Mrs. Nair came as promised, visiting on Birendra’s eighth day at the orphanage. She brought no letter with her from West London, and she came alone, carrying with her a basket lunch. Rani said they might like to sit in the courtyard at the back of the building. Mrs. Nair dished out the fish curry Birendra loved, then a pile of rice. It was the dish he always requested that she bring to him and his mother whenever she offered, and he had thought of it often during his recent stay with the Nairs, regretting that they could not eat it during his period of mourning.
“You’re being a good boy and helping Mr. Channar, I’m sure,” she said. She didn’t look at him when she added, quietly, “Just until your auntie and uncle come.”
Birendra only had one question: When? But he didn’t ask because he was growing scared of the answer. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe not at all. The way Mrs. Nair had spoken just now, the way Mr. Channar said nothing at all, it seemed Birendra was not the only one losing hope. As it was, nearly enough time had passed for their letter to arrive. But this no longer held the promise it once had. He still hoped, if the letter came first, it would detail their impending arrival, but since that arrival had been possible for some time now, as Mrs. Nair had pointed out, he feared their letter would tell him something else.
He’d not yet worked up the nerve to ask Mr. Channar about school, but now that he was with Mrs. Nair, he hoped she might help him with that. He would have asked right then, but her food was more delicious than ever, and he couldn’t stop eating. She was pleased to see him enjoying it so much and placed another piece of fish on his plate. She spoke of news from Varkala, but she appeared less interested in gossip than she had once been and soon fell silent as well. When he could stand to eat no more, he told her the food was wonderful and that he was really okay with Mr. Channar, who was nice to him, as were the women who worked there. And he explained that Mr. Channar had been impressed with his languages and asked Birendra to help with the guests who came to the orphanage. At first to pour tea but soon thereafter to greet the guests at the door and show them to Mr. Channar’s office. And finally to lead them to Rani after their meeting with Mr. Channar so they could meet the child they were adopting.
“You do all that?” said Mrs. Nair, unable to hide her surprise.
He told her he did that and more, then detailed for her his daily chores. The days were sometimes long but always full. He did not volunteer that he preferred the little green room he shared with the older children at the orphanage to the Nairs’ house, right next door to his real home, so empty now. Or that, at least in the beginning, he’d felt excited to be closer to where he was going, closer to West London, though lately he just felt far away. He thought he could ask now about school, but she had pulled something out of her bag and was removing the fabric with which it had been wrapped. There were two framed photographs from his house. She seemed not to want to let them go. Then she polished the glass of the first picture frame and handed it to him.
“Your beautiful mother,” she said. “This must have been her graduation picture.”
Birendra studied the photograph, trying first to remember where it had lived in the old house. It hadn’t been in his mother’s room. He thought it might have lived in the kitchen, high on the spice shelf, but maybe not. He wasn’t even sure if it was a photograph of his mother or his aunt. The longer he stared at it the less sure he felt. If it was his mother, she was very young, and this made her look different. He brought it closer, holding it a few inches away from his face in both hands. Something opened up a little, lightening his mood, making it easier to breathe. It must be his mother, he thought, because of the way he felt, both happy and sad to see her again.
“And here is your father looking so impressive in his costume.”
He studied his father’s image now, holding the pictures side by side. He was so relieved to have them, for he would no longer have to rely entirely on his memory, and he would no longer feel entirely alone when he went to sleep. They would watch over him. And suddenly he wished he was going back to Varkala with Mrs. Nair. There were other things he’d left behind. He would have asked her to bring the library books if he could have, and his figure of Ganesh. Just then Mrs. Nair reached in her bag and pulled out an animal his mother had sewn. It was a monkey he’d never seen, but he would have recognized his mother’s work anywhere. He seized it from Mrs. Nair and pulled it close. It was as if he could feel his mother’s touch still lingering. He brought the monkey to his nose and tried to find the scent of home, of her. When he opened his eyes, she was holding his Ganesh. She’d brought it as well. He gushed with gratitude, thanking her three times in English before he finally said Nandi.
Mrs. Nair stroked his face, content to see him so happy. She asked him if he ate well at the orphanage. If he had time to play. If there were children his age. He told her that, when he was done with chores, he would eat with the other children and tell them stories or help Rani and Dipika with the babies. He didn’t tell her that the babies came and went while he and the other, slightly older children remained since Vidip left, waiting and wondering why. He embellished the joyfulness of his time there, because he thought it was what Mrs. Nair needed to hear. The one thing he did still wish for, he said at last, was to return to school.
“You want to go back to school?”
“So much,” he said. At last someone heard him say the words.
“And have you asked Mr. Channar? Maybe he would let you. It’s not so far, and it is paid for, is it not?”
“Yes! And it’s so close. Much closer than to Varkala.” What he wouldn’t give to walk back into Mr. Mon’s classroom. To go into the lending library. To flip through the big reference books, the dictionary, with so many words. The encyclopedia, with so much knowledge. “I haven’t asked him yet. Do you really think he would let me?”
She seemed to be considering the possibility, or maybe what she might do to help him. He could hardly keep still in his seat. And then a little yellow bird swooped down and stole a grain of rice. It scared them both, and this made them laugh. Then the door opened and Mr. Channar stepped into the courtyard, lighting a cigarette. He seemed surprised not to be alone and set his cigarette down at once to approach Mrs. Nair.
“Oh, Auntie,” he said. “You are so kind to visit. I’m sorry I was out so long. How are you?”
“I’m fine, just busy getting old.”
He laughed at Mrs. Nair’s joke. She reached her hand out to Birendra now and said she would find him after she’d had a chat with Mr. Channar. The adults wanted to talk about him, and he hoped this would mean he could return to school. He placed a patchwork animal in each pocket and retrieved the two pictures she’d brought him, wrapping them in the fabric, then he left the adults alone. In his room, he placed the photographs on top of the crate and wedged his new monkey in between them. He removed his Ganesh now from his other pocket and, in both hands, held it close to his heart as he lay down. With his eyes closed, he tried to recall the wall at the end of the hallway of his house in Varkala and the small statues and prints of gods that lined it, the candles and the fruit they used to offer. He saw his mother lighting the candles on that last day of Diwali, the last time they’d prayed together. He felt the candles’ warmth. And his mother’s presence beside him, glowing in their light. He tried to pray as he and his mother had then, though now he prayed to Ganesh and to both his parents, asking that they all watch over him just a little longer and save him from a terrible fate, the life of an orphan. He promised he would be good. And kind, and to always do his best.
“Please, please, please,” he whispered. “Help me find a home.”
Mr. Channar woke Birendra to say that Mrs. Nair had to leave. He hadn’t meant to fall asleep and was sorry to have slept so long. Together with Mr. Channar, they walked Mrs. Nair a few blocks to a rickshaw stand. Birendra thanked her for visiting him, and for the food, and especially for the things she’d brought him. And then they said good-bye, and he and Mr. Channar were alone together, returning to the orphanage. He wanted so badly to know what Mrs. Nair and he had discussed and waited for Mr. Channar to tell him. But they reached the orphanage and still Mr. Channar said nothing, and he gave no indication there was something to discuss as he headed to his office. Was there something the adults knew and weren’t telling him? Birendra lingered at the entrance to Mr. Channar’s office, silently waiting to be acknowledged.
“Is there something else, Birendra?”
“Yes, sir,” he said and swallowed the lump in his throat. “May I please return to school?”
Mr. Channar studied him a moment longer, then motioned for him to come closer, out of the hallway and into his office. The stack of papers on the desk was even higher from this new proximity.
“Tell me this, Birendra. If you spent your days at school, how would you manage to help me here? Should the good people who come to us arrange their schedules around you? Or should you be allowed to enjoy our charity without contribution?”
He knew the answer Mr. Channar wanted to hear. If he went to school, he could still clean, but it was true that he would not be there to greet people during the week, or to pour tea, or to show them to the hall and introduce them to the children.
“No, sir,” he said, “but I could clean before and after.” Mr. Channar made no response, but he wasn’t pleased. It might be Birendra’s only chance, he thought, and so he suffered this confrontation. If Mr. Channar only knew how important school was, maybe he’d let Birendra return. “I’ve missed almost a month of classes. I’m afraid I’ll be very behind, sir.”
“It’s good that you care about your studies, Birendra. Very good.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“But you help here as payment for your room and board. Remember, I’m keeping you as a favor to my family. I’m sorry, but that’s the way it is. You will have to wait to return to school.”
“My aunt and uncle have money,” he said, despite the fear he felt as he said it. His voice trembled, his gaze fell, but he continued. “They can pay you when they come.”
“And if they come, you will greet them with your debt? Must they adopt it as well as you?” His expression and tone were even harsher than his words. “Would you not rather make them proud by caring for yourself in their absence, Birendra?”
He did want to make them proud, more than anything. Maybe Mr. Channar didn’t know that they already paid for his schooling, that it was important to them as well. But all he could think was that Mr. Channar had said if they come. Perhaps he knew something after all. In any case, Mr. Channar made it clear that there was no point in discussing the matter further. The mention of the debt had left Birendra ashamed. He would have to be sure to make himself even more useful as long as he was at the orphanage, he thought.
“Would you like me to help with your papers, sir?”
The phone rang.
“No, you go on with the others. I’ll see you tomorrow, Birendra.”
On his bed again, Birendra sobbed into his crumpled sheet, grateful to be alone. He couldn’t push away the fear that he had been hoping in vain, that West London was just too far away, and that his aunt and uncle didn’t want a boy his age, either. How could he continue his studies if he had to stay at the orphanage and work? And who would pay for school if not his aunt and uncle? Would he be turned out of the orphanage eventually? More than once, he’d heard Mr. Channar exclaim: Everyone wants a baby. Now Birendra wondered what those words meant for him. He thought again of the dreadful tales about orphans his mother had told him—at the time to remind him he was still one of the lucky ones even though his father had died—tales about children who were sold into slavery, turned into beggars, crippled, even, to increase the profit for their captors. Tales of evil. There must be something he could do, he thought, drying his eyes on his sleeve. Would Mr. Channar find him a home if he asked? Was he an orphan after all?