Birendra pressed his ear close to Mr. Channar’s office door, but the voices within were muffled, impossible to decipher. If he peered through the keyhole he caught glimpses—the back of the blue chair and the American woman’s head, Mr. Channar’s folded hands, his look of astonishment. Birendra placed his ear close to the keyhole. She’d made up her mind. It was that boy, she said, or she was leaving by herself. His heart beat faster.
“But Birendra is working here, Mrs. Madeline.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Channar. My mind is made up,” she repeated.
Had his prayers finally been answered? Did Ganesh and his parents send this lady because they knew his aunt and uncle could not come?
“It would be most irregular,” said Mr. Channar. “I don’t have paperwork for Birendra. He was supposed to be here only temporarily, as a favor to a family member.”
“Is it a matter of money? What do you mean ‘temporarily’? He said his parents are gone. Is he an orphan or isn’t he?”
Birendra had asked this very question so often he no longer expected an answer to present itself, but here, with the American lady asking for him, he awaited Mr. Channar’s response, breathless.
“Please, madam,” said Mr. Channar. “There is someone I can call in Varkala, and he will go to collect my cousin or his wife, as they have no phone. Let me consult them.”
The room was quiet a moment. Birendra turned to peer once again through the keyhole. Mr. Channar was holding the receiver and dialing. Then Birendra heard his name spoken loudly, behind him, and swung around with a terrible shame at being caught spying. It was Rani, and she wore the expression of baffled disappointment he’d only ever seen when she was dealing with Pasha.
“What do you think you’re doing?” He made no response and hung his head. “Birendra?”
“Listening,” he said. She raised an eyebrow and folded her arms, awaiting a confession that went beyond the obvious. “The American lady,” he ventured, “she chooses me. Mr. Channar wants her to take Sanish or Sunita, but she wants me.”
Rani approached, equally astonished by his claim. He thought she might pull him away so she could eavesdrop herself, but she simply rested a hand on his shoulder and smiled widely.
“Of course she wants you. You’re a wonderful boy, Birendra.” She took his ear between two fingers and gently tugged. “Now, do you want her to think you’re a boy who enjoys spying on conversations not meant for his ears?”
Rani was right. He shouldn’t be listening, but he desperately needed to know what was happening. Rani must have agreed because she continued silently down the hall, allowing Birendra to put his ear to the keyhole once more.
A silence followed, then Mr. Channar was speaking Malayalam, thanking someone for calling him back. He asked when Mr. Nair would be available. It must have been Mrs. Nair on the phone. Mr. Channar explained about the American woman who was interested in adopting the boy, “your neighbor’s son,” he added for clarification. The announcement to a third party sent a thrill through him.
“Auntie, Auntie, please,” Mr. Channar said after an uncomfortably long pause. “Much time has passed and still no contact. How long will we wait? How long must we offer charity to the boy?”
Birendra wished he could know what Mrs. Nair was saying. Perhaps she was reminding Mr. Channar that Birendra worked hard for him, that he had earned his stay. If she was resisting him, did it mean she knew something, had heard from his uncle and aunt? If so, why did Birendra struggle to believe they would still come? Then Mr. Channar gutted him by speaking those very thoughts, leaving no chance for hope.
“It has been too long. They would have sent word. They would have come for him. No one is coming, and now there is a nice woman, a rich woman, from America. Who are we to deny the boy such a life? What can we give him in exchange? Will you take him to England to find these relatives? And what if they won’t have him even then? Let’s be reasonable. The boy is an orphan. We can help him find a home.”
A moment later Mr. Channar was consoling Mrs. Nair, assuring her she’d done everything she could when Birendra’s mother died. But Mr. Channar was also firm. She must now let the boy go. Birendra only hoped he would see her again. For weeks, he’d told himself that being with his aunt would make the great distance between Varkala and West London less frightening. But California! America was another world entirely, and with a woman he didn’t know—he couldn’t help it; he was scared. He looked again for Rani, but he was alone in the hall. Mr. Channar was off the phone and speaking in English again.
“No, no. Nothing like that,” Mr. Channar was explaining. “The people who brought the boy here were his neighbors, a cousin of my father and his wife. We all hoped someone would come for the boy. My cousin and his wife cannot take in an orphan at their age.”
Birendra could hear a concern for his welfare in Mr. Channar’s voice he had not known was there. He would thank him. He would not admit that he had listened to their conversation, but he would thank Mr. Channar without saying what it was for and it would be especially for this.
“So he has other family?” the woman asked. She sounded distraught.
“It has been five weeks since the boy’s mother died, and no one has come or made any attempt to contact us. If he had people to take him, they would have let us know by now.”
“So he can’t be adopted legally? What precisely is the issue?”
“No, this is just paperwork. And we are, fortunately, well respected and connected. Besides, Mrs. Madeline, you are an American. Your passport is your most important document. I can assure you there will be no issues.”
“And the boy, does he want to be adopted?”
“I do want it,” Birendra whispered from his side of the door.
He closed his eyes and repeated his nightly prayer: Please, please, please help me find a home.
“Birendra is a quiet boy,” said Mr. Channar, “a very good boy. I may not be able to tell you what he thinks he wants. But every child needs a home and a mother. This I can say with great confidence.”
On the day of his departure, Birendra was in his little green room, carefully wrapping the pictures of his mother and father in the fabric Mrs. Nair had left on her visit. She had not been able to come again before he left, but she had gone to town so she could call and wish him safe journeys. She promised he would remain in their thoughts and prayers. He thanked her for everything and he asked her to thank Mr. Nair as well. He would miss them, even grumpy old Mr. Nair. There were many people he would miss, and that’s why he opted to spend his last day and night at the orphanage when given the choice the day before. The American lady, who was called Maddy, had said he could spend his last night with her at the hotel if he wanted. There was a pool he could swim in, and he might be able to play with a little boy who occasionally came around. But Birendra thought he should stay and tell the children one last story, and she gave him permission to spend the night in the orphanage, where he was also able to thank his parents and Ganesh for watching over him, for finding him a home. Now he put his Ganesh in the pocket of his trousers, where it often lived during the day, then he took the monkey in his hand. He poked his head into the hall to look at the hanging clock. There was still a little time.
Mr. Channar’s office was empty. Birendra knew where to find the paper and tape. He could help himself, or he could go and find Mr. Channar to ask permission. He looked again at the clock. He might not have time to do both. He took a sheet of paper out of the drawer and, with one eye on the door, retrieved the Scotch tape dispenser from the desk. He tried wrapping the monkey according to its shape, but the paper wouldn’t allow it, so he rolled it up with the monkey at its center, folded the ends in, and placed two pieces of tape at each side and one along the seam. He closed the drawer, replaced the dispenser, and he still had three minutes to get his bag and meet Mr. Channar at the front of the building as he’d been advised. He could hardly believe he was on his way.
When he opened the main door, this time to leave and not to welcome families in search of a son or daughter, he saw the car Mr. Channar had said would be coming just for Birendra. It would take him to the American woman’s hotel, and from there they would go together to the airport, to take a plane to America. Mr. Channar and the driver were at the car’s front end, talking and smoking cigarettes. They watched as Birendra approached, then they nodded at him, as though he were a man. He felt older than he ever had. Mr. Channar put out his cigarette and reached out his hand. Birendra set his bag down and took Mr. Channar’s hand in his, remembering to thank him, while the other man took Birendra’s bag and put it in the back of the car, squinting against the smoke that rose from his cigarette.
“My advice for you, Birendra,” said Mr. Channar when they were alone, “is to go and never look back. You are fortunate to have a new life ahead of you. It will be different, but try to leave this one behind. Don’t talk about your life here when you get to America. Behave and do as you’re told. You don’t want to upset anyone.” Birendra nodded. He wanted to take any advice Mr. Channar offered, although he didn’t understand why it would upset people if he talked about his life here. Did that include talking about Rani and the children he’d known? The Nairs? Mr. Mon and his praise? Mr. Channar must have seen his confusion. “You don’t want to appear ungrateful and end up back here, do you?”
Birendra said nothing. That such a return was even possible terrified him. Clearly he would only be given this one chance. Mr. Channar opened the car door, and Birendra got in the front seat. Through the open window Mr. Channar wished him good luck, then disappeared through the entry of the orphanage.
Birendra’s heart was racing as they drove away. Sure he’d forgotten something, he felt his pocket. Ganesh was there. He looked in the seat behind him, but then he remembered the man had put his bag in the trunk. They were farther from the orphanage than he’d been since the day of his arrival. Suddenly he realized he had forgotten to say thank you and a final good-bye to Rani and Dipika. And to the children. He imagined Sunita and Sanish and Pasha asking Rani, as he had once done, where their playmate had gone. She would tell them that he had found a new home and that they would make other friends until they, too, found homes. But who would tell them stories now?
“Why are you crying?” the man asked. “You’re a rich boy now. Going off to America.”
He raised his feet to the seat and dried his eyes against the knees of his trousers. He hadn’t remembered Rani, when she had been so good to him. Now he would never see her again. Sometimes it felt like all Birendra did was never get to say good-bye.