The Orphan Keeper Page 4

  Ironically, Chellamuthu wasn’t mad at his father. He had been warned by his parents to quit running off, to stay out of trouble, and it was a common practice for parents to scar the feet of disobedient children as a reminder for them to choose a more enlightened path.

  It had throbbed at the time, and Chellamuthu had cried most of the night. But in the days that followed, several cousins and countless neighbor boys had stopped over to ask if they could see his feet. In the end, the attention made him feel . . . important.

  One day, perhaps, he’d even thank his father. One day.

  “Together we will cherish each other in happiness and in sorrow.”

  Chellamuthu scooted sideways. He was wearing pants for the first time in months—long-legged pants with pockets and a buttoned shirt, which now seemed to smirk at his discomfort. For a boy who owned only a pair of shorts—and wore them every day without a shirt—the acquisition was at least memorable. All part of the wedding experience.

  His mother, Arayi, dyed fabric. His brother, Selvaraj, bleached cotton. Three aunts and two uncles worked at the weaving mills, and a good half-dozen relatives sewed in factories. Laboring with cloth was their background, their upbringing, their livelihood, their caste. There were so many family members working in cloth, it seemed ironic that his family had so little of it.

  When it came time for a wedding, however, what the modest in India lacked in prosperity they made up for in pageantry, proving that even the poor have pride. Women strutted in sumptuous saris. Men mingled in magnificent vaeshtis. Chellamuthu admired fashions that were so alive, it was as if they’d brought along their wearers solely for the convenience of dancing around to display themselves. Saffron swirled with scarlet while canary cuddled with coral. There was so much pomp and glamour swaggering about that the president of India himself might have been attending.

  “Together we will raise strong and virtuous children.”

  While Chellamuthu found weddings to be wonderful, they were also perplexing. Their family had little money. Most of their relatives were poor. The family of his cousin marrying today, for example, barely survived. Yet when a wedding occurred, no one went hungry—from the first day of celebrations to the last. There was always plenty to eat. It was a puzzle that Chellamuthu could never fit together. If there was scarcely enough to eat every other day, where did all the food at weddings come from?

  Weddings seemed to make families, including his own, mysteriously but temporarily rich. The solution to poverty and stress in their lives seemed obvious. Chellamuthu had plenty of cousins, who also had cousins. To never want for food, they could simply plan a family wedding for every week of the year!

  “Together we will fill our hearts with great joy, peace, happiness and spiritual values.”

  At weddings there was splendor, but it was always packaged with generosity. Once the formal ceremony was over, the newly married couple would be swarmed with relatives passing them money as a gift of kindness and well wishing. At weddings of the wealthy, the amount was substantial. At weddings of the poor—which included most of Chellamuthu’s relations—it was modest. Every rupee, however, was given in love.

  Children without money, like Chellamuthu, were not expected to give. Only Chellamuthu did have money, a large roll of it that he’d taken from the guard’s box at the park and then hidden beside the hut. It was the main reason he’d wanted so badly to come to the ­wedding—besides the food.

  If he told his parents about the money, that he’d stolen it from the park, he’d get worse than scars. If he spent it at the market, they would definitely hear about it. Being rich at nearly eight, it turned out, wasn’t as rewarding as he’d expected.

  His plan was simple. He had stuffed the money into his pants pockets, which were now slightly bulging, and brought it ­undiscovered—a feat that would have been impossible had he worn his old shorts. Surrounded by well-wishers, he would sneak behind his cousin and slip the wads of cash into his unknowing pockets.

  Later, when the couple counted their rupees, it would be the best surprise of their wedding—and nobody would know who gave it.

  Now, if he could only remember his cousin’s name.

  “Together we will remain lifelong partners in the matrimony.”

  It was a good plan—as most plans are before one carries them out.

  Once the last of the vows were spoken, the bride and groom raced to sit down, a tradition that is said to show which of the two will take charge of the marriage.

  As friends and family, including Chellamuthu, moved toward the couple, Arayi spoke up.

  “Chellamuthu, don’t go anywhere. I talked with the photographer, and he’s agreed to take a picture of our family. We’re going to stand over by those trees.”

  The family dutifully followed Arayi—everyone but Chellamuthu. When the boy didn’t move, Arayi raised her voice.

  “Son! Now! And take your hands out of your pockets. It looks nicer.”

  Chellamuthu was halfway to the trees, lagging behind the rest of his family, pondering what to do, when he bolted.

  He hollered back to his mother as he ran. “I’ll be right there. There’s one quick thing I have to do first!”

  Chapter 4

  Chellamuthu’s baby sister, Manju, began to fuss just after the family finished their meal. By the time the sun settled below the skyline, shooing away any lingering strands of light, the girl’s tears rolled down her face like rain. Hers wasn’t the common cry of hunger but the piercing sobs of a panicked child in pain.

  Something was terribly wrong.

  Arayi did her best to comfort the tiny two-year-old, but halfway through the night, Manju started vomiting. Unfortunately, in a muggy one-room hut without electricity, when one family member gets sick, the suffering splashes generously around.

  Kuppuswami fumbled in the dark, trying to help, but there was little he could do. Near dawn, the stench persuaded him to seek refuge outside. Selvaraj, thankfully, had stayed with an uncle, as the two were getting an early start on a large bleaching contract. Chellamuthu hadn’t slept well—troubled by dreams of drowning—but had eventually found refuge against the hut’s opposite wall where he’d largely been spared the night’s foul effects.

  Arayi wasn’t so lucky—but what mother is when her child is ill?

  By the time the sun found enough courage to return, the inside of the hut was a churned mess.

  Chellamuthu sat up, rubbed his eyes, covered his mouth, and looked for his mother. She was in the corner cradling Manju, who had finally drifted off to sleep. In addition to the vomiting, the baby had had bouts of diarrhea, diarrhea mixed with blood.

  Arayi’s forehead was raked with wrinkles.

  “Son, I need your help,” she whispered. “Do you remember the plant with the broad leaves and the long purple flowers that I showed you down by the river?”

  Chellamuthu was still sleepy, slow to answer.

  “Please, son!” Arayi pleaded. “Are you listening?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you remember the plant?”

  “Yes.”

  “I need you to hurry to the river and bring me back a large bunch of leaves and also some of the root. Can you do that?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Do it now. Go!”

  It didn’t take long for Chellamuthu to reach the river, and as he trekked along the bank, the coursing water seemed to run along with him, as if surprised to see a child so early. As best as Chellamuthu could remember, his mother had pointed out the plant at the river’s edge, near the sandbar where the water was shallow.

  Sure enough, it was waiting right there, growing in bunches with hairy stems, toothed leaves, and a strong, lemony scent that confirmed this was the desired plant. Now that he’d found it, collecting leaves and stems was the easy part; it was digging out the roots that would take more effort, especially since
he had no shovel. With a stick, clutched fingers and resolve, it took almost an hour before the roots finally came free. To make his load easier to carry, he rolled the leaves, stems and roots into a loose bundle and bound them with a piece of vine.

  He had climbed back up the trail only a few paces when thundering steps and breathy grunts caused him to turn. A wall of bushes near the path in front of him bent and parted.

  Elephants!

  Although wild elephants were known to drink and play in certain parts of the river, the two approaching now, a cow and her young calf, walked in front of a stout, ugly little man, the same man who’d brought the smaller elephant to the wedding procession. He was guiding the elephants with taps from a long pole and looked to be taking them to the river to drink. As he came close, he barked Chellamuthu aside.

  “Move away! Make room!”

  Behind him several meters trailed a pack of excited boys. One of them called to him.

  “Chellamuthu? What are you doing here?”

  It was a boy Chellamuthu knew from the temple where his family often worshiped. He didn’t wait for Chellamuthu to answer. “These are my uncle’s elephants. After he washes them in the river, he’s going to give us rides. You want one?”

  Could it be true? Free elephant rides!

  When Chellamuthu glanced at the man, he confirmed the offer with a laugh and a nod.

  The bundle of plants Chellamuthu carried now seemed heavier, so after he had followed the boys for a few steps, he set the roll down by the river and stopped to watch.

  His sister had been asleep in the hut when he left. Surely a couple of minutes to ride an elephant wouldn’t hurt anything. Hopefully he could go first, take one quick turn, and then run right home with his bundle. No one would ever know.

  It was more than an hour later when Kuppuswami pushed past the plants that lined the path to the river. Chellamuthu noticed him first, as the man broke into the opening and gazed toward the trainer leading the larger elephant. It took only a second for Kuppuswami to lock his sights onto his guilty son, who was edging closer to his herd of friends, hoping for their protection.

  Kuppuswami approached briskly—which meant he wasn’t drunk—causing Chellamuthu to stiffen, too frightened to flee. There was only one question: would his father start with a fist or with violent words?

  He did neither.

  Instead, he glared at the boy, letting each second sear him with disgust—two, three, four, five. No yelling. No slapping. No violence.

  When he finally spoke, it was toward his feet. “No more!”

  Kuppuswami reached next for the bundle of restless leaves and gathered them tightly beneath an arm. Before Chellamuthu could exhale, his father turned his back and strode off toward home. He stopped at the path’s edge to glance back again at his son, forcing Chellamuthu’s shame-filled eyes to the dirt.

  With impeccable timing, the boy atop the elephant called down.

  “Would you like one more ride before you go?”

  By the time Chellamuthu marshaled the nerve to look up, his ­father had vanished into the trees.

  “WHAT WERE YOU THINKING?” Arayi shouted, her two fingers aiming down at Chellamuthu’s nose as if she were holding a stick. He’d never seen her so furious, so resolute.

  He let his frown droop, his arms fold, his repentant head bow. He practically pleaded with his eyes to moisten.

  She wasn’t buying. No applause today.

  “You had no right! She’s your sister! SHE’S BEEN SICK!”

  Kuppuswami watched from the shadow of a nearby palm. Normally, it would be his turn to step forward, to take over, to beat the boy just to feel that he was doing his part as a parent.

  Today he calmly cradled a cup of toddy.

  “Son,” Arayi continued, “I depended on you!”

  Chellamuthu wiped away his frown and spun to face his father. They exchanged glances.

  Hurry and beat me, the boy’s eyes begged. Let’s get this over with!

  Kuppuswami didn’t move. Perhaps the shade was too inviting. Perhaps he was enjoying the show. Perhaps, for now, he was content to let Arayi swing the fervid words.

  The man took another gulp of toddy.

  Arayi brushed back her hair, as if getting ready to start again, when Mrs. Iyer, the landowner, touched her arm.

  “I’m sorry to intrude,” she said.

  Chellamuthu could have hugged the dear woman.

  “I wanted to let you know that I have extra wood. It’s stacked on the far side of my house. You are welcome to take some, if you’d like. Let your neighbors know.”

  “Thank you!” Arayi replied, her shoulders sagging. It was hard to effectively switch from reprimand to gratitude.

  “Is Manju doing better?” Mrs. Iyer wondered.

  “Yes. It’s kind of you to ask.”

  Before she turned to head home, the woman glanced to Chellamuthu. Like Arayi, she raised her finger.

  “Dharma, child. Remember dharma.”

  Kuppuswami edged from the shadow. He’d finished his palm toddy. He stopped beside the landowner, speaking loudly enough for everyone to hear. His voice was coarse and biting.

  “He’ll never learn—not dharma, not anything.”

  Chapter 5

  “Wait here. I won’t be long.”

  Before Kuppuswami disappeared into the building, he pointed to a patch of cement outside where he expected his son to stand and wait. Chellamuthu obliged. He had never noticed the bland two-story government building sitting patiently across the street from Badri Park.

  His father had told him their plan was to meet the boy’s uncle, though Chellamuthu wasn’t certain which one, and the three of them would catch a bus to Surampatti where they had a job harvesting turmeric.

  Chellamuthu leaned his back against the warm brick, away from people passing on the street, to better watch the park. He loved the place and couldn’t wait to spend time there, in spite of having to sneak over the fence. However, he’d not been back since he’d taken the money. Was it fear of being caught? Or was it the echo of the landowner’s voice constantly squeaking about dharma?

  While it had been exciting after the theft to hold so many rupees in his hand and know that they were all his, it also made him uneasy to hold so many rupees in his hand and know that they weren’t his at all.

  Deceit always charges a price, his mother often said, and in his case, the price was contentment. Ruffled peace.

  Another familiar voice pierced the din. “Hey, koodhi!”

  Harisha, the gang leader, propped himself against the wall beside Chellamuthu. They hadn’t seen each other since . . . well, since that day. He fingered a ripe, golden mango that he gripped with one hand while peeling it with a knife in his other. Carefully, he pulled off narrow strips of skin one by one and sucked them clean before tossing them to the sidewalk.

  Chellamuthu’s eyes tracked the mango like a cat stalking a wounded bird.

  “You want one?” Harisha asked, seemingly surprised at Chella­muthu’s interest. “We’ve got more.” He was about to hand over the mango he was peeling, but it dropped from his hand to the ground directly at the boy’s feet. Chellamuthu would have retrieved it instantly, as he’d certainly eaten dirtier fruit, but before he could stoop over, Harisha kicked the soiled mango out into the street.

  “We have a whole table full of them.”

  It was only when he’d said we, with a sidewise bob of his head, that Chellamuthu noticed an older teenage boy standing like a shadow farther down the wall.

  Harisha seemed friendlier than he had been at the river, but his cohort looked bothered that they’d even taken the time to stop. He was much older than Harisha, perhaps even whiskered, though it might have just been dirt smudged across his lower lip and chin.

  “Let’s go. We have things to do,” he said to Harisha, the
way a boss might speak to his workers when break is over.

  “Yeah, okay,” Harisha replied with a shrug, glancing over at Chellamuthu as if to ask, Mango, then, or not?

  Harisha had no more mangoes but motioned toward his friend as they walked away.

  “His father owns the fruit stand down the block, and the old man’s not there now.”

  Praise Shiva!

  “Hold up!” Chellamuthu called out, glancing back to the doors of the waiting building. He’d be quick. He’d even get a mango for his father.

  Harisha and his friend turned and waited for Chellamuthu to catch up. They stopped in front of a battered, ten-seat passenger van, the kind that might offer low-budget tours.

  “The mangos are in the van,” the older teen said, motioning Chellamuthu closer.

  Before Chellamuthu could reason through what was happening, he felt Harisha grip his arm. It was like the day he’d saved Chellamuthu from the current, only today his fingers clutched tighter.

  “Quick, quick, quick,” Harisha stuttered, and as if the van could understand his words, the door slid obediently open.

  It was a passenger van with bucket seats in front and three bench seats in the rear, and as Chellamuthu was pushed inside, he noticed an older man sitting nervously behind the wheel.

  From the back another man sat up.

  It was then Chellamuthu saw a young boy, perhaps three or four years old, hunched down in the seat directly behind him. The boy had a scratched face and a dirty nose and as their eyes met, the dread in his stare conveyed a single message . . .

  RUN!

  Chellamuthu twisted, trying to struggle and scream, but before he could do either, he was knocked so hard to the side of his head that he crashed to the floor.

  Time slowed. His vision blurred.

  He sucked in air, bringing the smell of sweat, bile, and peril.

  “Go, go, go!” He heard Harisha yell from the sidewalk, and as the van pulled out into traffic, the door slammed closed.

  Chellamuthu’s head throbbed. His stomach stiffened. His fingers shook.