The Orphan Keeper

by Camron Wright

  Pranay rested a finger at the map. “Does anything seem familiar? Do you remember what part of India you are from?”

  Taj studied it, an entire country spread before him, peppered with the countless names of villages, towns, cities—long, short, foreign, confusing.

  “No. I don’t recognize anything.”

  “You were given the name Taj,” Pranay continued. “Perhaps you are from Agra, in the state of Uttar Pradesh, home of the Taj Mahal?” He aimed at the spot.

  “My adopted parents picked that name because it was one of the few Indian words they could pronounce.”

  Taj touched the city that was his namesake, but then let his finger trace a widening web to neighboring names—Surat, Nashik, Indore, Patna, Nagpur, Balangir, Kolkata. All cities of millions, according to the map, and all places he’d never heard of.

  “How many people live in India?” he asked Pranay.

  The man scratched at his ear. “Nearing a billion—give or take a few hundred million.”

  “A billion?” Taj repeated. Such a hopeless word.

  “And nothing looks familiar?” Pranay asked a second time.

  “The truth is,” Taj mumbled, with a reply so sad and sullen the entire room seemed to frown, “I could be from anywhere.”

  Pranay reached for Taj’s shoulder. “You can’t lose hope. If India wants you back, listen. Keep searching. She will come to you.”

  As Taj studied the vast landscape of India that spread before him on the table, a larger question circled in his eyes. His voice begged like a child. The questions were standing in line in his head.

  Who are my real parents?

  Where am I from?

  How did I get to the United States?

  “Pranay?”

  “Yes?”

  Taj reached out and grabbed the man’s shoulders, as if he could answer.

  “WHO AM I?”

  Chapter 25

  To his surprise, Taj was thoroughly enjoying his classes at the University of London. It wasn’t Oxford or Cambridge, but at least the professor’s accent would let him pretend.

  “Students! May I have your attention? We’ll be learning about cartography. Who can tell me what that means?”

  “The study of carts?” a boy called out from the front row.

  It should have been funny, but he was from Italy and with marginal English skills, leaving the professor uncertain if the student was joking.

  Taj came to his rescue. “I don’t suppose it would be the study of cats?”

  “No, Mr. Rowland, that would be cat-ography. Anyone else?”

  It was Kelly’s turn. “What is the study of maps for $400, Alex?”

  “That’s correct—as usual.”

  Of the five classes on Taj’s schedule, this was the only one he shared with Kelly. Though the pair sat together, they were strikingly different: one a listener, the other a talker; she loved a healthy discussion, he preferred to sit back and take notes. When Taj did speak up, it was usually to make the class laugh.

  As the professor grabbed his chalk, Taj opened his binder and picked up his pen.

  “Students, the first maps appeared more than five thousand years ago and served to record places of interest. They were pictorial, meaning the mapmakers used drawings or symbols to show small areas, like a hunting ground, a trade route, or a city.”

  The professor turned on an overhead projector that displayed a broken clay tablet.

  “This is a map from the Babylonian era, about 600 b.c. Notice how it shows Babylon scratched in the center, surrounded by the Euphrates River, mountains, and the ocean. If anyone is interested, you can see this actual artifact in the British Museum. It’s on Great Russell Street at the opposite end of our campus, just a few minutes from here.”

  Taj set down his pen.

  “As you can see, students, early maps were crude compared to our modern maps. Our modern maps usually have north at the top. Not so with early maps. They had no rules relating to orientation and were seldom accurate or to scale—but they did serve a purpose.”

  Taj raised a hand. “If they weren’t to scale, if they weren’t accurate, how did they help?”

  “Good question. They really just defined a relationship. To do so, they didn’t need a lot of detail, didn’t need to be accurate. They just needed to point you in the right direction, establish a bearing and a path. These ancient maps worked well enough precisely because they were small and simple, not elaborate. It’s a good lesson for life, don’t you think?”

  English accent or not, the professor was brilliant. He kept going. “Sometimes, just focusing our view, taking a new perspective, makes all the difference.”

  Taj eyed the wall clock, checked it against his watch. The last twelve minutes of class were like waiting on death row. When the professor finally announced they were excused, Taj’s books were already packed and halfway out the door. He chased after them.

  “Let’s go,” he called out to Kelly. He was bouncing like a school girl.

  “Where?”

  “The British Museum.”

  “Why?”

  “I . . . um . . .” The idea was darting around so fast in his head it was getting dizzy.

  “Use your words,” she instructed calmly.

  He took a breath. “To see the map. I’ve been remembering things, places, images, smells, faces.”

  “Yes, so you’ve told me.”

  “Well, I’ve decided that I want to go back to India and find my family.”

  “Now?”

  “No, of course not now. I have to finish school first, get back to the U.S., save some money. Look, the when isn’t as important as the why.”

  “Don’t leave out the poor little how.”

  “The other day Pranay spread a map of India out on his table, to see if it would help me remember anything.”

  “And . . .”

  “It didn’t work. It was too big, too overwhelming, too much.”

  “But . . .”

  “The lesson today, it all makes sense. I don’t need a large map of the entire Indian subcontinent. I need a small one, a map of the place where I’m from—my hunting ground, the town where I grew up. Just like he said, it doesn’t have to be perfect or to scale or have everything in its proper place.”

  Kelly was biting at her lower lip, still not understanding.

  “Where are you going to get a map of your town in India if you can’t remember the name?” she asked.

  Taj’s eyes sparkled. They could have been diamonds.

  “I’m going to draw one.”

  The map was crude, but if he believed his professor, it wouldn’t matter. More important, it could help him find his boyhood home. Since coming to London, images, memories, fragments were piecing themselves back together. It was time to write them down.

  While the clay tablet he’d studied at the museum had the great city of Babylon at its center, his own map’s center was a bit more humble—a series of circles representing dirt-floored huts. He couldn’t remember how many, what the huts had looked like, which one was his, or if they’d sat in a ring or in rows. He did remember that a large cement building stood beside them—a home where a kind lady sat out front.

  There was the park, he’d already noted that, a large children’s park with a high fence, and while he couldn’t say how far it was from home, he believed it was to the west. The river that he’d drawn across his paper with a blue colored pencil flowed from north to east, cutting across the paper’s top right corner as it escaped off the edges. It was a great start, but now Taj was confused as to where to put the bus station.

  He was sitting on the train headed home, staring at his map. Kelly had decided to stand.

  “You look like you’re on the nib of a smarmy, knicker-twisting revelation,” Kelly said.

 
“You’ve been in England too long,” he retorted, hardly glancing up. His eyes continued to dart from the park to the huts to the river.

  She watched. “Don’t hurt yourself.”

  When he didn’t answer, she nudged him with her shoe. “A threepence for your thoughts?”

  Taj breathed, exhaled. He pushed his pencil back into his backpack before looking up. “Seriously. You’ve been in England way too long.”

  “What have you learned from your map so far?” she asked.

  “Would you like to sit, doctor?” he asked, patting the open seat beside him.

  “I’m good. Been sitting all day. So what have you learned?”

  “I’ve learned that I’m an Indian,” he answered, matter-of-factly.

  The train had stopped, and more people than usual were getting on. An older man sat in the empty seat beside Taj.

  “I’m sorry, what were you saying?” she questioned.

  Taj repeated it louder. “I said I’ve learned that I’m from India. I’m an Indian.”

  Kelly cupped her palm to her ear. “I’m sorry. It’s so noisy. Say again.”

  This time he nearly screamed. “I’M INDIAN!”

  As the train’s new riders returned baffled glances, her smug smile patted him on the shoulder to tell him she’d heard perfectly well the first time.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, before he could say a word. “I couldn’t help myself.”

  “You enjoy that, don’t you?”

  “Very much. But never without purpose. I wanted you to see what it felt like to actually shout it out. So?”

  “So what?”

  “How did it feel?”

  At times she could be maddening, like an annoying know-it-all little sister. She was opinionated, irritating, and loud. And when the year was over and they parted ways to head home, he was going to miss her immensely.

  “It felt . . . true,” he answered. “And wipe that smile off your face.”

  When the train reached Upton, Taj almost floated above the concrete. The two would walk together for a block before heading to their separate homes.

  “You’ve inspired me with your map,” she conceded.

  “What do you mean?”

  “When you first showed it to me, I thought it was . . . I don’t know . . . too simple.”

  “That’s the beauty of it.”

  “I know, I know. I realize that now. In fact, I’ve decided to make my own.”

  “Your own? But you already know where you’re from.”

  “True, but it doesn’t mean my family isn’t just as distant.” She was nodding her head, as if having flashbacks herself. “I’ve felt just as far from my parents as you, and I was only sitting on the other end of their couch. I’d like to change that—at least with my mother. There is simply something beautiful and profound about mapping out your life with a crayon.”

  Taj’s continual string of questions for Pranay ranged from easy to hard, from the trivial to the profound. On occasion, like tonight, when everyone was home and the family joined in, it could become a circus.

  “Why are there so many Indians in London?” Taj asked, sitting beside Pranay and Papa Hari at the table as they sipped tea.

  Papa Hari shook his cane. “The British ruled India for nearly two centuries. We all moved to London to get even.”

  “And in Papa’s case, it’s working,” hollered Momma Rachna from the foyer.

  “Here’s one,” Taj said. “Why do we eat with our fingers? How come we don’t use knives and forks?”

  Papa faced his son and whispered, though even the man’s quiet voice could be heard from anywhere in the house. “We are converting the boy,” he said to Pranay, with glistening eyes. “You notice that he said ‘we.’ He is almost one of us.”

  “I’m serious,” Taj asked.

  “Answer the boy’s question, Papa!” Momma called out.

  Papa Hari tipped his head toward Pranay, letting him answer, though his narrowed eyes announced he’d chime in if needed.

  “We don’t use knives and forks,” Pranay replied, leaning forward, “because we are not at war with our food. We don’t need weapons. We have learned it is better to surrender to the flavors, to caress and embrace them. You see, eating for Indians is a passionate affair. Picking up the food with our fingers evokes a closeness, a feeling of warmth, a connection. It would all be lost if we started stabbing and cutting.”

  “That’s very poetic,” Taj replied. “What about your carved figurines? All these little statues?”

  “What about them?”

  “They’re your gods, right? Why so many?”

  Papa Hari rapped his cane on the floor, as if to jar it awake. “Why not? As Hindus we love our variety. We exclude nothing. Yes, we have many gods: Vishnu, Shiva, Saraswati, Lakshmi. In fact, many devout Hindus also worship cows, monkeys, trees, mountains, rivers, even the ocean. In the end, Taj, we believe that God and the many creations in the universe—no matter their form—are one.”

  “It’s confusing.”

  “I would say encompassing.”

  Taj was quiet, hesitant.

  “What is it?” Papa Hari asked.

  Taj picked up a carved bearded man with four faces and a lotus flower growing from his head. He studied it, placed it beside the others.

  “I must have had some of these same gods when I was a kid. They seem so familiar.”

  “You don’t have them now?” Pranay asked.

  “I’m a Christian.”

  “Excellent,” Papa Hari chimed in.

  “Excellent?” Taj breathed surprise. “You don’t care that . . .”

  Papa Hari interrupted. “Taj, there is a declaration in our sacred texts that reads ‘Vasudhaiva kutumbakam,’ which means ‘The whole world is a family.’ Does your belief help you to become a better person, to grow, to progress? That is our only concern.”

  Silence sailed in, but it was caring and comfortable, embraced by everyone.

  “What are your plans?” Papa Hari finally asked, taking his turn at a question. “What will you study once you return home?”

  “Business, I think.”

  “And what will you do in business?”

  Taj shuffled his feet. “This is going to sound crazy . . . but I’ve wondered about setting up, you know, a business to import things from India.”

  “Not crazy at all,” said Pranay. “If you are serious, I have a friend in India who may be able to help. He is also a Christian, like you, about ten years older. His name is Christopher Raj. He’s a good man.”

  Pranay reached for a piece of paper and scribbled the information down.

  While Taj waited, he elbowed Papa to get his attention. “Could you pass me more chikki, please?” He pointed to the plate at the end of the table.

  “More chikki?” Papa asked with a grin. “Yes, my friend. You are Indian indeed.”

  The Tamboli family had welcomed Taj and Kelly to London with Indian food, and so it seemed fitting to say their good-byes in the same manner.

  “Can you reach the aloo gobi?” Taj asked as he poked Kelly’s shoulder and then pointed down the table. “And I know what you’re thinking . . . not a word. Is that humanly possible?”

  Kelly didn’t technically speak as she passed him the plate, but softly hummed Bob Dylan’s “The Times They Are a-Changin’.”

  Taj scooped a healthy portion onto his waiting rice, then stirred it with his fingers like a child mixing mud.

  “Your parents are gonna love your new table manners,” Kelly said. “Especially on spaghetti night.”

  “You just couldn’t stay quiet,” he quipped, his mouth trying to smile while full. “Oh, and don’t let me forget . . . I have something for you.”

  Her eyes widened. “For me?”

  “Don’t get too excited. I
’m cheap.”

  Once they were finished eating, he washed his hands and then walked her out front to where a vendor was selling Indian folk music CDs on the sidewalk.

  “I noticed these on the way in.” Taj purchased two and handed one to Kelly. “To remember me.” Then he added with a grin, “I’m sorry, I didn’t have time to wrap it.”

  From the sidewalk where they were standing, they could see down the alley to the restaurant’s east side. A slatted fence partially corralled a protruding dumpster that looked anxious to break out. Music showered the scene from an open window near what must have been the restaurant’s kitchen, a fitting reminder to anyone passing that affluence and poverty are often separated by only a few feet.

  Taj was never sure what triggered the memories—smells, sights, sounds. He only knew they came at the most unexpected moments. His eyes watched. His ears listened. His nose tugged him closer to the smell of rotting food.

  “What is it?” Kelly asked.

  He didn’t answer. He was walking.

  “It’s happening again, isn’t it?” She’d seen that look in his eyes. “What are you remembering?”

  “Food,” he answered, “ . . . and a dumpster.”

  Kelly trailed down the alley after him.

  Taj lifted the lid, let the smell of well-seasoned decay smack him in the face. When he let go, the lid slammed closed.

  Just like at the park, he couldn’t help but glance around, as if expecting to see a skinny, shirtless, fleeing boy.

  “I remember,” he continued, “eating from a restaurant dumpster, kind of like this one. Why would I remember that? Why now? It was mostly little rice balls, leftovers tossed out with banana leaves.”

  He turned to Kelly, repeated the revelation as if it would make it more palatable, more believable. “I ate from a dumpster!” The words had no place to land.