The three-wheeled auto rickshaw puttered along Mahatma Gandhi Road, Pune’s main thoroughfare, weaving through cyclists, cars, pigs, cows and pedestrians, past street wallahs selling bhel puri, pani puri, guava with chili pepper on it, sweet lassi and butter milk. It was December 26, 2003, the day after Kathie Duncan and Jo-Ann D’Sylva and their four-year-old adopted daughter, Tejas, had arrived in India from Toronto, and they were on their way to collect their new son, Pratim, from his orphanage. In the one photo they’d been sent, he looked healthy and cheerful, with dark skin and shining big, brown eyes. They looked out at the city around them, trying to keep their excitement at bay.

At first Bala Mandir*, the orphanage, seemed pleasant enough, with eight unassuming bungalows around a compound that had banana and tamarind trees and a profusion of bougainvillea. Strangely, though, there were no children on the verandas or in the garden. And every­thing was quiet.

The family was ushered into an office and told to wait. An hour passed before the director, Mr. Singh, made his entrance. About 60 years old, he was a small man, roughly five foot five, but had an imperious stature. He wore a blue turban and an expensive linen suit. The staff bowed humbly when they entered to speak to him. He showed the women around his office—or rather showed them the numerous testimonials and accolades on his walls from Indian prime ministers, other dignitaries and famous Bollywood stars.

Jo-Ann, a high school teacher, was the designated adoptive parent and, as far as the Indian authorities knew, her partner Kathie, a midwife, was only the woman who co-owned their house in Toronto and a close friend of the family. Disclosing the real nature of their relationship could result in the adoption’s cancellation. When he was ready to discuss Pratim, Singh asked Kathie to leave the room.

The women were officially required to give Bala Mandir $1,000 (U.S.) for Pratim’s stay at the orphanage—as payment set by the Indian government’s adoption agency. Still, the director spoke of how expensive it was to run an orphanage. “I got the bill from the orphanage for Pratim’s care,” Jo-Ann replied. “And I’m prepared to pay it.”

Singh rhymed off his expenses and explained how families often donate money. “What do you mean?” Jo-Ann asked. “What is the typical amount for donation?”

“Eight thousand U.S. dollars,” he said matter of factly.

When Jo-Ann and Kathie had adopted Tejas at another Pune orphanage three years earlier, there was no talk of donations. Singh’s request came as a shock. Jo-Ann told him that she didn’t have that kind of money, and he did not appear pleased. The meeting ended with the director saying they’d have to wait and see if the Indian government granted the so-called No Objection Certificate, required for all adoptions.

A child-care worker, meanwhile, had taken Kathie on a tour of the orphanage, which housed several hundred children. The nursery for newborns was filthy and crowded with children, a thick layer of dust on the floor and walls. Everything reeked of urine. The toddler room, which was just as crowded, had no toys. The moment she and Tejas sat on the floor, they were swarmed by the babies, who clambered over each other to sit in their laps and touch their hair. They stank, their faces and hands were dirty, and their cloth diapers soiled. It horrified Kathie to think of Pratim in a similar room.

The women left the orphanage that day without having seen Pratim. Vinod, the social worker assigned to them, explained that Pratim was at another campus. “I walked away thinking, OK, there are going to be a few glitches,” Jo-Ann says. She tried not to panic about the No Objection Certificate. After all, they had paid all the required fees and filled out reams of forms. This had to be the final formality. “What came later,” she says, “I was simply not expecting.”