Child of the Sun

By Jagdish Saraf

When twenty-seven-year-old Karan White lands in a New York prison to serve a seven-year sentence, his cellmate, John, becomes curious about his life experiences. As Karan begins to share insight into his path to date, a fascinating story unfolds.

After he reveals he was born in India to a mother who was unable to care for him, Karan details how he traveled to the United States at age three where he was adopted by an American couple. As his story continues, Karan discloses his experiences in a new country where he struggled to fit in, met wonderful people, and battled a strong desire to one day meet his biological mother, Chameli, and learn why she abandoned him. When a chain of events eventually propels Karan down an unexpected path that leads him out of prison and into new beginnings, he finally launches a long-awaited search for his birth mother, with help from John, that takes him to the vast country of India where he hopes the truth awaits.

Child of the Sun is the tale of an Indian adoptee’s journey into manhood that ultimately leads him to dark places that fuel his desire to find his biological mother.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Balboa Press AU
• Release date: Aug 16, 2021
• ISBN: 9781982291518

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Copyright © 2021 Jagdish Saraf.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means,

graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by

any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author

except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views

expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the

views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

The author of this book does not dispense medical advice or prescribe the use of any

technique as a form of treatment for physical, emotional, or medical problems without the

advice of a physician, either directly or indirectly. The intent of the author is only to offer

information of a general nature to help you in your quest for emotional and spiritual well-

being. In the event you use any of the information in this book for yourself, which is your

constitutional right, the author and the publisher assume no responsibility for your actions.

ISBN: 978-1-9822-9150-1 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-9822-9151-8 (e)

Balboa Press rev. date: 08/06/2021

CONTENTS

Acknowledgements

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Epilogue

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Child of the Sun is a work of fiction; all the characters herein are imaginary. Many locations described herein are real, as are the mythological stories from India, the country of my birth.

There are some sexual references in the book, so it is not recommended for persons under the age of eighteen.

I’d like to thank my family, especially my wife, Dr. Madhu Saraf, my son Manish, and my daughter Payal, for all their encouragement and support during the creation of this story. I would also like to give a special thanks to my wife, Madhu, for creating the beautiful artwork for the cover of Child of the Sun. My sincere thanks to Kate O’Boyle for helping me tirelessly throughout the process of writing this book.

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CHAPTER 1

I sit in a small, dark room that is lit by only whatever sunrays make it through the small, dusty window. The window is sealed shut and caked in dust, making the air stale. In front of me sits a man in uniform, his lap piled with papers. He is silent, staring at me. I figure that he wants more information or confirmation about things he has been told about me. Or perhaps he is just passing the time, justifying his wages.

Hello, I am one of prison officers, he says. What are you doing here? You look like a nice guy. This is a prison for hardcore criminals, you know? Tell me, did you kill someone accidentally, or are you a victim of our justice system? He looks at me, waiting. I say nothing.

Let me get your details before I find your crime. He sorts through his papers. Name?

Karan Bradley White.

Interesting name. Is that Mexican or South American?

It originates from India.

An Indian in a maximum-security prison! The officer laughs.

Sir, I am an American.

That’s what all Mexican prisoners say! So, you have told me your place of birth. How long have you been living in the USA?

About twenty-seven years.

So you came here as a child, with your parents?

No. I came alone when I was three years old. I don’t remember much more than that.

Your address?

Attica Correctional Facility, New York.

Don’t play smart with me. I mean your address before you came to prison.

I was in a jail for fifteen months waiting for my court case to be over.

So you had a drug problem? What drugs were you taking?

I’ve never taken more than paracetamol—equivalent to acetaminophen—in my life, I hit back defensively.

OK, OK, we will talk one day about your crime, but for now you are going to be our guest for a little while. He looks at his papers. Says here you’re with us for a minimum of seven years before you are eligible for parole. … Seven years? Who did you kill?

No one, sir. I’d never hurt anyone. I don’t even eat meat.

You mean you don’t eat red meat? Anyhow, we will come to that later. Robbed someone, I suppose?

No, sir.

All right, what landed you in this place?

Sir, what does it matter? Do I have to tell you to get shelter in this place?

OK, some other time we will chat about it. The officer looks back to the papers. Says here that you have an MBA from Harvard. I don’t suppose you have heard about this hotel you are going to be staying at for the next seven years, eh?

I have no experience in any prison, sir.

This is a prison for notorious criminals, men who have committed murder, rape, and robbery. These cells were designed to house one prisoner each, but overcrowding means some have three or four men. It can get pretty rough out there. He pauses, smiling slightly. But we can look at getting you a single cell if you’d like? If we are on good terms with each other?

I promise to do no wrong. I’m wondering to myself what might be behind his offer.

No, I mean we need some favours from you.

I am not sure what you mean.

The officer looks irritated. You were born in India but are very naive. We want our palms to be warmed.

Sir, I have a warm hand and am happy to shake your hand anytime.

Are you fucking stupid? Angered, he tries another angle. All right, what was your last job?

Finance and banking.

What did you do exactly?

I moved lots of paperwork, entered lots of data on computers, and moved lots of money.

That’s what I’m talking about.

I have no money.

You must have some friends or family who can help you?

No relations and no friends.

You look like a nice guy. Stop playing games and come to the point. We need three hundred dollars a month from each person who wants a single cell, two hundred for a double, or one hundred dollars for a three-man cell. Otherwise there is no limit to the number of men in your cell.

Sir, believe me, I have no money. But I can promise to get you some when I get out.

We have heard those promises before. He looks disappointed but unsurprised; there can’t be many men here who can afford to pay what he demands.

All right, this is the bag that has all the clothes you are supposed to wear in this hotel. Put your clothes and your personal belongings in there for seven years of safekeeping, he mocks.

Suddenly a tall man with a big build and a loud voice comes in, forcing the interviewing officer to his feet. The latter salutes to his superior. Good afternoon, sir, he says.

The senior officer stares at me for a few seconds with piercing eyes. Your name? he demands.

Sir, Karan Bradley White.

Read a bit about your crime in the paper. So, you are the criminal with a brain. Maybe one day you will tell us your side of the story?

The interviewing officer whispers something to the senior officer.

What an interesting story: five hundred ninety-three million disappeared, and you are saying this man can’t pay a bit of money for the welfare of our families? I almost laugh when I hear that—five hundred ninety-three million. That’s how much I supposedly embezzled, but I have no idea where the money went. Not that being innocent is making this moment any easier.

I don’t believe it either, snipes the interviewing officer. He is not as innocent as he pretends.

Keep at it, the superior officer says, turning to leave.

Even God needs some return for the favours he does for people, the interviewing officer says, sitting back in his chair.

Sir, I know how to pray.

You look like a hard nut to crack.

A phone rings. The officer reaches into his jacket pocket and answers formally. He insists he has no money, sir. OK. Yes, sir. Maybe we should give him the benefit of the doubt? He is either dumb or very smart. Leave it to me, sir. I will allow a single cell for a short time. Yes, sir, I’ll keep an eye on him.

The officer turns towards me. I’ll give you one last chance. Come clean if you want a good stay in this five-star hotel!

I am telling the truth: I will get you every dollar you demand, and more, when I leave.

Pay back every penny one day, understand? Otherwise we have means to get money out of stone.

His phone rings again as another officer enters the room.

Yes, sir, the interviewing officer speaks into the phone. He turns to the other officer. "Take this Indian computer wiz to the changing room. Take his handcuffs off and show him to cell twenty-three.

You will now be referred to as prisoner number twenty-three, he explains to me as the other officer takes hold of my arm.

I am taken to the changing room, where I remove my clothes and hand them over, keeping my watch and glasses. The officer gestures to my watch, holding his hand open to receive it.

How will I know the time? I ask.

The officer closes his fist and punches me hard in my stomach. I double up in pain.

This is how we wake you up every morning, he jeers.

I’ve always been lean and never had lot of reserve fat on my stomach. Whatever little I did have had been lost in the last three years.

You look very skinny. The officer laughs. Looks like two arms hanging on a skeleton!

The officer walks me down the hall and unlocks the door to room twenty-three. As the door opens, I feel myself being punched in the back. The force pushes me into the room and onto my knees.

Any questions? the officer grumbles, looking down at me.

Sir, what are the dining arrangements? I like coffee a few times a day.

We can arrange everything if you tell me where you are hiding your millions, the officer offers with a raised brow.

I have no money.

Maybe you are hiding it in your rectum? He laughs. We will have to visit that area soon, computer boy. I’ll let you settle down for a few days first.

The officer shuts the door. The sound of an electronic lock and another heavy padlock echoes around me.

The cell is small and neat with a smooth concrete floor. At the back is a small window, about the size of a small computer screen, but with thick metal bars across it. From the window all that can be seen is a courtyard and the similar windows of other cells.

In the cell sits two single beds and a steel toilet with no lid. At the end of each bed sits a small table with a steel chair rammed underneath. Much to my surprise, there is a small cupboard fitted to the top of each desk, upon which sit some neatly arranged books and below which sits a diary and a pen. A photo frame waits empty.

I look up at the small window. Judging by the warm light, I know it’s late afternoon. I haven’t eaten for a long time. I reach down to check my stomach. Pain radiates from where the blow hit earlier, and I realize the pain has dulled my appetite. I lie down on the thin, lumpy mattress to nurse my stomach and exhaustion, waiting for the routine of this new hotel to reveal itself.

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CHAPTER 2

I was awakened from a deep sleep. My eyes were closed, but I could hear some noises and feel that someone was standing next to my bed. The person’s breathing revealed itself to be heavy as I awoke more to the sounds of the cell.

I peered through squinted eyes and made out a large man with big round shoulders and dark scarred skin. His eyes fixed on me, wide and curious, as if he had never seen an Indian man before in his life. I felt my throat closing up, shutting off my breathing. I knew I couldn’t keep my eyes closed forever.

The bed creaked as he sat beside me. God, what is he going to do to me? Has he been sent to find the millions they think I am hiding in my rectum?

Then I could feel his stale breath on my face. Should I scream? Would it even help?

I was so scared that my throat ached as if I had been screaming but with no sound coming out, as if in a dream. His face was inches from mine now, and I was convinced he would reach out and put his hand on my mouth to suffocate me. My body flinched, but I remained as still as possible. I didn’t know what was coming next as he sat on the edge of my bed. He took a moment to look at me and then stood up and muttered to himself, Same age. I finally felt it was all right to open my eyes a bit.

Now I saw him sitting on the side of his own bed with his eyes closed. He looked emotional, on the verge of crying. I now looked upon him with tightly shut eyes, both of us—him and me—trying to shut the world out.

Hello, my name is John Nash, the man finally mumbled. And you are?

Karan Bradley White, I offered hesitantly.

Karan? Like the child sent by the sun god?

Sun god? I said. I don’t know anything about that.

Oh well, never mind. What is important is something you need to remember: that this place is dangerous.

I let him continue. This is our world. This is our palace! he lamented. We have to share this space for a long time, Karan. Remember, you are in a dangerous place. The men here are serious criminals. You will have to learn to protect yourself from some of the animals in this place. There was no threat in his tone, only resolve and concern.

There is still one hour before dinner time. Have they given you something to eat yet?

A big punch in my stomach in place of a cup of coffee, I responded.

Upon hearing this, John reached under his mattress and pulled out a small jar. His thick hands popped the lid open. He offered me the cookies inside.

"Help yourself. There is a water tap on top of the toilet bowl if you’re thirsty.

You don’t look white or black. I thought you were South American when I first saw you, but I am guessing you’re Asian Indian. Am I right? he asked without offence but with a generous curiosity.

Yes. I suppose you can call me Indian by birth only. I didn’t care to elaborate at the moment.

What prisons have you been in before? John asked.

I’ve never been to any prisons before.

My God. John looked at me. "A first offence and they send you to this hell? And by the looks of you, you small thing, I’m not sure you will get out alive.

Do you have any contacts outside prison who might be able to offer you some protection? John offered gently.

I have no money and no political contacts.

No mafia connections? One only ends up in here for murder or drug trafficking, so you must know someone?

Nothing. I don’t even know how one gets a mafia connection.

My God. I’m not sure what you did, but it must have been one big mistake to end you up in this place. How many months will you be here?

Seven years. I choked on the time. These few hours had been the longest of my life, and the enormity of seven years was beginning to hit me.

He reached back into the cookie jar, bringing out a broken stale piece. We will get to know each other slowly over the coming months, he offered. The company of good friends is the only way to go through life, and in here it’s the only way to survive. You rest now. I’ll say my prayers before dinner is called.

A gong rang six times. I finally anchored myself in time: six o’clock, dinner time.

Padlocks clanged in the hallway outside as the cells were unlocked electronically by the hall guards. Men piled into the hallway. They waited outside their cells as guards armed with Tasers and batons shouted at the prisoners to line up and fold their hands behind their heads. This awkward stance was held as the men, me and John included, marched towards the dining room. A small man with a greasy ponytail turned his head to talk to his cellmate behind him. I heard a thud and a shout and saw the man’s body collapse and fall away from the line. I peered around the line of men and saw he had been hit by one of the guards, the butt of the guard’s gun lingering above the writhing body as if threatening to finish the job. The men marched in silence.

At the end of the corridor we entered a big mess hall. Tables and chairs sat in rows, endless lines of them, enough to seat five hundred or more prisoners. The hall was bright and shone with floor polish and fresh white paint. We lined up and received our meals, served from big shiny steel pots.

I followed John to his table like a tentative child. My new face had already attracted attention. Men were looking at me as if a new bride had come to the village. The seats around us filled up with curious, enthusiastic men. The large balding man at the table behind ours joked about John having a pretty new playmate. I kept my head down and tried to figure out what type of food I had been served. It was grey and lumpy, some sort of meat, but certainly indiscernible. My first gourmet meal in my new Hotel Manhattan. The other prisoners continued to whistle and pass comments. Although this was new to me, I knew enough to feel uncomfortable and exposed.

Other inmates shook my hand and patted my shoulder in an affectionate welcome, introducing themselves one by one. I was struck by nicknames such as Jerk, Bulldog, and Cannon, a strange combination of comedy and threat.

So, you’re John’s new chick? a brutish, heavily tattooed man called across the table. Careful, his dick pours poisonous liquid.

A large older man seated to my left reassured me against the men’s taunts. Hey, computer kid, you are lucky to have John as your cellmate. He’s a gentleman. Everyone calls him ‘Father John.’ I’m Kevin, by the way. He offered his hand. I shook it. You can talk to me if anyone bothers you. Kevin must have been in his late fifties. His cheeks were marked with knife scars, but his face was broad and open. His shaved head shone under the overhead fluorescent lights. He carried himself with a calmness despite his rugged appearance. I wondered how he had acquired such composure in a place like this.

Let me tell you, Kevin continued. You look lost in thought, which is dangerous in a place like this. Stay alert and keep your wits about you. … Here, have my spoon. You need three things to survive in this place: a good appetite, exercise, and some friends to watch your back. I feared I had none of what Kevin advised, but I nodded my head reassuringly while taking his proffered spoon.

A fat older man leaned over and asked, Where are you from, Afghanistan? You some kind of terrorist?

A woman once told me my skin was the colour of wheat.

If you were eating wheat, my friend, you wouldn’t be so skinny! Come and join us in the gym later and we can work on your physique. He laughed, elbowing my tender stomach. How old are you, fella? Twenty-four, twenty-five?

I will be thirty next week. I regretted this instantly as the table filled with song. Happy Birthday echoed throughout the hall, attracting even more dangerous attention. I winced and took a sip of my weak warm tea.

The commotion was halted by a loud whistle, which rang out from the guard standing at the doorway. That’s enough! he shouted. The men quietened faster than I had expected. The prisoner next to me snickered as he pointed at my leg. Looking down, I saw that the cotton drill of my right pants leg was torn. Dipping my fingers into the hole produced a small amount of blood. I had been scratched, not wounded, but the message was clear.

After a few minutes, another gong rang. I followed the men out to the exercise ground, nursing my pride. We were given thirty minutes of fresh air before being locked in our cells for the evening.

Once back in our cell, I felt the relief of being almost alone. John lay on his bed and opened a large bound book.

Do you want something to read? He looked at me, perhaps wondering if I could.

I can’t say I’ve read too many books in my life. My life revolved around my PC.

You haven’t got much chance of getting a computer in here, my friend. And even if you were granted access, there isn’t any Wi-Fi.

A computer without Wi-Fi is like a book with empty pages inside.

Karan, you need to learn to read real books in here—something to take your mind off this place, somewhere you can escape when things get too much.

What kind of books do you read, Father John?

Ah, so you know my nickname, eh? Well, I read lots of religious books these days.

What religion do you follow?

Ah well, I was christened as a child, but now I follow the Universal Brotherhood.

What is that? Sound like some sort of cult.

I’m not one for religion. I chose it because it is a belief system that understands that all religions are great. The problem is a group of people who interpret the world according to what suits them and their desire for power—whatever will boost their position and feed their egos. As we approach the later years in our lives, we understand religion as serving different purposes. We seem to live in a world where we are getting more confused as we are bombarded with more information. We know more, and at the same time we feel more lost than ever.

A bell rang. The lights in the cell shut to black, and a dim light revealed itself from outside our cell.

Able to hear deep, rhythmic snoring, I determine it is coming from John’s bed. I will have to learn to sleep to this background music.

After a disjointed night of sleep, the morning entered the cell with a soft light peeping in through the window. I tried to wake up and couldn’t help but feel the need for a Starbucks coffee. John was sitting upright in the lotus position at the end of his bed in what can only be some sort of attempt at prayer or meditation.

He didn’t flinch when seven gongs chimed—a morning alarm which was met by a flurry of noise and movement in the corridor. The men rushed into the hall as their doors were unlocked. John’s and my cell, at the end, opened last, allowing the commotion of the other men to settle somewhat before we made our way into the hall.

At breakfast it seemed many of the inmates were still trying to get acquainted with my face. Curiosity continued to reign as some men continued to ask of my origins while others voiced concern for my ability to survive here.

After breakfast we were led into the exercise yard for a more sustained period than last night. An hour and a half was scheduled for exercise during the day. I sat on the side of the courtyard to get my bearings. To my surprise, I saw John leading a small group who wanted to do yoga amidst the shouts and flying balls from the basketball court opposite. The activities were watched over by armed guards who were positioned on the outside of the courtyard fence. There was also a watchtower that sat to the far left of the yard, where I could make out two guards with guns pacing its perimeter.

Suddenly, a scuffle broke out between two men whose respective groups started punching each other. The men were shouting at each other, one accusing the other of a foul. The teams exchanged insults, and the accused banged his hand against the fence in outrage. The first punch was thrown by a small man. Teams were difficult to distinguish as each player wore a variation of the same prison-issued uniform. Despite his meagre size, the man’s punch broke the nose of another, causing blood to pour down his chin. Quick to defend the assaulted man, a much larger team member picked up and threw the small man against the wire fence, buckling the structure and bringing the attention of the while yard to the unfolding fight. Men gathered round, hollering and pushing to get a good view. A guard’s whistle broke the tension, and the other guards walked over lazily to join him. Cut that out or you’ll do solitary for a week! a fat, sweaty guard on my right shouted. This quietened the men somewhat, but I suspected the matter would be taken up by the men later, out of sight. The men seemed comfortable with testing the limits of the rules but were cautious not to push too far.

Another siren blew, and the gong chimed nine times. Nine o’clock: the call for the men to shower. I tried to find John amongst the crowd but couldn’t, so I followed the men into the bathrooms, where I undressed down to my underpants. I found an empty shower cubicle and felt relief when the warm water hit my face and body. A momentary reprieve as my eyes closed. I could be anywhere. I turned around to wash the back of my head but was met by two large muscular bodies. You understand the language of love, or do you like to be forced? the smaller of the two asked me with a smile. Don’t behave innocently, little boy. You are in the company of starved men.

Look at this, a fat sweaty man shouted, pulling my shoulders down so I was forced to bend over. The men slapped and grabbed at my arse. K and C, the men taunted, repeating the letters that were tattooed above each butt cheek.

"What do the letters K and C stand for?" a smaller, weedy-looking man shouted.

Kiss and cum! one shouted.

Nah, nah, kill and cut! the larger one shot back.

At this, they all launched at me. One held my arms to my body as the other reached for my underpants. As they pulled my underpants off, a scream escaped from my mouth. Then they seemed to stop. I felt a sense of relief as I saw the guard. Fear engulfed me as I heard the guard’s comment: Careful, he might be a virgin. Then he passed by, unconcerned. During the struggle, the men had my body jammed in the corner of the cubicle.

We will be gentle if you cooperate, I heard the larger one grunt. And then suddenly, I felt the pressure from around my body ease as my arms were released. I turned around to face John.

I have first go; he’s my cellmate. John stood against the larger man, his chest puffed up.

John pulled me out from between the two men as I struggled to pull up my underwear and compose myself. What are you doing? He was angry. Computer boy only ever comes to the shower when I am around.

I showered quickly. The ten o’clock gong rang. It was work time. I was met by a uniformed guard who took me into an interview room to assess what type of work I was suited for. After a long interview, he decided I was good for bookwork and that I would look after the accounts in the kitchen and commissary.

The rest of the day was like a blur. At one o’clock was lunch, followed at two o’clock by learning and basic education, followed by dinner, exercise, and sleep. I settled into the sobering realization that this would be my daily routine for the next seven years in this New York hotel.

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CHAPTER 3

A few days had passed in my new residence. My appearance continued to draw attention. Inmates circled me like vultures, but I felt safe that none would step out of line without the consent of Father John. More powerful amongst the inmates than the prison superintendent, John has been earned the respect of the men because of his strong, confident resolve.