The Orphan Keeper Page 6

  She wasn’t worried.

  Once the couple in the Jeep had delivered their parcels—four crying babies, a voiceless boy, a sick little girl, and Chellamuthu—the man and woman couldn’t drive away fast enough.

  After they’d gone and the gate had closed, Chellamuthu realized he couldn’t remember what the pair in the Jeep had looked like—what they’d been wearing, their features, the color of their hair, how heavy or thin either might have been. He’d been so focused on the road and the distance traveled that he’d paid little attention to anything else.

  It was as if the two had never existed.

  The sun would soon set, so while Chellamuthu could still see, he studied his surroundings, in case he’d need to describe the place to the police after his escape. Though the outside had looked like a fortress, the inside was actually quite functional.

  The cement wall sheltered a rectangular courtyard. Hugging each of the long walls were two rows of smaller rooms, perhaps a half dozen along each side, built against the outside wall, but with doors that opened into the center common area. Anchoring each end of the yard were two larger structures, two levels high, with adobe shingled roofs and cement-plastered walls. In the far building, Chellamuthu could hear children playing.

  The most obvious feature in the courtyard was a fountain, where two determined Indian women were bathing toddlers and babies. It sat adjacent to the main gate but still against the wall, and it swept around in a semicircle to form a concrete basin. It was two meters across and perhaps half a meter deep.

  Even more mesmerizing than the concrete pool was the metal spout that poked through the wall to feed it. At home, Chellamuthu hauled buckets of water from a nearby well for use in their cooking and cleaning. Here, a woman twisted a handle on the wall, and water gushed out like an eager spring waterfall.

  “Boy, what’s your name?” a woman at the fountain was calling, and when Chellamuthu turned to confirm that she was talking to him, she raised her voice.

  “Yes, you, child! Come for your bath!”

  He wanted to run, but to where?

  “Hurry!”

  He lowered his head and shuffled his filthy feet forward. He’d watched for long enough to know the routine: strip, squat, wait. Bathing by assembly line.

  He stepped to the concrete patch that bordered the pool, pulled off his shorts, and crouched. The process wasn’t new. They were the same instructions his mother would give when she didn’t have time to take him to the river—only at home, his mother didn’t use soap.

  Here it was applied abundantly.

  Twice the woman dipped her bucket in the pool and twice Chellamuthu was lathered up like a dog before receiving a thorough rinse. This wasn’t bathing for fun. It was cleaning with a purpose.

  Once she’d finished and Chellamuthu reached for his shorts, a second woman brushed his hand away. She was holding a new pair, along with a matching shirt and leather sandals.

  What is this place?

  “I shouldn’t be here,” he said to the woman as he pulled on his new clothes. “I was taken. I have to go home!”

  Her face jiggled. “Stay quiet, child! It will be better for you,” she added, as she pushed him toward a large room where the sounds of playing children bounced into the courtyard through two open doors. Inside, he found bright yellow walls, a swept dirt floor, two tidy rows of straw mats—and children. This was the room where they slept and played.

  In the corner, against the outside wall, as if standing guard beside the children, was a metal door, latched closed with a keyed padlock.

  The younger boy who’d been in the Jeep with Chellamuthu was already sitting on a mat with crossed legs and sauce-dipped fingers. A banana leaf on the ground beside him held a mixture of rice, beans, and poriyal, a savory blend of shredded cabbage, lentils and coconut.

  “Sit down and eat, son,” an immense man in a khaki uniform directed. He pointed to an empty mat where a woman had just placed food. “The commissioner will be here soon.” While the man owned a deep voice, every syllable smiled, as if tickled by the caterpillar mustache that clung to his upper lip.

  When Chellamuthu didn’t move, the man encouraged him. “It’s all right. My name is Mr. Rajamani. I am the superintendent here. If there is anything you need, let me know.”

  Had he not just been torn from an Erode street and forced away by strangers, Chellamuthu may have imagined he was a guest at some fine public inn. Since the man had asked so sincerely, Chellamuthu decided to answer—despite the woman’s advice. He waited for their eyes to meet.

  “I need to break out.”

  For a moment, Rajamani’s forehead creased, and his eyebrows crawled together. Then the man laughed from deep within his round belly, as if the boy had just told the funniest joke in all of India. He was still chuckling as he swept himself from the room.

  Chellamuthu ate beside the wordless boy in silence. Between mouthfuls, Chellamuthu tried to count the children. Perhaps a dozen played in the room with a few more outside. Several were babies; some were toddlers; less than a handful looked to be four or five. None were as old as he was. However, with so many stumbling in and out, some getting their baths, others wandering in to eat, it was hard to tally them exactly. Chellamuthu’s best guess: twenty.

  In his observations, he noticed other details:

  1. The children seemed content.

  2. They had plenty of food.

  3. He could see no doors to the outside except one beside the main metal gate in front and the locked door in the room where the children slept.

  4. There were electric lights in several rooms, a convenience he’d never had at home. Another observation was more troubling:

  5. The sick little girl from the Jeep had vanished.

  There was one more fact that kept sounding inside his head, insisting it not be forgotten, a notion he’d been mulling since his arrival. Though he had no idea who had taken him captive or in what city this place was located, if he believed his instincts, one thing was certain: he was standing in a compound full of children three and a half hours from home.

  Chapter 7

  The night sky over Erode was dark and brooding, as if the developing squall had heard about the missing boy and was rolling in to watch the show. Arayi had Selvaraj build a large fire in front of the hut, both as a symbolic beacon should her little lost son wander home and to accommodate the crowd of relatives and neighbors who were gathering as word about the missing boy spread.

  “Tell me again what happened?” Arayi pleaded to Kuppuswami, who stood in flickering shadows against an outside corner of the hut. The man’s flaring nostrils and shaking legs not only announced that he needed something solid to lean against but that he hoped to get away from one more person asking the very questions Arayi was again repeating.

  “I’ve told you,” he growled. “I asked the boy to wait by the building. When I came out, he was gone.”

  Kuppuswami was ornery when he drank, but when people kept him from drinking—which had been the case since early afternoon—he could get downright spiteful.

  Lightning flashed. Thunder rumbled. Low-hanging clouds began to pepper the dirt with rain.

  Arayi turned her face heavenward for hope, but the somber sky dripped only despair. Her throat tightened. Her heart quickened. She tried to suck in air but her lungs, now too full of worry to make room for anything else, refused to cooperate.

  “Sister, you don’t look well,” Jaya said as she approached. “You must sit.”

  “How can I sit?” Arayi screamed back. “Somewhere out there in the dark is my Chellamuthu, lost, hurt, and crying. Or worse . . .”

  It was a thought that must have been too heavy, because the instant it entered Arayi’s head, her knees buckled, her palms slapped the earth, and her tears mixed with the drizzle. Then the lonely Indian mother, encircled by a crowd of friends, trembled unc
ontrollably as she threw up in the mud.

  Chellamuthu’s home in Erode, like many homes in India, had no plumbing. So after he’d finished eating and had been shown the mat where he should sleep, the boy walked outside into the courtyard and looked for a spot to go to the bathroom.

  Eli Manickam, head of the orphanage, reached Chellamuthu just as he was squatting.

  “Stop! Wait!”

  Chellamuthu jerked to attention and yanked up his shorts.

  “Child, what’s your name?” Eli asked.

  The boy’s response was timid, almost whispered. “Chellamuthu.” He knew he was in trouble. He just wasn’t sure why.

  “Chellamuthu, come with me.”

  The child glanced to the ground at the place he’d selected. Truth was he really did have to go. His face asked the question without speaking words: Can this wait?

  Eli took his arm, and they walked back inside to where the children slept. Though the light had been turned out in the room, enough natural light from the moon seeped in through the open doors. Eli paused at the far wall and pointed toward the ground. Chellamuthu hadn’t noticed it before, but along the wall in the dirt was a shallow, cement-lined trench with a blue plastic bucket of water that waited patiently nearby.

  “This is where we go to the bathroom,” Eli explained.

  “Inside?” Chellamuthu asked, a question caked in disbelief.

  “Yes. When you have to go to the bathroom, crouch here over the trench. When you are finished, take this bucket of water and pour it into the trench to wash everything through the hole to the outside. Do you understand?”

  The boy’s gaze followed the cement trough, and sure enough, it led to a hole in the wall the size of a melon.

  “Would you like to try it?” Eli asked.

  Chellamuthu nodded. He’d done well to wait this long.

  Eli twisted away slightly as Chellamuthu pulled down his shorts, bent over and grunted. When the boy finished, Eli set the bucket nearby so Chellamuthu could pour water over his backside with a small cup that floated inside. When he had finished cleaning himself, Chellamuthu pulled up his shorts.

  “Now watch this!” Eli said as he dumped the rest of the water into the trench, sending the waste along like trash in a tsunami until it reached the end of the wall and dropped with a splash through the opening to the ground outside.

  Genius!

  Chellamuthu grinned. This meant one could go to the bathroom inside, in the middle of the night, without needing to go out in the dark! And with a single bucket of water, the stink was washed away. The downside was its lack of privacy, having to squat in an open room, but that was a negative he could live with. Progress always comes at a price.

  “Do you understand now?” Eli asked.

  Chellamuthu nodded.

  “I’m Eli, Eli Manickam. I’m the commissioner here. You said your name is Chellamuthu?”

  Another nod.

  “I’m glad we could meet, Chellamuthu. We’ll talk more tomorrow, but tonight there is one more thing I need you to do.”

  Chellamuthu listened.

  “Take the bucket out to the fountain and fill it up,” Eli added, “so it will be ready for the next person.”

  Chellamuthu obeyed. He carted the bucket outside to the far end of the compound, dipped it into the water, and then started back in the direction he’d come. He could see the commissioner watching and so, despite passing right by the front door that led beyond the wall, he didn’t bother trying it.

  On his way back, as he passed one of the smaller rooms that bordered the outside wall, he thought he heard muffled voices. He rested outside the room for just a second, pretending he was getting a better grip on the bucket’s handle. This time the sound coming from inside was more distinct.

  He could hear a child crying.

  In Erode, one of two sounds usually woke Chellamuthu at dawn: Banerjee chopping coconuts or the neighbor’s crowing rooster six huts away.

  This morning, in this strange place, it was babies—lots and lots of babies.

  All of the children had gone to sleep on pias, straw mats laid out neatly in a double row, but by morning the room looked as if a cyclone had blown through. Kids were everywhere.

  Seemingly on cue, the women who had been bathing children at the fountain the night before whisked in and began to put the room back together.

  “Chellamuthu, come here,” the older woman said. He was surprised she had remembered his name and was even more startled when she handed him a baby.

  “I’m Mrs. Sundar. You’re the oldest here now,” she instructed. “There’s no reason you can’t help.”

  Since she’d also brought a basket of sand pears and was already giving them to the children, Chellamuthu took a pear in one hand as he placed the baby over his other arm. It was just like at home when he’d carry his sister.

  It wasn’t long before Eli entered. This morning he was wearing a gerua-colored lungi, and with his graying beard, as he looked down at the children, he almost looked like a wise swami.

  “We’ll be singing next, children, so after you clean up, gather by the fountain.”

  Singing?

  Even the toddlers squealed. It was song day!

  There were perhaps a dozen children old enough to sing on their own, and when Eli motioned for them to huddle close, they followed like a line of little ducklings.

  The first song, called “ABCs,” was foreign, though Chellamuthu soon realized they were singing the English alphabet.

  The second, according to Eli, was an old Christian tune he’d loved as a child. He blew a note on a tattered wooden flute, but before he could even lift a hand, a few of the children had already started.

  Deep and wide, deep and wide,

  There’s a fountain flowing deep and wide.

  Deep and wide, deep and wide,

  There’s a fountain flowing deep and wide.

  Chellamuthu wasn’t certain why they were now singing about the fountain, but it was one of those tunes that invites itself into your head and then stakes a claim. “Old Christian” was a very good songwriter. The children continued, their enthusiasm hitting full stride.

  Only a boy named David

  Only a little sling

  Only a boy named David

  But he could pray and sing

  Only a boy named David

  Only a rippling brook

  Only a boy named David

  But five little stones he took.

  With each line, their voices grew louder.

  And one little stone went in the sling

  And the sling went round and round

  And one little stone went in the sling

  And the sling went round and round

  Arms began to swing in wild circles. Chellamuthu joined in. This was a good song!

  And round and round and round and round

  And round and round and round

  And one little stone went up in the air

  And the giant came tumbling down.

  As they belted out the tune’s final line, all of the children dropped to the dirt as if dead. It caught Chellamuthu off guard and for half a second, his heart raced. Then one of the younger boys climbed back onto his feet. “Can we do it again? Please!” the boy begged Eli.

  Eli’s smile was slight. “Yes, we’ll do it again.”

  The next time, Chellamuthu also fell to the ground. He rolled and laughed with the rest of the children. It wasn’t until later, when he was back in the large room playing with two of the boys, that he realized he’d forgotten to check the main door out front to see if it was left unlocked.

  Tonight, he told himself. He’d pretend to go to the bathroom, and when he refilled the bucket, he’d check the door. The idea stayed in his head but not for long. The infectious tune and haunting words w
ere keeping his brain busy . . .

  Deep and wide, deep and wide,

  There’s a fountain flowing deep and wide . . .

  The first out-of-town relatives arrived before dawn, besting the sun by half an hour. They were Gopal, one of Kuppuswami’s older brothers, and his two eldest sons from the village of Ammanpalayam, an hour southeast of Erode.

  Arayi was already awake and pacing in front of the landowner’s home.

  “We came as soon as we heard,” Gopal announced, greeting his sister-in-law with the customary pressing of palms together near his chest, along with a nod of his chin. “We made the early bus. Others are following soon.”

  Indeed, dozens of friends and family had sent word they were coming to join in the search.

  The landowner had placed a table outside, and a young Indian woman was setting it with fruit, flatbread, and idlis, a platter of steamed pancakes made from rice. While Gopal and his sons ate, Arayi drew Mrs. Iyer aside. “I can never repay you.”

  “There is nothing to repay. Now, let’s get the map and the list so we’ll be ready.”

  The kind woman gathered papers from the table. She drew a circle around the bus station on the map.

  “We should start here. We’ll search the closest areas first, and then people can spread out from there.”

  She reached toward a stack of pictures that had just been delivered and readied one for Gopal. It was the only picture Arayi had of Chellamuthu, a photo taken a year earlier when he’d attended the government school for three short weeks before Kuppuswami pulled him out to work in the fields. The landowner had insisted on paying to make copies so that each of the searching groups could show a photo of the boy to those they encountered.