The Ben Mulroney Show - Listen Next... Stop Rewind: The Lost Boy | Through A Glass Darkly | 1

Episode Date: October 18, 2025

Taj Khyber Rowland knows he’s not who people think he is but he can’t quite remember how his life went so off course. He decides to spool backwards, to his younger self. A daredevil seven year old Chellamuthu, living happily, but in abject poverty, with his large family in rural India. But when Chellamuthu disobeys his mother and goes to play at the bus station, he’s persuaded to board a bus with some bigger boys. He’s kidnapped. And there’s no going back. Contact: Facebook: ⁠⁠⁠@BlanchardHouseStories⁠⁠⁠ Instagram: ⁠⁠⁠@BlanchardHouseStories⁠⁠⁠ X (formerly Twitter): ⁠⁠⁠@BlanchardTweets⁠⁠⁠ Blanchard House website: ⁠⁠⁠blanchard-house.com⁠⁠ Listen to Stop Rewind: The Lost Boy early and ad-free by subscribing to Curiouscast Discovery on Apple Podcasts! Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

This podcast is brought to you by the National Payroll Institute, the leader for the payroll profession in Canada, setting the standard of professional excellence, delivering critical expertise, and providing resources that over 45,000 payroll professionals rely on. It's Christmas time in Utah, 1979 and a small boy is singing

into a cassette recorder he's putting everything he's got into his performance he likes hearing the sound of his voice on the tape he likes having an audience then he stops he doesn't want to sing

anymore he wants to talk there's something Really important the child needs to say, something he once put on record in his own language. But he's frightened, because it's a secret he's not supposed to tell. He's been warned never to speak about it. It's a painful secret and a shocking one.

And the little boy doesn't really want to remember it at all, but he knows he has to remember. He has to leave a trace before it's too late. This is the most important speech he will make in his entire life. Because imprinted onto the magnetic coating of the tape are the last grainy flecks and wisps of the child's memory. Scratched sounds and muffled phrases that still makes sense to him. These are the last words the scared little boy will speak in his mother tongue.

And buried somewhere in the hiss and drop out of the recording are the clues to who this boy is and how he got here, thousands of miles from home, torn away from every. everyone he's ever known. So what he can't understand is why no one's listening to him? Why that cassette's being put back into its hard little plastic box

and tidied away? It'll be many, many years before the child will hear that tape again. And by the time he does, everything will have changed. You're making me remember things that I don't want to remember. What's your name? From Curious cast and Blanchard House,

This is Stop Rewind. The Lost Boy. I'm Emma Jane Kirby. through a glass darkly. You're the guest today. No, no, this is perfect. I like it. I like a little cadet.

I haven't had vegetable briani in a really long time. It's Sunday lunchtime at the Rowland's family home in Utah. Vegetable birriani and matapaneer. And Tage is at his happiest because both his daughters are home, and he just loves to tease them. How's your boyfriend? I wish, that'd be great. It's the kind of designer

family everyone wants to be part of. They live in a charming and tastefully decorated home with fresh flowers in every room. Tage is a handsome, successful businessman in his early 50s, an entrepreneur with a whole host of software and import-export enterprises which take him all over the globe. And he's been married for 28 years to a rather beautiful woman who's probably the best cook in Utah. His daughters are stunning and talented, too. They're also quite dutiful, even washing the dishes without being asked. From the outside, it looks like Tash has got it all.

He's popular, he's confident, and he's funny. The kind of person people are drawn to at a party. He's very sociable, and he is able to. to make friends easily. That's Taj's wife, Priya. But he has very few close friends that he would actually let his feelings out to besides me and the girls. Because Taj is kind of complicated.

You see, on the one hand, Taj is just a happy-go-lucky, all-American guy. But on the other hand, Taj is also quite different. I don't trust anybody. So it's difficult for me to, I don't know, I don't know. Would you trust somebody after you're going through what I've gone through? It's just that life hasn't always been smooth sailing.

I'm surprised I haven't, I'm not in jail somewhere, to be honest with you. Because Taj hasn't always lived in Utah. He hasn't always lived in America. He started out somewhere very different. Oh, geez. You're opening up a whole can of work. worms. The past, his past, is somewhere Taj doesn't generally like to revisit. He's reluctant to go there, even more so in public. These are conversations I never do, right? I mean, I just have to

keep it inside. And so that's, you know, that's what I've been doing all my life. That's how I live. That's my life. So why start raking over dust that settled decades ago? It's because the past keeps nagging at Taj, keeps tugging him backwards. And as he gets older, he feels its pull more intensely. He can sense that there's something he lost along the way, something that's still missing. Things that I've chosen to forget about, those memories started to float in.

I wanted to remember. So he's decided he's going to hear. decided he's going to hit rewind. He's going to spool through all his old suppressed memories. But once he starts on this journey, there'll be no turning back. I was kind of scared. I wasn't really prepared for it. Tamil Nadu's southern India, 1979, and we're in a city that sprawls across the banks of a river.

It's patchwork of pastures and factories shimmering in a haze of heat. This place is becoming well known for textile manufacturing, but there's still plenty of agriculture. Scrawny cows and donkeys weave in and out of the traffic, and the fields are thick with turmeric plantations. You can smell their spice in the air. By the side of the road, women in brightly colored sari's haggle at the small vegetable markets. Pop-bellied barefoot children clustered around the man who's chopping coconuts. They're watching for any juicy slivers his machete might let fly.

I was a little boy in poverty. I remember being hungry quite a bit. And among those children hoping for coconut pieces is Taj. He's aged around six, maybe seven years old. We were of low cast. We were the ones that ran around without shirts and clothes. My home was like a rented small mud hut, coconut branches on top as a roof, mud floors.

We slept on coconut leaves kind of mesh together and you'd lay it down and then you would sleep on that. We'd cook on open fires. Every day we were looking out for firewood to cook the meals. I still remember my mom would be cooking in the middle of this room. It's the simplest of homes, but she keeps it spotless. My mom was a very proud woman. Along with his parents, Tars She said,

the mud hut with a big brother, a little sister, and a baby brother. The extended family living in the nearby countryside seems endless. There are countless aunts and uncles and cousins galore. So huge, but I remember spending a lot of time out in these villages, right? In the farming community, and so yeah, I have a lot of good memories. In fact, his neighborhood is so closely knit that young Taj isn't entirely sure where family ends and friends begin. There's this community that they take care of each other. The village really becomes your family.

But families can be tricky, and things at home aren't always rosy or even safe. Taj's childhood is sometimes brutal. I don't have too many memories of my father, but I know that he used to carry me and my sister on his shoulders, one on each side, and I think that must have been when he was sober. While Taj's mother Arai works day and night in a text, textile factory to feed her family, Taj's father drinks his wages. And then he steals her money

to go on binges. I know my father was drunk. And although he's still small, Tage is very protective of his mother. I was such a kind of a strong kid that when my father would be drunk and come to beat my mom, that I would chuck rocks at him. Taj isn't just a tough kid. He's also smart. At the makeshift informal school in Taj's neighbourhood, he's learned to write and read his name in Tamil and to do sums. But his attendance is pretty irregular.

His father's alcoholism means the family's income is precarious. So when there isn't enough money, Taj often has to skip class to work. At age seven, he's employed at the local sesame oil factory. It's very hot You got the oil dripping And you have that smell, the grimy, the dirt I can still smell the sesame and cloth So my job was to start collecting

And put it into these cloth sacks And I like that job Because I ended up eating the sesame I don't know if it was really good But I know that I did eat quite a bit of that his other work costs him dearly he helps his mum and his aunt grind wheat for bread he holds the hollowed-out granite bull still

while his mum lifts the huge stone pestle to start pounding but one time Taj gets distracted and so my fingers were just turned into hamburger as it came crashing down on top There's no hospital for miles, so to cauterize the bleed, his aunt sticks his fingers in the fire. And then after it was all barbecued, they took a small knife and cut it, cut off the barbecued portion. And so now I've got two disfigured fingers. Brutal.

But he continues to work, and his other jobs are fun. Papadie, the widowed landlady who owns Taj's mud hut, has cows and long-horned oxen. She's got a bit of a soft spot for plucky Taj. So she sometimes asks him to herd the cattle for her. I still remember this. As a young boy, my job was to take them into, near the river, take them, and then I'd come back. You could actually stand on them and you'd mush him along. I remember that so vividly. It was a freedom.

It was also a challenge. And I was doing something that the other kids were too scared to do and I was doing it. Everyone knows Taj in the village. The spirited little boy who's up for everything, be it driving cows through a river or dancing at a feast. The landowner, Papati, her daughter, got married, and so they had a big party.

And I remember being so excited because it's like three or four days of celebration and food left and right. And this Papati moment, she was so kind to all the children. But yeah, there's some good memories I have. So despite the hardship, happy, it's these vivid, happy memories that make Taj nostalgic for his early life, for that sense of belonging. The Indian family is so there's this genuine love.

It's knowing that you're truly love for who you are. And that boy in Tamil Nadu in the late 1970s really was loved. But his name's not Taj, and he was never meant to end up in America. Even though I have a wonderful life, I mean, God has been so amazingly good to me. It makes me wonder, you know, what that boy's life would have become. Because that boy, his life's about to take... a very different turn. I can't understand anything.

Fast forward to Utah, 2024, the place that Taj has called home for the better part of 45 years. And although he loves his family, time and the comfort of his house, he just can't shake off the feeling that this is not where he's meant to be. You could ask my wife and my children even now, I don't have much joy when I'm in the States. Because behind all the brash confidence and bluster is someone far more fragile. Just ask him his name and his whole identity crumbles.

Which name would you like? I mean, I have two different names. I have the name, of course, that I was given at birth, and then there's also the name that I was given by my adopted parents. So which one would you like? Taj Khyber-Roland. Or choose, if you want, Chalamutu Kupaswami.

Salamu. My salamuatu. Taj is Chalamutu, the distressed little boy who recorded the cassette tape all those years ago, insisting on his name. But somewhere along the line, Chalamutu got separated from Tage. Somehow, Chalamutu got lost. Yes, his scratchy voice still floats up from the tape, but it whispers in a language that Tari Taj no longer speaks or understands, and that disconnect runs deep. When Taj speaks of Chalamutu, he often refers to him in the third person,

as if Chalamutu isn't really him at all. Chalamutu, I'm still searching for him. I don't think I'll ever find him. Taj is haunted by Chalamutu, or at least by the guilt of turning his back on him. The first seven, eight, nine, ten years of my life I was Chalamutu, and then, I kind of kicked him out of my memories and stuffed him in a box. There's not much left, just fragments. Some of them are in joyful technicolor.

Others are faded, too faint to make sense of, or too painful. Because festering in the depths of Taj's mind are some dark and ugly images. These are the memories that Taj can't allow to surface. These are the ones he weighs down with stones. You've got to forget who you were. You have to kind of just shut it off. It's almost like auto-delete. I don't even know who I am.

I'm truly lost. Let's go back to January 1979. Back to Tamil Nadu's southern India, where Taj, well, let's give him his real name now. where Chalamutu is getting quite a reputation for himself. He's famous for being fearless. He's lost a front tooth falling from a tree. He can outrun any other boy in his neighbourhood.

Backwards. He loves the new swing park and the entry fees no barrier for him. He just sneaks in at nightfall when the security guard's gone home, climbing over the railings or squeezing under the fence. And once inside the park, he swings so hard. high that the chains groan and squeal. It was a little bit of a daredevil. That daredevilness got me into trouble a few times.

Unlike most spirited small boys, Chalamutu wants to play with the big boys. You know, it's always the younger brother wanting to tag along with the older boys. And so as younger boys, you want to have acceptance. So when he follows his older brother Silveredge and his friends, he's out to prove himself, especially when it comes to dares.

I was being egged on, and so I jumped into the river, and unfortunately I got into an area where the current was a little bit stronger, and I was being pulled away, and I didn't know how to swim. And to make things worse, we have a lot of snakes in India, and my friends were all shouting pambu, pambu and tamum and snake. And so I still remember a small snake coming across. I don't know if it's dangerous or whatever it is, but I think the fear of other kids shouting, and I don't know if it was my older brother

or another friend who could swim, jumped in, and he came and got me. But it's not just wanting to impress his peers that drives Chalamutu to pull dangerous stunts. He's driven by something much more powerful. So the hunger was constant. With both parents out working, Chalemotu has to fend for himself until his mother comes home. Hunger drives a child to do anything.

The desperate need to fill his belly means Chalemotu often wanders a little too far from home. Out into the busy main road with its cars and trucks and auto rickshores. Past the playground and the swing park, past a man chopping coconuts. As far as the noisy, teeming bus station, which is no place for a small child. We were constantly playing around or near that bus area. On the other side of the bus station is a small restaurant. Through the steamed up window, the hungry child watches

people eating and waits. In India, in southern India, we eat off banana leaves. That becomes our plate. And normally, after everybody eats, you just fold up the banana leaf and you go and put it outside. And the second diners throw their waste into the trash can, Chalamotu fishes it out. I hate even thinking about it or even talking about it.

It kind of gnaws at me that I, I oftentimes, in the evening, even when I was hungry, I used to go sort through these old banana leaves and pick up the rough use and that would feed me. Neighbors and family friends regularly spot Chalamotu scavenging through the garbage. They also see him at the bus station at dusk, stealing fruit when the fruit cellars have closed their wooden slatted stalls for the night. At night, the vendors would just take all the fruit

and put it inside and lock it up. front to back and folds in and lock it up. Well, as a six, seven, eight-year-old boy, my hands were just skinny enough that it could stick into the slats. Chelemutu's groping little fingers find jackfruit, bananas, mangoes, and guava. If we figured out that if we just squished it enough,

you can pull your fruit out and steal. Inevitably, Chalamutu's mother Arayi learns what her son's been up to. and she's mortified with shame. Her sons don't eat from trash cans and they don't take what isn't theirs. But most importantly, they never stray far from home, especially after dark.

I knew that my mother loved me. Maybe it's because he was strict. That might be the reason I knew that she loved me. And Chalamutu's mother's going to teach him a lesson to remind him never to wander off again. I have stuff on my body to this day to show you how strict my mother was, because on my feet, you'll find that there are scars on the tops of my feet,

two long scars on my right foot. The punishment Arai dishes out is horrifying. She took a hot coal from the cooking stove and placed it on the tops of my feet. In 1970s rural India, brutal corporal punishment was common. It was an accepted way of. teaching a wayward child right from wrong. So as a parent, thinking about doing that, again, that's horrifying, and I'd be probably

put into prison for doing it. But in India, it happens. So when Taj looks at his scars today, he doesn't see them as the markings of child abuse. He sees them simply as a cultural difference, far removed from the comfort of his American life, but still a real physical link to his Indian past. This scar on my body reminds me constantly of Chalamutu. And it's never made him question his mother's love. She actually loved me very much. That's a true definition of tough love.

At just seven years old, Chalamutu still doesn't have a full understanding of risk. But his mother does. And unlike Chalamutu, Arayi knows. that not everyone in the village looks out for everyone else, and that in poor communities like theirs, there are those who will do anything for a little money. Because sometimes in this city, children who go wandering mysteriously disappear,

and they never come back. But if Arai ever explained this to Chalamutu, clearly he didn't take it in. Because however earnestly he promises his mother to be good, Chalamutu, well, he just can't stay still. That boy was, he was a very curious boy. He didn't like to be sitting at home all the time. Despite the warnings, despite the punishment,

Chelemutu's wanderlust wins out. And when he gets bored of practising running backwards, of mushing cows across the river, or sneaking into the swing park, he goes to his other favourite hangout. Despite his mother's warnings, he goes back to the crowded bus station. It's a hectic, rowdy place, swarming with impatient commuters pushing and shoving to get to their bus stand. The small shirtless boy getting caught up in among their legs, he's just a nuisance. But somebody notices Chalamutu, someone who's been waiting for him to show up. When I was in the bus stand, there were spotters.

Spotters. People who watch the heaving crowds. And those spotters identified what kids were constantly. playing in that area and who was stealing or whatever it might have been. Children, like Chalamutu, easy targets for easy money. Those individuals weren't making a lot of money, but they were rewarded for bringing a child that's living on the streets. There's that revenue stream for them. Where do they take those children?

Chalamutu doesn't know anything about spotters. about spotters. He doesn't know they're looking for children like him. So he doesn't feel any danger when they approach him. He just sees some bigger boys. I know the two of them were much older than I was. And it's at this point that Taj's memory begins to fail him. Just as things are turning ugly.

Those memories are, perhaps it's because I'm just trying to shut that out. And I don't remember the real details. Chalemotu knows he should go home. But at the same time, he's flattered to be part of the big boys' gang. Plus, he's hungry again, and these young men have snacks. So they have no trouble persuading Chalamutu to get on a bus with them. And when Tage really thinks about it now, One of those older boys, he's somehow familiar.

I have a sense that I saw this person multiple times. They must have been kind and giving me food or something of that nature. And that's why I believe that I got on the bus. I wouldn't say willingly, but somehow I was coerged to get on. And it's easy to manipulate a small child. Who is sitting beside Chalamutu? Even now, four and a half decades later, Taj is too scared to look.

I really, to be honest, I really don't want to remember the real details of how I was taken because the way that I am built is if something gets stuck in my head, good or bad, I still just go after it. and I was grateful that I don't remember the details because if suddenly if a name or a face popped into my head, I think I'd be a...

I'd be chasing something that I shouldn't be chasing. Regardless, it's too late. Chalamutu has boarded the bus. And the doors are closing. Oh, what have I done? The bus rolls out of town, away from Chalemu's mud hut and his mother, past the grazing cows and the river, past the swing park, past the man chopping coconuts, before it heads west into the evening traffic, where it's swallowed up among the trucks and the rickshaws.

And as everything familiar recedes into the distance, Chalamu realizes this isn't a game something's really wrong I remember crying you know panic a little bit of that choking in your throat oh and then you can't

turn back Chalamotu begs to get off the bus but the young men won't listen to him and when he starts to sob for his mom they tell him to be quiet to forget his mother I realized oh my gosh

what's happening I mean I was just scared For two, maybe three long hours, the bus continues. Chalamutu can see nothing now from the window. Night has fallen, and it's pitch black. By that time, I was pretty distraught, and I just want to go back. I just want to go back to familiar things and go back to where I was. But there is no rewind, no way to make this nightmare stock. And when the bus eventually judders to a halt, things take an even darker turn.

A Jeep pulls up, and Chelamutu is bundled off the bus and told to get in the car. I was taken and aggressively put in. And this time, there's no Mr. Nice Guy offering candy or treats. Chalamutu is now miles from home, miles from his mother, from his brothers and sister, miles from his big extended family. And with every minute spent on the road, he knows he's being taken further and further away. I'm on the jeep, scared, no way to turn back, nowhere to go. darkness is there I'm very scared

Chalamotu has no idea where he's going or why he's been taken I shouldn't be here I want to go back I got to go home but there is no going back I was kidnapped

You've been listening to Stop Rewind, The Lost Boy, a Blanchardhouse production for Curious cast. It's hosted, written and produced by me, Emma Jane Kirby, with additional production by Himat Shalogram. Stop Rewind, The Lost Boy, is inspired by the book, The Orphan Keeper by Cameron Wright. On the ground interpreting by Smitten, Tiquet. Additional research by Catherine Gillon.

Original music by Toby Matamon, Louis Nankmanel and Daniel Lloyd Evans. Sound design and mix engineering by Vulcan Kisletook, Daniel Lloyd Evans, Toby Matamong and Louis Nankmanel. Post-production supervised by Daniel Lloyd Evans. The creative director of Blanchard House is Rosie Pye. The head of content at Blanchard House is Lawrence Griselle. For Blanchard House, the executive producers are Amika Shortino Nolan and Lawrence Griselle. For Curious cast, the executive producers, Adida Velasquez and Chris Duncom.