The First Life of Vikram Roy (Many Lives Series Book 3) (12 page)

Tenzin and I are walking through a familiar path, which leads through the woods behind the school, in what has become a nightly ritual over the past month.

He stops in his tracks. "That sure was poetic, bro."

I grin and continue walking. My feet crunch on the dried leaves and mud. I take in a deep breath, as if I want to store that smell of new leaves, dewdrops and rotting pinecones. It's the smell of the Himalayas. I doubt I'll ever find this potent combination anywhere else. And yet, today I feel restless. Ready for something more.

We've reached the end of the forest, where the edge of the hill juts out over the city. Ducking under the safety railing, we walk right to the very end and sit down, our legs dangling over the side.

Tenzin pulls down the zip of his jacket and pulls out the small bottle of whisky he had tucked out of sight earlier. Opening it, he takes a healthy swig before handing it over. I chug it back, coughing as the liquid burns its way down my throat. A slight warmth tingles through my legs, pleasantly warding off the growing chill of the early February night.

We look over the lights of the city, shimmering in the ghostly mist.
 

"So, can't believe it'll all be over in a few weeks."

Tenzin doesn't reply.
 

"What next?" I ask.

"Back to Bhutan, to the family business, I suppose. Dunno, never really gave it much thought," he answers, his voice distracted.

"You really don't care about what you are going to do, do you?" I hand over the bottle to him.

"Nope."
 

"I used to think it was all an act." I don't look at him, but I sense his glance flicker over my face.

"What? That I don't really care that my future is not all mapped out, unlike you?" I know he is being sarcastic, but I don't rise to the bait.

"I don't want to let down my father." Sitting here in the dark, the lights blurring in the distance as the alcohol seeps into my bloodstream, makes it easy to speak.
 

"Such an obedient son." He says it without malice, gulping down more of the whisky before handing it to me.

"Such a rebellious rock star," I say, grinning.
 

"I envy your loyalty to your family," he says.
 

"I envy you not being worried about what you are going to do when you leave school." I often wish I could be as chilled out as him, too. But somehow, since Dad's visit, I haven't been able to relax. It feels like my life is hurtling along towards a destination I can't see. I want to get off. I want to stay on too. See what's at the end of this trip.

"Something will turn up, you know?"
 

"You sound like Micawber—"

"Who?"

"
David Copperfield
," I say. Why is it that only I seem to remember these things? "You obviously didn't pay attention in Lit class, did you?"

"Somebody had to play the guitar and keep the girls happy." He points to himself. "While others—" he points his forefinger sideways to me, his movements exaggerated, "—were too busy being nerds. Cramming for exams. Getting their hearts broken."
 

I don't mind being called a nerd. It's who I am. I can't get rid of that part of me now. I just learn to hide it better, that's all.

"Hey, I accept my musical abilities are … like zero," I touch my thumb to my forefinger, "and I have my nose stuck in books a lot. But, at least when it comes to girls …" I click my tongue against the roof of my forehead … "You got to admit I have a certain appeal."
 

"Maybe, but do you have a girlfriend, heh?"

I shake my head. "Nah. Not ready to commit. Gotta see the world first."

"Oxford, you mean?"

"I suppose. I still have to take the exams."
 

"And I'm sure it's all easy for you. The amount of time you've spent with books, if you had been with a girl that long, you'd have children of your own by now."

I burst out laughing, spit out a mouthful of whisky. "Now look what you've done, made me waste all this good whisky!"

"There's more …" he says.
 

I look at the bottle in my hand. "This shit is good … What is it?"

"
Glenfiddich
."
 

"Cool." I take another swig. My head whirls as the alcohol joins the rest of the liquid in my stomach. "I forget, when I am with royalty I always get the best." My hands are unsteady when I hand the whisky to him.

A sound makes me look behind. "Did you hear something?"
 

"No." Tenzin shakes his head, and tilting the bottle he finishes off the rest of the alcohol before flinging the bottle over the hillside.

"Hey. Why'd you do that?" I protest.

He shrugs. "Whatever. When did you get so prissy, dude?"

"When did you get so careless?" I ask.

"Look at you," Tenzin gets to his feet, swaying slightly, "obeying your father, studying all the time … you have your future all mapped out in front of you, don't you? Mr Good Boy!" he sneers, and his foot slides.

"Watch out." I jump up and put up a hand to steady him. Flinging off my hand, he ducks back under the safety parapet. "Don't pretend to care, man. You only give a shit about your precious future."
 

"Hey, that's not fair," I protest.

"You have no idea what it means to come from a small country still struggling to find its identity. To fight for what you believe in all the time. Yet knowing you don't have a choice but to go back and take your place in the family tree." He spits on the ground.
 

I've known Tenzin for almost five years now. Only now I understand that beneath that easy-going, ultra-hip skin he wears, is a simmering rage. One he doesn't often reveal.

"You have a choice, you do—"

They jump us from the trees. Later on, I realise, drunk, as we were, that we didn't have a chance.

I am flung aside, to the ground. And then four boys are on Tenzin. Two of them have cricket bats the third uses his fists. The cricket bats rise rhythmically. Tenzin screams, breaking through my surprise. I jump to my feet and throw myself on the closest boy, managing to wrestle him to the ground.
 

"Don't," the boy says, panting. "Run away. This is not your fight."

"Kim?" I've seen him often with the rest of the Korean gang. "What are you doing? Why are you beating him up?"

"He hit on my girl. He has to pay the price." His voice is serious, with intent. It only worries me more.
 

I manage to push him aside and rush back in time to see the third boy pull out a knife. "No!" I scream. "Don't do this."

Kim grips my arms, folding them behind my back. "You won't understand."

Oh, but I know all too well what this is about. "It's a bit tiring when you use the excuse of girls to beat each other up, you know?" I say, a cold edge to my voice. "Why not just admit that you guys can't stand the sight of each other. Tenzin made you lose face in the last fight and now you just can't let it go, can you? It's just an ego thing—"

Then, something slams into the side of my head and I collapse on the ground.

***

When I come to, I open my eyes, unable to move. I have a hammering headache and my vision ebbs and flows as if someone has removed my brains and replaced it with glowing lava. I sit up. Groan aloud. The headache cranks up another notch. My head is splitting in half.

"Tenzin!" I crawl over to his sprawled figure. No … No. How badly did they beat him? Please, let him be okay.
 

He lies on his back, eyes closed.
 

I touch him and pull back in shock. Blood. My fingers are coated in blood. My jeans feel wet. My knees, too, are soaked in blood … his blood.
 

He doesn't seem to be breathing.
 

I look for his pulse. It's weak. Thready. But it's there. I get to my feet and almost black out again with the pain. I half crawl, half walk; I manage to make it to the school to get help.

***

Tenzin doesn't stay till graduation. He doesn't even take his grade twelve exams. As soon as he has recovered enough to travel, he returns home. I don't even get to say goodbye. You know someone for so many years, and one day he's gone, just like that. We keep in touch. But it'll be many years before I see him again.
 

PART 3: MOVING BACK TO BOMBAY

SEVENTEEN

The last five years of my life are all packed into two trunks. I load them onto the trolley and heave the backpack over my shoulder, adjusting it to make sure it's secure. Then I trundle my load out of Bombay domestic airport. As soon as I exit the building, the heat hits me. Beads of sweat pop out on my forehead. I take off my bomber jacket and fold it over my hand. I breathe in the city smell of petrol fumes mixed with mud and body odour. For a second I am nostalgic for the cool, crisp air of the Himalayan foothills. Just as I berate myself for clinging to a past that is definitely over, I see Xavier waving at me. I push my cart over to him. I can feel my face pull apart in a wide grin at the enthusiasm with which he leaps forward to take the trolley from me.

"Master Vikram." He nods so enthusiastically I am sure his face is about to fall off his neck.

"How are you, Xavier?" I clap him on the back.
 

"Did you buy me a gift?" a voice pipes up.

I look at the girl standing next to him. Tawny eyes, so like mine, stare back at me. Her hair is curly, though, more like Dad's and Vishal's. I've inherited my thick, wavy hair from Mum.

"Seema!"

She flings herself at me and I try to lift her up. But she's grown now, almost up to my waist. She's tall for a six-year-old.

I pull her hair. "Skinny runt."

"He-Man." She lets me go and puts out her tongue at me.

I wince at her childhood pet name. "Don't say that aloud, okay."

Immediately she pipes up in a clear singsong voice. "He-Man and the Masters of the Universe. I have the pow—"

I slap my hand over her mouth. "Brat!"

Her eyes twinkle with mischief.

We follow Xavier, who is pushing the trolley forward. I am taller than him now. As we walk I notice the bald patch at the back of his head. His hair is almost fully grey as well. Everyone's growing older. Me. Seema. Xavier. Time marches on relentlessly. But do we have to grow old? Why can't we just stay young?

Then, we are in the car and plugging into the usual stream of traffic, inching forward out of the airport.
 

Remembering my phone, I pull it out. Switch it on. Wait till it finds the local signal. It vibrates with an incoming message.

What is that? A welcome message from the local service provider? Why from an unknown number then? It doesn't feel welcoming either. Something about its tone … it's so strange. More like it's threatening me, as if someone is trying to get my attention. I try to text back, but the message doesn't go through.
 

I look out of the window. We are on the highway, moving forward, revving up to make the most of the free-flowing traffic till we hit the next red light and slow down again. A cop passes me on a motorbike, weaving through the stationery cars. I turn to Seema and ask, "Why isn't Dad here to receive me?"
 

I find her fiddling with her own mobile phone. Is she texting someone? Playing a game on the phone?

"And since when did you get a phone?" I reach across and touch her shoulder to get her attention.

She replies without looking up, her voice preoccupied. "I bothered Mama till she gave me one."

"You're so spoilt, you know?"
 

Not yet a teenager, but already she's so moody. I feel like I belong to a different generation.

Seema grunts, lost in messaging someone.
 

"So why isn't Dad or Mum or …" I hesitate saying Vishal's name. "Why didn't they come with you to the airport?"

"Dad's away … Mum's upset about something, and Vishal
bhaiyya
is
—"
she shrugs, "—somewhere."

"And you?" I ruffle her hair.

"I wanted to come receive He-Man at the airport, and Mum agreed."

Mum's not half as strict with Seema as she had been with me.
 

"What's Mum upset about?"

"Dunno. Usual. Dad being away …" Her voice is distracted.

Is this how I sound to my mum? Bored. As if I'd rather be somewhere else. There's only an eleven-year gap between Seema and me, but I feel so responsible for her. Like I am her parent … which I am not. I am just her older brother.

"How long has he been away this time?"

"A few months … A year?" A puzzled look comes into her eyes. "A long time," she says.

I push away the little niggle of worry that crawls up my spine. I am sure Dad's all right. I lean forward and tap Xavier on his shoulder. "Turn up the air conditioning. It's really hot in here." For the rest of the journey I am sure it's only the direct blast of the air-conditioning vent that's responsible for my hands feeling like ice.

***

Leaving the trunks to Xavier, I take only my backpack, and with Seema still glued to her mobile phone, I ring the bell to our eighth-floor apartment. This feels like home. Even though St James was a second home, most of my life is entwined with this apartment. Mum opens the door. One look at her face and I know something's wrong.
 

My heart thuds in my chest and the cold shoots from my palms through my veins so I shiver slightly. "What happened?" I ask by way of greeting.
 

"Come in, Vikky." Her voice is scratchy, eyes red and puffy as if she's been crying. There's a strange fear in them. She darts a look at Seema, then back at me. I swallow the questions which want to tumble out and follow her in.

Seema walks ahead and without any urging goes straight to her room. Behind me, Xavier has already arrived with the trunks. Once he has placed them in my room, he hands over the car keys to Mum and leaves.

We sit in silence in the living room. Then, Mum gets up and walks to the balcony. We have that in common, this nervous pent-up energy that keeps us moving sometimes. I am a lot like her. Though I have always managed to stay calm on the outside. Like Dad.