“Do you remember where? Can you place it on your map?”
His head almost rattled. “It’s all so bizarre. How does any of this fit into reality?” he asked.
“What do you mean?”
“I can’t quit wondering how or why I ended up here, in London, right in the middle of all the Indians. Is it all chance—the Tambolis, that class, my map, the memories? It’s all a little crazy, don’t you think?”
“I don’t believe in chance.”
“Then what does it mean? Seriously, where do I fit in? What am I supposed to do with all of this? Am I meant to go back to India to find my family?” He faced Kelly directly. “You’re the doctor—or you’re going to be. How do I make sense of it?”
A warm stillness slipped in, like an arm around a shoulder.
“Taj, these are answers that won’t come from a doctor.”
“What do you mean?”
“When God works in our lives, those without faith like to call it chance. Those who believe call it a miracle. I don’t know where you land on that scale, but I’m suggesting God is not as distant as you may believe.”
“So do you think heaven is sprinkling bread crumbs that I’m supposed to follow to India? Wouldn’t it have been easier to just leave me there in the first place?”
“We seldom get answers all at once. Parts of life will always be confusing.”
“Then what do I do?” he asked.
She reached out and held his wrists. “It’s not a race. Just work out your life one puzzle piece at a time. You’ll figure it out.”
“I will?”
“You will. You have a map.”
Chapter 26
When Taj arrived at the airport, Fred and Linda were waiting with open arms and a hand-painted welcome sign.
“Son, it’s so good to have you home.”
Although he’d been gone for only two semesters, not quite a year, everyone agreed that it seemed longer. Mapleton felt smaller, his parents moved more slowly, the world around him had aged. He also found it peculiar to see no traffic, no smog, no honking horns—and no Indians.
They stopped at his favorite place for lunch, The Corner Café, ironically not on a corner, and while he told them it was good to be back, he didn’t have the heart to let his parents know the food tasted bland.
When they asked which parts of his trip he liked best, he told them about his classes at the university, living with the Tamboli family, and his new friend, Kelly Cooper. He did his best to describe the brightly colored clothes, the narrow alleys that burped the smell of curry, and eating chicken tikka masala with nothing but his fingers.
If his parents noticed he was antsy, that he would fidget in his chair, gaze past neighbors who lingered to visit, or glance at his watch as if he had some place he needed to be, they said nothing.
He wasn’t ready to tell them that he’d remembered places from his childhood, that he was constantly curious about his birth family, that he missed living in a country he could barely recall. He also wasn’t ready to tell them about his map.
It wasn’t that he was afraid of what they’d say or think or even that they’d misunderstand.
Perhaps it was just the opposite.
What if his family encouraged him? Showing them his map, wondering together about his origin, his history, that was one thing—actually stepping onto some unknown road to discovery, that would take a different kind of courage altogether.
He was eager to try—he was. The question he hadn’t yet answered was more direct.
Was he prepared to accept what he found at the road’s end?
Sitting in a classroom listening to a professor lecture at Western Valley University was surprisingly similar to listening to a professor lecture at the University of London—without the cool accent.
As Mr. Baker, his high school guidance counselor, had promised, his university credits transferred without a ripple. With a year of college general education already in the books, Taj declared his major in business management and penciled out a plan.
He would have loved his first action items to be “visit India, find family, tip the world back into balance.” Just one tiny problem: zero money.
Worse than being penniless, he owed his parents $2,700 for London expenses. Then last night, they’d informed him that he was going to need to buy his own car. After dinner, he opened a letter telling him that his semester’s tuition was now due.
Reality crushed dreams like soda cans.
Taj took a long, hard look at his map and then sandwiched it in the pocket of a 3-ring binder that he buried beneath a pile of books on the shelf in his bedroom. It was unlikely his brothers would touch anything labeled Business Law—Class Notes.
Next he turned to the Help Wanted section of the local paper. He spread it out and circled three jobs that looked promising.
If he was ever going to make it to India, he would need to save a bundle of money.
“Desire without a plan is only a dream,” Fred would always say.
Taj dialed.
“Hi, I’m calling about your ad in the newspaper. I believe I’m a great fit. When would be a good time for me to come in for an interview?”
“You’ve settled in nicely,” Carter said to Taj. “It’s a pleasure to have you on board.”
His boss was barely older than he was and way too enthusiastic about a company that sold skin cream. Taj had been hired to work in their call center, a sea of identical cubicles holding fifty or so customer service representatives who provided phone support for direct sale, multilevel marketers living around the country.
Taj hated that word. He hadn’t settled anywhere! He still harbored big dreams of exploring faraway lands, battling menacing dragons, storming walled castles, and rescuing any willing princesses who needed saving.
Then again, even heroes can use soft skin.
The company loved hiring students, and though they paid next to nothing, his boss would work around almost any school schedule.
Taj positioned his headset and then checked the screen. Per company policy, he was supposed to make personal calls only during break time. To police compliance, call managers would listen in on occasion. Today’s eavesdropping manager had yet to arrive.
He punched in a number.
A familiar voice answered. “Hello?”
“Does London feel like a dream to you?” he asked without any other introduction.
“Taj? How are you?” Kelly replied.
“A little crazy, but you probably already guessed that.”
“So nothing’s changed. How’s school going? You back at it?”
“It’s fine, I guess. Everything’s just moving too slow. It’s like life is mocking me. I have no money, school debts, had to buy a car—Kelly, I’m never gonna get to India!”
“So you’re calling for a pep talk?”
“Putting it that way kind of takes the pep out of it. I’m just frustrated. What good is a map if I can’t follow it?”
There was no hesitation. He expected none. “You know I’m going to say what’s on my mind, right?”
“I’ve learned to love that about you.”
“I have a solution for you. Inhale. Relax.”
“That’s the best you can do?”
Kelly took a heavy breath herself. “Look, Taj, you drew your map, which was amazing. Pat yourself on the back. But honestly, putting pencil to paper is the easy part. I mean what were you expecting? That you’d get home to find a pumpkin carriage with singing sparrows waiting to swoop you up and carry you off to India?”
“I don’t care if they sing.”
“Here’s my advice. First, be patient. Life doesn’t happen overnight. Give it time to simmer, to come together. That’s what makes life flavorful. Does that make sense?”
She didn’t wait for an answer.
“Second, be persistent, tenacious.”
“Wait! Don’t patience and persistence conflict?
“Not really. Persistence takes patience. I’m trying to tell you that life is hard for everybody. It’s tough, complicated. Having a map is wonderful, but following it, gritting it out through the mess to see where it leads, that’s the magic.”
“Is this when I cheer?”
“Not yet. If your dream is to go to India, say a prayer, feed the desire, move your feet—you’ll figure it out. I believe in you. And Taj?”
“Yeah?”
“Now you can cheer.”
It was late when Taj arrived home from work. When he walked into the kitchen, Linda’s conversation with Fred stopped cold.
Taj glanced from one parent to the other. “What?” he asked, assuming he was in trouble.
“Should I tell him?” Linda asked Fred.
The man shrugged permission.
Linda faced Taj. “I had a dream about you last night.”
“About me?”
“Yes.”
“Was I rich?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Famous?”
Linda squinted. “I . . . I don’t think so, but I’m not certain.”
“What, then?” Taj asked, as he poured a heaping bowl of cereal. He picked up his spoon and waited. Fred waited. Linda crouched lower.
“I dreamed, Taj . . .” It was as if she was sharing secrets of the universe. “ . . . that you got married.”
Taj bit on the spoon to suppress his smile. His lips wouldn’t listen. “That’s great, Mom,” he said, “but I’m not dating anyone.”
Linda’s eyes rolled. “Not now, but eventually.”
Taj took another bite. He still had studying to do. “That’s . . . special. Thanks for sharing.” He didn’t even try to sound sincere.
Linda leaned closer. “Taj, you don’t understand. I didn’t just dream you got married . . .” The woman’s voice almost wrinkled. “. . . you married an Indian girl!”
Taj waited until no one else was home to dial the number Pranay had written down. He listened. The reception was crackly, but on the fifth ring a voice answered, an Indian man.
“Hello?”
“Hi, my name is Taj Rowland. I’m calling from the United States. I’m hoping to get in touch with Mr. Christopher Raj.”
“Speaking. How may I help you?”
“Pranay Tamboli, in London, suggested I call. I’m thinking about starting a company, and he said you might be able to help.”
“What kind of company?”
“Import-export.”
“From India to the United States?”
“That’s the plan.”
The man hesitated. “What did Pranay say I could do for you?”
“He said you know people, have connections.”
“What exactly, Mr. Rowland, are you looking to import?”
“Well, I’m not certain.”
“Not certain? Have you been to India?”
“Not that I remember.”
“Not that you remember?” His words echoed confusion. “Sir, I would think you would remember India. How old are you, Mr. Rowland?”
“I’m . . . well . . . early twenties.”
“Early twenties?”
Why did he keep repeating everything?
“Do you have lots of money, Mr. Rowland?” he continued.
“No, not really. I’m a college student. I have a little under three years left to finish my degree.”
“And I presume you don’t speak Hindi, Tamil, Bengali, Tulu, or any other of the many languages of India?”
“I’m still working on English.”
“Well, I must ask, why do you want to start an import-export company?”
“I’m not entirely certain.”
With the poor reception it was difficult to tell, but it almost sounded to Taj like the man was laughing.
“Is this a prank call?” he asked. “Are you prank calling me, Mr. Rowland?”
“No, I assure you this is not a prank call.”
Christopher continued. “Then let me see if I understand. You want to export something from India, but you don’t know what. In fact, you have never been to India that you can remember. You don’t speak the language. You are in your twenties. You have no money. And you don’t know why you even want to start this company.”
The man had pretty much nailed it. Taj did his best to sound confident. “You paid attention.”
“This is the moment, Mr. Rowland, where most people in India would hang up on you.”
Taj waited. There was no click. “But not you?”
“I am not sure why, but I like you—and I trust Pranay Tamboli.”
“Thank you.” Taj responded.
“So if you are going to start an import company,” Christopher continued, “you must first decide what to import. Perhaps you should think about it. I will think about it also. Then we could talk again.”
It was a reasonable approach.
“Sounds good. But, Christopher, it’s very expensive to call India from the United States. I’m using my parents’ phone, and I’ll need to pay them back. Would it be all right if, once I put some ideas together, I sent you an e-mail?”
“A what?”
“An e-mail,” Taj repeated.
“What is an e-mail?”
It was Taj’s turn to pause. “Christopher, this is the nineties. You claim to know a lot of people and have many connections, and yet you don’t know about e-mail? Are you pranking me, Christopher Raj?”
Concern rose in the man’s voice. “No, I assure you, I am not pranking you.” He sounded sincere. “I have never heard of this e-mail.”
“Christopher?” Taj said.
“Yes?”
“This is the moment where most people in the United States would hang up on you. But I’m not going to. Do you know why?”
“No.”
“Because I like you as well—and I also trust Pranay Tamboli. I will begin to look for ideas of things we can import. You learn about e-mail, and we will keep in touch. It’s been very nice talking to you, Christopher Raj.”
Taj was about to hang up, but he needed to make one point clear.
“Christopher?”
“Yes?”
“It’s true I don’t have much, but it doesn’t matter. I can tell you right now, we are going to make a lot of money together, you and I. I just wanted you to know.”
There was silence, and for a moment Taj wasn’t sure if he’d lost the connection.
“I look forward to it,” Christopher finally responded. “Very much. Good-bye, Taj Rowland.”
“Good-bye, Christopher Raj.”
With the exception of Kelly in London, Taj had never told another soul about his desire to date an Indian. It had never mattered. In fact, in all his years growing up, Taj had never met an Indian girl even remotely close to his age.
When his mother related her dream—him marrying an Indian girl—he wrote it off as crazy things mothers say. And then a young man, Vasu, an Indian consultant recently hired by the call center to provide IT support, strolled into Taj’s cubicle. When he announced that Taj should meet his Indian cousin, Taj softly hummed Twilight Zone music.
“She’s beautiful,” Vasu had declared. He pulled out a picture. Beautiful she was.
“She’s intelligent,” he had added. “She scored very high grades in school.” Smart also.
“And she’s magnificent in the kitchen!”
Could life get any better?
Two days later, to prove his point, Vasu dropped off a plate of the tastiest kummayams Taj had ever eaten.
What Vasu had neglected to mention—bless him—was that his cousin, Esha, had been in the U.S. for barely six
weeks, spoke virtually no English, always kept her beautiful face covered with a shawl, and if she did drop her veil, even for a minute, she wore an ornate gold piercing the size of a silver dollar in her nose.
Esha would make someone an outstanding traditional Indian wife—just not Taj.
Two and a half weeks later, Taj relented for a second attempt, this time a blind date with an Indian girl arranged through an acquaintance of his mother. Where were these Indian girls suddenly coming from?
He’d only agreed when he learned that, while she was Indian, she had grown up in the United States.
Terrific! Until after he’d taken her to dinner at a pleasant little diner located up the canyon. In the few seconds of time between his politely closing her door and walking around to slip behind the wheel, she had unbuttoned her shirt to her waist and was now eying him with wanton eyes and a bare chest.
While he was flattered, it was not the type of dessert he had in mind.
When a third disaster followed a month later, a date involving curry ice cream, Taj gave up hope. Trying to date an Indian girl was like picking an exotic island vacation from a brochure. Every time he arrived, he found that he’d actually booked Alcatraz.
“I have another cousin,” Vasu announced at work a few weeks later. At least the guy was determined.
“Thank you, Vasu, but I’ve changed my mind. I’ll only be dating striking blondes who speak English.”
“You are very funny, Mr. Taj,” Vasu said, as he headed back to work.
Taj had never been more serious.
Could there be a more boring class in the entire world than International Financial Reporting Standards? The professor was droning on about reporting techniques for intangible assets as he wheeled a large, squeaky, white board to the front of the room. He selected a red marker and began to illustrate the concept with way too much enthusiasm.
Taj raised his hand.
“Do you have a question?”
“What’s that board you’re writing on?” Taj asked.
“This? It’s called a whiteboard. You use these special markers called dry-erase. It lets you write in colors, but it erases easily. It’s much cleaner than chalk. They’re becoming quite popular now. Why do you ask?”
The Orphan Keeper Page 23