Aunt Tara was a widow of modest means who lived in a small town far from the big city in India where we lived. So when she wrote to my dad, asking him to look for an inexpensive place for her youngest son to stay and attend college, we offered him a place in our spacious downtown apartment.

Biju, quiet and shy, was a pleasant person. I gladly shared my room with him and we quickly became friends. Something bizarre happened five months later. Biju went out one afternoon, saying he would meet a friend near the railway station. He did not return.

We called his friends and acquaintances; then we checked with the local hospitals. When nothing turned up, we called the police. Since I knew him best, I took the lead in the fruitless search, and it fell to me to inform his mother.

Aunt Tara listened to me gravely, without a single interruption, then softly pleaded, “Please get Biju
back to me.”

I persisted with the search for several months, talked to the police, placed notices and offered rewards in the newspaper. Finally I located a local trader who had encountered Biju close to the railway station. But that was all. We
had no clue as to what happened next to Biju. The police closed the case.

Disheartened but dutiful, I undertook a trip to visit aunt Tara and explained in detail the effort that had been made and the scant result it had produced. There was now no alternative but to abandon the search and simply hope for a lucky
break.

Aunt Tara did not say a word till the end, “Please get Biju back to me.”

No lucky break ever came. I could not face aunt Tara and tried to avoid her at family gatherings. At a wedding I could not help encountering her and politely asked how she was. She in turn asked about my family, and then, with a
pause, quietly asked, “Any news?”

I shook my head ruefully and passed on.

In the next twenty years, I came across her another four or five times, and each time,after we had talked about other things, she would pause and simply look at me. I knew she was gently inquiring without articulating the question, and I would shake my head in mute response.

Aunt Tara died of cardiac problems at 89, in the house of her daughter, who had brought her to town to see a specialist. I drove over to see her and happened to be with her in the last hour.

As I sat next to her bed, holding her hand and answering her questions about my children, there was a pause, and she looked earnestly at me and murmured, “Please get Biju back.”