“I’ve seen him two or three times. A nice, jolly young man.”
Gracie looks at Kat. “We’ll think about it, Miss Shireen,” she says. “I’m off to take a shower.”
Now Kat and Miss Shireen are alone at the table.
“I hear you were upset about Arjun’s intent to ask Kavita to testify,” Miss Shireen says immediately.
Stupid, tattletaling Hyena. “Yes, I am. Why is he so eager to get her in that courthouse? If it were up to me, I’d talk her out of it.”
“You’ll do no such thing, young lady. Leave her to us.”
Kat launches her move. “Well, I think she should at least learn how to defend herself. And so should the other girls. Miss Shireen, I’ve studied Brazilian jiu-jitsu for five years. That’s a martial art. I’m an adult blue belt now. If you let me, I could teach them a few ways to fight off an attacker.”
Miss Shireen drains her water glass and puts it down—it lands on the counter with a sharp rap. “Do you think we Indians are so backward that we don’t know martial arts?”
Maybe, Kat thinks. She shifts her approach. “No, of course not.”
“Fighting sports originated in Asia, remember? This part of the world. Do you think we don’t care about teaching our vulnerable girls self-defense?” She’s reminding Kat even more of a Bobcat in this moment than when they first met.
“Well, I don’t see you teaching them—”
“You’re wrong about that, too. Kolkata police launched a project some years back to empower school- and college-going girls with self-defense techniques. It is running successfully, I’ve heard, with several hundred girls enrolled.”
“Oh. I didn’t know that.”
“Clearly not. Also in our city, we have several successful self-defense academies that train girls in karate, judo, tae kwon do. I’m certain they must offer the Brazilian method that’s your specialty. Martial arts coaches are training hundreds of schoolgirls there at a nominal cost. And even that cost is waived for those from economically disadvantaged families.”
I should have done more research, Kat scolds herself. She hadn’t thought that the Asha House girls would know so much English, or be up to speed on movies, like Wonder Woman and celebrities like Halle Berry. And now, apparently Kolkata’s bursting at the seams with self-defense teachers. Feeling a twinge of shame, she softens her tone. “What about your girls, Miss Shireen? Shouldn’t they get a chance at defending themselves? We were told they might be at risk again once they turn eighteen.”
“Yes, that’s a worry. But I don’t think self-defense lessons are suitable for them. It’s better to teach girls who haven’t yet been traumatized.”
“But why? Jiu-jitsu could help them feel empowered. And safer. For the rest of their lives. Don’t they deserve it?”
Miss Shireen yanks off her glasses. “Of course they do! They deserve the world. But unfortunately, Kat, even if I did offer them such a course, our girls may not want to learn.” She rubs her eyes wearily. “They are not as strong and tall as you. Didn’t you see them admiring your muscles? These girls won’t believe they will be able to fight a man because—well, sadly, most of them have tried. And failed.”
Kat doesn’t give up. Tapping out isn’t an option. “I’ve seen girls their size demolish much bigger opponents. That’s what jiu-jitsu is all about. I’m here. I’ll teach them for free.”
“I’m sorry, but no, Kat. I simply can’t expend any more energy on this subject. I have girls who need treatment for STDs. Girls waking up with panic attacks. A waiting list for new arrivals. One of our trauma counselors is sick. On top of everything else, I’m worried about housing our incoming arrival—Kavita’s baby. We’re already so crowded.”
Kat sighs. Plan C, then. Whatever that might be. She has an inkling of an idea already. “Okay, fine. But would you at least consider seeing me do a jiu-jitsu demonstration someday? If it doesn’t take time away from taking care of the babies?”
“Maybe. Now, good night. I’m sorry if I sounded angry.”
Maybe. That’s better than a flat-out no. Plan C, here I come. “Good night, Miss Shireen. I’m sorry … I mean, I know you love the girls.”
You’d have to be an idiot to miss that.
RAVI
INT./EXT. SHISHU JATNA SAMITY ORPHANAGE—DAY
Ravi hasn’t slept all night.
How can you, when you’re about to visit the orphanage where you lived from infancy to age three? And, if all goes well, start a journey to find your first mother?
He can’t eat much, either. Thankfully, Arjun left early, the twins aren’t feeling well, and Mira’s running around with a thermometer and aspirin. Nobody asks questions as he calls out a goodbye and leaves the flat.
The auto-rickshaw ride through town takes a half hour even though the orphanage is only six miles away. As the driver steers him through taxis and cars and bikes and rickshaws, Ravi remembers the counselor’s advice about moderating his hopes. But he’s way beyond that now. His are so sky-high, his heart is pounding and he’s drenched with sweat even though it’s only nine in the morning.
He wonders if anyone will remember him.
He wonders what’s inside his file.
Will it lead him to her?
The rickshaw stops outside a two-story building. The rain has abated, and Ravi can hear children behind the high gate shouting and laughing and playing.
He pulls out some money to pay his fare, but the auto-rickshaw driver shakes his head. “Free, Mr. Biswas. Free for you. I like your fillums very much. I take photo for wife?”
“I’m—er, not Amit Biswas,” Ravi says, but that doesn’t stop the driver from taking a selfie of the two of them and driving off with a big grin.
Ravi rings the bell. After a short wait, the gate swings open a crack and an old man peers out.
“Thumi keh?” he asks Ravi.
Ravi’s glad he tuned in to his Bangla lesson the day before, because he knows he’s being asked who he is.
“Amar nam Ravi,” he answers. “I used to live here. In this place.”
The caretaker squints through the thick, dusty lenses of his glasses. After he looks Ravi up and down a few times, the gate swings open wide enough to let a visitor enter.
“Office this way,” he says.
He walks slowly. Extremely slowly.
Ravi follows him, feeling like he’s in a slow-motion montage. The yard is full of children playing hopscotch, jumping rope, drawing designs on the pavement, and kicking soccer balls. Unlike the children who beg for money on the streets, these kids look taken care of—healthy, dressed in cute blue-and-white school uniforms, the littler ones supervised by kind-faced women in saris. Nobody pays much attention to Ravi. He figures he must look like yet another Bengali man coming through for some reason that doesn’t involve them.
Inside the building, the caretaker creaks down the hall. Ravi wonders if any human being on earth could walk any slower. He actually has time to study each poster on the wall as they pass by. And practically memorize them.
STOP TRAFFICKING, says one. ADOPT LEGALLY. A man’s hands are reaching out to snatch a toddler sitting on the grass in the shade of a coconut tree. Ravi’s heart skips a beat. Was he trafficked? He remembers that movie about some Indian kid who got separated from his birth mother and ended up adopted in Australia. He hadn’t wanted to see it, so his parents went without him. That boy was almost trafficked in one scene, Mom told him. Maybe that’s Ravi’s story, too. Lost or stolen, separated from a mother who never wanted to give him up.
They pass an open door to a room full of cribs. Two women in saris are each feeding one baby. None of the other babies waiting in the cribs are crying much, Ravi notices.
Back along the hallway, his eyes travel to another poster. MOTHER INDIA ADOPTS! it says, showing an Indian woman in a sari cradling a baby. A brown man stands beside her, gazing down at the baby with obvious affection.
A surge of missing his parents sweeps through Ravi. Mom never wears a sari, but in his baby
book photos, she’s holding little Ravi just as lovingly as this woman was holding her baby. And Dad’s face always lights up at the sight of him, just like the man in the poster’s.
“Here we are,” his guide says, stopping in front of a closed door.
KAT
INT. MISS SHIREEN’S COTTAGE—DAY
Miss Shireen’s gone by the time Gracie walks into the kitchen to join Kat for breakfast. In her all-white pajamas, she looks more like a dove than ever.
“No babies last night, no Bangla class this morning,” she says. “I slept twelve hours. This just might be what I needed to get over jet lag. Or baby lag. But we have to get going to that orphanage soon. Ravi’s probably already on his way.”
Kat takes stock of her housemate with “Plan C” eyes.
Gracie’s tiny.
No muscles in sight.
Light-featherweight, probably.
If Kat can prove someone her size can fight off an attack …
“Gracie!” she says. “Would you like to learn a few jiu-jitsu moves?”
“What? I’ve never fought anyone in my life. I’m too small!”
“That’s why I want to teach you,” Kat says. “If Miss Shireen sees that you can defend yourself, even from a big dude, she might change her mind and let the Asha House girls learn, too.”
Gracie’s quiet for a minute. “I had no idea you were thinking of doing that, Kat. Are you sure Miss Shireen won’t be mad?”
“She said she’d be open to a demonstration, and then maybe she’d consider it,” Kat explains.
Gracie hesitates, then: “Could you teach me how to fight off a man who weighs about two hundred pounds?”
“I think so.”
“How long will that take?”
“I’d say you could learn three moves in a couple of months.”
“Then I’m in. But let’s not tell anyone about this until I actually believe I can do it, okay? I might be a total failure.”
“You won’t. We won’t. We’ll train.”
“But when? Our schedule’s so tight already.”
Kat thinks for a moment. “If we get to the office by eight thirty, we’ll have an hour before Bangla class starts and enough time to get cleaned up, too. That big room where we study is perfect. It even has mats. The first level of jiu-jitsu isn’t hard to learn, but all of it builds on regular practice. It’s about the body developing habits so that instincts kick in when we need them in a crisis.” I sound exactly like Saundra, Kat realizes.
“Okay, okay. We can start all that on Monday. Right now, we have to get changed. I want to be in front of that orphanage when Ravi comes out.”
RAVI
INT./EXT. SHISHU JATNA SAMITY ORPHANAGE—DAY
The old man knocks on the door, and after a few long minutes, it opens. A woman holding the doorknob peers out at Ravi. The caretaker turns and starts shuffling away.
“May I help you?” the woman asks.
“Yes. I … I used to live here once. I have an appointment at ten? I’m a bit early.”
Her face breaks into a smile and she opens the door wide. “Ah! Come in, come in! I am Mrs. Banerjee, and I have been looking forward so much to seeing one of our children returning home. Welcome back, welcome back. Mr. Kamal!” The caretaker stops and turns. “Prepare tea, please!”
Great. Tea. That will probably take an hour for Mr. Kamal to brew. And Ravi’s counting the minutes now until he can open his file. While they wait, Mrs. Banerjee takes the chair behind her desk and he sits across from her.
“I have only been directing the orphanage for twelve years,” she says. “So unfortunately I was not here at the same time as you.”
“I left fifteen years ago. For the United States.”
“Oh, what a wonderful place to grow up!”
Easy for you to say, Ravi thinks. You weren’t forced out of your homeland without any choice. “Mrs. Banerjee, do you have my file? I was told I could access it.”
“Ah, yes. Of course. Let me find it for you right away.”
A dozen tall, heavy filing cabinets line the wall. Ravi waits as she opens one and then another. Is he there? Have they lost him? The minutes are starting to feel like hours, which means Mr. Kamal will be back in a week.
Mrs. Banerjee is still opening and closing drawers, her fingers pulling and pushing through hundreds of identical-looking manila envelopes in file folders. Ravi thinks of the many children who’ve lost their first mothers, ended up here for a while, and then sent off to join another family, even in countries far away from India. Do they all have this ache of longing? Where are they now? For the first time in his life, he has an urge to find a few of them. They might be the only other people on the planet who can understand how he feels. No matter what happens today, he promises himself, I’ll find one or two other adoptees when I get back to Boston.
Mr. Kamal arrives bearing a tray of tea and biscuits. He pours Ravi a cup while Mrs. Banerjee continues to rifle through files. Ravi mutters his thanks and forces a sip, but it’s hard to swallow. He stills his foot, which has been tapping the floor as he watches Mrs. Banerjee’s search.
At last, she stops and pulls out one manila envelope. “Ah, here you are! Baby Ravi. Thornton Family Adoptee.”
But she still doesn’t hand it over. Even though it belongs to him.
“I’ll need to snap a photo of your identification first,” she says. “Our policy is that adoptees may gain access only once they are eighteen years of age.”
Thankfully, the reunion counselor told him to bring along his passport. Mrs. Banerjee opens it and takes the photo. “You’ve come back so soon after your birthday. Most of the people who return are quite a bit older than you. But still, if you’re ready—”
“I am.”
Finally, finally, she slides the manila envelope across the desk, where it stops in front of Ravi. It’s sealed. He puts one palm on it, lifts it with both hands, and places it carefully in his lap. “Is there a place to open this in private?”
“Of course. But let us finish our tea first and hear more about your life after you left us. Tell me about your family, Ravi, and what you’re doing now.”
He manages to share a few details about Boston, Mom and Dad, and graduating from high school. His hands are so clammy he hopes the manila envelope isn’t getting wet.
“Are you going on for further studies?” she asks.
“Er … I’m not sure.”
She frowns. “Why not? Can your parents afford it? Are they supportive?”
Their faces flash in Ravi’s memory—Dad laughing as Ravi showed them his “new” car, Mom giving him a kiss after he withdrew his college applications. “Oh, yes, they are. They definitely are.”
“Good,” Mrs. Banerjee says. “The gift of higher education is what we desire for our children.”
He stands up. Enough is enough. “I want to open this now,” he says. “Please.”
She looks startled, but she gets up, too. He follows her back down the hall to a small, airless room where she deposits him in a chair. He braces himself for a last bit of advice, but all she says is “Good luck” and closes the door behind her.
Ravi puts the manila envelope on the table. Again, he can’t help wishing that Mom and Dad were here, sandwiching him like they do in church. But he can almost hear their voices in his head: “You’re the best thing that ever happened to us, Ravi.” And: “We’re with you, honey.”
He opens the envelope.
KAT
INT. AUTO-RICKSHAW—DAY—TRAVELING
The auto-rickshaw’s stuck in traffic. Gracie keeps checking her watch. Kat’s getting anxious, too. What is Kal-El finding on his mission?
They have to make it there in time.
She leans forward. “Hurry,” she tells the driver, hoping he speaks English. “We’ll pay you double.”
He floors it, so he must understand. Or else he’s heard the urgency in her voice. Gracie grabs Kat’s hand as he starts careening through carts and motorcycle
s and SUVs.
SUVs. In Kolkata. Just like the ones in Oakland that drop the full-tuition kids off at Sanger Academy every morning.
The world’s getting smaller, Kat thinks.
Their spunky little auto-rickshaw careens over a pothole and gets cut off by one of those pricey gas-guzzlers.
RAVI
INT./EXT. SHISHU JATNA SAMITY ORPHANAGE—DAY
Pulling out the contents of the envelope, Ravi stacks them on the table.
On top are dozens of letters and photos that his parents sent to the orphanage after they took him to Boston. He doesn’t look through those now; he knows they’re a record of days he can remember because his parents talk about them all the time. He isn’t looking for anything after “Robin Thornton” came into existence.
Once he sets those aside, he’s left with five documents.
The first has a photo of a minuscule baby lost in an enormous diaper. It’s dated March 5, the day after his so-called birthday. Underneath the photo these words are typed: An approx 1-day-old relinquished male child “Ravi” was found by local police in lobby of the Royal Diadem Hotel in Kolkata. The same day, he was admitted in civil hospital for care and deposited for protection and permanent rehabilitation in Shishu Jatna Samity Orphanage. Police made efforts to trace parents and relatives but in vain. Thus Ravi was considered free for adoption.
The phrases detonate one by one inside Ravi’s mind.
Relinquished. Given up.
Bang.
Found by local police. Dumped in a hotel lobby on his first day of life.
Pow.
In vain. No chance of finding anyone.
Kaboom.
He sits with the paper in his hands, looking at the tiny baby, reading the words again and again until it feels like his insides are on fire.
And then he puts his day-old self aside and moves to the next couple of documents. One is from the court, declaring Ravi as adoptable. Next comes a doctor’s assessment informing potential parents or guardians that this baby is expected to have severe neurological and physical needs based on extreme prematurity.
Forward Me Back to You Page 17
