The Orphan Keeper

by Camron Wright

  The dead ends were piling up.

  Arayi’s breathing deepened. She circled the fire one last time, then sank to the earth as the fatigued flames slowly flickered and died. With knees pulled against her chest, she watched glowing embers blacken into dirty ash as the last of any hopeful smoke drifted away into the dark and empty sky.

  Like most boys, Chellamuthu preferred to swim in the river, as opposed to drawing a picture about it. What child wouldn’t want to run instead of sit, play instead of study? While most of the children at the orphanage planned to spend the day drawing, Chellamuthu and Vikesh had already outlined a battle plan of their own—until the rain invaded.

  Morning storm clouds had marched across the sky in search of a child’s afternoon they could ruin, and when they spotted Chellamuthu waiting for Vikesh to return with his father, they parked themselves over the Lincoln Home for Homeless Children and poured out their rain.

  When it became apparent that Vikesh wasn’t going to make it back, Chellamuthu gathered up some of the colored pencils and paper, braved a run in the rain to Anu’s room, and sat by her side to draw.

  He’d been coming every day anyway, holding the moist rag to her little lips—and even Eli agreed that something seemed to be working. She’d sat up several times and had started to eat again, in small amounts, anyway. Chellamuthu wanted to believe that he was making a difference, that the girl was improving. But at times, when she would cough and cry and ache to be in another place, truth whispered that she was barely holding on.

  At the moment, she was asleep.

  Had Vikesh come, the two boys would have undoubtedly drawn pictures of tanks, trucks, and guns set against a heroic background of Indian soldiers fighting to their last breath. Had Chellamuthu been back in Erode and had his mother asked him to draw, he would have rolled his eyes, hurriedly scribbled something, and then begged for permission to run outside.

  Sitting now beside a sick girl who only reminded him of home, Chellamuthu decided to draw his family. His eyes narrowed, his jaw tightened, and his fingers gripped his pencils with intent. Not only would the drawing help him to remember what his family looked like but he could also show the sketch to Eli to prove that he’d been telling the truth.

  He started first by outlining the background: a familiar grove of trees. Next he penciled in each family member, in the same position the photographer had posed them at the wedding. His brother stood to his left, his father to his right, all three wearing satisfied smiles to match their new clothes.

  Once the silhouettes were drawn, he focused on the detail. He penciled in Selvaraj with arms bigger than his own and a much older face, even though the brothers were separated by just three years. He drew his mother wearing the lavish silk sari she’d borrowed for the wedding from her second cousin in Bhavani. Arayi had looked so pleased with her family that day, so at ease.

  His father was the hardest. At first Chellamuthu drew a smile but then replaced it with flat, stern lips.

  Much better.

  When uncertain about a particular detail, he would close his eyes and listen to the drumming of the rain, hoping it would help him remember—and it did. As he drew his own pants, he colored them with bulging pockets of money, the gift he’d given to his cousin at the wedding. And then, as if Shiva had looked down and smiled on his effort, the name of his recently married cousin popped into his head:

  Suresh!

  To help him remember his cousin’s name, Chellamuthu drew Suresh and his new wife as silhouettes in the background to the left of his family. To balance them out on the right, he drew Aunt Jaya and Uncle Nataraj. But he couldn’t stop there. By the time he’d finished penciling in his many aunts, uncles, grandparents, and cousins, he and his family were standing in front of a crowd of relatives so large that they filled every corner of the page.

  He held up his masterpiece to admire it in the light. His figures weren’t all drawn with the proper proportions, and the contentment he’d hoped to capture in his family’s faces was difficult to see. His original backdrop of trees was now muddied with people and the colors he’d used for their clothing often strayed past well-intentioned lines. To the average person, the picture would be amusing but worthless, hardly deserving of a second glance.

  But to Chellamuthu, alone and lonely, a captive at the Lincoln Home for Homeless Children—a place he didn’t belong—the portrait was worth every rupee in India.

  This was him . . . his family.

  Perhaps it was the incessant pounding of the rain still beating its forlorn rhythm on the roof that worked the boy’s emotions free. A lump had formed in Chellamuthu’s throat and was migrating toward his chest. His picture looked fuzzy now, but when he reached up to wipe at his eyes, a cough startled him.

  He hadn’t noticed that Anu was awake or that she’d been watching. Though she didn’t speak it, concern trickled from her petite brow and squinting chocolate eyes. If his emotions had any intention of putting on a parade, he forced them to retreat with a silent threat of death. He wouldn’t cry—not in front of a girl.

  He leaned over and placed his drawing between two clean sheets of paper, as if nothing had happened, then he stood and held them close to his chest. He would run hunched over to protect his drawing from the rain and then hide it beneath the mat where he slept to keep it safe.

  Before he left, he spun around to share a secret with Anu—one he knew she’d keep.

  “I’m going to find a way out of here!”

  Maneesh was approaching the main gate when Eli stepped outside. Eli had been waiting, watching.

  He would start with the good news. “I may have found a home for Ajeet.”

  Maneesh glanced up. His eyes grew wide as stones. “The deaf boy? That’s great! I thought we’d never . . . I mean, I expected it would take more time.”

  Now the bad news. “The fee will be lower. I had no choice.”

  “How low?” His question itched with curiosity.

  “Half.”

  The calculator in Maneesh’s head was already clicking. “It’s okay. We can make it up elsewhere. It could be much worse, considering he’s . . .”

  “Deaf?”

  “No need to say it that way. You should be happy. You’ve saved another boy.”

  This wasn’t the topic Eli had been waiting to discuss. He steered their words back on track. “Do you remember why we started the orphanage?”

  Maneesh used his hands to gesture, in case his words weren’t convincing enough alone. “You wanted to save children, and I . . .”

  “You wanted to save yourself. You had just become a Christian.”

  “I saw the good you were doing—still are doing, like with Ajeet.”

  “Maneesh, have we lost our bearings? Have we gone astray?”

  “Why would you ask that?”

  “How many orphans did you pass on your way here? Those missing arms or legs, or those with disfigured faces? Yet the only children we take are . . . adoptable.”

  “Not true. You just found Ajeet a home.”

  “Yes, but we didn’t know he was deaf until he got here.”

  Seconds paced. When Maneesh spoke, he used unvarnished words. “Eli, if you want the truth, nobody wants disabled children. If we took them, we’d soon fill up and wouldn’t have room for others. Look, we’re doing a lot of good, just like you wanted. Don’t apologize for it.” Maneesh paused. He glanced across the courtyard. “Now, if we can just find a home for the older boy.”

  Eli clenched his eyes. “Chellamuthu?”

  “Yes, older children are always more difficult—but I have faith in you, Eli. Cheer up—our future is bright. The Lincoln Home for Homeless Children is changing lives.”

  Chapter 9

  Arayi was hunched outside over a dirty pot, scrubbing it clean with handfuls of sand. She needed to get rice boiling to feed the early searchers who would
soon be returning.

  “Excuse me.”

  Arayi turned. It was the landowner’s servant. The girl bowed in greeting. “When you have a moment,” she said, “Mrs. Iyer would like to speak with you.”

  Arayi forced an awkward smile, weighted with worry. The mother understood what the invitation meant. It had been several days, and the number of friends and relatives searching for Chellamuthu had dwindled. People had to return to their work, their families, their lives. The landowner was also a busy woman, and she couldn’t keep providing help. Arayi would soon be left all alone.

  When Arayi reached the door, it was open. Mrs. Iyer was seated inside at a table. She directed Arayi toward the chair.

  “Thank you for coming. I’ve been meaning to speak with you for a couple of days now.”

  Arayi sat slowly, not wanting to let her eyes meet those of the woman. Arayi intended to thank her for her kindness, but she knew the minute she opened her mouth, tears would break loose, drowning her gratitude and good intentions. So instead, she kept her gaze down and said nothing.

  The landowner continued. “I have noticed there are fewer people coming each day to search.”

  Arayi couldn’t deny it. Her scowl agreed.

  The landowner scooted her chair closer, perhaps to make the delivery of her words more manageable. “Life is resilient,” she added. “It trudges on in the world around us, no matter how deeply our hearts ache.”

  “Yes, I guess it does.” They were the first sounds Arayi had uttered since arriving.

  “I want you to know . . .” Mrs. Iyer stopped midsentence, as if her words had bolted through the open door with no intention of coming back. Silence nudged in, and for the first time, Arayi noticed that the woman beside her was also fighting tears.

  Both women breathed.

  “I want you to know,” Mrs. Iyer finally declared, “that I am not giving up.” She paused, using the moment to retrieve her courage. When she spoke again, her words chased away the lingering silence with resolve. “I took the picture of your boy, Chellamuthu, and I am having large posters made. I will be paying to have these placed around the city, as well as to be displayed on the sides of many buses. Someone must have seen something. We just need them to see his picture.”

  Arayi’s head was shaking. Her fingers were trembling. “Why are you doing this for me?”

  Mrs. Iyer’s chin rose. “I had a son,” she said. “He was also lost.”

  Arayi didn’t mean to gasp. “Lost? I’m sorry. What happened?”

  Her words hesitated. “When I say lost, it was permanent.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  The woman paced her delivery, as if she needed to dust off her explanation. “My son—our only child—was just two years old when disease swept through our village. It found our home. My son . . . he struggled for weeks, clinging to life, until the fight became too great.”

  “I didn’t know.”

  “I don’t speak of it. I tell you now because for many years I was bitter, angry at my husband, the village—everyone. You see, my boy was not the only one to get ill. I, too, was bedridden. But rather than mercifully taking us together, the illness was more cruel. It not only left me heartbroken at the loss of my son but also left me barren. There was no greater hardship.”

  “I am so sorry,” Arayi replied, but the woman was not yet finished.

  “For years I stayed away, isolated. I couldn’t bear to be around children, to hear them, especially babies, to look at them, hold them. I had recovered my strength, but the disease had cankered my heart. Resentment, pity, shame . . . all were growing in the cracks of my soul like mold. We lived near Tirupati at the time, before moving to Bangalore, at the base of the Eastern Ghats, where the mountain range begins. It was a village alive with children, and every time a child cried, all I heard was the sound of loss and of death.”

  Arayi’s head tipped. “But you love children. You sit out front for much of your day and greet them with kindness!” The lines on her face begged the woman to continue.

  “One night, the neighbor’s child was crying until all hours,” she replied. “I woke up exhausted and upset, not from the innocent cry or from the lack of sleep, but from the crippling load of regret and guilt that was smothering me in the dark. I could no longer bear it. While we lived beside a great mountain, the pain I was asked to endure was even taller—it was too high. Regardless of my prayers and offerings, I could never climb over it.”

  “But you did!” Arayi answered. “You obviously did.”

  “NO! I didn’t,” she snapped with an intensity that surprised them both.

  “What are you saying then?”

  “On that day I was up before dawn, went into the yard, threw myself on the ground, and begged Lord Shiva to take my life, to let me pass on so I might return as an insect or a snake, as anything to end my current suffering and try again. I knew assuredly that I was through climbing.”

  Arayi tightened her already folded arms.

  “What happened next?”

  The landowner shrugged. “It was simple, really—the sun came up.”

  “The sun?”

  “Silly, I know. But as I lay there helpless in the shadow of that towering mountain, unwilling to move, the sun peered over the peak, and I realized that my hardship wasn’t about climbing a mountain at all.”

  “It wasn’t?”

  “It took me the entire day watching the sun plod across the sky, but Lord Shiva helped me understand that my only journey of concern was to be like the sun, to make it through the day offering as much light and warmth and consistency for others as I could—one single day. Each day. That was all.” She drew a steadied breath. “So from that day on, I have continued to get up in the morning and offer that light, as much as I am able, in my own small way.”

  Arayi sat tall. “That is why you greet the children with friendship and love, never pity or regret! And no one knows the pain you’ve conquered.”

  “Not conquered. I’ve never reached the summit of my mountain, Arayi. Instead, you could say I’ve been hiking around it, one day at a time, for twenty-five years.”

  Arayi had many questions, but they crowded in her throat.

  Mrs. Iyer stood. “Arayi, I wish I could tell you that Chellamuthu will return home. I pray to the gods that he will. I know from experience that your own mountain is blocking so much light that all you can see is darkness. I called you over to tell you that you are not alone. In my trudging, you should know that I’ve bumped into plenty of others on the same journey. Now, I’m not suggesting it makes the pain easier, but it does, perhaps, make the walking a little less lonely.”

  The landowner’s servant entered the room.

  “The searchers,” she announced. “They are back.”

  Eli’s home in Madukkarai was a short two blocks from the orphanage, though it was a place where he spent little time, especially since his wife had passed away a year and a half earlier. He’d have preferred now to sleep on a cot in his office, but Maneesh insisted it wouldn’t look right, since the women they’d hired to help with the children stayed overnight. Maneesh was always the one apprehensive about what others might think: form, prestige, decorum, the proper way of doing things.

  Eli was getting tired of it. Tired of life. Tired of loss. Tired of all of the work. Tired of fighting a corrupt system. Tired of watching children struggle.

  Mostly, he was tired of remembering.

  Saving children was never going to be easy, but it shouldn’t bring such pain.

  He rubbed at the scars on the back of his neck, which always ached this time of year, and then edged close to his desk. He placed his heavy fingers on the typewriter’s keys. Tonight, before going home, he had one last letter to write.

  Dear Mr. and Mrs. Rowland,

  Thank you for asking that we help you find a female child fo
r adoption. God has heard your prayers. It is with pleasure I inform you that we recently had an orphan girl of approximately 40 months arrive at the Lincoln Home for Homeless Children. Her name is Anu. I am including a picture (sorry it’s a bit blurry).

  We found her begging on the streets. She had no father and no mother, since both died leaving only the child. God has helped her to find a real father and a mother in you, in the great country of the United States.

  She arrived sick, but with time should be well enough to travel.

  I am including the required paperwork. Please return, along with payment of $5,000 to help cover the many costs of adoption in our country. You should be welcoming your daughter shortly.

  May God bless you.

  With kind regards,

  Eli Manickam, Orphanage Commissioner

  Two babies were wrapped and ready when the taxi pulled to a stop inside the compound. Mrs. Sundar held both. The deaf boy who’d arrived with Chellamuthu stood behind her. He was wrapped in silence.

  Eli bent down close to the babies. “Go and make something of your life!” he said. He began speaking to the boy, Ajeet, but the child was glancing forward, not paying attention, and so Eli settled for a pat on the shoulder.

  Three more children on their way to a real life.

  Mrs. Sundar and her sister would carry them by car to the airport in Chennai. From there, she’d travel with them alone to New York via London. The young boy was old enough to hold one of the babies, if needed, but the trip would still be all that Mrs. Sundar could handle.

  It would be all right. Saving an additional airfare would mean bonuses for all—happiness spread around.

  Speaking of happiness, Maneesh passed Mrs. Sundar an envelope. “I believe that’s everything. The paperwork is in order, but should you encounter problems at the airport, give them whatever is needed.”