He learned the fates of those other boys by and by, the ones who traveled with him in his cage. One went missing in the woods and was found eaten by God knows what, one was drowned while swimming in the river in spate. Four ran away together after stealing from their employers, and of those four, two were convicted of dacoity and murder and two were known to have been shot before ever reaching jail.
“And why don’t you run away?” Daddy asks each time a new report comes in.
“Because I’m not stupid,” Ajay says.
“That’s right,” Daddy says. “Because you’re not stupid, because you’re a good boy too. Repeat after me,” he says, switching to English. “There’s no place like home.”
* * *
—
Over the years Daddy expands that great, deep, empty home, renovating the shells of the lower rooms, making the place fit for guests, each floor painted and bright, bringing a summer profit. Another task: Ajay, now manager of the guesthouse alongside his farming chores, changing sheets, cleaning rooms, cooking food for the guests, running every errand that’s required.
Sometimes the foreigners who stay here ask him questions: Where are you from? Where is your family? Do you go home? What’s life like in the village you’re from?
All of these he deflects with a shy smile.
“You go school?” the sun-leathered Italian asks when Ajay is fifteen.
Ajay shakes his head.
“What you do? To learn?”
“I work.” He smiles.
“You go school before?”
“When I was little,” he says, thinking out each word.
“When you leave?”
Silence. A shrug.
“When you come here?”
The Italian follows him with his eyes, persistent, trying to bore into his mind.
“You get the money, no?” The man makes the universal sign, rubbing his thumb and forefinger together, producing a ten-rupee note for good measure. “Money. Rupees.”
Ajay pretends not to understand, continues making their lunch.
“Here, is for you, take it.”
Ajay looks at the money and smiles and shakes his head.
“Go on, take it.”
He takes the money and puts it in his pocket shyly.
The Italian leans back and watches him. “You don’t get the money, no. Do you?”
It’s true. Ajay has never been paid. Daddy has told him that his mother receives his salary every month. He has no reason to disbelieve, he takes it on faith.
But now he wants to know the details, like hearing the same fairy tale each night.
Picking his way through the forest from the farm one afternoon soon after, pausing every now and then so as not to leave Daddy behind, he asks offhandedly how it is that his wages reach his mother in his village.
Daddy remains silent awhile, as if he hadn’t heard. Finally he says, “I put your wages in a bank account. And your mother takes the money out on her side.”
“From a bank?”
“Yes.”
“She has a bank?”
“Yes. The one in your village,” Daddy says.
“I don’t know it.”
“There was no bank when you were there. It just opened.”
“How did she get it before?”
“The man who brought you here paid her.”
“How much money does she get?”
“Every month,” Daddy replies, “she receives five hundred rupees.”
Ajay spins the figure in his head, calculating all the things she could buy.
They walk on. In the sun the branches seem to catch fire. The sweet scent of resin fills the air.
“Can I see her?” Ajay asks.
“Of course,” Daddy says, without missing a beat. “You can go anytime you want.”
“I’d like to see her,” Ajay replies.
“But if you go,” Daddy continues, “I’ll have to replace you and you won’t be able to come back, you realize that?”
The thought of another boy arriving to take his place drives fear in his heart.
“I can’t remember the way home,” Ajay finally says.
Silence.
“But can I talk to her on the phone?”
“Perhaps,” Daddy says, as if the thought had never occurred to him. “Does she have a phone?”
“I don’t know,” Ajay says.
“Even if she did, we don’t know the number.”
They dwell on this in mutual silence.
“What about the men who brought me here?” Ajay says. “Can we ask them?”
“They stopped coming years ago,” Daddy replies. The trail widens, they pass an abandoned machine, the smell of rust and old oil hangs in the air. “Aren’t you happy here?”