The Orphan Keeper

by Camron Wright

  It was already late when Isaac finally called. Taj jumped right to his point.

  “Isaac, it’s not you I need.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I need your father!”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “The city’s not the same! Everything has changed. It’s no wonder I don’t recognize anything. I’m heading to the bus station. I already have tickets for the early bus. Can you see if your father will meet us? Can he take us around? He’ll know what the city would have looked like when I was little.”

  “Taj, he has to work. I’m not sure he . . .”

  “Isaac! Please, ask him. I’m pleading. Tell him I’ll pay him for the day.”

  Silence begged.

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  Nothing at the bus station looked familiar, Taj already knew that. Nor was there a children’s park in Erode, at least not one that anyone had been able to locate. About the only thing that seemed right, that fit Taj’s hand-drawn map, was the river—but again, rivers flowed in many directions all across India.

  When Taj and Christopher exited the bus, Isaac was waiting beside his father. Introductions were made. A plan was discussed. It was time to get started.

  Taj beckoned an autorick, and the four men climbed snugly ­inside—Taj, Isaac, and his father jammed themselves into the back. Christopher wiggled in next to the driver up front. The cart’s nonexistent shocks bumped flat against its axle. It wasn’t going to be a smooth ride.

  Taj glanced up. The sky was clear. The clouds had not yet stirred. The sun was already stretching for the day’s competition.

  In college, Taj had focused on business. Oddly, it was a quote from an English class, a quote he had to memorize for a group project, that popped now into his head. Who was the poet? Thompson . . . something. The author would undoubtedly be more pleased that his written line had been remembered:

  Many a man’s dream has turned from triumph to tragedy on the closing hinge of time.

  This was it. He was down to the wire. He had one day left. If he didn’t find his family today, his gate of opportunity would be slamming permanently shut. Instead of arriving home with answers, he’d be lugging confusion, frustration, leaving India empty-handed and empty-hearted—and with a sizeable credit card bill. For the rest of his life he’d be wondering where he came from, who he was, how exactly his puzzle pieces fit together.

  He glanced again in the direction of the sun.

  If there was a caring God in heaven, he’d better smile down now.

  Taj called to the driver. “Let’s go!”

  Chapter 37

  One more time, the meandering autorick circled the city like a vulture. One more time Taj’s eyes darted—back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. From the hobbling woman alongside the buildings on the right to the bearded young man selling shriveling, bruised fruit on the left. Anyone. Anything that could spark a memory.

  Isaac’s father could confirm a few additional details: yes, the bus station in Erode had been rebuilt—twice, if he remembered correctly. Yes, he vaguely remembered a park or two that were no longer there. Yet, when pressed on the details—where, when, how—he couldn’t really say.

  After circling the bus station, they crisscrossed over all the river’s bridges, the great Kaveri that nearly surrounded the city. There were children playing in spots along the river, and whenever the rick slowed, Taj found himself pleading for a hint of recognition.

  Nothing. Always nothing.

  He’d crossed dozens of rivers in the last few days, and honestly, like the cities, all were looking alike.

  “Where to now?” Isaac asked, as they arrived back near the spot where they’d started.

  “One more time,” Taj said to the driver. “Only take different streets this time.”

  Again the autorick sputtered forward.

  Taj gritted his teeth, clamped his mouth shut. He had to in order to keep the echoes of disappointment caged in his head.

  Why the dead ends? Why this far and still nothing? God . . . time to smile.

  Yes, there had been coincidences. He’d already listed those. But to be fair, what about the failures? Stubborn relatives who refused to help, coming all this way only to find the orphanage closed, finding Vikesh, who knew nothing, Emanuel suggesting from his stupid map that he try this miserable city! What good purpose had any of it served?

  He was dripping sweat. The men beside him were dripping sweat. Was anyone in the entire country not dripping sweat?

  “Anything familiar?” Christopher asked.

  Taj barely moved his head. Busy streets, bustling people, hurried Indians. Nothing he hadn’t seen in droves.

  “Where to now?” Isaac asked, after they’d circled back the second time.

  The sun shone hot, blistering, even for India. Isaac’s father squirmed in his seat to get more comfortable. “I think one last time, Mr. Taj,” he said, and nobody else in the cart objected. Taj nodded. The driver started. Taj licked and then bit his lip.

  By noon, the sun had won. It was barely a contest.

  Taj tapped the driver’s shoulder. “You can take us back now.” His words bowed in defeat.

  Christopher turned. “I’m sorry.”

  Taj couldn’t reply.

  A few minutes later, they stopped for traffic behind a handful of vehicles at Patel Road. As they waited for the light to change, Taj glanced to his right, down one of the city’s side streets. It was one he’d passed before. This time, an old man was standing just past the corner. He held a machete in his right hand and a coconut in his left.

  Whack, whack, whack . . . whack, whack, whack.

  When he finished, he dropped it into a pile on the sidewalk and picked up another.

  Whack, whack, whack . . . whack, whack, whack.

  The light changed. The rick rolled forward.

  In Taj’s head, a channel switched. It had happened before: beside the fence in Upton Park, inside the London restaurant, beside a dumpster outside, the drawing of his map.

  For a split second, Taj closed his eyes.

  A memory had decided that now was a good time to raise its hand, to stand up and say something. Now, however, it was not only waving a hand but jumping up and down, kicking and screaming.

  Whack, whack, whack . . . whack, whack, whack.

  Taj glanced back.

  Whack, whack, whack . . . whack, whack, whack.

  And then, a name screamed in his head—Banerjee.

  “STOP!” Taj screamed. “STOP NOW!”

  The men beside him turned. The driver recoiled. Taj couldn’t wait to explain. He jumped from the lurching vehicle onto the street and for a minute thought he’d fall. His moving legs, however, didn’t have the time. He sprinted back to the old man who was reaching to pick up his next coconut.

  “Banerjee?” Taj called, more to himself than to the old man holding the machete. He paused right in front of him.

  The man mumbled, a reply Taj couldn’t understand.

  “Of course not,” Taj answered, almost giggling. “By now, Banerjee would be dead.”

  He faced a woman passing on the street and confirmed to her the amazing news. “Banerjee would have to be dead!”

  Christopher rushed up behind him. “Who’s Banerjee?” he asked, wheezing.

  “He’s a three-fingered old man,” Taj hollered.

  Before Christopher could ask for clarification, Taj bolted further down the dirt alley. It opened at the end to a grouping of small cinderblock and tin houses, built together in a row. While it wasn’t the scene that Taj expected, it was good enough. Sights, smells, sounds—all so buried—were already out, stretching to finally get warm beneath the Indian sun.

  When Christopher reached him Taj’s fingers were trembling. He was pointing. His voice was cracking.r />
  “This is it, Chris! This is it!”

  Christopher couldn’t see anything but a row of homes. A woman in front who was beating the dust from a rug with a stick stopped to watch.

  “There were huts here,” Taj said, still winded, as Isaac and his father reached them. “This is where I lived!”

  Taj pointed right. “The river! Isn’t the river that way, half a mile, a mile maybe?”

  Isaac’s father was still catching his breath. “Yes,” he confirmed, almost surprised. “It is.”

  The skin around the old man’s eyes gathered. His brain seemed to just be waking up.

  Taj had already twisted left. He was stretching, pointing. “Over there . . . that direction a few blocks . . . there was a children’s park!” It wasn’t a question. His words were certain.

  The old man stood a bit straighter. “Wait! Yes, yes! You must mean the park by the water works. In the far corner, many years ago, there was a separate children’s play area.”

  “Our hut would have been about there,” Taj aimed toward a cinder block home. “They’re gone now, but this is the spot. I lived here. I played here—all around here. This is the place . . . this is it!”

  Taj headed around the cinderblock structures, past where the huts of his childhood had once stood.

  “This way!” he called to the three men following him dutifully down a newly created alley. And as Taj rounded the corner, it was there—still standing, almost asking, Where have you been? I remember you, boy.

  It was the cement home of the landowner.

  A new awning stretched along the front, steel and canvas, all painted blue. It couldn’t mask the memories that waited in the shade beneath.

  On any other day, under any other circumstance, Taj would have admitted that the home wasn’t nearly as grand as he’d remembered. The brass that framed the carved teak door wasn’t as ornate or shiny. The granite steps he’d once climbed to enter the home were fewer than he’d remembered and not nearly as wide. The creamy pink plaster that dressed the building’s façade was not as rich or as colorful.

  But today, every inch was magnificent.

  Christopher glanced toward Taj as if asking, What do we do now?

  The answer was easy. “Knock!”

  Taj waited at the bottom of the stairs, close enough to hear but still out of the way. Christopher knocked, waited. The door pulled open.

  She was old to the boy of eight. She was beautiful to the man now waiting at the bottom of her stairs.

  She looked surprised to see four strangers standing at her door.

  “May I help you?”

  “Is your husband home?” Christopher asked, wanting to be respectful.

  Her head wobbled sadly. “He’s passed away,” she said.

  “We are sorry to hear that. Sorry to bother you.”

  He took a step down, translated to Taj what had transpired. Isaac and his father also looked as if they were leaving. “It’s not considered polite to disturb a widow,” Christopher explained.

  Taj was shaking his head, couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He hadn’t come this far—the other side of the planet—to leave questions unanswered simply for the sake of politeness.

  “No!” he declared, leaving no room to wiggle. “Talk to her. Ask about my family.” He wasn’t offering Christopher an option.

  Christopher turned and caught the old woman’s attention before she closed the door.

  “Madam, I’m sorry to bother you, but we are here to ask about a young boy who was lost many years ago . . .”

  The old woman bent forward. She didn’t wait for the stranger to finish.

  “Chellamuthu?” she exclaimed with bright eyes, her mousy voice peaking with excitement. “Yes, I know the child. Has he been found?”

  Because of the women who had come forward at Isaac’s to claim Taj as their child, he had decided with Christopher that until they could be certain it was his family, they would tell anyone they encountered that they had come as emissaries for the lost boy, Chellamuthu, that he had sent them to uncover information about his childhood.

  The explanation didn’t slow down the animated landowner from sharing. With Taj listening, and Christopher translating, she told how she would sit with the boy and give him advice. She remembered that he would take her cattle to feed in the banana groves, that when he disappeared his mother was distraught, beside herself, as any mother would be. His father was even worse. He took to the streets drinking toddy and smoking ganja, never again able to integrate back into the family and cope with the loss.

  “Ask where they are now,” Taj nudged. “Where do they live? Are they still alive?” Every question nervous, every word laden with worry, every lost second waiting for translation agony.

  The old woman shook her head as Christopher asked. “The family moved away about ten years ago.” She scratched at her thinning hair, as if it might help her recall to where.

  It didn’t.

  “What else?” Taj whispered to Christopher. “She must remember something!”

  “Wait,” she added, “the child’s brother, Selvaraj . . . he’d been bleaching fabric with his uncle. About the time the family moved, he started his own bleaching company.”

  “Your brother,” Christopher announced with a trace of satisfaction. “His name is Selvaraj.”

  They prodded for more, implored her to think of anything else that could help, but no other memory jarred loose. They thanked her graciously, promised to return with more information, and bowed their good-byes.

  On their walk back to the street to catch another autorick, Taj laid out the facts. He was trying to stay optimistic.

  “We have two more pieces of information. I know my brother’s name and that he likely owns a bleaching company. We can ask around, right? How many bleaching companies can there be in Erode?”

  Isaac’s father, who’d been content to watch the events unfold, shuffled his feet. It was obvious he had something to say.

  Taj turned, waited. “Do you know something that will help?”

  “When do you have to leave?” he asked.

  “I leave tomorrow. If I’m going to find my family, it will have to be today.”

  The man’s words were shy, scared to come out. No one wants to be the bearer of such tragic news.

  “Taj,” he muttered, “you asked how many bleaching companies there could be? Erode is the bleaching capital of India. There are hundreds!”

  Chapter 38

  After cotton is woven into cloth, before it can be dyed with vibrant colors and patterns, it’s bleached a snowy white. The operation is simple. Several cement pools, each a dozen feet across and at least knee deep, are filled with bleach. Adjacent rinsing pools are filled with water. Long pieces of cloth are churned into the bleach by a worker standing knee deep in the pool. After proper bleaching and an adequate rinse, the fabric is draped on wooden poles in the sun to dry. It isn’t rocket science. Short of arranging for a large enough piece of land to build the ponds and mount the drying poles, it’s a relatively easy business to start.

  At the first factory, when Taj, Christopher, Isaac, and Isaac’s father strode in, the older man in charge seemed afraid to even glance in their direction. He claimed, with short, single-word answers, that he’d never heard of Selvaraj and offered no further direction as to where they might look.

  When the scene was repeated at the second factory, it dawned on Christopher that four strangers marching in and asking interrogating questions would be the tactic used by undercover police. So in the third factory, Christopher entered alone. When he came out, he was smiling.

  “They said there is a factory six blocks from here that is owned by a man named Selvaraj.”

  When they arrived at the address given, Christopher suggested that Taj join him.

  “Is Selvaraj in?” Christopher aske
d a young man folding fabric in the yard.

  “Just a moment.”

  He disappeared into a shed where voices could be heard.

  A heavy-set man in a lungi soon approached. “I’m the owner. I’m Selvaraj. What do you need?”

  He might have been Selvaraj, and he might have owned the bleaching factory, but if he was Taj’s brother, the years had not been kind.

  Christopher asked anyway. “Did you lose a brother several years ago, a brother who was taken?”

  “I don’t have a brother,” he grunted. “I’m an only son. What’s this about?”

  Wrong Selvaraj.

  The scene of rejection replayed at other factories. Each visit ­fruitless—and at every stop, time was ticking. Not wanting to burden Isaac and his father any longer, Taj thanked them for helping. They were missing work to come along, and Taj hated for them to stay longer than necessary. He and Christopher could continue on without them.

  A glance was exchanged between the man and his son, then a whisper. When the father spoke, he didn’t mince words.

  “Mr. Taj, we doubt that you are going to find your family.” Isaac was nodding his agreement. “But if you do, we don’t want to miss it. We’d like to come along.”

  At factory number nine, two brothers in charge said they’d been running their family’s bleaching operation for nearly twenty years and claimed to know most who were in the business. The only Selvaraj they knew was at the location already visited. They offered no other suggestions.

  It was not only discouraging news, but nearly two hours had passed since Taj and his friends had started visiting the factories.

  On the dusty street out front, Taj was multiplying the numbers in his head. “At this rate,” he complained, “it will take a month.”

  No one said a word. They’d also done the math.

  “Wait just a minute,” Christopher said, interrupting. “The men said they’ve been in the business for years, that their grandfather started it, that neither had heard of your brother.”