Finding Arun (11 page)

Aaron had no idea what awaited him at the new
refuge, but feeling instinctively that he was supposed to meet
Manoj, he mentally congratulated himself for having made the
correct decision in getting out of the taxi. When they passed from
the deserted streets back into civilisation, he felt himself relax
a little and, releasing his grip on Manoj’s waist, began to enjoy
the feeling of the wind rushing past his face. Manoj manoeuvred the
motorcycle effortlessly through the city traffic in a more or less
linear fashion, until a sharp right turn saw them ascending a
gentle incline along a quiet dirt track. The path was lined with
leafy green trees and rice paddies and as they approached the brow
of the hill, a large white colonial-style house, surrounded by an
imposing metal gate, loomed on the horizon. Aaron gasped when it
was fully in view, quickly understanding Manoj’s earlier comment
about the improved premises. Such a beautiful house was the last
thing that you would expect to find at the end of the long dirt
track and once again Aaron was silently thankful for his encounter
with Manoj, acknowledging that he would never have found the
building on his own.

When they drew closer, a uniformed security guard
swung open the heavy gate and tipped his hat cordially at Manoj
allowing them to pass through to the courtyard beyond. Briefly
easing the motorcycle to a standstill so that Aaron could jump off,
Manoj continued on past the house to park at the rear, momentarily
leaving Aaron alone. The house was a magnificent sight to behold
and quite an upgrade from the old refuge. A short flight of steps
rose to meet the double-fronted entrance where two brilliant white
storeys, constructed of intricately laid brick with large arched
windows and faux balconies, were crowned by a delicate stone
balustrade. Aaron stood silently, gazing up at the building in awe
and he couldn’t help but wonder who might be crazy enough to give
such a house away.

Manoj reappeared bearing two glasses of lime soda.
He handed one to Aaron and, mopping the sweat from his brow with
his free hand, ushered the young man inside the house. It was dark
and cool, and as they passed through the wide corridors, the
occasional open door revealed glimpses of small children and babies
being tended to by predominantly foreign workers. Save for a few
muffled infantile cries, the house was surprisingly quiet and Aaron
found himself wondering where all the women were.

Seeming to read his mind, Manoj quietly began to
educate Aaron on the inner workings of the refuge as they leisurely
ascended a sweeping staircase to the upper floors of the house.

‘Rachna Hari has been around since the mid-fifties.
It was originally set up by a Christian missionary, but we have
long since dispensed with any religious affiliations. The women in
our care come from all over Orissa state, although it is not
unusual for us to receive those who have travelled from much
farther away. Back when we were in the old building, the women
would usually find their way to us and we were able to reach out to
the others that we happened upon. Now, I fear, being up here in
this house we shall have to be much more proactive in our approach,
else no-one will know of our existence.’

‘Why didn’t you stay in the old building then? Or at
least keep an office there?’

‘You saw what the surroundings were like, Aaron.
Anybody with any sense had already gone; there was nothing to stay
for. Why stay in a place as downtrodden and destitute as the very
lives that these women are trying to escape from?’

Aaron immediately regretted the question, realising
how foolish it was, but then another occurred to him. He had never
given much thought to the circumstances that might have brought
Kalpana to Rachna Hari in the first place, thinking only about why
she had been unable to keep him.

‘What sort of things are they trying to escape
from?’

‘Well, some have been abandoned by their families
for one reason or another, many have lost their husbands or their
homes, and unfortunately many of the women that find their way to
us are victims of untold physical and mental abuses.’

Aaron’s jaw dropped open and his mind went into
overdrive imagining the events that could have lead Kalpana to seek
refuge at Rachna Hari. Had she been abandoned, or worse, abused?
Where were her family and husband? His parents had always made out
that Aaron’s biological father was never in the picture, but what
if this too had been a lie? Obviously unaware of Aaron’s mental
wrestle with his thoughts, Manoj continued on.

‘We provide a safe haven, a place for these women to
rebuild their lives and regain their dignity. Our staff work
tirelessly to ensure that they are physically and mentally fit
first, and then we help them to build up basic skills so that they
can support themselves when they return to the outside world. In
addition, we provide basic schooling for the children, so that they
do not fall behind in their lessons, and we teach everyone who
passes through our doors to speak English, something which we have
found to be very useful for gaining better employment in the city,’
he finished proudly, as they reached the second floor.

They crossed the landing in a few short strides and
Manoj pushed back the heavy doors to reveal a large room at the
back of the house, in a state not unlike his mother’s study had
been after Aaron had found Kalpana’s letters. Brown paper folders,
crammed with loose sheets of paper, were piled precariously high
amongst boxes and bags full of yet more files, papers, books and
other assorted paraphernalia. A team of two men and three women
were attempting to make sense of the clutter, with a third man
quietly seated in the corner, meticulously transferring information
from one of the folders onto a rustic looking computer. Aaron was
unsure whether to enter the room or to stay out of the way when
Manoj flashed him an ‘I-told-you-so’ look.

Upon hearing the pair enter, the workers instantly
froze, seemingly panicked by the presence of the refuge director.
Manoj shouted some brief instructions in a strange tongue and the
team quickly assembled around him, visibly relaxing at the sound of
his words. The refuge director continued to address the small
congregation, gesturing at Aaron intermittently, and just when
Aaron thought he made out Kalpana’s name, Manoj turned to face him
instead.

‘Do you know what Kalpana’s last name was?’

‘No, I don’t.’

‘What year were you born?’

‘1993.’

‘And what was your adoptive mother’s name
again?’

‘Catherine. Dr Catherine Rutherford.’

Manoj returned his attention to the team of workers
and continued to bark instructions, with Aaron still only able to
pick out his mothers’ names clearly. Manoj clapped his hands
together twice and the team sprung to life again, abandoning their
previous efforts to concentrate on the new task issued to them by
the refuge director.

‘Come,’ said Manoj, making for the door and
motioning over his shoulder for Aaron to follow him.

He led Aaron back down the grandiose staircase and
along a small passageway that opened out onto a vast stone terrace
at the rear of the house. At its centre was an old scruffy-looking,
plastic table and chair set beneath a fading lemon parasol, but the
stunning view beyond the terrace was what captured Aaron’s
attention. Gently swaying palms and boundless rice paddies gave way
to the sprawling city of Puri below, its flawless sand beach
curling along the bay and disappearing beneath the glittering ocean
upon which the sun was now setting. Aaron sat down in slow-motion,
still gazing in awe at the burnt orange sky, while a young Indian
girl with thickly braided hair fussed over the table, pouring two
steaming cups of chai from a steel pan. The sweet, spicy aromas of
cinnamon and clove gently fanned Aaron’s nostrils, bringing him
back to the present and, reaching for the cup, he began to take
small sips of the milky mixture whilst he and Manoj wordlessly
watched the sun descend into the sea.

Aaron had no idea how long they had been sitting
there, but it was dark and the city lights were twinkling prettily
in the distance by the time one of the young men from upstairs
crept quietly onto the terrace and laid a tattered brown folder on
the table before Manoj. Manoj thanked him in what Aaron now knew to
be Oriya and the young man retreated backwards into the house,
repeatedly bowing as he went.

‘Well, what do you know?’ Manoj uttered in surprise,
lifting the folder off the table for a closer inspection.

It was bare, save for a small white label covered
with curling foreign characters, scrawled in faded blue ink.

‘Dash.’

‘I’m sorry, what?’ said Aaron, his heart beginning
to thump furiously in his chest at the sight of the folder. He was
unable to control his nerves, his breathing rapidly becoming ragged
and uneven with anticipation.

‘Dash; that was your mother’s last name,’ Manoj
replied, as though it were obvious what he had meant.

He flipped the folder open and quickly caught the
loose leaves of paper that fell from within it, in his lap. Aaron
waited patiently while Manoj sifted through the pages, desperately
trying to prevent his hope from escalating too far, lest he should
find himself cruelly disappointed. Every now and again Manoj would
pause to inspect a page in more depth and each time Aaron felt his
heart leap into his throat, his mouth dry with the taste of
expectation. The silent wait was excruciating and Manoj appeared to
be moving deliberately slowly, much to Aaron’s frustration. Almost
twenty minutes later, Manoj finally sat back comfortably in his
chair and met Aaron’s watchful gaze.

‘Well, it seems that this is indeed the woman that
you described to me.’

Aaron felt his heart soar.

‘A Ms Kalpana Dash arrived at Rachna Hari in the
autumn of 1992,’ began Manoj, reading from the folder. ‘She was
cared for by a small team, including a Dr Catherine Rutherford, who
appears to have signed several of her health evaluations, though
there is no mention of a pregnancy anywhere.’

‘Wow,’ whispered Aaron, letting out a long breath,
completely overwhelmed by his good fortune.

‘In addition there does not seem to be any adoption
paperwork, however it does say here that she arrived with two
children, one boy and one girl.’

‘My brother and sister!’ exclaimed Aaron loudly,
unable to prevent the words from escaping his lips.

Manoj smiled at him benevolently, ‘Yes, Aaron, so it
would seem. Ms Dash then left Rachna Hari in January of 1993 and by
some small administrative miracle, there is in fact a forwarding
address, which, if I’m not mistaken, is in a small town not too far
from the centre of Puri.’

Manoj placed the folder on the table and sat back in
his chair with a satisfied grin, seeming decidedly pleased with
himself and the efficiency of his staff. But Aaron’s face was
frozen, his eyes fixed upon the place in Manoj’s lap where the
folder had been, while he unconsciously gripped the sides of the
plastic chair.

‘Is something wrong, Aaron?’ Manoj asked, leaning
forward again, the concern evident in his voice.

‘That’s … that’s impossible,’ Aaron murmured.

‘I’m sorry, I’m afraid that I don’t follow.’

‘She … she can’t have left in January.’

‘Why ever not?’ replied Manoj.

‘Because my birthday is in March.’

STANDING on the steps of the Mayfair Beach Resort
Hotel, Aaron waved goodbye to Manoj and thanked him again for his
help. He promised to let him know how everything turned out and
then watched the refuge director speed away until the rear lights
of his motorcycle were nothing more than specks in the darkness
that had fallen on Puri. Once they had disappeared completely, he
turned to make his way into the hotel, exhausted from the day’s
events and grateful to escape the oppressive heat that had somehow
persisted despite the setting of the sun. Passing through the
double-fronted entrance, he was met by the same concierge who had
assisted him that afternoon. The concierge recognised him instantly
and greeted him like a somewhat relieved old friend.

‘Very good evening, sir. You are okay; I was
starting to think that you are not coming back from this bad
place.’

Aaron chuckled to himself; it was sweet of the
concierge to care and he appreciated the warmth and concern that
all of the people he had encountered had shown him during his short
time in Puri.

‘You were right, it wasn’t a very nice place, but
I’m back now.’

‘Very good, sir. Did you meet with your
acquaintance?’

‘Sort of.’

The concierge regarded Aaron with a look of
confusion, but wisely chose not to press him any further and waved
him towards the elevator.

Reaching his room, Aaron flopped down onto the
king-sized bed and stared at the ceiling, blinking into the
darkness. The day had not turned out at all as expected and every
time that he thought he was getting closer to meeting Kalpana,
something seemed to crop up to render the situation even more
complex than it already was. He was aware that it was no small feat
to have encountered Manoj when he did and for the refuge director’s
team to have found a forwarding address for Kalpana, but it was the
other information that Manoj had shared with him that he couldn’t
quite get his head around.

It was impossible for Kalpana to have left Rachna
Hari before he was born, but it was there in her records and Manoj
had been unable to think of any reason why it might be incorrect.
It was only a matter of a few short months, which raised the
possibility that his mother had gotten his birthday wrong, but this
too seemed unlikely. And then there was another explanation. An
explanation that Aaron wanted to reject as soon as it entered his
mind, but couldn’t on the strength of all that had occurred in
recent weeks. If the paperwork was correct, then not only was Aaron
born and adopted after Kalpana had left the refuge, but his mother
had deliberately lied about this fact.