The whole saga of sin and redemption and forgiveness and especially the promise of eternal life unhindered by the bothersome repetition of reincarnation appealed to Vikrant in a way that his own religion never had. Besides, there was also the example of devoted Catholics like Elka, that beautiful little blond Swedish girl whose father worked at the Embassy. He had first seen her one morning at daily Mass. Not everyone went to Mass during the week, but she could always be counted on to be there. Before long, Vikrant had established a routine of positioning himself directly behind her in the small chapel. He was deeply impressed by her air of demure piety, and of course her hair. The early morning sunlight shining through the stained glass windows (the building housing the chapel had been left behind in the 1940s by Episcopalians who had bailed out when the British had given up on India) had reflected from her golden tresses and thrilled Vikrant, driving him to “unhealthy distractions and possibly an occasion of sin” as his advisor Father Brendan O’Malley had later put it to him.

The young Indian despaired that he could ever be attractive to such a goddess, but after weeks of dedicated rehearsals of opening lines—a few of the best retrieved from a careful Google search—he mustered the courage to ask her to share a cup of tea with him—and maybe a samosa? It did not take Elka long to show him that his fears were wholly justified. Not only that, he became an object of ridicule in the way that so readily happens in a small school full of adolescents eager for scapegoats. They began to call him “King Leer” after Elka, in a way that seemed to Vikrant sadly inconsistent with her pious demeanor and daily reception of the Blessed Sacrament, had spread the story that “he used to breathe down the back of my neck at Mass and who knows what else that Muslim was thinking about?”

Vikrant was uncertain which had offended him the most—the lies about the breathing part or the slanderous accusation of him being a Muslim—but by the middle of his sophomore year, tired of embarrassment and persecution, he had reached out to Father O’Malley for help. The priest was just what Vikrant needed, a gentle father figure so different from his own stern, demanding parents. Father Brendan O’Malley was known affectionately among the students as “Father B.” He had entered the priesthood in Ireland as an older man after having spent a number of years “in the world” as he put it.

Father B’s background gave him a certain air of authority as a man who had experienced life out there in “the world” but had nevertheless chosen ultimately a vocation in which he had dedicated himself to the spiritual and moral development of young people. And he was a “regular guy” too, not some stuffy academic. He had spent some time, according to his own account, as a magician in a traveling circus. Vikrant could never figure out how Father could do those amazing tricks, especially when the priest would dig deep into Vikrant’s pockets and draw out a missing card.

Towards the end of that academic year, Vikrant had made up his mind. Father B had made a convincing case, and Vikrant was baptized and received Communion in a brief ceremony in the school chapel. He didn’t tell his parents. They only found out a few weeks later when they received a bill for expenses related to administering the two sacraments.

Father Brendan O’Malley gave him strength to endure their wrath, reassuring him that he was now a member of the Body of Christ, and all things were possible. When Vikrant returned for his Junior Year, he was dismayed to find that Father B was no longer the chaplain. According to the terse announcement on the bulletin board the beloved priest had “taken another assignment.” Although Vikrant was eager to work on his spiritual development with Father “B,” no forwarding address was made available…