The Orphan Keeper

by Camron Wright

  Selvaraj urged them closer to him.

  “He also hasn’t had a drink since I found him last night. He told me he’s ready to come back, to live again with the family. Taj, this is beyond astonishing. It’s a miracle.”

  Later, in a rare moment when Taj and Priya were standing alone, she wrapped her arms around him.

  “There’s something else you need to know about your dad, your family,” Priya said. “It’s rather ironic, and honestly, I can’t quit smiling about it.”

  “What is it?”

  “Your family’s caste—your caste. You’re a Gounder.”

  “I don’t know what that means.”

  “It’s hard to explain, especially considering your family is poor, and my family is . . . well, better off, but do you remember how my father was so concerned about not knowing your caste?”

  “How could I forget?”

  “Here’s the punch line: despite their poverty, your family’s caste is actually higher than mine.” She squeezed his fingers, passed him a smile. “I guess our marriage might work out after all.”

  The car that would rush them to the airport and their waiting flight honked. Taj pulled Priya close, until their faces were just inches apart. “I don’t know how or when, but we need to come back. These people need me and, well . . .”

  “What is it?”

  “This may sound crazy, but I need them too.”

  Before leaving, Taj shook hands with most of them, bowed to ­others, hugged the rest.

  When the sun set on the village of Palayam, just outside the city of Erode, India, hearts were filled with more rejoicing than any could remember. Fires burned late into the night, well after Taj had departed, grateful flames enthusiastically dancing to heaven on the news.

  The boy who was lost was now found. Chellamuthu had made his way home.

  Chapter 40

  January 2014

  The plane landed on schedule. The airport in Chennai was sleek and modern—at least for India. Some things, however, would never change. When Taj, Priya, and their two daughters walked from the terminal, the eternal welcoming crowd was there waiting, waving. If anything, the horde was growing.

  “Ṭāksi? Ṭāksi? Hōṭṭal? Hōṭṭal?”

  “Thanks, dude, but no,” Taj answered in English.

  He and his family had been to India so many times the mob was no longer intimidating. On most trips, Taj hardly noticed them.

  “Taj! Over here!”

  As always, Christopher was there to meet them.

  Taj drove. Chris sat in front. Priya climbed into the back of the Land Cruiser with Shaamilee, thirteen, and their youngest, Tayjel, who had just turned six.

  “Can we stop and get jilebis?” Tayjel pleaded.

  The girl was more adorable than a kindergarten costume party, and Taj would certainly have stopped had Priya not stepped in. Somebody had to. “We have to eat first, babe, before we get any sweets. Read your book. We’ll be there soon.”

  Taj honked twice out of habit, then pulled in front of a departing autorick. The man honked back, but considering the autorick’s size compared to the SUV, it was a safe bet he’d yield.

  Taj drove like a native—worse than a native, if one believed Chris. Taj had logged more miles driving back and forth across India than had most bus drivers.

  “Did Joel deliver the renderings?” Taj wondered. Chris scrolled through the e-mails on his iPhone to check. “Yes. He did. We’ll have a contract by Thursday.”

  Business, never-ending business—but with good reason. Taj had kept his college promise. He’d made Christopher a wealthy man. The two owned a software company in Chennai, an export company in Coimbatore, a construction company in Madurai, and an e-commerce company in the United States.

  If a beach-going couple in the U.S. purchased a decorative grass mat to spread out on the sand, one could be assured that Taj and Chris were making a small profit. If a college professor ordered a whiteboard online, it was undoubtedly being shipped from one of their warehouses.

  Not just hard goods. On the software side, the men had their fingers into everything: 3D rendering, e-mail marketing, custom programming, SEO.

  Though their ventures in India had been profitable, it wasn’t business that kept Taj coming back.

  “Are we all ready for tomorrow?” Taj asked Chris.

  “We’re ready.”

  They stayed in the nicest hotel in Coimbatore, coincidentally named the Taj Resort, a company he didn’t own. After letting the girls swim in the morning, they were back in the car after breakfast.

  An hour later, after bouncing down a dusty potholed road, they arrived at Nampalayam, the village where Taj’s father had grown up. Huts and homes dotted the corners of thirsty fields in all directions, dwellings likely inhabited by distant relatives.

  Knowing that Taj would be coming, the village leaders had already set up tarps for shade. Food had been prepared and was being served. Shaamilee and Tayjel began to run about with first and second cousins, none of who seemed to mind that the girls couldn’t communicate.

  Once the head of the village signaled that everything was ready, neighbors and friends huddled around a recent addition—a new well and a cement cistern. It was the latest project of many carried out by the nonprofit company Taj and Christopher had set up to help people in the villages.

  Prayers were offered. Hands were gratefully clasped. Smiles were passed around by all for the taking.

  When Taj flipped the switch, an adjacent diesel generator rumbled to life. A PVC pipe that protruded into the cistern gurgled.

  Everyone waited. The anticipation was akin to watching milk boil. When a stream of clean water spit and then spewed to begin filling the cistern, all cheered—everyone but an old man who was standing alone in the adjoining field. Christopher had pointed him out a few minutes earlier. He was one of the field workers, a furrowed and weathered villager wearing nothing but a small loincloth.

  After the cement reservoir filled, it overflowed, sending water down a series of recently dug ditches to flood the adjacent fields.

  The old man hadn’t cheered because he was weeping. He’d lived through drought; he’d stared famine in the face; he’d surveyed starvation firsthand. There would be no more relying on rain that might never come, no more watching crops wither as children whimpered with empty stomachs.

  If anyone understood what this new source of water meant for those in the village, it was the old man. It was indeed an occasion for tears.

  Priya was standing beside Taj when Christopher leaned close. “You could so easily have been one of these hungry villagers, but look at you, Taj. Look at the good you’re doing. Honestly, it’s amazing how your life has worked out, how because of your journey, you’re able to help others.”

  It was meant as a compliment, and Taj should have bitten his lip and thanked his friend for his kindness. He knew better. Instead, he turned.

  “All we’re doing here is taking one small step to help these people. That’s it! Let’s not make it into anything more than that.”

  Perhaps because Chris was his friend, Taj felt he could freely speak his mind. He didn’t give his startled partner time to answer.

  “The pump works great. I think we’re about done here. Priya, grab the girls and let’s get everything loaded up.”

  It was after midnight when Taj finished his work on the computer. Midnight in India meant noon in the United States. There were always decisions that needed to be made in some part of the world.

  Shaamilee and Tayjel had long since fallen asleep in the adjacent room. Priya was in the bedroom waiting.

  “Taj, you shouldn’t have jumped all over Chris like that. He was paying you a compliment.”

  “I know. I didn’t mean it. I’ve already spoken to him. I’ve apologized.”

  She wasn’t about to l
et the conversation end there. “Do you want to talk about it?”

  “Look, I just hate it when people try to tie life up with a pretty pink bow. That’s all. It’s usually more complicated, more messy than that.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I didn’t tell you about church a couple of weeks ago, did I?” He already knew the answer.

  “No. What happened?”

  “It was the day you stayed home when Shaamilee had her cold. The lesson was on Joseph who was sold into Egypt and how it all worked out so marvelously for him, so he could help his family, and how it showed God’s hand in our lives.”

  “So?”

  “As I was sitting there listening, it made me so angry, I had to leave. I got up and walked out.”

  “Why?”

  “I just kept thinking that these people don’t have a clue. All I could think about was how disappointed and distraught Joseph must have been, staring up from that pit at his brothers. How sick to his stomach he must have felt when he was sold to strangers. How torn apart his father must have been when he was taken. How broken and hurt Joseph would have felt, all those years of hell when he was deprived of a family.”

  When Taj realized he was clenching his teeth, he stretched his jaw, demanded it to relax.

  “That’s all,” he finished. “It just bothers me when everyone oohs and aahs. I get that Joseph’s family survived because he ended up in Egypt. I do. But did anyone ever sit down and ask Joseph how he felt about it?”

  Priya pulled Taj close, gave him a moment. “We aren’t talking about Joseph here, are we?”

  “I’m just giving you my insight.”

  “And I’m giving you mine. Taj, you’ve been keeping your story all bundled up and protected. Do you remember how your mother would call you a little volcano? You haven’t changed. You need to let it out, address it. Maybe call someone.”

  “You think I need a therapist?”

  “A therapist would probably help, but I don’t see you going there yet. Perhaps you just need to start by talking. Tell your story. Give it a life and see what happens. See how it makes you feel. You have some friends who are writers, don’t you? Start with them.”

  “Do you think it will help?”

  “You’ve got nothing to lose.”

  Chapter 41

  June 2014

  It was the fourth meeting with the writers, or perhaps the fifth. For Taj, the discussions were all starting to blend together. Each session delved deeper into his story, peeling away its layers. After the writers had driven away, Priya entered the room and snuggled beside her husband.

  “You seem more relaxed since you’ve been telling them your story.”

  “You think?”

  “I’d say so. What did you talk about today?”

  “They asked about Eli and the kidnapping. They wondered if I blamed him.”

  “What did you tell them?”

  “That’s just it. I was torn away from my family as a boy. But if it weren’t for being kidnapped, I’d be living right now in a village in India, speaking Tamil. I wouldn’t be married to you. We wouldn’t have our incredible girls. How can I blame Eli, despite what he might have done? Maybe that’s the problem—there’s no one in my life to blame.”

  Priya nudged closer. “Except maybe God?”

  He was married to a psychology major. He was used to her introspection.

  “It’s curious you say that.” Taj reached toward the coffee table and picked up a letter. “I’ve been going through some of Mom’s scrapbooks. In one of Eli’s letters, those he wrote to my parents before the adoption, he thanked them for adopting a child from another country and then he wrote this: ‘He who keeps the orphans keeps them from harm, watches over their lives, their comings and goings. He keeps them like a shepherd keeps his flock.’ At first it sounded like he was talking about himself, since he owned the orphanage, but each child was only with him for a short time. Because he was writing to my parents, I wondered if he was talking about them.”

  “You sound skeptical.”

  “The more I read it, the more I think Eli was implying that the keeper of all orphans is God. But the thing is . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “In a way, you’re right. In spite of all that I have in my life, all the gratitude . . .”

  “Go ahead.”

  “ . . . I still have a hole in my heart.”

  Priya pulled him tight. “Taj, you were torn from your family; you’ve spent so much of your life in emotional survival mode. Of course you have a hole. Anyone would. We all live with holes of some kind or another, and we spend our lives trying to fill them—so quit fighting it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Hasn’t telling your story helped?”

  Taj took his time. Honesty deserved sincerity.

  “Some days . . . which is odd.”

  “Why odd?”

  “I don’t know. All I’ve done is share my story. You tell me.”

  A giant moment of silence circled the room—warm, comfortable silence.

  “They say stories are redemptive, Taj,” she finally declared, with a tone so full of confidence he wasn’t about to argue. “Take your father, for example. Have you thought more about your kidnapping? Do you think he was involved, that he might have sold you?”

  Taj shifted. “I don’t know for certain, but does it matter? I’d like to think my father wasn’t involved, but if I’m wrong . . . Look at us. It’s like Eli. How can I do anything but thank him?”

  Priya leaned in, kissed him gently. “That’s what I’m suggesting. Sharing our lives with others, the aches, the joys, the struggles, the passions of our hearts—it lets us see past the shadows to discover the glimmer of possibility.”

  It was several moments before Taj spoke.

  “While I figure out what that means, can we go back to the part where you kiss me?”

  Taj was on the phone when Shaamilee entered his study. She waited for him to hang up.

  “Hi, honey. What’s up?”

  “When do we leave for India? I have to know for school. Mom told me to come and ask.”

  “I’m leaving next week. The rest of you are coming mid-August. We’ll be back right before school starts. Don’t worry, you won’t miss any classes.”

  “Okay.” She was about to leave but turned.

  “Dad, how come Grandpa and Grandma never come? Have they ever been to India?”

  “No, no, they haven’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s far. They’re getting old. I don’t think they’ve ever wanted to come.” The words were still warm, still floating in the room, still shaking their heads. If he was going to be completely honest with his daughter, and with himself, he needed to amend his reply. “Actually, it may be a little bit my fault.”

  Perhaps the truth was sandwiched somewhere in between. Perhaps neither he nor his parents were ready because, like characters in stories, they needed adequate time to heal, to grow, to resolve.

  Stories, Taj had learned, need to simmer. Forgiveness takes time.

  After Shaamilee had gone to bed, Taj picked up the phone. “Hey, Mom. It’s Taj.” He listened. “Good, good. Hey, I have a question. How would you and Dad like to come to India and meet my mother and my family?”

  Linda was silent, no doubt stunned.

  Taj nudged her. “I would really like you to come.”

  Chapter 42

  June 2015

  Linda was raised in a culture where you hug. Arayi was raised in a culture where you greet others by pressing your own palms together while offering a slight nod. Linda won.

  After the two women pulled apart, Taj made the formal introduction.

  “Mother, I’d like you to meet . . . Mother.” He didn’t bother to repeat it.

  The
y had gathered in Arayi’s home, the one that Taj had built for her. It wasn’t luxurious by American standards, but it was ideal by Indian standards—a measure Taj had grown to appreciate.

  It didn’t take long for Linda to break out her scrapbook, methodically arranged and sorted, page after page of memories that she was anxious to share. The language seemed no barrier. The mothers laughed and pointed and giggled as if they were both nineteen—and for a moment, as memories erased years, perhaps they were. Linda called the boy in the photos Taj. Arayi called him Chellamuthu. The same boy smiled.

  “Women love their scrapbooks,” Taj commented.

  “Mothers love their children,” Priya clarified.

  For the most part, Taj stood back and stayed out of the way. He kept laughing at Fred, who couldn’t quit glancing around and repeating, “This place isn’t like National Geographic at all!”

  “What are you thinking?” Priya asked Taj as they watched.

  “I’m thinking this is a pretty great day.”

  On every trip to India, Taj would stop to visit Mrs. Papathi Iyer, the landowner. This time was no different. She was getting older, more frail, but always welcomed him with love. While Linda and Fred were introduced and the adults got acquainted, Shaamilee and Tayjel ran to play out front. They’d visited with Patti plenty of times.

  Adjacent to the landowner’s home, she’d rented a small building to a young couple who had saved up to purchase a mechanical loom, a machine that produced beautiful Indian saris. It was a noisy contraption but a fascinating process to watch, as its bobbin kicked back and forth, back and forth in hypnotizing rhythm, dragging strands of silk across colorful taut fibers.

  Once the adults finished talking out front, Taj, Priya, and Chris escorted Fred and Linda next door so they could see the loom in action. Papathi waited on her steps and watched the girls play. It didn’t take long before she was corralling them with her old fingers, calling out to them in her crackly, high-pitched voice.

  “Shaamilee, Tayjel. Come here, girls.”

  The sisters obeyed.