Finding Arun by Marisha Pink Page B

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