The Orphan Keeper

by Camron Wright

  Logic pleaded for his legs to stop. Desire for acceptance demanded they keep moving. However, for boys like Chellamuthu, the blanket of belonging can silently smother common sense.

  Eyes watched.

  Hands waved.

  Voices screamed.

  It was at the cliff’s very edge, just as Chellamuthu’s knees were bending to propel his leap out into space, that the words the boys were yelling finally lined up in his brain.

  “SNAKES! STOP! THERE ARE SNAKES!”

  Too late!

  Even though Chellamuthu’s legs jolted to a halt, his body didn’t. Instead of leaping gracefully into the air in a measured jump, his arms flailed, his frame contorted, and his heart tumbled.

  Like most children in India, Chellamuthu was taught early about snakes—specifically, the poisonous five: the cobra, the krait, the Russell’s viper, the saw-scaled viper, and the pit viper. The problem was especially acute in his home state of Tamil Nadu, one of the country’s worst affected areas. If he were to be bitten and not reach the hospital within minutes, he’d never see his family again.

  Chellamuthu smacked the dark water of the Kaveri with a thud that sounded like an angry hand slapping the back of a stubborn cow. Even hitting the water sideways, he was still plunged a good body’s length beneath the surface. His skin stung from the blow, and for a second he was certain he was being eaten alive by a den of vicious vipers that had been waiting in the water.

  As the sting dispersed, both relief and alarm flowed in to take its place—including thoughts of Niranjan, his friend who been bitten by a snake while the boys were picking peanuts near Pungampatti. There were adults nearby, and both boys instantly began to scream, but screams don’t dissuade snake venom. Within minutes Niranjan’s leg had doubled in size and despite his uncle’s best effort to treat the wound, it wouldn’t stop bleeding. Niranjan began vomiting, struggling for breath, and before anyone could get him strapped onto a motorcycle and headed to the hospital for life-saving antivenin, his eyes rolled back into his swollen head, and he died.

  Chellamuthu was below the surface now, holding his breath, flapping his arms and looking up, his vision too blurred to see.

  If there were snakes, if this wasn’t a terrible joke being played by Harisha and the older boys, the serpents would be just above him. He was a strong swimmer, having lived near the Kaveri since birth. He could attempt a retreat by swimming away beneath the surface, but it might not be away at all. He might do nothing more than swim right into the snakes when finally coming up for air.

  If only I were a fish.

  It was a childish thought, and as burning lungs and exhausted arms reminded him that wishing moments are wasted moments, Chellamuthu broke the water’s surface and sucked in a precious breath.

  “SNAKES! SWIM!”

  The boys were still screaming from above, still pointing toward the water—and then Chellamuthu saw the dark whipping movement of the creature barely two meters away. He couldn’t tell its variety, as he’d never had the privilege of studying snakes from quite this angle before, but it looked like a krait cobra—the largest one he had ever seen.

  Most alarmingly, it lay between him and the shore.

  Most parents wouldn’t allow their boys to swim in this particular spot on the river, not because of snakes but because of the dangerous current along the opposite shore, a surging swell that had occasionally carried children through the narrow and rocky rapids downstream.

  Chellamuthu had no choice.

  Legs kicked. Arms thrashed. Eyes locked on the opposite bank. Chellamuthu swam with all his strength away from the danger of the serpent and into the peril of the current. It was as if the river was politely asking, How would you prefer to die today, boy?

  The answer was easy—until the current grabbed hold.

  He’d hoped to be able to swim parallel to the shore, using the swifter water to create distance between him and the snake, and then break free when he was out of danger.

  It was a nice theory.

  The water mauled Chellamuthu, and with every kick he was pulled closer to the jagged teeth of the beckoning narrows. If it drew him in, the force would dash him repeatedly against the rocks and ferociously beat him to death.

  The cobra’s bite would have been more merciful.

  Why had he come here this morning?

  “Bhagavan! God, save me!” The words choked in his throat. “Next time I promise to stay home and wash the cattle!”

  But before Bhagavan could answer, someone gripped Chellamuthu’s arm. It was Harisha, the gang leader, a boy not only twice Chellamuthu’s size but twice as strong. It didn’t take long for the larger boy to pull Chellamuthu back to the safety of the shore.

  As the two rested, neither spoke—at least not in words. Harisha’s glare poked at Chellamuthu’s skinny, breathless body, forcing him to turn away. The older boy had just saved his life, but instead of gloating in glory, his stare was cold and demanding. His lips didn’t move, so he must not have actually spoken. But to Chellamuthu, Harisha’s message was abundantly clear: Time to pay up.

  The boys who’d been hollering from atop the cliff now circled, bunching around their illustrious leader like zealous soldiers awaiting orders. Even the river seemed to turn its inquiring head to listen.

  “Dry off,” Harisha finally said, tapping Chellamuthu on the shoulder with his gaze. “We’re gonna go to the park now, so you can steal us all some rupees.”

  That night Chellamuthu lay on the floor of his family’s hut in a puddle of thoughts, fingering a few of his freshly pilfered bills. Somehow the landowner’s words wormed into his head through the dark, as if she could see the grimy money clutched inside his pocket.

  Seek dharma, she had said. Find your purpose.

  Thankfully he’d hidden most of the loot beneath a rock outside before his parents came home.

  What else had she said? Ah, yes. Listen to the sounds that surround you.

  His eyes closed and ears opened as he studied the night-time noises slinking in through the thatch: a distant late-night celebration, probably a wedding; a child’s cries from a hut toward the river; the rumble of a distant truck making its deliveries. Outside sounds mixed with those from inside: his mother’s weary snores, his restless baby sister—and curry. Always curry.

  He couldn’t actually hear the curry, but its scent was so intertwined with the noises in his life that the two were difficult to pull apart.

  The family’s daily meal was always simple—even sparse—but curry often made an appearance. Curry rice, curry beans, curry coconut, curry squash. Curry wet, curry dry. Curry this, curry that. His mother’s own recipe was his favorite: a blend of cumin, garlic, peppers, ginger, tamarind, coriander, chili, cinnamon, fennel, cardamom, curry leaves, and several mysterious ingredients she refused to share.

  Spicy. Pungent. Persistent.

  That’s not to say she curried everything. An occasional dish went bare. But the aroma always stuck to his skin, loitering like poor, hungry children hoping for more. Chellamuthu smelled his fingers in the dark. Knowing they were filthy, he fought the urge to lick them.

  Then another nighttime sound barged into the hut, scattering the boy’s curry visions across the dusty floor. It was a sound he recognized instantly and all too well, like a mother picking out her child’s cries in a crowd. There was grunting, coughing, swaying—and sorrow.

  Kuppuswami was coming home.

  Chellamuthu rolled from the dirt and slipped out into the moonlight. He wasn’t running away from the sound, he was running toward it. If he did nothing, their hut would soon fill with ugly sounds: arguments, shouts, blows, whimpers and tears.

  He was tired of the tears.

  As he raced toward the approaching figure who was staggering along the path, the boy was reaching to the ground to gather something in his hands.

  He w
as picking up tangerine-sized rocks.

  It was true that Kuppuswami had been drinking but not for his usual reasons—many of which escaped him now anyway. He’d stayed late in town, sitting at the corner gulping larger than normal swallows of toddy, a cheap palm wine, because of what he needed to do when he arrived home.

  Tonight he would be teaching his son Chellamuthu a lesson.

  Kuppuswami had been hard on the boy in the past. Everyone knew that, could see it for themselves, but few understood why. If people gossiped that it was because the man was lazy, that the boy’s father drank too much, there would be a good deal of truth wrapped up in the words. If they claimed, however, that Kuppuswami was hard on his son because he didn’t care, well, they’d be dead wrong.

  Was Kuppuswami a drunkard? Absolutely—and when he drank, he provided little reason for his family to be proud. But until his heart stopped beating and his body was placed upon a pyre and purified to ash by Lord Agni, the god of fire, he was still the boy’s father and was, on occasion, going to act like it—even if it meant making painful decisions.

  Chellamuthu had been sneaking away, getting into trouble, ignoring his parents. It was more than youthful disobedience, it was willful defiance—and for Kuppuswami, it was all too . . . what was the word he was searching for? . . . familiar. If he didn’t put a stop to his son’s behavior now, if he let the seeds of rebellion germinate and grow, then in the end, as near as the man could determine, it was likely the boy would turn out to be . . . well, just like his father.

  Kuppuswami couldn’t let that happen.

  The question that had been eating at the man for days was what to do. He could lecture Chellamuthu, but the boy had already been lectured. He could slap him with a blow to the back of his head, but the previous head-slappings hadn’t changed a thing. No, what Chellamuthu needed was a reminder that was more . . . permanent.

  As he neared home, Kuppuswami’s feet dragged like anchors across the ground, scraping lonely tracks in the dirt. His head was purposely foggy—a good thing, even necessary. When he rounded the street that led to the waiting row of huts, he noticed someone standing in the dark.

  Chellamuthu.

  “Boy, come here!” His words wallowed in the dust with him.

  “You’re drunk. Go away!” Chellamuthu hollered back, and then he responded with more than just his command. He pulled back and hurled his largest rock.

  Though he was skinny, the boy was athletic. The stone nailed Kuppuswami firm in the gut, dropping him to the dirt.

  “It’s not liquor,” he called out as he stood back up. “It’s medicine!” And then the combination of his joke and the image of his young son throwing rocks at him, as if the boy was heaving stones at a wild dog, caused the man to laugh.

  Kuppuswami’s sudden merriment didn’t stop Chellamuthu. A second rock pelted the man, this one assaulting him in the shoulder. He twisted sideways but only for a moment.

  “We have to talk!” he called out, luring the boy toward him, followed by more stumbled steps.

  He watched Chellamuthu reach toward the ground for something else. Since the rocks were obviously not working, the boy had grabbed a broken whiskey bottle that seemed anxious to get involved. Chellamuthu pitched it with such strength and form that rather than outrage, Kuppuswami could only feel . . . pride. His boy would be a good cricket player one day, for certain.

  But then Kuppuswami touched his leg. Warm. Slippery. Red. The man was bleeding. His son’s aim had hit the mark. Kuppuswami had been cut just below the knee, and yet he felt no pain. The toddy was doing a fine job!

  Though Kuppuswami was drunk, he hadn’t lost all reason. His wound, the length of a finger, was spitting out blood like a tiny fountain. At this time of night there would be no doctor, no stitches—not that they had the money for that anyway. It was like the time Chellamuthu had smashed his fingers in the grain mill and the bleeding wouldn’t stop. To cauterize the wound, an uncle placed the boy’s fingers in the fire. It was that or risk the child bleeding to death.

  Chellamuthu’s scars remained.

  Tonight, Kuppuswami would do the same. He limped to the hut’s north side, to the stall where their cooking stove sat. Thankfully the coals were still glowing. A metal poker used to stir the fire was there, still hot. Kuppuswami poked at the red coals while pressing his free hand against the wound.

  “Come here, boy, and help me,” he called out.

  Chellamuthu inched forward.

  “You have to sit on my foot and hold my leg in place so I can stop the bleeding!” His tone was firm, delivered with fiery, liquored breath.

  The boy hesitated, then agreed. When Chellamuthu was in place, Kuppuswami pulled the poker from the coals.

  “Ready?” he asked.

  Chellamuthu nodded.

  Kuppuswami lowered the scorching tip—but instead of cauterizing his own open wound, he pressed it hard to the top of Chellamuthu’s right foot.

  Flesh seared, smoke rose. The boy screamed out in pain.

  Chellamuthu kicked his foot away as he tried to wriggle free, but Kuppuswami had grabbed the boy’s arm. The man had come home drunk tonight with a purpose, and he wasn’t about to let his wound deter him.

  Kuppuswami leaned close to make sure the boy was listening. “You keep running off, getting into trouble. It ends NOW!”

  Arayi called out from inside the hut with muffled and confused words. “Who’s there? Kuppuswami? Chellamuthu?”

  Kuppuswami didn’t wait for his wife to come outside.

  “You remember!” he growled to Chellamuthu, and then he swung the tip of the poker around until it dropped on top of Chellamuthu’s other foot.

  More smoke, more burning skin, more pain, more cries. The boy’s blistering screams mixed with the night’s muggy air. Neighbors could be heard stirring in their huts.

  It was enough. The deed was done.

  Kuppuswami released his son’s arm and let him limp to his mother, who was now hurrying from the hut.

  The man’s head was spinning, and he knew from experience it wouldn’t be long before he passed out. He would have to hurry. When he touched the poker to his still-bleeding wound, even the alcohol couldn’t hold his tongue. His words were slurred and unintelligible.

  No one cared. They were meant only for himself.

  “Don’t turn out like me!”

  Chapter 3

  Chellamuthu pulled his knees to his chest and tried to get comfortable, but the scabs on his feet itched and ached. He didn’t care. He was lucky his parents had let him come at all.

  His family watched the wedding from the mandapam, the traditional four-post bridal canopy that had been set up outside on a grassy piece of land near Bhavani Road. His mother held his baby sister on one side, and his father and brother stood on the other. The sun had been kind all day, never getting too hot as it watched from behind thin, late afternoon clouds.

  It was an average-sized wedding, as Hindu weddings go, with several hundred friends and relatives attending. Chellamuthu watched with the crowd as his older cousin circled the sacred fire with his bride, once for each of the seven marriage vows they were reciting.

  “Together, we will acquire energy to share responsibilities of our married life.”

  Arayi had explained it all to Chellamuthu a few minutes earlier, before the ceremony began. “Remember, my son, the holy fire is a protector. It is a mediator between us and God and will act as an eternal witness to your cousin’s marriage.”

  Chellamuthu nudged his mother, pointed at his cousin. “What’s his name again?”

  With his father’s eight siblings and his mother’s seven, it was a full-time job keeping his cousins, aunts, and uncles straight. If he included nieces, nephews, great aunts, great uncles, and second cousins—many who lived away from the city—it could give a kid a serious headache.

  His mother di
dn’t answer. When he elbowed her a second time, she shushed him. “Listen to what they are saying! We talked about this—it’s the most important part!”

  He hadn’t come for the sacred fire.

  “Together we will fill our hearts with strength and courage to accomplish all the needs of our life.”

  As was the custom, Chellamuthu and his family had walked from the groom’s home in a formal procession with many of his relatives. While grooms often rode a horse, the young man’s uncle had made arrangements with a man at the river to bring a small elephant.

  When the procession arrived, the groom was greeted by the bride’s younger sister who presented him with water, meant to both quench his thirst and ward off evil spirits. He, in turn, broke a clay pot to symbolize his strength and virility, and then coconuts were exchanged by the families as a token of the marriage contract.

  There had been so much ceremony since the first day of the celebration that it was getting muddled. There was the Yoktra Dharana, the tying of a grass rope around the bride to ask the gods for strength and protection; the Mangalasuta Dharana, the knotting of the bride’s sacred necklace with three knots to symbolize the aspects of ­commitment—manasa, vachaa, and karmana—believing it, saying it, executing it; and the Talambralu, the bride and groom showering each other with rice, saffron, and turmeric, to show their desire for happiness, enjoyment, and contentment. And that was just a portion. There had been prayers and rituals, ceremonies and celebrations, songs and laughter, dancing and games, and of course, food and drink.

  To think he’d nearly missed it. Kuppuswami almost didn’t let Chellamuthu attend, but his feet had scabbed over nicely, as had the cut on his father’s leg. When Chellamuthu pointed out how similar their wounds looked, Kuppuswami’s chest puffed out, and he relented. A scar for a scar seemed only fair. Like father, like son.

  “Together we will prosper and share our worldly goods and will work for the prosperity of our family.”