Bam.
No wonder prospective parents passed him by. Not many people want to raise a kid they think isn’t going to flourish.
A fourth piece of documentation notes that “Ravi,” aged three years old, is eligible for international adoption due to “severe intellectual disabilities.” What? Sure, he’s struggled in school, but it’s not a disability. How can they even diagnose that so definitively at such a young age?
And the last item in the stack is a paper with three lines typed on it: No original birth certificate. All documents created after child arrived in care. Verdict: Not enough information to conduct search for birth family.
Crash.
When hopes become dust and fall to the ground, the contents in your stomach head in the other direction. Leaving everything on the table, Ravi barrels out of the room and tears down the hall to the bathroom. Of all the things he dreamed of happening today, vomiting on his knees in front of an orphanage toilet wasn’t on the list.
Once his stomach is empty, he takes a few deep breaths and splashes water on his face. His skin feels achy, as if someone punched him from the inside out. He trudges back, gathers his papers, letters, and photographs, and puts everything back in the envelope.
Mrs. Banerjee opens the office door to his knock. Her smile fades after one look at Ravi’s face. “Didn’t find out much, I’m guessing?”
He swallows. Hard, so his voice won’t shake. Mrs. Banerjee, is there any chance, do you think, to find … relatives once your file is marked not enough information to conduct search for birth family?”
She takes a deep breath before replying. “No. I’m so sorry, Ravi. You could try DNA testing, I suppose. But here in India, that is still not a promising way to find relatives. You may keep that file, however. It’s yours. We have our own office copies under lock and key.”
He has to get out of here. Fast. “Thank you. And … to the orphanage for taking care of me while I waited for my parents.”
“It is our pleasure,” she says. “Please come back again. Some of the aunties who work here might still remember you.”
He forces a smile. “I might, one day.”
“Goodbye, Ravi. God be with you.”
The children are still in the playground, but it’s like Ravi is seeing them through different eyes. Nobody makes scrapbooks for these kids, puts up a special shelf for their comic book collections, runs behind them on their first training-wheel-free bike ride, loses sleep over whether or not they’re going to college. Only parents do that.
Mr. Kamal opens and closes the gate for him, and somehow Ravi makes it out to the sidewalk. He’s drained and tired. And numb.
Like he felt before he decided to come to Kolkata.
Before he was tricked by hope.
He lifts his hand to hail an auto-rickshaw but suddenly gets so dizzy he has to sit down on the curb. Resting his head on his knees, he tries a couple of Mom’s deep inhales and exhales. They don’t work.
This is terrible. How is he going to get back to the flat feeling like this? He should have brought his parents along. Or Gracie. Even PG. Anyone. Why in the world did he think he could do this alone?
Suddenly, someone sits down on his right.
He manages to lift his head a bit to see who it is.
Gracie.
Oh, thank God.
She rests her cheek on the back of his right shoulder.
Someone else is sitting on his left.
Kat.
Her right hand’s hovering in the air. Slowly, carefully, she lowers it and pats his left shoulder twice. Two light taps that Ravi can hardly feel. Quickly, her hand returns to her own lap.
He knows, even though she’s never talked to him about it, that touching a guy is almost impossible for Kat.
But she managed it today.
For his sake.
KAT
EXT. SHISHU JATNA SAMITY ORPHANAGE—DAY
There’s a sudden thunderclap, and the sky starts dumping rain on their heads.
Gracie manages to get Ravi on his feet while Kat hails an auto-rickshaw. The two of them stay quiet, and Ravi doesn’t speak until the driver stops in front of the Bose family’s flat.
“See you later,” he says, and pays the driver before climbing out.
“Wait, what are you doing tomorrow?” Gracie asks. “You have the whole day off, right? Do you want company?”
He shrugs. “I’m not feeling great. I’ll probably try and get some rest.” And then he gives his head a little shake. “Oh, I forgot to tell you. Bontu, my training partner, is supposed to pick us up here at ten on Saturday. Do you guys still want to go?”
Gracie looks at Kat, and Kat knows what she’s thinking. If they go, Kat will have to spend the day with a strange man. But Ravi’s face looks so tired. And hopeless. She thinks she can handle it for his sake.
“We’ll be here,” Kat says. “And listen, Clark, we’ve got your back. Two Lois Lanes at your service, right here.”
No smile, dang it. He turns and trudges into the building.
“Do you think we should call PG and tell him to come back early?” Gracie asks as the rickshaw hurtles off again.
Kat thinks about it. “No. Let’s give Ravi a day or so to recover. He’s not ready to talk about it yet, obviously.”
“That was awful. Terrible. He looked so crushed.”
“Kryptonite. Poor Kal-El.”
RAVI
INT. BOSE FLAT—NIGHT
Ravi tells a sympathetic Mira he isn’t feeling well and heads straight to bed. Once the family is asleep, he fumbles through their medicine cabinet and helps himself to a double dose of heavy-duty nighttime cold medicine. When your hopes explode into dust, you don’t wait for the gift of oblivion. You grab it with both hands.
He stays in his room Friday, pretending not to notice the twins tiptoeing in with glasses of water and bowls of soup. Another strong dose of medicine gets him through the night, but now he’s emptied the bottle so he’ll have to replace it.
KAT
EXT. KOLKATA—DAY
“If you don’t want the front, Kat, I’ll sit here,” Ravi says as he holds the passenger door open. He has dark circles under his eyes and stubble on his chin, but Kat’s glad he’s going. Gracie’s squeezing into the back seat.
“Good view from every part of Bontu’s Bengal Barano vehicle,” the driver says, grinning. “Sit anywhere you’d like, sister.”
Kat glances at the smaller-than-Ravi-sized space next to Gracie. That nest back there is obviously designed for the two of them. Especially today. “I’ve got shotgun,” she says, and hops in the front.
She can tell right away that Ravi’s friend is a Duck. Big, waddling, quacking, he’s no threat to her or anyone else.
The Duck’s lilting, polite accent is soothing as he points out different landmarks and talks about his city. Kat glimpses a gray river. “Kolkata was built along the banks of the Hooghly River. We are the second-largest city in the country. We used to be the capital of India due to trade during the British rule. Until 1911, when Delhi became the capital. Bad decision there.”
They pass a field of screaming boys kicking a soccer ball. “Football city, they call us,” says the Duck. “Second-oldest league in the world. Used to have the largest football stadium in the world, too. Until we downsized.”
“Sounds like Kolkata comes in second a lot,” Kat says. Maybe she wants to get this proud native riled up so he brags a bit more about his city. She hopes Ravi’s listening.
“We are first in beauty,” the Duck says. “Kolkata has more trees and green spaces than most big cities in Asia. I’ll take you to Botanic Garden to see the Great Banyan. Biggest tree in the world. Twelve hundred years old. Thirty-three hundred roots falling to the surface. And we are also first place in India when it comes to books. We are home to the third-biggest book fair in the world.”
“Only third biggest?” Kat asks.
She glances in the side mirror and sees Gracie throwing her a what-a
re-you-up-to look. Ravi’s still gazing out of the window, like he did coming from the airport, but this time he looks anything but excited and hopeful. Kat really wants to bring his smile back. What’s it going to take?
They drive past a big green field where men riding horses are carrying mallets. “Oldest polo club in the world,” the Duck says. “Let’s park here. I want to show you the Victoria Memorial. It is a good place in Kolkata to watch people. Many couples meet there for romantic reasons without their families knowing.”
“What about you, Bontu?” Gracie asks. “Ever meet a girl here?”
“Not yet,” the Duck answers. “But I am wanting to ask my neighbor Amira. She is liking me and I am liking her. Sadly, she is Muslim. It will have to be a secret meeting. Things in India are changing, but too slowly for me. My parents are sure to want my marriage to a good Hindu girl. Meantime, though, Amira and I can have some fun, right, Ravi?”
“What?” Ravi asks. “Are we near a bathroom, by any chance?”
Bontu points to one across the way, and Ravi darts off. Kat knows what he’s doing. She recognizes pre-vomit swallowing when she sees it.
“Ravi’s not feeling well, Bontu,” Gracie explains. “He’s had a hard couple of days.”
“He seemed happy on Wednesday when I saw him during our training. Probably a family issue, right?” Bontu sighs. “Families can steal happiness faster than pickpockets can snatch a wallet. I’ve lost three of mine to their sticky fingers.”
When Ravi comes back, Kat can tell he’s washed his face. Ignoring Miss Shireen’s advice about appropriate behavior in public, Gracie takes her cue from a few bold young couples passing by. She grabs Ravi’s hand and holds it as they lead the way through manicured gardens and well-kept paths toward the stately white memorial. The Duck points at their backs, brings his index fingers together, and winks. Kat smiles, but then catches sight of a pack of canines. Quickly, she rearranges her face back into its old scowl. She’s been so focused on Ravi she forgot she’s in the public eye. And she’s not hidden in her usual black. Instead, she’s wearing the lavender shalwar made by Miss Shireen’s tailor, along with a matching lavender-and-white headband that Amrita, Baby Diana’s mother, handed her as a gift after her sewing class yesterday. Strange how comfortable Kat feels in these outfits. They’re loose enough to hide her curves and help her blend in.
Sort of.
She’s still taller and stronger-looking than almost every other woman in sight. And many of the men, too. People stare, even with her resting Lion face in place, but she notices they’re also staring at Gracie and Ravi. Especially Ravi, in fact.
A group of giggling girls skip up to him now. They look about eleven or twelve years old. “Selfie, please, Mr. Biswas?”
“I’m not—” Ravi says.
But it’s too late. They elbow Gracie out of the way, snap the photo, and dash away, giggling even harder. And they’re only the first of many. After a while, Ravi stops protesting that he’s not who they think he is and poses wearily.
Gracie’s scowling in an un-Dove-like way at the constant stream of girls asking for “selfies with Amit.”
“Who do they think he is?” she asks the Duck.
“Amit Biswas. Famous Bengali fillum star. Very good-looking. Many fans. Mostly girls.”
“I can see that,” says Gracie as Ravi signs a girl’s bus ticket. “Are you actually signing that as Amit Biswas, Ravi?”
Ravi shrugs. “Why not? Maybe that was my real name, too. There’s no way of knowing now, right?”
Gracie and Kat look at each other. Maybe that’s what happened at the orphanage. He came up with zero information.
“Let us find an Amit Biswas fillum and you two can decide if Ravi looks like him,” suggests the Duck. “It is getting so hot the air-conditioning will feel tremendous.”
“Sounds good to me,” Kat says. When she’s feeling low, there’s nothing better than sitting in a dark, cool theater and losing herself in a story. Maybe it will ease Ravi’s mind a bit.
“I’m in,” says Gracie.
“Fine,” says Ravi. “Let’s go see my twin in action.”
Good, Kat thinks. Even the thought of a movie must be helpful for him to toss off something like that.
* * *
The “fillum” turns out to be fantastic. It’s a pirate flick that features a mermaid in a sari. All singing and dancing and fighting and über-steamy almost-kissing. Amit Biswas—or is that Ravi on the screen?—is AMAZING. A swashbuckling, sword-wielding hero with a Gracie-look-alike princess of the sea swooning into his arms in the last scene.
Ravi’s the one who suggests stopping for ice cream when they emerge from the theater.
“Typical Bengali boy,” the Duck says. “Always thinking of sweets.”
As Kat watches Ravi sit close to Gracie, relishing his cone, she’s suddenly grateful for this bulky, friendly avian.
Bon-too is his name.
Bon is the word for little sister, she remembers.
And that’s exactly how their tour guide treats Gracie and Kat—like little sisters.
* * *
When the car stops outside the Bose flat, Kat realizes that Bontu’s been driving them around for free all day.
“Let’s give him some money for gas,” she suggests to Ravi in a low voice.
But their guide overhears. “No need, no need. I told Ravi I am practicing my tours with you people. Will you join me again? There is so much more to show you in this beautiful city of mine. Of ours, I should say. Because Kolkata is your city, too, right, Ravi?”
“It is, I guess,” Ravi says with a small smile.
So good to see, Kat thinks.
“Where should we go next time?” Bontu asks. “Gracie, you choose our destination.”
“Santa Teresa’s mission,” Gracie answers, without hesitation.
RAVI
INT. BOSE FLAT—NIGHT
PG is waiting for Ravi in the flat. “We need to talk,” he says.
Ravi follows him into the twins’ bedroom, and PG closes the door. He sits on one cot. Ravi perches on the other. He was feeling slightly better by the end of his outing with Bontu and the girls, but the sight of PG’s grim face is making the sadness come flooding back.
“Mira told me you’ve been sick, Ravi. Is that true, or did something bad happen on Thursday?”
Ravi stares at the small carpet on the floor between the cots. “Option number two,” he answers in a low voice. The reality of what he found—or didn’t find—inside his file smashes into him all over again.
PG groans. “I should have gone with you. I knew it.”
Ravi flees to the bathroom. After he’s vomited up the ice cream cone and the other snacks he ate, he washes and dries his face and returns to the bedroom.
PG is still on the edge of the cot, hands clasped, head bowed. He looks up when Ravi comes in. “Want to tell me what happened?”
“Not much to tell. Opened my file. Abandoned on day one in some hotel. Claimed by nobody. Sent to the orphanage. Passed over by families. Sent to Boston.”
PG’s quiet. Then: “I’m so sorry, buddy. God’s—”
Ravi jumps up and starts pacing the room. “You can stop right there, PG. I don’t want to hear about ‘God’s will.’ Being dumped by your birth mother could never be ‘God’s will.’”
He pictures a baby, alone in a hotel, crying out with every bone and cell for her lifesaving scent and sight and touch.
“But you were—”
“If you say ‘chosen,’ I’m going to start screaming, PG, and I don’t think I’ll be able to stop.”
He thinks of the children lined up in cribs at the orphanage, waiting for the hands and faces of strangers to change, feed, and bathe them.
“I wasn’t going to say anything like that,” PG says.
But Ravi doesn’t care what PG wants to tell him. He doesn’t want to hear any lies about his life being a miracle. It’s not a superhero story. All day long, he’s been remembering
the photo in his scrapbook of that terrified three-year-old on the plane. After Kolkata, how unfamiliar everything must have seemed in Boston when he arrived there. White faces. Strange language. Snow. But unfamiliar was what he was used to from the start. He had to accept it all.
“It’s not fair, PG.”
“I know, Ravi. You’re right. It’s not.”
Maybe it’s because PG finally, easily says “Ravi” instead of “Robin.” Maybe it’s because he’s clearly turned off his teaching faucet. Whatever the reason, Ravi stops walking around the room and sits beside this friend he’s known for so many years.
PG’s arm goes around Ravi’s shoulders. “Did you tell your parents?”
“No. How can I? You took my phone.”
“Want to call them now? We could borrow Arjun’s.”
Ravi doesn’t answer. What does he want from his parents? Not to show up and whisk him away again, just like they did fifteen years ago.
“I’ll email them, PG. And don’t say anything to Arjun or Mira, please, even if they ask.”
“I’ll have to tell them something,” PG says. “But not too much, I promise.”
Exhaustion floods Ravi’s body. Guess that’s what happens when you run out of hope, he thinks. “It’s been a long day, PG. Let’s call it a night.”
KAT
INT. KOLKATA CHRISTIAN CHURCH—DAY
“Forgive us for what we have done and what we have left undone.”
Kat likes the sound of this old British-sounding prayer read in unison by two hundred people with Indian accents. They say it first in English and then repeat it in Bangla, their voices so in sync they sound like trained chanters.
It’s strange at first to see the Sparrow on the wall here in Kolkata. This time he’s not made of stained glass. His dark face is hand-embroidered into a banner hanging in front of the large hall. It’s the same scene, though—he’s surrounded by children.
This church is overflowing with children. They aren’t sent out before the sermon, like at Grandma Vee’s church in Boston. Here, they stay near their parents, doodling, coloring, whispering, giggling. But mostly, Kat thinks, they’re quieter and better behaved than American kids would be if they had to sit through a service as long as this one.
Forward Me Back to You Page 18