The Orphan Keeper

by Camron Wright

  Minutes later the car braked in front of a better-kept home with a bricked courtyard.

  “This is where you’ll be staying,” Pranay announced to Kelly, and before anyone could step from the car, a kindly, gray-haired couple, noticeably English by their accents, strode down the front steps to embrace Kelly, like she were a daughter coming home from college.

  The Harrisons, one of the few English families still living in the neighborhood, first shook hands and then hugged everyone, including Taj. They invited the group in for tea.

  Thankfully, Pranay declined, insisting they had their own impatient tea-sipping family at home waiting for their new addition.

  Ten minutes later and three blocks down the street, Pranay parked for a second time. He turned off the key and twisted around to face Taj.

  “They will be most astonished.”

  “Your parents?”

  “Yes. They decided to host a student from the States to provide a little American culture for my son.” His snowy teeth stretched halfway around his face. “Won’t they be surprised to learn we have instead been sent an Indian!”

  Paintings of tigers, elephants, and olive-skinned women with red-dotted foreheads hung in abundance on the walls inside. The furniture, mostly carved, was cuddling intricately embroidered pillows of plush, vibrant colors. Strange figurines, both brass and wood, some with elephant heads on human bodies, watched from the shelves and mantels.

  Taj sniffed at the stuffy air. He had removed his shoes, seemingly an Indian custom, but after hours of traveling, his feet reeked.

  He’d seen Oliver Twist. This wasn’t London.

  “We apply for an American, and they send us you?” The deep booming voice, Indian accent prevalent, rattled down the hall.

  It was followed by an old man. “What shenanigans is the school trying to pull?” he asked, wielding a carved wooden cane.

  Taj shuffled backwards.

  “Quiet, Papa,” an old woman scolded, trailing him from behind. “You’ll scare the boy and wake Amil.”

  Though the man’s words were stern, his face was not. It bent quickly into a broad smile.

  “I know, I know,” he admitted, before Taj had even uttered a word. “I make a terrible liar.” He pointed at Taj’s nose with his cane. “Greetings, my son. We are honored to have you in our home.”

  The old man’s wife, equally gray, equally eager, equally Indian, edged in front, not wanting to be forgotten. Pranay proceeded with the formalities. “Taj, I’d like you to meet my parents. My father, we call Papa Hari. My mother, Momma Rachna. Parents, this is Taj Rowland from the United States.”

  “And yet the man forgets his own wife!” said a younger, attractive Indian woman who had approached from behind. She placed her palms together in front to greet Taj.

  “Shyla, I didn’t see you,” Pranay exclaimed. “Certainly, I would never forget the most beautiful woman in the world—who happens to also be my wife.”

  “Liars. All terrible liars,” Shyla added. She turned back to Taj. “With this family, you have to nearly shout if you expect to get in a word. It’s a pleasure to meet you. How was your travel?”

  Taj had yet to speak. His lips dropped open, as if they’d forgotten how to form words. Every muscle was jet-lagged.

  Liars, she had said.

  Should he lie also?

  In reality the experience thus far had been . . . smothering. Had he been delusional? Why again had he come to London?

  A roomful of foreign faces waited for a logical answer. It was all so surreal. Like that children’s book, Alice in Wonderland, where the girl dreams she’s traveled to a mixed-up, backward land.

  “Does he speak?” Hari asked, looking back at his son.

  Taj blinked, focused, breathed. “I’m sorry. Yes, my trip was . . . well . . . long.”

  “It’s true, then,” the old man added with a bit of glee. “You look Indian but sound American.”

  “Show the boy his room,” Momma Rachna insisted, in motherly fashion. “Then, once he’s settled, everyone come to the kitchen. I will have something ready to eat. He must be starving.”

  Taj hobbled behind Pranay down the hall until he halted at the second door.

  “Your room is here. I hope you find it pleasant.”

  Taj had heard stories about sketchy living conditions. He glanced around: Bed. Light. Carpet. Desk. Everything here was modern and clean. The room even had an attached bathroom, an amenity the school hadn’t guaranteed.

  He shuffled forward.

  Sink. Shower. Tub. Toilet.

  Taj reached out and pulled the handle. It flushed.

  “It works,” he said to Pranay as the water swirled, as if both should be surprised.

  It was Pranay’s turn to step back. “I’m glad you like it. I will check on dinner.”

  Taj had barely unzipped his suitcase before Pranay was back.

  “Mother has prepared samosas and bhajis in the kitchen. We can’t wait to hear about your family, where you are from, and why you have chosen London for your university studies.”

  Taj’s ears were ringing. His eyelids were sand. He trailed Pranay down the hall, but three steps from the kitchen, his legs stopped moving.

  “Mr. Taj, is something wrong?”

  Taj could hear voices—strangers—just around the corner speaking gibberish.

  They were laughing, joking, eating who knows what. It had been hours since he’d slept. His head was pounding, and someone had now turned on eerie Indian music to which the old man was tapping his cane on the ground. Taj’s brain was still processing the car ride. It hadn’t planned on working overtime.

  London was supposed to be fish and chips, soldiers wearing tall black hats, a clock in a rather large tower that someone had named Ben, and Monty Python—where was Monty Python?

  Tonight, incense was burning.

  He needed air but coughed instead.

  “Thank you. It’s kind. But I am just . . . I am . . . tired. I think I’ll go to bed.”

  Before Pranay could object, before the family could interrupt and then shuffle around the corner to try to convince him otherwise, Taj fled back to his room, exhaled relief, and then closed and locked his door.

  Chapter 23

  Since Papa Hari’s favorite Indian restaurant, the Mumbai Palace, was west of Upton, Taj had reluctantly agreed to go directly from the university to meet the family for dinner.

  “Bring Kelly,” Pranay had insisted. “We will provide you both with a traditional Indian welcome dinner.”

  Taj mouthed an okay with his lips, which must have confused them, because his brain was already affirming there was no way in hell. There had been nothing in the brochure about living with Indians and unquestionably nothing about pairing up with a girl whose undies were cinched too tight.

  When he stepped from Pranay’s car, Kelly was waiting beside the Upton Station sign. Pranay had just started to pull away but jolted to a stop when he noticed her. He stuck his head out and hollered.

  “Miss Kelly! Miss Kelly! We are inviting you to dinner tonight. Taj will tell you all about it. It will be very delicious.”

  Kelly smiled. Pranay flapped his fingers. Taj could barely lift the corners of his mouth.

  Pranay wasn’t finished. “You two grab a hackney, and we will pay for it.”

  As he drove off, Kelly turned. “What’s a hackney?”

  Taj followed his shrug down the stairs toward the train platform. “I’m not sure, but I’d wash your hands if you grab one.”

  Kelly, undeterred, confirmed with a woman on the platform that he meant a taxi.

  “Are you all right?” she asked. “You seem a little . . . what’s the technical term? . . . freaked out.”

  “Do you just spit out whatever pops into your head?”

  “Pretty much. I call it a gift. So
you’re asking me to dinner?”

  “No . . . I . . .”

  “Well, I accept.”

  She was grinning.

  “You’re joking, aren’t you?” he said.

  “You’re adorable, you know that? In a strictly platonic, stern-faced sort of way.”

  “It’s going to be a long semester.” It was a thought that he normally wouldn’t have spoken aloud. At the moment, that didn’t seem to matter.

  “Lucky you! Our train is here,” Kelly announced. “We get to chat the entire way.”

  When school ran late, thrusting Taj and Kelly into London rush hour, finding a hackney proved harder than Pranay had implied. It meant when the two finally arrived outside the restaurant, they were twenty minutes late.

  Kelly rushed. Taj dragged.

  “Are we sure about this?” he called out, his words ringing with reservation.

  When Kelly pulled open the door, rhythmic Indian folk music dashed past, bounding off into the night. Her eyes gleamed.

  “Come on, party pooper!” she commanded. “We’re letting all the fun out!”

  At first, the confused attendant inside tried to seat the pair, assuming they were a couple who had come in for dinner. Taj repeated the name Tamboli three times before the server’s head wobbled as his arm swept toward a banquet room in the back.

  The family was already waiting—and more. The room was packed with Indians of all shapes, sizes, and hues—friends, neighbors, relatives.

  Music played. People danced. Food was being placed in the middle of the table.

  The two stopped cold—Kelly, who reveled in the splendor, Taj, who was filled with panic.

  He’d never seen such a large room filled with so many people where every breathing, bronzed body looking back was dark. Like him. It should have been exhilarating. Instead his heart pulsed, his fingers curled, his chest constricted, as tiny beads of sweat, running away in full retreat, traced channels from his armpits to his waist.

  A familiar feeling was gurgling in his gut—the urge to flee.

  He turned to leave just as a welcoming hand rested on his shoulder.

  “Taj, come in! Come in! We are just getting started.” Pranay pulled him forward, like a man reeling in a reluctant catch.

  “We’ve saved two seats at the head of the table.”

  Taj touched Kelly on the shoulder. “You go first. I’ll sit by you on the end.” He wasn’t joking.

  Kelly winked. “I promise you, sweetie, they don’t bite.”

  There was no time to argue. Papa Hari was already banging his cane.

  “Good evening, friends! We are happy to welcome our American guests here tonight to sample the best Indian food north of the Gogavari.”

  Everyone cheered but Taj.

  He looked across the parade of waiting Indian dishes. Did they laugh? Standing in for a plate, a cut banana leaf was spread at each place at the table. A waiter was already dishing rice onto each leaf, and Taj hadn’t even asked for any.

  He hated rice.

  The dish directly in front of him bore a strong resemblance to stewed weeds. Had they never heard of cheeseburgers? What about steak and potatoes? Vegetables had pulled an obvious coup, invaded the kitchen, and jumped into everything with reckless abandon.

  When Kelly nudged, he picked up the bowl-o-weeds and passed it directly to her. She wasn’t shy. She took a spoonful, dumped it onto her rice, and was about to pass it back when he motioned with his head to keep the bowl moving.

  “Wait,” she said, her eyes forming a question. “Have you really never had Indian food? I thought you were joking.”

  Taj shushed her quiet. “Why and where would I have had Indian food?”

  Kelly’s eyes traveled from his head to his feet—and then back for a second look. “Oh, I don’t know,” she deadpanned.

  That was the problem. Looking Indian didn’t make him Indian. Why couldn’t people understand that? Outside doesn’t determine inside. Ignoring the misleading color of his skin, underneath he was pasty white!

  He didn’t belong here.

  In truth . . . he didn’t belong anywhere.

  Pranay, sitting across the table, sensed the boy’s reluctance. He hunched over to highlight the delighted dishes.

  “Here we have gobhi aloo, which is cauliflower and potatoes sautéed with garam masala. Beside it is baingan bharta, which is baingan, or eggplant, as I believe it is called in the United States, cooked with tomatoes and onions. And the restaurant’s specialty, palak paneer, which is cottage cheese cubes in a spinach gravy.”

  He waited for Taj to respond, as if he expected him to gleefully clap.

  Taj wasted no time. “Why, it looks so . . .”

  Kelly must have seen the glimmer in Taj’s eyes as he searched for the right word, because beneath the table, the tip of her pointy shoe caught him squarely in the calf.

  “ . . . healthy,” she said, finishing his sentence.

  Pranay was too enthused to notice. “Oh yes, it’s very, very healthy and very, very good.”

  “That’s a lot of verys,” Taj noted, as Kelly kicked again with more force.

  It wasn’t just the array of thick, gravied vegetables that had Taj perplexed but the way people were eating. A spoon had been placed in the serving dishes, but the utensils for eating had eloped. A quick glance down the table answered the dilemma. Everyone was stirring the food together on their banana-leaf plates with their fingers and then scooping it into their mouths—even the messy stuff.

  It was like a bad day at scout camp.

  “Go ahead!” Pranay insisted, pointing toward the waiting serving bowls in the center. “Don’t be shy.”

  “There are just so many,” Taj said, almost mocking. “It’s so hard to decide.”

  Kelly’s eyes locked onto Taj, as if she could read his mind—and it all apparently amused her.

  “Watch,” she said as she pushed all four fingers into a serving of rice so yellow it must have been radioactive. She carried it to her mouth mockingly, as if to say, that’s how it’s done, little boy—but then she paused. Her head fell forward.

  She chewed. She tasted. She swallowed. Her eyes widened.

  “This is the best . . .”

  She didn’t finish. Instead she mixed the rice with a swirl of the waiting sauce beside it on her plate that was happy finally to be included. She lifted it again to her mouth.

  It started with nodding, more chewing, and then the near moaning of words like unbelievable and spectacular. Taj was certain it was all a charade to make fun of him—all because he’d made the mistake of telling her on the ride over that he’d never eaten Indian food.

  Pranay stood, outwardly alarmed that Taj still had nothing but bare rice in front of him. He called down the table for Rachna to pass a platter of chicken, the one with breast pieces so red they looked sunburned.

  Taj watched, waited. It was firing squad by Indian food, and he had nowhere to run. He was about to pass the platter along to Kelly when the rising steam reached out and latched onto his cheeks with all its fingers.

  He pulled the dish back and sniffed it.

  His head tilted. His lips drooped. A question mark of wrinkles formed in his brow. The scent that swirled around his neck had started rubbing his shoulders, reminding him softly that once, a very long time ago, they had met.

  “Are you going to take some or just hold it all day?” Kelly asked.

  “Wait just a minute,” Taj answered, more curt than he’d intended.

  He picked up the spoon and stirred the sauce, as if expecting it to speak. And it did!

  He couldn’t place where he’d had this dish before, and it was maddening. It was like bumping into someone on the street you remember as an old friend, or the very least an acquaintance, but no matter how hard you try, you can’t place the person’s nam
e or from where you know them.

  “I’ve been here before,” Taj muttered, not letting go of the platter.

  “I thought this was your first trip to London,” Kelly questioned, confused.

  Taj didn’t reply. He was busy sliding a piece of the saucy chicken onto his rice.

  He reached for a fork—it was missing. Knowing she was watching, and not wanting to cede satisfaction to her I told you so grin, he tore off a piece of the chicken with his fingers and took his first bite.

  The spices in his mouth grabbed hands and began dancing in rhythm across his tongue—cumin, garlic, peppers, ginger, tamarind, cinnamon, and more. They weren’t just dancing—they were cheering, clapping, celebrating, singing, reminiscing. They were pulling out wallets and showing each other pictures of their kids.

  “What is this?” he said to Pranay, his mouth still melting with confusion.

  “That, my friend, is the finest chicken curry in all of London.”

  Curry!

  Taj set down the breast and licked at his fingers. He couldn’t help it. He might just have to suck on them all evening.

  Where had he tasted this before?

  He let his tongue roll across his lips to catch any morsels that may be trying to escape. This was more than just a meeting of old friends; it was finishing their words, laughing at inside jokes, recognizing a camaraderie that hadn’t aged with time. Blood brothers.

  Taj picked up the chicken and took another bite, only this time with tightly closed eyes. He licked again at the coriander, the chili, the cardamom, and the bits of curry leaf. It must be a taste remembered from his childhood—that was the only answer that made sense—but he found the growing recollection oddly curious.

  The mingling spices, the familiar taste, it felt like a whisper arriving with the wind, more message than memory.

  “Taj,” it seemed to say. “It’s time.”

  Traveling to and from the university each day meant taking the Tube, London’s subway, between Upton Park and Euston Square, an hour-long ride, morning and evening, sitting beside travel mate Kelly Cooper.