As was customary, when our friend SD’s ship sailed into Bombay Harbor, my mother, brother and I visited his ship. As we headed towards the bridge, we saw two havaldars on either side of a bespectacled boy in manacles. My mother was immediately drawn to his curly mop and sad eyes. She couldn’t wait to ask our friend about him.

Christopher had stowed away on an Indian ship from Kolkata, by hiding in the hold. When the ship’s crew discovered him, they were in Turkey, a country known to mete out severe punishment to offenders. When the captain found another Indian ship in the same port, he asked for a meeting. With the connivance of the shipping agents and humane maritime officials, SD managed to get Christopher to India; where he would be remanded in custody. Each port of call, Christopher was in manacles; on high seas he was free to walk about escorted. Before he was led away SD had asked about what action would be taken and as far as he and the former master were concerned Christopher was a well behaved stowaway.

Before he was led away, SD introduced him to us, asked me for my visiting card. He told Christopher to contact me when his prison term was over and collect a parcel. SD told us his story and requested that we help rehabilitate him. Before they sailed, he gave me an envelope with some cash and a bag of clothes and toiletries for Christopher, when he came out.

Christopher was a product of a dysfunctional home, in Kolkata. He was cared for by his maternal grandmother, his father had abandoned them when he was very young. He felt, his parents weren’t married. His mother was a female escort for the seamen. One day, she just packed her bags and left for Australia with her friend. She sent an occasional cheque and a card on birthdays and Christmas. The grandmother put him through school, after he passed out of school, he would do odd jobs. Then his grandmother passed away. Rootless, homeless and a few non-caring relatives, rather than hear their barbs, he decided to stowaway. Was he hoping to get in touch with his mother?

In prison, he was befriended by Ahuja who was serving a term for embezzling the railway employees’ fund. When Christopher was released, he had nowhere to go. His cell mate had been released a month before and assured him he would come to get him. He did so and took him home in a distant suburb.

Months after I first met him, Christopher came to my office. A gaunt, young man stood in front of me with another man, who he introduced as his cell mate, and now his host. The shifty looking stranger kept interrupting Christopher, trying to reassure me that he was like a family member. Something made me not tell Christopher about the money, but I told him that the Captain had left some clothes and his diary which he had left behind on the ship and that he should come to the office to collect it.

Two days later, Christopher came alone, looking upset. He said that he was made to feel unwanted by Ahuja’s family; his host was back to nefarious activities and had his hand in a chit fund till. Christopher wanted to move out. Christopher had been let out before time because of good conduct. A friend got him temporary shelter in the Bishop’s house. But he had to be out during the day.

Fortunately, my mother’s school was on vacation, so she was around to familiarize my grandfather and the servants with Christopher. My grandfather was at first reticent, till my mother told him Christopher’s story. Gradually, the wall crumbled. Christopher called him Ompa (Grandfather) and finally my grandfather called him a Parsi endearment ‘Dikra’ (son). They even served each other at lunch and tea. Each day, as he would leave, Papa would bless him and say ‘Fateh kar’, a blessing for protection, usually reserved for my brother and me.

When he would visit my office, for his pocket expenses, an intrinsic quality drew my colleagues to him. One day, the Deputy Editor of Blitz (I was working for the group) observed him in the reception poring over the Blitz file. He got talking to Christopher and told him to write about his experiences. He sat in a corner of the Blitz editorial department and wrote in neat writing. To everyone’s astonishment he turned in a well written, heart tugging piece. It was published with his photograph. He proudly showed it to my mother and the rest of my family. A few weeks later, when he received his remuneration, he gave my mother a bunch of roses, they reminded him of his grandmother, he shared.

Soon our friend got Christopher an apprenticeship at the Mazagon Docks and lodgings in a hostel for working youth. Christopher’s daily visits stopped, but he would come visit us on his weekly off. Gradually, the visits petered down to once a month.

It was before Christmas, when one evening the door bell rang and there stood a closed cropped Christopher, gold rimmed spectacles a bright green polyester shirt four buttons undone, brown trousers, boots and Old Spice aroma. He gave my mother a bunch of roses and a Christmas cake gift wrapped. He started looking around while talking with Mum, my brother and me. Very awkwardly he asked: “Where is Ompa? Is he inside?”, looking towards the inner rooms. We told him Papa had passed away three weeks before. He was silent for a while. We talked some more. We asked him to join us for dinner. But he excused himself.

When he walked out of our house, we felt we would never see Christopher again. We never did. But he touched all our lives.