Chellamuthu’s legs finally gave out on the edge of town, near a field of cotton where he stumbled to a stop and fell into the lukewarm shade of a tamarind tree. He was hungry and tired and thirsty and filthy—and lonely.
“Why can’t you rain now, when I need it?” he asked the cloud-filled sky. But his words were shadowed by a bigger question: Why had his life taken this terrible turn? His mother would say that we choose our destinations when we choose our paths, that all choices have consequences. She had counseled him on many occasions to follow knowledge, duty, and devotion. He’d preferred following the path to the park, the river—stealing. Was he now being punished? Was this his reward for disobedience?
It was early afternoon when he gathered both the courage and the strength to stand. He’d decided he would walk back to the road and beg a ride, and he’d go with anyone, wherever they were going.
When he stood, a shimmer caught his eye. It was off the road a distance, and while there was no sound of water, it was deep and wide and waiting. It was larger than a pond but smaller than a lake, and though this body of water could never compare to the Kaveri, it welcomed him with outstretched arms.
Chellamuthu made his way to the edge, and oddly, as he waded into the water to rinse his deprived body clean, the silly song from the Lincoln Home bounced into his head:
Deep and wide, deep and wide,
There’s a fountain flowing deep and wide.
The basin must have been fed by an underground spring, as the water was cool and clear, and he gulped big swallows until he was certain he would be sick.
He had no soap like the women at Lincoln Home, so instead, as his mother had once taught him back in Erode, he reached for something else that would take away the filth—handfuls of sand. He stripped off his shorts and shirt and used the sand to scrub at his arms, legs, neck, and chest. He even pressed handfuls of the gritty mixture into his hair and scalp, rubbing and rinsing it away until he felt clean. As an afterthought, he scooped up a fingerful of the grit and polished his teeth.
Once his body had been sufficiently scoured, he focused on his clothes, kneading them against both sand and rock, as he’d watched his mother do at the river, until they were equally clean.
Since there was no one around—and even if there had been—he placed his clothes on the twigs of nearby bushes to dry and rinsed his naked body again in the water, just because he could. Then he poked along the shore, hoping to find berries or something he could eat.
He recognized the plant immediately. It had broad leaves, purple flowers, hairy stems, and the scent of lemons. It was the same plant his mother had sent him to find so she could treat Manju. Knowing it was perfectly safe, he pulled off a leaf and pushed it into his mouth.
Chellamuthu parked himself on the ground near the water and pulled up his bare legs. He stared at the scars on his feet, put there so he’d remember the pain and make wiser choices. He should have taken the leaves back to his mother right away when Manju was so sick, rather than selfishly riding the elephant. He knew that. Perhaps if he had gone right back, his father wouldn’t have burned his feet. He wouldn’t have been taken. He wouldn’t be lost, alone.
Choices have consequences.
Chellamuthu pushed his feet into the soft mud to cover the marks—but guilt is hard to hide. The mud seeped into the cut still healing on his foot, reminding him of a more recent shame, a persistent pestering that had been clamoring in his head and pinching at his heart since the stinky trough had given birth to his freedom.
He had left Anu.
She was ill and alone, and even after he’d promised to bring her water and help her get better, he’d left without telling her why. Would she understand? Would she be okay? Would she survive anyway? Why did it matter, now that he was free?
It was the scars that offered answers. He pulled his feet from the mud and stretched for the water to wash them clean. He longed to be home, if only for a moment, to tell his father that he no longer had to be disappointed in his son.
The scars were working!
Chellamuthu coiled around to face the plant. He would eat soon enough. Right now he needed a stick. Glancing around, he saw one in the mud nearby that would do nicely.
As he knelt beside the plant, the rustle of its leaves seemed to whisper a familiar word: dharma.
Arayi had kept the fire going until early the following morning—just in case. Despite the day’s heat, she fell asleep in the hut and didn’t wake until Jaya returned with Manju in the afternoon.
“I don’t know who to believe,” Arayi cried to her sister. “Is there no one who can tell me what happened to my son?”
Jaya couldn’t answer. Or wouldn’t.
It was time for Arayi to start cooking dinner, but she had no more fuel. She’d used up all of their wood the night before.
She stirred what was left in the fire—it was nothing but ash.
Kuppuswami sat in the dirt and slugged down the last of his palm toddy. It wasn’t enough. He was still conscious, still aware, still unable to squelch the ache smoldering in his chest.
As he lay back down alongside the road, he pondered what to do.
Where does one turn when palm toddy isn’t strong enough, when its arms are too short to reach down and choke out all the pain?
Kuppuswami had been walking along the proverbial edge for years. For many traversing a similar road, stumbling along life’s brink, a crisis often serves to wake them up, pull them back to safety, save them from themselves. For others, like Kuppuswami, faltering on rocky crags, tragedy steps in like wind to nudge them off the edge of the cliff.
The broken man crawled toward the field of a neighbor who grew ganja, a cannabis plant that was technically illegal in India but could be grown and used for “medical and scientific” purposes, if the right people were paid. Kuppuswami could imagine no better medicine.
He picked a handful of the mature leaves and spread them on the ground in the sweltering sun. As soon as it was ready, he would roll it, light it, smoke it, and let it deaden the agony that was too heavy for him to carry alone.
While he waited, Kuppuswami studied the scar on his leg. Maybe if the ganja didn’t work . . . he would find a real cliff.
Chellamuthu crouched in the dark outside the Lincoln Home for Homeless Children, peering at the begging bundle of leaves he’d left outside the gate for Anu. He was hidden behind a crate that had been dumped outside a building across the street, but he couldn’t expect to stay unnoticed for long. He had come back without a plan—only resolve—and so far, it wasn’t enough.
Hours earlier he’d watched Eli swing the door open, the metal pushing the roll of leaves and stems aside like garbage. His foot might even have brushed against it as he locked the door and then strode off into the night. How could he not see that help for Anu was right there, so close, pleading to be let in?
Chellamuthu had hoped that after Eli had hurried away, Mrs. Sundar would head for home and see the bundle of leaves on the ground. The problem was, she didn’t always go home. It was just as common for her to stay the night . . . and even if she did see the leaves, there was no guarantee that she’d realize their purpose.
Chellamuthu’s stomach growled its displeasure. Other than some rancid adai that he’d fished from a garbage can hours earlier, he’d had little to eat, and his body was letting him know.
What was he thinking? Why had he even bothered to come back?
The sound of scraping feet startled him. A man with a lantern was rounding the building from behind.
Once the children were finally asleep, Mr. Rajamani said good-night to the women on duty and waddled to the door. He was six steps away when the pounding started. It wasn’t a timid knock, but an authoritative one—the kind policemen use on official business. Perhaps it was news about the missing boy?
When Rajamani pulled the door open, Chellamuthu march
ed inside as if a delivery this time of night was normal. He didn’t bother with a greeting. Instead, he held out a bundle of leaves.
“You have to boil them. That’s what I watched my mother do, boil them ’til the water’s green. Anu has to drink it two times a day, whether she likes it or not, ’cause Manju didn’t like it, but Mother made her drink it anyway. And then boil the roots, but not too much, and mash them up and give her little bits with her food. If you do all this, she’ll get better.”
Stunned, Rajamani took the bundle. Then, as if Chellamuthu had never escaped from the compound at all, he hiked across the yard and through the doors to where the rest of the children slept.
Eli had gone home early with a piercing headache but had asked Rajamani to keep him informed if anything unusual happened. This likely qualified.
Rajamani followed the boy’s steps across the yard and peeked inside the door. Chellamuthu had peeled off his shirt and was sitting on his mat, taking huge bites from an apple he’d retrieved from a basket beneath the table.
Rajamani scratched curiously at the edges of his moustache. Then, instead of fetching Eli, he dashed to the room beside the main office and rapped on the door.
“Akkā, wake up! Wake up! Hurry and boil some water!”
Chapter 12
Chellamuthu reached for the cup of fresh tea Mrs. Sundar had brewed for Anu.
“Can you take it to her by yourself?” she asked.
He wanted to hurl it back at the woman. Why did she ask, knowing that he was the one who brought back the leaves and that he’d been carrying Anu her tea every day this week? Why treat him like a child?
“Yes!” he answered, stomping his foot to the ground.
She smiled. “Then here you go.”
As always, he walked it carefully across the yard, knowing it would take several minutes before it was cool enough to drink. For the first three days Anu hadn’t been able to finish it without vomiting. The last four, however, her bucket had been clean. If she kept improving, Eli said she could move in with the rest of the children by the weekend.
Chellamuthu expected to feel heroic by helping Anu recover. Instead it was just hard work. Perhaps this was a secret that heroes don’t share: Courage comes from doing common things. He wished his mother could see that he was helping. It was the first time he’d followed through with something so important. Knowing her son was making a difference would bring her joy.
When he reached Anu’s door, it was closed. He balanced the cup carefully in one hand while turning the handle with the other. The room was quiet.
“Anu? It’s me. I have your tea.”
Arayi scraped her right knee against a seam in the stone floor, breaking her skin and causing it to bleed. She shifted her legs but stayed kneeling. She’d been at the Sri Kongalamman Temple in Erode since dawn. She had come today, yesterday, the day before that—and she would be here again early tomorrow.
She saw no alternative as the number of searchers dwindled to near zero and the astrologers had all been wrong. There had been no sign of Chellamuthu for weeks, no clue as to his whereabouts or disappearance, and the uncertainty was tearing at her heart like a lion. Hearing nothing was like having a wound that was picked open every day, with never a proper chance to heal. Without knowing what had happened to Chellamuthu, she would never find peace—ever.
Her penance had been to shave her head, worship at the temple, and leave offerings of food wrapped with a mother’s pleadings that she hoped would flow to the ears of the goddess Kongalamman:
Bring back my son. He needs to be home.
Rather than rise to heaven, her words dropped like loose gravel covering the stone floor and making it painful to kneel.
Just before 8:00 in the evening, as the temple prepared to close, Jaya tiptoed in. She touched Arayi’s arm. “Sister, it’s time to go.”
Jaya helped her stand.
“Manju?” Arayi asked, with sudden alarm. “Is my daughter well?”
“Yes, she’s fine. I left her with Selvaraj.”
The two stumbled to the entrance where Jaya steered her toward the steps. “Let’s sit for just a moment,” she said.
Arayi sat, waited.
Jaya inhaled. “Sister, we—all of the relatives—will continue to offer prayers and offerings that Chellamuthu will return safely. Every time we go to worship, the name of Chellamuthu will be in our minds and on our lips and in our hearts. Always! But, my dear sister, we are also praying for you, that you also may find your way home.”
“What do you mean?”
“On the day Chellamuthu was lost, a mother was also lost.” Jaya pressed close. “I just want you to know that we also pray for your safe return.”
Sadness hung in the humid air, holding Arayi’s lungs tight, forcing her to draw a breath to answer. “Jaya, if my son indeed continues to live, I won’t be there to teach him about prayer walks and pujas. I will never hear him chant the Gayatri Mantram. How will he learn on his own about the offering of praises? Will he know to celebrate the four days of Pongal or the Shivaratri? Who will teach him these things? Who will teach my son?”
Hers was a voice drenched with desperation, like flailing hands hoping to stop a fall toward pointed rocks but grasping at nothing.
“Jaya, how will Chellamuthu find goodness?”
Jaya let the question settle as she gathered her words. “I don’t bring answers, sister. I don’t know. Perhaps there are times in life when we must simply let go and trust.”
Trust who?
Arayi opened her mouth to answer, but sadness smothered her objection. Her head drooped as Jaya continued. “There is one thing I do know. You have a daughter and a son still at home, and so many others . . . family who need you back.”
Arayi clenched her eyes, swallowed her distress, and then softly wept.
Jaya wept beside her, holding her close.
When time nudged, they stood, steadied each other, and then stepped shoulder to shoulder onto the road.
Two sisters.
Heading home.
A smile had followed Rajamani around the courtyard all morning, so when Vikesh arrived—a boy who should have been in school—Chellamuthu wondered if something important was about to happen. Perhaps it was time to celebrate Diwali, the festival of lights. At home, his mother would arrange a row of small clay lamps in front of the hut, filling each with a touch of oil and a small wick and then letting Chellamuthu light them. Other children would sometimes set off firecrackers. But the best part of Diwali was that children would get sweets.
But it couldn’t be Diwali, because there had been no special lights placed around the orphanage. No clay lamps. No candy. Chellamuthu was sure of that.
What, then?
Chellamuthu was trying to get Vikesh’s attention when the door opened and Eli paraded in leading a tall, slender white man—a very white man. In fact, his skin was so pale that Chellamuthu wondered if the man was ill. His hair was a muddy red, his freckles looked like spice on rice, and in his hand he carried a small case. He pulled it open, bent back the lid, and placed it on a narrow folding table that reminded Chellamuthu of the fruit seller’s cart at the Erode bus station.
The odd-looking man faced Eli and waited.
Eli looked out at the children as if expecting to quiet them, but except for a handful of fussing babies in the background, they were already at rapt attention with eyes cemented forward.
With a nod from Eli, the man took a step and bowed to the children, as if they were Indian royalty. “I am Chubby the Clown,” he said in a squeaky, matter-of-fact voice, and then he waited, as if expecting the children to laugh. However, he was speaking English, and since the children spoke only Tamil, Eli stepped up to translate.
Chubby politely thanked them for attending before taking from his case a dangly piece of what looked to be red yarn. Chubby held it to his
lips and blew.
Everyone but the babies gasped.
As it filled with air, the red string sprouted to the thickness of a Himangi cucumber, growing in his hands to nearly a meter in length.
Mouths opened. Eyes widened. Some children edged forward to get a closer look, while others scooted away in fear.
“It’s a balloon,” Chubby said. Eli struggled to find a proper name in Tamil, ultimately settling on great rubber tube of wonder.
Chubby then knotted the end that had been touching his lips and with a flick of his wrist, tossed it out toward the children.
IT FLOATED!
While some gasped, others giggled.
As the wondrous object drifted toward the ground by Anu, who’d been feeling well enough to come, she reached out to knock it back toward him.
Chubby the clown could have packed up his case and trotted out of Lincoln Home right then and the children would have talked about the great rubber tube of wonder for days. But the man was just getting started. He selected another balloon, this one blue, and within the space of a breath, blew it into a second floating cucumber—and then more magic followed. He grabbed the first and twisted it with the second, and right before the children’s eyes, he formed a flower.
He stepped to Anu, called her princess, and gallantly handed his creation to her. She giggled—the first laughter Chellamuthu had heard from the girl.
And for the greater part of an hour, Chubby, the white, skinny, red-headed clown who spoke only English wove his magic balloons into monkeys and trees and lions and fish and crocodiles and elephants and bears and beetles and swords and crowns—and the laughter and shouts of those inside the Lincoln Home for Homeless Children wafted over the outer wall and soared up into an awe-filled sky.
Chellamuthu forgot about Erode and his family.
Anu forgot about the pains still stabbing at her side.
Rajamani took pictures of Vikesh and Chellamuthu holding their prizes and then let them play for longer than usual in the yard.
The Orphan Keeper Page 11
