by Marisha Pink
TWELVE
‘ARE you lost?’
‘Um, sort of. I was looking for the Rachna Hari Women’s Refuge. Have you heard of it?’
‘Yes, actually I know it quite well.’
‘It was supposed to be here, in this building,’ muttered Aaron glumly, motioning at the concrete mass behind him.
‘It was here. For a very long time, in fact.’
‘Let me guess, it closed down, right?’
‘Quite the opposite actually. The refuge was recently gifted rather large, and, might I add, much improved, premises. It has simply moved to a new location.’
Aaron’s eyes instantly lit up.
‘Do you know where I can find it?’
‘May I ask first, why you are seeking it?’ the stranger countered, dabbing at the glistening beads of sweat on his shiny bald head.
‘I’m looking for information about someone who stayed there once, a relative of mine,’ he answered honestly.
There was something about the shiny-shoed stranger that told Aaron that he could trust him. Conversely, the gentleman appeared to be critically assessing Aaron’s motive in his head in an attempt to determine whether his search was genuine or not.
‘So, do you know where I can find it?’ Aaron repeated cautiously, when the stranger had still not responded a few moments later.
‘I do know, yes.’
‘Is it nearby? Could a taxi take me there?’ he fired excitedly, his body filling with a renewed sense of hope.
‘No, I’m afraid not,’ muttered the stranger, shaking his head unhelpfully.
Aaron’s face fell at once.
‘But I do know someone who could take you there,’ he added mischievously.
A perplexed look crossed Aaron’s face, and as if on cue, the gentleman extended his hand in explanation.
‘I'm Manoj Rama, Director of the Rachna Hari Women’s Refuge.’
Aaron couldn’t believe his luck and, dusting the dirt from his shorts, he leapt up to shake Manoj’s hand. He was several feet taller than the refuge director and though he towered over him imposingly, the tiny man had an aura about him that instantly commanded respect. Introducing himself, he searched Manoj’s eyes for a spark of recognition at the Rutherford name, but the refuge director remained nonplussed, enquiring instead about the relative that Aaron was seeking information on. Aaron delivered a brief synopsis of his mother’s friendship with Kalpana, his birth, adoption and transfer to England, and of his mother’s recent passing, explaining that he now wished to be reunited with his biological mother. It was close enough to the truth and, not wanting to complicate matters any more than necessary, he deliberately omitted details of Kalpana’s letters and his mother’s deceit.
Manoj listened intently to the young man’s story without judgement or interruption, and by the end of it he seemed to accept that Aaron’s quest was genuine. He looked up at the young man kindly, his eyes soft and full of empathy.
‘That is quite a remarkable story, Mr Rutherford.’
‘Aaron. Please, call me Aaron,’ he quickly corrected. ‘Mr Rutherford makes me sound like my father.’
‘Very well, Aaron. And tell me, what does your father make of your decision to search for your birth mother?’
Aaron looked away and shifted uncomfortably on the spot, unsure how to answer.
‘He … he understands.’
Manoj seemed to sense that he had ventured into awkward territory and raised his hands, partly in apology and partly to signal that Aaron need not elaborate on his answer.
‘Well, you are welcome to accompany me to the refuge, Aaron, but I’m afraid that record keeping back then was not quite what it is today. In fact, before I came from Delhi and took charge a few years ago, things were in a terrible state. It’s possible that we have some information, but there is a good chance that it is incomplete and I have to say that a forwarding address seems very unlikely indeed.’
‘Unlikely, but not impossible, right?’
‘Nothing is impossible, Aaron,’ replied Manoj with a small wink.
He motioned for Aaron to follow him to where a large motorcycle was parked and, with a renewed sense of hope, Aaron trundled down the street taking one step for every two of Manoj’s. He clambered awkwardly onto the back of the motorcycle, struggling to tuck his long limbs in alongside Manoj’s small frame and greatly concerned by the absence of a helmet for either of them. Yet there was little time to give it further thought when the engine sputtered to life in a thick plume of swirling black smoke and with Aaron perched precariously on the back, his arms wrapped tightly around Manoj’s waist, the pair sped off towards the new refuge.
Aaron had no idea what awaited him at the new refuge, but feeling instinctively that he was supposed to meet Manoj, he mentally congratulated himself for having made the correct decision in getting out of the taxi. When they passed from the deserted streets back into civilisation, he felt himself relax a little and, releasing his grip on Manoj’s waist, began to enjoy the feeling of the wind rushing past his face. Manoj manoeuvred the motorcycle effortlessly through the city traffic in a more or less linear fashion, until a sharp right turn saw them ascending a gentle incline along a quiet dirt track. The path was lined with leafy green trees and rice paddies and as they approached the brow of the hill, a large white colonial-style house, surrounded by an imposing metal gate, loomed on the horizon. Aaron gasped when it was fully in view, quickly understanding Manoj’s earlier comment about the improved premises. Such a beautiful house was the last thing that you would expect to find at the end of the long dirt track and once again Aaron was silently thankful for his encounter with Manoj, acknowledging that he would never have found the building on his own.
When they drew closer, a uniformed security guard swung open the heavy gate and tipped his hat cordially at Manoj allowing them to pass through to the courtyard beyond. Briefly easing the motorcycle to a standstill so that Aaron could jump off, Manoj continued on past the house to park at the rear, momentarily leaving Aaron alone. The house was a magnificent sight to behold and quite an upgrade from the old refuge. A short flight of steps rose to meet the double-fronted entrance where two brilliant white storeys, constructed of intricately laid brick with large arched windows and faux balconies, were crowned by a delicate stone balustrade. Aaron stood silently, gazing up at the building in awe and he couldn’t help but wonder who might be crazy enough to give such a house away.
Manoj reappeared bearing two glasses of lime soda. He handed one to Aaron and, mopping the sweat from his brow with his free hand, ushered the young man inside the house. It was dark and cool, and as they passed through the wide corridors, the occasional open door revealed glimpses of small children and babies being tended to by predominantly foreign workers. Save for a few muffled infantile cries, the house was surprisingly quiet and Aaron found himself wondering where all the women were.
Seeming to read his mind, Manoj quietly began to educate Aaron on the inner workings of the refuge as they leisurely ascended a sweeping staircase to the upper floors of the house.
‘Rachna Hari has been around since the mid-fifties. It was originally set up by a Christian missionary, but we have long since dispensed with any religious affiliations. The women in our care come from all over Orissa state, although it is not unusual for us to receive those who have travelled from much farther away. Back when we were in the old building, the women would usually find their way to us and we were able to reach out to the others that we happened upon. Now, I fear, being up here in this house we shall have to be much more proactive in our approach, else no-one will know of our existence.’
‘Why didn’t you stay in the old building then? Or at least keep an office there?’
‘You saw what the surroundings were like, Aaron. Anybody with any sense had already gone; there was nothing to stay for. Why stay in a place as downtrodden and destitute as the very lives that these women are trying to escape from?’
Aaron immediately regretted the question, realisin
g how foolish it was, but then another occurred to him. He had never given much thought to the circumstances that might have brought Kalpana to Rachna Hari in the first place, thinking only about why she had been unable to keep him.
‘What sort of things are they trying to escape from?’
‘Well, some have been abandoned by their families for one reason or another, many have lost their husbands or their homes, and unfortunately many of the women that find their way to us are victims of untold physical and mental abuses.’
Aaron’s jaw dropped open and his mind went into overdrive imagining the events that could have lead Kalpana to seek refuge at Rachna Hari. Had she been abandoned, or worse, abused? Where were her family and husband? His parents had always made out that Aaron’s biological father was never in the picture, but what if this too had been a lie? Obviously unaware of Aaron’s mental wrestle with his thoughts, Manoj continued on.
‘We provide a safe haven, a place for these women to rebuild their lives and regain their dignity. Our staff work tirelessly to ensure that they are physically and mentally fit first, and then we help them to build up basic skills so that they can support themselves when they return to the outside world. In addition, we provide basic schooling for the children, so that they do not fall behind in their lessons, and we teach everyone who passes through our doors to speak English, something which we have found to be very useful for gaining better employment in the city,’ he finished proudly, as they reached the second floor.
They crossed the landing in a few short strides and Manoj pushed back the heavy doors to reveal a large room at the back of the house, in a state not unlike his mother’s study had been after Aaron had found Kalpana’s letters. Brown paper folders, crammed with loose sheets of paper, were piled precariously high amongst boxes and bags full of yet more files, papers, books and other assorted paraphernalia. A team of two men and three women were attempting to make sense of the clutter, with a third man quietly seated in the corner, meticulously transferring information from one of the folders onto a rustic looking computer. Aaron was unsure whether to enter the room or to stay out of the way when Manoj flashed him an ‘I-told-you-so’ look.
Upon hearing the pair enter, the workers instantly froze, seemingly panicked by the presence of the refuge director. Manoj shouted some brief instructions in a strange tongue and the team quickly assembled around him, visibly relaxing at the sound of his words. The refuge director continued to address the small congregation, gesturing at Aaron intermittently, and just when Aaron thought he made out Kalpana’s name, Manoj turned to face him instead.
‘Do you know what Kalpana’s last name was?’
‘No, I don’t.’
‘What year were you born?’
‘1993.’
‘And what was your adoptive mother’s name again?’
‘Catherine. Dr Catherine Rutherford.’
Manoj returned his attention to the team of workers and continued to bark instructions, with Aaron still only able to pick out his mothers’ names clearly. Manoj clapped his hands together twice and the team sprung to life again, abandoning their previous efforts to concentrate on the new task issued to them by the refuge director.
‘Come,’ said Manoj, making for the door and motioning over his shoulder for Aaron to follow him.
He led Aaron back down the grandiose staircase and along a small passageway that opened out onto a vast stone terrace at the rear of the house. At its centre was an old scruffy-looking, plastic table and chair set beneath a fading lemon parasol, but the stunning view beyond the terrace was what captured Aaron’s attention. Gently swaying palms and boundless rice paddies gave way to the sprawling city of Puri below, its flawless sand beach curling along the bay and disappearing beneath the glittering ocean upon which the sun was now setting. Aaron sat down in slow-motion, still gazing in awe at the burnt orange sky, while a young Indian girl with thickly braided hair fussed over the table, pouring two steaming cups of chai from a steel pan. The sweet, spicy aromas of cinnamon and clove gently fanned Aaron’s nostrils, bringing him back to the present and, reaching for the cup, he began to take small sips of the milky mixture whilst he and Manoj wordlessly watched the sun descend into the sea.
Aaron had no idea how long they had been sitting there, but it was dark and the city lights were twinkling prettily in the distance by the time one of the young men from upstairs crept quietly onto the terrace and laid a tattered brown folder on the table before Manoj. Manoj thanked him in what Aaron now knew to be Oriya and the young man retreated backwards into the house, repeatedly bowing as he went.
‘Well, what do you know?’ Manoj uttered in surprise, lifting the folder off the table for a closer inspection.
It was bare, save for a small white label covered with curling foreign characters, scrawled in faded blue ink.
‘Dash.’
‘I’m sorry, what?’ said Aaron, his heart beginning to thump furiously in his chest at the sight of the folder. He was unable to control his nerves, his breathing rapidly becoming ragged and uneven with anticipation.
‘Dash; that was your mother’s last name,’ Manoj replied, as though it were obvious what he had meant.
He flipped the folder open and quickly caught the loose leaves of paper that fell from within it, in his lap. Aaron waited patiently while Manoj sifted through the pages, desperately trying to prevent his hope from escalating too far, lest he should find himself cruelly disappointed. Every now and again Manoj would pause to inspect a page in more depth and each time Aaron felt his heart leap into his throat, his mouth dry with the taste of expectation. The silent wait was excruciating and Manoj appeared to be moving deliberately slowly, much to Aaron’s frustration. Almost twenty minutes later, Manoj finally sat back comfortably in his chair and met Aaron’s watchful gaze.
‘Well, it seems that this is indeed the woman that you described to me.’
Aaron felt his heart soar.
‘A Ms Kalpana Dash arrived at Rachna Hari in the autumn of 1992,’ began Manoj, reading from the folder. ‘She was cared for by a small team, including a Dr Catherine Rutherford, who appears to have signed several of her health evaluations, though there is no mention of a pregnancy anywhere.’
‘Wow,’ whispered Aaron, letting out a long breath, completely overwhelmed by his good fortune.
‘In addition there does not seem to be any adoption paperwork, however it does say here that she arrived with two children, one boy and one girl.’
‘My brother and sister!’ exclaimed Aaron loudly, unable to prevent the words from escaping his lips.
Manoj smiled at him benevolently, ‘Yes, Aaron, so it would seem. Ms Dash then left Rachna Hari in January of 1993 and by some small administrative miracle, there is in fact a forwarding address, which, if I’m not mistaken, is in a small town not too far from the centre of Puri.’
Manoj placed the folder on the table and sat back in his chair with a satisfied grin, seeming decidedly pleased with himself and the efficiency of his staff. But Aaron’s face was frozen, his eyes fixed upon the place in Manoj’s lap where the folder had been, while he unconsciously gripped the sides of the plastic chair.
‘Is something wrong, Aaron?’ Manoj asked, leaning forward again, the concern evident in his voice.
‘That’s … that’s impossible,’ Aaron murmured.
‘I’m sorry, I’m afraid that I don’t follow.’
‘She … she can’t have left in January.’
‘Why ever not?’ replied Manoj.
‘Because my birthday is in March.’