Stillness followed.
“Taj, are you there?”
His throat had filled with sand. He couldn’t swallow.
“I won’t forget this.”
When Taj hung up, when he turned, Maneesh was standing in the doorway. He’d been listening.
The bus ride to Madukkarai took an hour and a half. On the way, Taj spread open his map for Christopher to study. His friend’s reply was word for word the same as Emanuel’s: “Taj, this could be anywhere.”
Taj pointed to the notes he’d jotted below.
“I know that the map is crude, but look, I have the orphanage’s address from my mother’s letter. I also know my name—Chellamuthu—it was on my original passport. The man who ran the orphanage was Eli Manickam, and though Emanuel said he’s passed away, that doesn’t mean the place won’t still have records. I have plenty of information; they should be able to look something up. True?”
Christopher answered with quiet words. “We will hope for the best.”
Compared to other cities in India, Madukkarai was dingy and barren, a town with few friends, a place that made Coimbatore feel tropical. Their rickety old bus rolled into the edge of town, past an old cement factory, past the squatters who had set up tarps along the edge of the road, past open smoky fires and abandoned road construction and lean shops whose keepers eternally hoped for better times. Even the few new buildings under construction looked old.
Madukkarai was a place, Taj determined as he stepped off the bus at the center of town, that had never known the privilege of being called quaint.
Twenty minutes later Taj and Christopher were standing in front of a mold-tinged, white-plastered cement compound in desperate need of paint. Its address matched the one written on the bottom of Taj’s paper—but there was no orphanage.
The Lincoln Home for Homeless Children was gone.
The large metal gate was now a wide open entrance, welcoming where it had once forbidden. Inside, the spacious courtyard had been skinned, quartered, and carved into separate plots for homes, a mishmash of new building that nearly masked the separate structure weeping at the far end of the compound where Taj had once played as a child.
The great stone fence, once proud and impenetrable, begged now from its knees, decaying, feeble and broken. The longest portion, seemingly unwilling to surrender, stretched along the north but was not nearly as tall as Taj had remembered. He pulled himself up, checked the top, and found it had been rendered toothless. The shards of glass were gone. The rusty nubs of steel posts, long since removed, were all that remained.
“Look at you now,” Taj whispered. “Do you remember me?”
There was no answer.
While the compound had been sliced up the middle and subdivided into new housing, a small section of the old courtyard in front had survived the incursion. It was there Taj noticed the fountain.
He’d remembered it being rather grand, even ornate. Without notice, the words wide and deep channeled into his head, and he could almost hear the melody—but the fountain was neither. The concrete was chipped along the edges and so stained in spots that it looked black. There was no water in the thing, and if there had been and he’d slipped in, it would not even have covered his socks.
It was familiar—no question—only tiny, neglected, and worn. Like his memories.
He bent down and twisted the tap that still poked from the wall. Nothing. Next, he sat on its dirty cement ledge, like a footstool, and let his fingers brush its pocked surface. He closed his eyes, wondering if it would conjure up the sound of singing children.
Christopher gave him a moment and then sat at his side. “I am sorry, Taj. I know you were hoping to find more.”
“Do you realize that I sat in this very spot as a child,” Taj asked, “that I sang songs right here? I remember it! I remember it now so clearly—and look at me. I’m back at the fountain—an empty fountain. What do I make of that? What do I do with that?”
“It is interesting how life, at times, brings us back around.”
“The thing is, I remember this place being more . . . I don’t know . . . daunting. I remember it as a kind of friendly fortress. But really, as I look around, the walls aren’t even that high. Chris, why didn’t I just run away? Why couldn’t I have just found my way back home?”
He was staring at Chris, but his words seemed to circle back, asking himself the questions.
“Taj, can’t we all ask that about times in our lives? Besides, you were just a child. The bigger problem we have now is that there is no orphanage. No records. No clues. Where do we go from here?”
Another good question, without a good answer.
Silence spilled from the fountain until Taj disturbed it. “Did I tell you that as a kid, in America, I was a Boy Scout? Do you have Boy Scouts in India?”
“Yes, I have seen Boy Scouts. Did you enjoy it?”
“I enjoyed the challenge. I got about every merit badge known to mankind.”
“Did you go camping there, in America?”
“All the time.”
Was Taj leading the conversation . . . or was it leading him? A smile cracked at the edge of his face. “Which meant that I needed a lot of camping gear!” He faced Christopher. “And to buy the gear, my parents made me earn the money all by myself. I mowed lawns, cleaned yards, typical kid jobs, but then I realized if I knocked on doors wearing my scout uniform, I could sell about anything—Christmas cards, crappy chocolate, cheap popcorn—whatever.”
“Why, then, did they buy it?” Christopher asked. He didn’t seem to notice the spark flickering again in Taj’s eyes.
“I think they were just so surprised to see a uniformed Indian standing on their porch that I could have sold them anything. Here’s the funny part . . .”
“Is this story supposed to be funny?”
“We’re getting there. I was a curious kid, and so one day, for fun, I knocked on doors selling only a joke and a smile.”
“A joke? You sold a joke? It must have been very funny.”
“Not really. ‘Why did the Indian run across the road?’” Taj didn’t wait for Chris to shrug. “‘Because he was in a big curry.’”
“You’re right. That’s not funny.”
“No, but I earned nearly double my usual amount.”
Christopher was just noticing that the conversation had steered off track. “What does this story have to do with the orphanage being closed?”
Taj stood. He strode toward the street. “Follow me, kind sir.”
“Where are you going?”
“To see if anyone in this country has a sense of humor.”
Nobody answered at the first door, a home that sat across the street from the orphanage—nor the second, nor the third. Taj was ready to bang on the fourth when he glanced down the block to see an old woman sitting on her front porch eating breakfast.
“There!” he said, pointing. “We’ll talk to her.”
Taj acknowledged the woman, as he had all his customers, with a grin and a greeting. When she spoke back in Tamil, he let Christopher step up.
“Good morning. How are you?” Christopher asked.
She bowed a good morning, as if it were common for strangers to drop in, and then clutching her cup of masala tea with two hands, she huffed at the liquid, still too hot to drink, through a gap in her smile where a tooth was missing.
She blew and sipped and sipped and blew, but as best Taj could tell, very little information was being exchanged. Chatting with the old woman was fine if she could share something about the orphanage. If not, they were wasting time.
It wasn’t until her cup of tea was nearly empty that Christopher posed the question.
“We are here to inquire about an orphanage that once operated down the block.” He was about to tell her the name, but the old woman’s eyes were already glo
wing.
“Yes, yes, the Lincoln Home,” she said. “I know it. My husband worked there for several years.”
Taj yanked his head around so quickly his neck cracked. Even he understood the words Lincoln Home.
Christopher passed Taj the news and then continued. “That’s very nice. What did he do there?”
“Christopher . . . Chris,” Taj interrupted, “ask her when he’ll be home. When will her husband be home?”
“I will, I will. Relax. Give her time.”
Before he could, the front door swung opened, and a man stepped onto the porch. He nodded graciously to both Taj and Christopher, as if their visit were expected, as if they were old friends of the family.
He sat beside the woman. He was many years younger, and she introduced him as her son. He listened politely to the timid conversation, even participated when Christopher gestured toward the sky and complained about the lack of rain, yet all the while the man kept turning back to stare at Taj, as if perhaps, he didn’t trust him. It might have been because Taj was speaking English, or that he was continually nudging Christopher to move the conversation along, or because he was the only one dressed in jeans and a T-shirt.
Taj couldn’t have cared less. “Ask her!” he said again to Christopher, this time poking him in the shoulder.
“Ma’am,” Christopher continued, “we have several questions about the orphanage. Since your husband worked there, we’d like to speak to him. Can you tell us when he might be home?”
Even masked with a well-wrinkled face, her sadness soaked through. “I’m sorry,” she said, “my husband died two years ago. He knew much about the orphanage, and I’m certain he could have helped.”
Taj could read the lines in her face, could see it wasn’t good news. Another literal dead end.
The son interrupted. He was pointing a finger directly at Taj, jabbing it at him. “I think we’ve met,” he said.
When Christopher translated, Taj shook his head. “He’s mistaken. Tell him it’s not possible. I grew up in the United States. It’s my first time visiting India.”
The man listened. His shoulder lifted. His eyes shrugged their reply. “I could be wrong.” He tipped his head graciously and excused himself to go back inside.
As Christopher explained to the woman that they needed to speak to her neighbors, in search for others who might have information about the orphanage, the woman’s son returned.
A smile now broadened across his face. He dropped a rectangular black-and-white photo onto the tea table in front of Taj and pointed at two grinning boys.
“You. Me,” he said.
Taj bent close. Unbelievable! It was them!
The two boys in the photo were standing in the orphanage courtyard, scrawny brown arms draped around scrawnier bare shoulders, each boy gripping a plump balloon animal in his free hand.
The man waited for Taj’s glance before he tapped himself on the chest. He spoke his best English.
“I am Vikesh Rajamani. You remember?”
Despite the hot, muggy morning, a breeze floated across the porch and kissed Taj’s neck. His sweaty arms shivered. He rose to his feet. He leaned into the man’s gaze.
“Vikesh? Vikesh! Yes, yes! I do remember! We played as children at the orphanage!”
Even though the man’s next words were Tamil, Taj didn’t need a translator.
They clasped arms, held their grip.
“Greetings, my lost friend,” Vikesh exclaimed. “It’s so good you came back!”
The sun had reached a peak in the sky and was already sliding downhill by the time Taj and Christopher said good-bye to Vikesh and his mother. They had reminisced about skinny clowns who conjured animals from colored balloons, pretend battles in a courtyard to save India, and a sick little girl whose name neither could recall.
One could argue that finding Vikesh was astonishing. Encountering a friend from the orphanage was so unlikely that it appeared fate had woven their paths together with delicate fingers, sending the message that greater powers had taken interest in Taj’s journey.
At the same time, one could also contend that it had all been a colossal waste of time.
While the men had laughed and marveled at the memories, each taking turns murmuring I remember when as if it had been story night at an old folks home, nothing new had been learned. Vikesh had no suggestions as to where Taj should turn next.
Another brick wall. Another wall topped with shards of glass.
In spite of the coincidence, the memories, Taj was no closer to finding anyone. If a higher power was indeed causing people’s paths to cross, it seemed to be only for taunting.
Taj and Christopher walked back toward the old orphanage grounds and sat by a wall in the shade. Christopher waited as Taj studied his hand-drawn map, as if it had suddenly changed.
“There is something else I remember,” Taj finally said. “A car ride.”
Christopher listened.
“Once I was taken, I remember being in some sort of bus, and then a car, maybe a Jeep, for a total of about three hours. Isn’t it odd I can still remember how long?”
It took Christopher a few minutes to flag down a taxi. It took longer for the driver to understand where they wanted to go.
“Listen, sir,” Christopher repeated. “I’m telling you that we don’t have a specific destination. We want to you to take us to the edge of town and then start driving around in an ever widening circle. We need to visit all the cities and towns that are within three hours.”
“That could take days!” the driver protested, unsure if he should be pleased or perturbed.
Taj’s answer was simple. “Then we’d better get going.”
Pollachi, Palakkad, and Perinthalmanna.
The first few cities were exciting, each bustling with possibility. The routine was the same:
1. Head to the center of town.
2. Look for locals.
3. Show them the map and ask if they know of any place in the city that might match.
4. Explain that it’s not a joke, that men have never been more serious.
5. Climb back into the taxi and ask the driver to keep circling.
At every step, with every widening arc, Taj studied the streets for anything that might be familiar. When they reached the edge of town, it was time for the next step:
6. Drive like crazy to the next closest city.
Malappuram, Ponnani, and Guruvayoor.
The burden of work has quashed countless good intentions. Taj had vowed not to give up. Still, it was a bit confusing to know how much time he should spend circling. If he rushed things, if he dismissed a visit too quickly, he could be leaving his family behind, driving right past them. But if he stayed too long, fussing about whether the place honestly looked familiar, he’d run out of time long before he’d run out of cities.
Either way, the result would be miserable failure.
It was after dark when they finished the first night. Rather than return to Coimbatore so Taj could sleep comfortably beside his wife, he asked Christopher to locate a cheap hotel. It would save them precious time in the morning.
Taj counted out money for the room and for the taxi driver, who’d insisted he be paid that evening if they expected to wake up and find him waiting. To the natives, Taj must have seemed like a rich American. They couldn’t know that his wallet cried otherwise.
Taj and Christopher awoke with the sun, ate a quick breakfast, said a short prayer, and climbed into the arms of the still sticky vinyl seats waiting for them in the cab.
Kunnamkulam, Ottapalam, and Cherpulassery.
Lunch was swallowed but not tasted. The sun watched from a cloudless sky.
Thrissur, Paravoor, and Perumbavoor.
Maybe the next city will be the one. Maybe his family will be there waiting. Maybe there is reason
and purpose to all the pain and turmoil. Maybe God is finally listening.
“Drive faster.”
“Just one more.”
“No! Nothing looks familiar.”
Christopher placed a hand on Taj’s shoulder. “It’s time we head back for the day.”
Taj didn’t answer, couldn’t answer. He knew that his new friend was right, that there was no money for another hotel.
When the cab pulled up to the home in Coimbatore where he and Priya were staying, Taj was the only one to get out.
“Aren’t you coming?” he said to Christopher.
“When is the wedding?” Christopher asked.
“Two days. We can still go out again tomorrow.”
“Taj, listen . . .”
Taj didn’t want to listen. His throat hurt. His feet were swollen. Perspiration was carving tiny rivers though the dust that had settled into his hair and was dripping dirty drops from his ears. It had been a terrible, miserable, disappointing couple of days. He would admit it. But he couldn’t give up. Not yet. Not while there was still time.
“I’m not giving up, Taj,” Christopher insisted, reading Taj’s face. “I just have an errand for work. Take a couple of days off. Take a shower. Use soap. Enjoy the wedding. Spend some time with your wife. You have a few days after, true?”
“A couple.”
“I’ll be back.”
“Okay, I’ll be here.”
When Taj walked inside, he wasn’t alone. Anguish was clinging to his shoulders. He quietly showered. It wouldn’t wash off, no matter how hot the water.
Priya stirred as he slipped into bed.
“Hey, hi . . . any luck?” she softly asked.
Taj lay beside her. She couldn’t see him shake his head.
Perhaps Christopher was right.
He closed his eyes and pressed his body against his sleepy wife. She snuggled. “You can tell me all about it in the morning,” she declared, with words so drowsy they could barely be understood.
The Orphan Keeper Page 30