A second week at the orphanage passed, and still no one had come for Birendra. There had been no word from anyone, not even Mrs. Nair. So when Mr. Channar came himself to wake Birendra, early in the morning before it was light, naturally he took it to mean his prayers had finally been answered. And Mr. Channar was animated in a way Birendra had not before witnessed. He instructed Birendra to bathe and prepare his own breakfast, then come and find Mr. Channar in his office. He’d compiled a list of special tasks for Birendra to perform before his usual morning chores.
“And put on your English cap today, Birendra,” he said. “Our client this morning is an American.”
His heart sank. It had been like a dream that felt real for just a moment. The visitors were not his aunt and uncle after all.
Mr. Channar’s desk had never been so clean. All the stacks of papers that had piled up were gone, and there were only the folders, each of which Birendra knew belonged to one of the children. He was handed his list of chores and told to hop to it; their guest would be arriving at half past nine.
As Birendra made his way through Mr. Channar’s list, he practiced all the phrases he could recall having used, either in English or in Hindi, since he’d begun helping Mr. Channar with the guests. He polished the tea tray and scoured the pot and creamer. He scrubbed the sidewalk in front of the building with a soapy push broom. He chased out lizards and insects. And he spoke the phrases aloud to them, too: Please follow me, sir. Your tea, madam. Right this way to our nursery, sir. Congratulations on your adoption, madam.
By nine o’clock, he’d done everything but mop, because Mr. Channar had changed his mind and told him not to; he didn’t want to risk wet floors. Instead Birendra could go around with a wet rag and do a spot mop, then put on water for tea. Mr. Channar wanted it ready as soon as their guest arrived. Birendra was measuring the tea when he heard Mr. Channar’s voice boom throughout the hallway. At first he thought something was wrong, then he realized Mr. Channar had answered the door himself and was greeting their guest. Birendra took a peek down the hall, but the front door was closed, and the woman and Mr. Channar were both in shadow in the dim light of the entry.
“You may call me Madeline,” the woman said.
“We are very excited to have you, Mrs. Madeline. Please join me in my office.”
As the woman entered, Mr. Channar remained in the doorway and issued a curt command to Birendra to bring the tea. It would need time to steep. He quickly poured the hot water into the pot and gave it a stir until the leaves swirled and tinted the water brown. He replaced the lid and filled the creamer with milk, taking care not to spill any on the tray, in which he could now almost make out his reflection clearly.
When he entered the office, Mr. Channar was seated behind his desk, and his hands were resting on the stack of folders. He was smiling widely at the woman across from him.
“And tell me, how are you enjoying Kerala?”
“Oh, it’s lovely,” she said. Birendra set the tray on the side of the desk and could feel her eyes on him now. “The sea is so beautiful and warm. And everyone is so friendly.”
Birendra situated a cup in front of the woman and another in front of Mr. Channar. Again he admired the sparkle of the ceramic pot as he placed three cubes of sugar on each saucer along with a teaspoon. He looked up at the woman, who continued to watch him, and smiled.
“Fifteen children,” exclaimed Mr. Channar, and the sudden announcement made them both turn to him. He was speaking especially loudly today, already opening the first file on his desk. “All ages, from zero to four.” Birendra had been so busy that morning checking off his list that he hadn’t thought what a foreign visitor would mean for one of the children, who would be taken farther away than any since he’d arrived. “We actually have a number of couples in India registered, and there is a waiting list, but we are very happy to make exceptions for our clients who have traveled so far, Mrs. Madeline.”
As he poured her tea through the strainer, Birendra looked at the American woman, whose gaze shifted repeatedly between the cup and Mr. Channar. She was the first American guest he’d met and the first woman to come alone. He wondered if her husband was working in America. It seemed so far away, and he could see this in her face, which was different from any he’d ever seen up close before. She had tiny brown spots scattered around her nose and cheeks, but the rest of her skin was so light. Her eyelashes were long and painted black, but her eyes were bright and blue under a fringe of reddish-brown hair the color of a tamarind. Her lips shined like they were made of glass. She caught him looking at her now and he blushed, but she smiled at him, then winked. He almost laughed aloud, but he restrained himself and retreated to his designated spot by the door.
“Now, a little about our philosophy,” Mr. Channar said, and laid out each of the documents from the first dossier onto his desk. “As you probably know, in this country there are more orphans than we can deal with. Poverty forces children of all ages from their homes, and just as many newborn girls are cast aside. We cannot help all of them. It is the job of men like me to protect the children I am able to help. I do this by remaining a relatively small operation. But I must also judge the men and women who come here looking to adopt a child. I must determine if they will provide good homes. We achieve this by catering to a certain level of clientele, many of whom come to us from wealthy families in Delhi, Bombay, Calcutta; men and women who struggle to conceive. Some are Indians coming from England, where they have relocated. Occasionally, they are, like you, from other parts of the world. Over time, we have built a reputation for quality and discretion, and I believe this is why you’ve been recommended to us.”
Birendra had never heard Mr. Channar speak English at such length. The woman nodded silently, and Mr. Channar placed the first document before her, suggesting she might be interested in the baby boy who’d come to them just that week.
“He is seven months old.”
The woman interjected.
“I was thinking older,” she said.
Birendra noticed the look of surprise on Mr. Channar’s face. His refrain, that everyone wanted a baby, always made Birendra sad for Pasha, Sanish, and Sunita. Didn’t they deserve homes as well? Mr. Channar pulled three files from the bottom of his stack and pushed the others aside. Birendra couldn’t help but smile, even though he knew this meant that one more mattress would be rolled up and set aside in their little green room.
“Yes, yes,” said Mr. Channar. “We have one older boy. Let me see.” He opened the files side by side. “Sanish is four years old, our oldest. A quiet and shy boy. Very good. Perhaps you’d like to meet him.”
“And they’re all in good health?”
“Oh, yes. All our children see the doctor for a full checkup. Look here.” He handed her another file and pointed toward the bottom. “There, you see? Completely healthy and approved for adoption.”
“I see,” she said. “And what about a girl?”
“Yes, of course. Let me see here.” Mr. Channar opened the second folder. “Pasha is also four years old. You’ll see she is a charming girl, very playful. And Sunita is just three, a sweet and intelligent little girl who comes to us from neighboring Karnataka.”
He raised a hand, which was Birendra’s cue to take the guests into the nursery.
“Are they sisters? Would I be separating them? I can’t take two children.”
“No, these two are not sisters. Each is alone here.”
Birendra could see the woman’s face again now. She was carefully studying the information she’d been given. She seemed very concerned, serious. Birendra thought that was a good sign; it meant she cared. Then she handed the file back to Mr. Channar and sat back in her chair.
“You’ve given me so much to think about, Mr. Channar. I wanted to come and meet you today to better know my options. I will, of course, need some time to consider what I’ve learned.”
“Yes, I understand,” said Mr. Channar. “Shall I take you in to meet the children, then?”
“Not today, Mr. Channar. I’m sorry, but I’m not ready to meet them today. I hope you understand.” Birendra could see that Mr. Channar did not understand. “May I come again tomorrow?”
“Of course, yes, tomorrow is also fine, Mrs. Madeline.”
Then the American woman stood and reached out her hand. Mr. Channar knocked over a stack of papers behind his desk when he stood. Birendra didn’t know if he should go to them or not, but Mr. Channar acted as though nothing had happened.
“Birendra will see you out, Mrs. Madeline. Thank you so much for coming.”
He walked alongside the American woman in silence down the hall to the front door. It wasn’t at all how things usually went, and Mr. Channar’s behavior had shown he felt the same. Birendra opened the door for the woman but wasn’t sure what to say. None of his rehearsed phrases from earlier that morning felt appropriate. There was a taxi waiting for her. Before she got in, she turned and thanked him, as though she suddenly remembered he was there. He told her she was welcome, then watched as the car pulled away, wondering if the American woman really would be back tomorrow, ready to choose one of his friends.