t forget to call every few days.’

  ‘I won’t.’

  There was an awkward silence at the other end of the phone.

  ‘Bye then.’

  ‘Bye,’ finished Aaron, the dialling tone sounding before he had replaced the receiver on its base.

  He sat back on the king-sized bed and looked around the immaculately presented room; Arthur clearly had more money than sense. The hotel was far more luxurious than he needed or deserved, and he dreaded to think how much the nightly rate must be. The thinly veiled look of surprise on the receptionist’s face when he had checked in was enough for him to know that hot, sweaty backpackers were not their usual clientele. Still, if it kept Arthur’s mind at ease and meant that he wouldn’t harangue Aaron on a daily basis – the real reason that Aaron had rejected the mobile phone – then perhaps it was for the best. And if nothing else, the air-conditioning and comfortable bed were welcome benefits after the hours of travelling that he had endured.

  It was early afternoon in Puri and though physically Aaron’s body demanded rest from him, mentally he was too excited to sleep. He took a long, cold shower, in part to freshen up and in part to distract himself from the growing anticipation in the pit of his stomach. After the unexpected events of the previous few weeks he had finally arrived in Puri, his birthplace and the home of his biological mother. It was a long shot, but the day could yet yield their first meeting in nineteen years and Aaron was conscious of making the right impression, whatever that was. He opened up his backpack and, already sweating profusely from the heat, held up various items of clothing in front of the mirror, agonising over what to wear. After much deliberation, he settled on a loose-fitting, white cotton shirt and a smart pair of stone-coloured shorts, a compromise between his desire to appear well-groomed and the need to keep cool.

  For several minutes he fished around in the top compartment of his backpack, until he found the neatly folded notepaper on which Arthur had written the address of the refuge. He tucked it protectively into the top pocket of his shirt and continued to rummage through his effects in search of the small selection of Kalpana’s letters that he had brought with him. He had reread them several times since his initial discovery and there were so many more questions that he now had for her, but his real reason for bringing them was fear. Fear that Kalpana wouldn’t recognise him, fear that she wouldn’t believe that he was anything more than an imposter, and fear that she might reject him now that he was finally there. The letters were present as much for evidence of his identity as for reassuring himself that Kalpana wished to see him. Rationally he knew that she had expressed that desire, but every now and then the niggling doubts would overwhelm him to the extent that he would question whether the whole saga was a huge misunderstanding.

  Eventually he found Kalpana’s letters clustered in a small brown envelope nestled between his boxer shorts. He carefully stowed them in the back pocket of his shorts and stood to consult himself in the mirror one last time. He looked anxious and haggard, but more like himself than he had in weeks, having finally paid a visit to the barber before leaving London. He smoothed out the creases in his shirt and when there was nothing left to pick at, he drew a deep breath, swiped the key card off the dresser and marched with purpose towards the lobby of the hotel, allowing the door to his room to slam shut behind him.

  The corridors were strangely quiet as he made his way towards the elevator, but when the doors opened onto the ground floor it was an entirely different story. The lobby buzzed with tourists and well-to-do nationals, no doubt there to enjoy the many sights and beaches of Puri, and there was a sociable ambience with guests greeting one another as though they were old friends. But Aaron didn’t have time for socialising and focused only on the task ahead; he tuned them all out and strode across the lobby to the concierge desk by the front door. He was pleased to note a return to orderly queue formation, while he waited patiently in line to speak with the man on duty, and when he reached the front of the queue, the concierge greeted him warmly before asking how he might be of assistance. Aaron reached into his shirt pocket and withdrawing the piece of paper, flashed the refuge address, explaining that he needed a taxi to take him there. The concierge’s eyes widened instantly in surprise.

  ‘You are ... volunteering here, sir?’ he enquired.

  ‘No, no, nothing like that. I’m meeting someone.’

  ‘Someone is working here, sir?’

  ‘Something like that, yes,’ Aaron answered, not wishing to give too much away.

  The concierge was silent while he stared down at the address in Aaron’s hands.

  ‘Are you sure you are having a right place, sir?’

  ‘Yes, certain, why?’ Aaron replied confidently, though he could feel his optimism waning.

  ‘This is … this is not a very good place, sir,’ the concierge responded gravely.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘It is not really a nice neighbourhood, sir. It is a very quiet place, not many people are there and not a very good safe place for tourists. Better to take a taxi to one of our very many excellent restaurants, or to the beach, for meeting your someone, sir.’

  Aaron mulled over the concierge’s words. The location sounded like the kind of place you would expect to find a refuge, if not exactly like the kind of place that had caused Arthur to book him into the Mayfair Beach Resort Hotel. The description, coupled with the concierge’s pained expression did little to reassure him that he was going to find what he was looking for, but with no other lines of enquiry to pursue he didn’t have much choice.

  ‘I appreciate your concern, but really, I’d just like a taxi please.’

  ‘As you wish it, sir.’

  The concierge set about hailing a taxi and within a few minutes Aaron was being packed into the rear of a smart saloon car, whilst the concierge barked instructions at the driver through the lowered passenger window. The driver turned to regard Aaron as though he were insane before hollering back at the concierge just as loudly and Aaron guessed that he had just been notified of their destination. After a long-winded exchange, the concierge withdrew his face from the window and lightly tapped the roof of the car, signalling to the driver that he could depart. However, unlike Aaron’s first taxi ride in India this driver made no attempt at conversation, merely regarding Aaron suspiciously through the rear-view mirror with a distinctly annoyed expression plastered across his face.

  The silence suited Aaron, who was relieved to finally be able to enjoy a journey without an onslaught of questions. The taxi sped along the city streets and he gazed impassively out of the window, his mind awash with the same thoughts and fears about reuniting with his mother that he had been grappling with for weeks. It wasn’t until the cityscape dramatically started to change that his reverie was abruptly interrupted and he began to take notice of the rapidly deteriorating surroundings. The people were becoming scarcer, the streets eerily still in their absence, and the buildings more dilapidated and run down, some merely empty shells, the relics of former businesses and homes. The roads turned to bumpy, unfinished, pothole-filled thoroughfares, where the dusty, unevenly paved sidewalks were lined with piles of garbage attracting a multitude of stray dogs. It could easily hav
e been a different city altogether and Aaron was quickly realising why both the concierge and the driver had been so reluctant to help him get there.

  He stared dumbstruck out of the window when the taxi slowly drew to a stop outside what looked to be a disused concrete building. The driver turned to face him, his left hand outstretched greedily, whilst his right pointed fervently at the meter. Aaron looked uncertainly from the driver to the building and back again, and unconsciously shook his head; this could not be the place that he was looking for. The driver continued to regard him impatiently, his hand still outstretched and an increasingly irritable look on his face.

  ‘Are-you-sure-this-is-it?’ Aaron mouthed slowly, pulling the address from his pocket and pointing between the piece of paper and the building in an attempt to facilitate an understanding of his question.

  ‘Ha,’ replied the driver, nodding his head emphatically.

  ‘Are-you-sure?’

  ‘Ha! Looking here,’ answered the driver, pointing to a faded bronze plaque that was clinging desperately to the crumbling walls. Aaron peered over the driver’s shoulder and following his finger saw that ‘RACHNA HARI WOMEN’S REFUGE’ was embossed on the plaque beneath a thick layer of dust.

  He felt his heart sink. They were in the right place, but the streets were deserted and the building seemed lifeless. At first Aaron wasn’t sure how to proceed, but then he had an idea.

  ‘Can-you-wait-here?’ he asked the driver, simulating a stay motion with his hands for effect.

  ‘No stay.’

  ‘I-want-to-have-a-look-but-I-will-come-back,’ he tried again, miming his words in a desperate bid to be understood.

  ‘No stay,’ repeated the driver, shaking his head and smiling toothlessly, his few remaining teeth stained a dark yellowish-brown colour from smoking too much.

  Aaron sighed hopelessly, exasperated by the language barrier and by the driver’s reluctance to help him.

  ‘I-can-pay-you-more-if-you-will-stay,’ he begged, pulling his wallet from his pocket and gesticulating at the rising fare meter.

  ‘No stay. You pay now!’ screeched the driver, who had obviously run out of patience.

  Aaron didn’t know what to do. Should he get out of the taxi and risk not being able to get back to the hotel, or would it be safer to simply turn around and go home? He knew that it was foolish, but having come all that way and with Rachna Hari being his only lead on locating his birth mother, he simply couldn’t bring himself to leave.

  Scowling, he fished in his wallet for the correct fare and no sooner had he stepped out of the taxi than the driver sped off without a backward glance. Alone on the dusty roadside, he looked up despairingly at the gloomy grey building. It was not quite how he had imagined the refuge and in his mind his arrival had played out very differently. Where were all the smiley-faced, snotty-nosed children that should be running up to greet him, excited by the sight of a stranger? All the women, humbled to have clean clothes on their backs and food in their bellies, though their eyes spoke of untold suffering? And the overworked, but hugely satisfied, aid workers that would recall both of his mothers with great fondness, amazed at how well he had turned out? It was all wrong and as he stood in the shadow of the building, shielding himself from the blistering heat, he felt defeated.

  He peered helplessly through the ground-floor windows into the emptiness, but there was nothing and no-one. He moved around to the side of the building, peeking into each of the windows in turn, desperately searching for anything that might help him in his quest, but it was futile. There were no clues and no sign of what used to be, the building seemingly abandoned without a trace. When he had circumnavigated the building three times, and only once every fibre in his body was satisfied that there were no hidden clues to be found, he dropped down miserably onto the broken pavement beneath the faded plaque. His head in his hands, he felt his heart sink further and further, crushed as it dawned on him that he was out of luck. Pig-headedly, he had come all that way only for his one big lead to wind up at a dead end. Arthur was right; he should have written to Kalpana to find out exactly where she was first. He had wasted so much time and now, even if he wrote to her from Puri, who knew how long it would be before she received the letter and was able to respond? And what would he do while he waited? He couldn’t go anywhere; he would have to wait in Puri.

  Wallowing deeply in self-pity by the roadside, Aaron was so self-absorbed that he didn’t notice a short, balding man approaching, until a shiny pair of black shoes came into view between his knees. Startled, the hairs on the back of his neck instantly pricked up with fear and he raised his head sharply, certain that he was about to be robbed, or worse. But the short man peered down kindly at him, both surprised and intrigued to have encountered another human being in the otherwise desolate part of town.

  ‘Can I help you?’ he asked, his voice full of warmth and sincerity.

  Aaron smiled up at the man gratefully, a spark of hope involuntarily igniting within him.

  ‘I hope so.’