The Orphan Keeper

by Camron Wright

  He stayed glued to his spot because, superimposed on his panoramic view, a story was unfolding. It was a book that Linda had used when teaching him how to read English as a child, a book by P. D. Eastman about a confused baby bird whose mother wasn’t there when he hatched. All alone, the little bird set out on a journey asking the same question to everyone he met along the road—a hen, a dog, a cow, even a boat and a plane:

  Are you my mother?

  It was the very question Taj had wanted to ask the begging woman at breakfast, the reason he’d given her food. It was the very question poised on his lips to every bent-over woman, every shawl-covered head, every distant mother who now waddled beside the tracks as the train clattered past.

  And they all could have been—every woman his mother, every man his father, every young man his brother, every child a niece or nephew. In a country of a billion, how would he know?

  Are we related? he wanted to scream out. Are we family? Please, tell me who I am!

  It became more than people. Large cities, small towns, everywhere in between.

  Is that my village? Is this my hometown? Am I passing right by my childhood hut this very moment?

  It was a journey that should have left him teeming with optimism. He was finally in India, here with a chance to trace his beginnings, his roots, his identity. Instead, it burdened him with worry.

  What if I can’t find them? What if I fail?

  Worse yet . . . What if I don’t like what I find?

  It was 4:30 in the afternoon when the train shuddered to a stop, when Christopher touched his shoulder.

  “Taj?” he asked, with puckered eyebrows. “Have you been out here all day?”

  Taj nodded.

  Passengers edged past, anxious to reach their destinations.

  “Is everything okay?” Christopher inquired.

  “You have a beautiful country,” Taj answered, stating the obvious but also avoiding the man’s question.

  Christopher waited, expected more. When Taj said nothing, Christopher patted him on the back, like a father might do to a son. “Grab your bag,” he said. “Let’s get you to where you are going. I’m sure they’re waiting.”

  By American standards—the only gauge Taj held at the moment—his father-in-law’s place might be called shabby. It was a single story, cement rectangle that had been slathered over the years, both inside and out, with countless layers of limestone paint.

  Its flat roof held down plastered interior walls that divided the space into smaller lifeless rooms that, if one squinted, were hard to distinguish from one another.

  An undersized iron gate guarded a courtyard of sorts where potted flowers struggled to add cheer. They sat on a tiled perimeter, about eight feet wide, that circled around the house and abutted a six-foot wall that separated the postage-stamp property from its surrounding neighbors.

  In short, it was a house that yawned. Uninspiring. Boring. Dreary.

  The neighborhood didn’t help, equally lackluster, a mesh of one-lane streets—more like alleys—some paved, most dirt, none that would let more than a single car pass at a time. Similar homes puzzled together in the crowded community, all lamenting their misery at not being grand.

  Of course, by Indian standards—a measure that Christopher assured him would soon become familiar—the home was firmly middle class. Yes, the roof was flat, but it was solid and not thatch. Indeed the house was only a single story, but it was designed for a second, and plans were already underway to begin the addition next year. Understandably it sat on a tiny parcel of property. This was India. What else could be expected in a country of countless people with little land to go around? More important, the place was family-owned, not rented, and the soil holding up the home’s walls was Indian proud.

  When Taj banged on the gate, Priya ran out.

  The couple hugged like newlyweds, thanked Christopher for his hospitality, and then greeted Priya’s relatives.

  It was only after Christopher had gone that Taj realized he hadn’t paid him for their train fares.

  Priya had been sharing the smallest of the home’s bedrooms with an aunt. With Taj’s arrival, arrangements were made for him and Priya to take a room several blocks away, in an empty home that belonged to an acquaintance, a professor Maneesh knew from Singapore.

  The home had never heard of American standards.

  There was a bed, so that part was good, but the two-roomed structure came with enough dust and cobwebs to scare a haunted house. They swept out a battalion of bugs, most of which had likely died of boredom, and then the couple sat together on the bed.

  “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” Taj asked, glancing back at the waiting mattress.

  “Not unless you’re thinking we need to shower first.”

  She gripped his fingers, then reached up to let them drift across her neck. “I didn’t tell you the best part,” she said. “You get to help me prepare the puttu tomorrow. I was dreading having to do it myself.”

  Perhaps it was his hesitation that tipped her off, or the way his eyes wilted.

  “Taj . . . ? I know that look,” she said, in an interrogating tone that assured one day she’d be a good mother. “What are you not telling me?”

  It was his turn to finger squeeze.

  “Priya, I’m here to find my family.” The naked words coughed themselves out. There was no way to dress them. He sensed she already knew.

  She had but one question. “How?”

  “I’ll start with your dad. I’ll go to the orphanage. I have the address. Who knows, they may still have old records. Also, do you remember when we were first dating and I showed you my map?”

  “The old scribbled one?”

  “Yes, well, I brought it. Perhaps it will help. After that, I’m not sure.”

  “Before the wedding?” she asked.

  He stood, inflated his chest, pushed at the air that was muscling into the room. “Not only before the wedding—today. I’m finally in India. I don’t have time to waste. The thing is . . .”

  He sat back down beside her. “Priya, I have a problem.”

  “What is it?”

  “I can’t go alone. I don’t speak the language. I don’t know my way around. You need to come with me.”

  “Impossible.”

  “It’s four days until the wedding. It can’t be that big a deal that you’re here the whole time.”

  “Oh, Taj.” Her shoulders slumped, as if he’d asked her to lug a brick-laden backpack. “I want to help, really I do, but I just can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “I’m here for my family and, well . . .”

  “Well, what?”

  “Taj, this is India. The culture is different here. It’s not like the U.S. Look, you were taught growing up that you could do anything, that the world was wide open if you simply exerted yourself and worked hard.”

  “Isn’t it?”

  “Not here. Not in Tamil Nadu. Not for a woman. They have customs and traditions and . . . limitations.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “My family won’t like it if I go with you—and they have much more say here than they do back home. They’re trying to get ready for the wedding. I promised I’d help. It’s a big deal. It’s important. Besides, they’re already concerned about . . .”

  “About what?”

  “Us, the questions their friends will ask because of you, the fact that our marriage wasn’t arranged, that they don’t know your caste. Taj, they’re concerned about what people will think, how it will affect their . . . well, their status.”

  “Status? Have you looked around? Why would their friends care? Why do they care what anyone thinks? Besides, it’s your brother who’s getting married, anyway.”

  “I have looked around. I grew up here, remember? It’s exactly my point. T
hey don’t have much, so they cling to tradition. I know it’s hard for anyone not raised here to understand. I’m just telling you, if I go with you, it will put a strain on my family, my parents, my father, on my relationship with them. Taj, please don’t put me in that position.”

  Her dark eyes and downy skin never gave him a choice. “It’s all right. You don’t have to go.” He stood for the second time. Resolve sparked in his eyes.

  “What will you do?” she asked.

  “It’s too bad Daniel couldn’t come,” Taj said, as he stepped to the door. He looked out in the direction of the family home. His gaze narrowed.

  “But that’s okay . . . I’m going to ask your father.”

  When Taj entered, Maneesh was huddled in the corner with his brother crouching over a fire. They were whispering.

  Taj should have waited. He knew that. But time was limited. His fuse was burning.

  “Sir, I need your help to find my family.”

  Maneesh glanced back. One bushy brow lifted and then settled before he turned back to his conversation. The men were speaking Tamil. Taj waited until the words waned. He repeated himself.

  “Mr. Durai. While I’m in India, I would like to find my family. I need your help. Please.” He hadn’t intended to beg.

  Back home, when Taj had stood on the doorstep with his parents to request permission from the man to marry Priya, everyone assembled there understood that it was a formality, that they were going through the motions, that with or without his permission, the couple was going to get married. On the porch that day, Taj had caught a glimpse of his future father-in-law’s eyes. At the time, they had flooded with panic.

  Today, in India, however, the man didn’t look away.

  “I am sorry. There is nothing I can do to help you,” he said.

  But he didn’t look sorry. He looked perturbed, and disdain spilled everywhere.

  Taj stepped into the puddle.

  “What do you mean nothing? You can do everything. I’m finally here in India. You worked with the orphanage who stole me. You can tell me if you know where I came from. You can take me to the orphanage to see if they have records. It’s not that far away. We can get there and back in half a day.”

  Maneesh’s brother had been eyeing the exchange. He faced Maneesh.

  “Teru nai,” he mumbled in Tamil, and the men laughed.

  Am I back in the first grade?

  Taj wiped at his face with an arm. He’d been sweating since his arrival, and now it was dripping down his chest.

  “Did you know about my kidnapping?” His fingers clenched. His back arched. His face twitched. “Were you involved?”

  Maneesh pivoted. His voice rose to meet Taj. “We are in India!” he bellowed. “You are standing in MY house! You have no right to accuse me! I have a son who’s having a proper wedding, and we have much to do to get ready, so unless you have come to help, STAY OUT OF MY WAY!”

  The only sound was noisy breathing.

  Priya’s brother Emanuel hurried in from the other room. His face stretched with dread. Taj looked right at him. “Your father won’t help. Will you?”

  “Taj, calm down. We’ll figure something out,” he said.

  Taj stabbed a stern finger, first at Emanuel and then toward Maneesh.

  “Calm down? All I’m asking for is half a day. Why is that so hard? Am I not part of this family? Well, you know what? I don’t give a damn! I’ll go on my own! I don’t need any of you.”

  It was a lie that made the veins in his neck pulse even harder, as they obeyed their orders to push blood to the face.

  Taj bolted out the door and marched down the dusty street. Never mind that it was a strange country. No worries that he didn’t speak the language. Not a problem that he’d just told his wife’s family—the only people who could help him—to take a flying leap into the deep end of the Indian Ocean.

  For all he cared, they could take their pettiness and . . .

  “Taj! Please, wait. Wait up!”

  Taj twisted. It was Emanuel. He was flapping both hands like a referee. “Hey, let’s talk.”

  Taj’s eyes were still burning, still hot. “Unless someone is willing to help,” he said, “I don’t see the point.”

  Emanuel steered him to the side of the street and against a building. Taj wasn’t finished. “Look, I didn’t come all this way to cause contention. I’m just trying to find my family. Is that really so terrible? Why can’t you help me?”

  While Emanuel’s head shaking started immediately, it took a moment for the words to find their way out. When they arrived, at least they sounded genuine.

  “Taj, I would normally go with you, but I’m getting married in four days. Seriously, there just isn’t much that I can do considering the circumstances. I’m sorry.”

  “Did your father send you after me?” Taj asked, pointing back in the direction of the house.

  Emanuel’s head bobbing changed from back and forth to up and down.

  “Why?”

  A grin escaped. “Because you scare the hell out of him. Look, I know he said he won’t help, and he seems upset and let you storm off, but if you want the truth, he’s terrified.”

  “Of what?”

  “The family’s reputation. It’s important in this part of India.”

  “How would finding my family mess that up?”

  “Just you being here messes it up. Look, it’s not your fault. I’m not blaming you. I’m just giving you the facts. They don’t know your caste, you’re in a love-marriage, you’re not a traditional Indian.”

  “Are you worried about all this?”

  “The family’s reputation?” Emanuel grabbed Taj’s sweaty shoulders with equally sweaty palms. “Taj, look at me and listen. I’m having an arranged marriage. I don’t really know the girl. She doesn’t know me. I’m not a naïve Indian. I’ve spent time in the United States.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “Trust me when I tell you, I have much bigger concerns right now than what others may think.”

  Well, since he’d put it that way . . . Taj exhaled a warm breath. His wrinkled eyes relaxed. “So you don’t love her?”

  “How could I know? They say I will in time.”

  “Then why go through with it?”

  “This is what I’m talking about. There are aspects of our culture that seem odd to outsiders, customs that need bigger words to explain. I didn’t say I wasn’t okay with my marriage. All I said was that I’m nervous.”

  “Can I ask you something else?”

  “Sure.”

  “What’s a Teru nai?”

  Emanuel snickered. “Yeah, I heard that. He called you a street dog. From all the barking and growling back there, it sounded like you were both busy marking your territory.”

  Taj reached for a folded paper in his back pocket. “Before we go back, can you take a look at this?” He passed it to Emanuel. “It’s a map I drew of the place where I grew up. I know it’s rough, but do you recognize where it might be?”

  Emanuel pulled it close, studied it. He stated the obvious. “A park, a river, a group of huts surrounded by a city—Taj, this could be anywhere.”

  “That’s why I need to go to the orphanage and speak to Eli.”

  “Eli?”

  “Yeah, the man there who took me to the United States, the person my parents dealt with when I was adopted. He’s going to know things.”

  “Taj, I know who Eli is. My father worked with him years ago. When we lived here, before Singapore, he would come over to the house. He was a family friend.”

  Taj turned. His eyes begged. “Emanuel, I know you’re getting married, but please, can you spare just a few hours and take me to see him?”

  Emanuel’s lips parted, a finger raised, but in place of words, there was only a sigh.

&nb
sp; “What is it?” Taj asked.

  “You can go to the orphanage, but you won’t find Eli.”

  “Why not?”

  “Eli is dead.”

  Chapter 34

  Bringg, bringg. Bringg, bringg.

  “Pick up!”

  Bringg, bringg. Bringg, bringg.

  “Please, pick up!”

  Bringg, bringg. Bringg, bringg.

  Taj was prying the receiver from his ear when a single word reached through to command that he stop. “Hello?”

  “Christopher? Is that you?”

  “Taj? What’s wrong?”

  “Chris, I need your help.”

  “What is it?”

  Where should he begin? “I was kidnapped as a child in India, then sold to an orphanage, then adopted by my family in America. I’m back now to try and find my family. That’s why I’m here.”

  That was probably a line the man had never heard before. A confused pause lingered.

  “Chris? You still there?”

  “Did you just say . . .”

  “Look, I know I told you I was coming here for my brother-in-law’s wedding and to talk about our business ideas, and while both are true, mostly I came to find my family. I don’t know if I’ll ever get back to India again, so while I’m here, I have to try. This could be my only chance. I have the address of the orphanage, but I don’t know the language. My wife’s family won’t help me—they won’t even talk about it. Chris, is there any way you can come back?”

  Taj already knew the answer. Christopher, a man he hardly knew, had already taken the ten-hour trip over and back. He had a wife, two children, a job. He’d already rehearsed to Taj the difficulties of a rundown rental, of being deep in debt, and trying to keep his family fed on one meager salary. What was Taj thinking?

  “Christopher,” Taj said. “I’m sorry. It was wrong of me even to ask.”

  The man interrupted his own silence. “Taj, as a Christian, I’ve been taught to help those in need when it’s possible, and as near as I can tell, you’re as needy as they come. Let me make a call, but plan on seeing me in about ten hours and . . . fifteen minutes.”