The First Life of Vikram Roy (Many Lives Series Book 3) (15 page)

"It's too late, Vikram." His voice is even, steady.
 

"It's not. It isn't," I insist.
 

Our eyes clash. An uncertain look flashes across his, making him look more like the teenager he still is, rather than the grown-up, street-smart man he's pretending to be.

"It's not too late. Never too late," I say.

"Look. Vik. Your mother doesn't want me there. I was never a part of that home."

"She's not all that bad, Vishal. It's just … you remind her of Dad's affairs, all those other women in his life."
 

He doesn't seem surprised when I refer to Dad's flings in the plural. It's not something we've ever spoken about. But I know that he knows too.

"I know she didn't make you very welcome. But she also didn't disown you, throw you out to starve, did she?" I plead.

"Dad wouldn't have allowed that," he says.

But his voice isn't very convinced. He doesn't meet my gaze now, instead looking across to the crowd on the next table. He pulls out his packet of cigarettes and lights one. The waiter brings him an ashtray immediately. He doesn't offer me one and I don’t ask either.

I press my point. "She did give you a roof over your head all these years."

"Then, at the first opportunity, moved me to a hostel." He says it without malice, blowing out smoke. He looks at the cigarette.

"It's one of the finest colleges in the city. A good hostel." I defend her.
 

"My point. Exactly." He looks up and smiles a little. Just one side of his lips lift. It's not a happy smile. Cynical. "Which is why I say, let it go. It's fine where I am. I've found my place here. I never did belong at your home."

He gets to his feet and I follow him.

"The bill?" I look around for the waiter.

"It's on my tab."

Seeing the look on my face, he smiles. This one reaches his eyes, lights up his face. He looks mischievous, almost happy.

"I can pay for your chai, Vik. It won't put me on the street."
 

Relieved, I follow him out of the café onto the footpath. "Do you need anything else, Vishal?"

"Money, you mean?" He says it without heat. "No. Dad's made sure my hostel is all paid for, till I graduate. And I get a monthly allowance."

"He planned it all out, didn't he?" So, Dad's thought this one all the way through.
 

"Maybe he had to," Vishal agrees.

"Did he know what was coming?" I wonder aloud. He prepared for the worst, he did.

"I think he sensed … something."
 

There it is, that look in his eyes again. He knows something, Vishal does. Something he's not telling me. I ask quickly, "What do you mean? Tell me."
 

A shutter falls over his eyes, his features freeze. "I have to go, Vikram. People are waiting for me." He turns to leave.

"Wait, Vishal." I stop him, and when he looks over his shoulder, I ask, "Your mother. Where is she?" All these years and I've never dared ask him about his mum.
 

There's something like puzzlement, then wariness, on his face.
 

He frowns, then says, "She's gone."
 

"What do you mean?" I ask.
 

But he continues walking, not replying. Hands deep in pockets, his shoulders hunched and his face thrust forward so his chin almost touches his chest.
 

"Is she dead?" My voice follows him, but he doesn't turn back.
 

Is she alive? Is that what he meant?
 

It'll be a few more years before I get the answers to my questions.

SEVENTEEN

When something horrible takes place, you can either surrender to it, let it pull you into its clammy embrace and give in to the emptiness in your heart, or you can somehow, a minute at a time, drag yourself forward.
 

It's now been a month since Dad's death.
 

A week since I discovered the contents in the briefcase; a week since the text message. What the fuck was that about? I reach for the phone and read it again. And again. Such innocent words. But strung together they feel like a threat. An empty feeling yawns in the pit of my stomach. I wish I were back at St James, playing cricket, walking to class, sneaking food from the tuck box. It all feels so innocent, so far away, as if it's part of another life.
 

There's an ache in the back of my throat. I swallow it down and let the cold fingers of reality intrude. Allow it to anchor me to the now. There's no escape. We are, all of us, trying to get back to normal. But what's normal anyway? Hanging out with Tenzin at the mall? Playing cricket with Ash on the hillside? Maybe it's this—reading and rereading this message that's turned my life upside down, while my dreams are haunted by my father's smashed face.

Or is it consoling my mum when she routinely falls apart every other day? Holding her hand at night while she still grieves for Dad. She misses him so much that I can touch her pain. In death she's found the kind of love she had never known when he was alive.

My life until now has been a long winding road stretching out in front of me with no end in sight. Now, I know, there's a "The End" sign at the end of it. And
that
more than anything gives me the will to keep going. To get up day after day, get Seema off to school, help Mum around the home, accompany her to the mall for grocery shopping. I push my own feelings, my fears, out of the way. I keep watch over them. Keep them safe. For how long can I do this?

Grief has unearthed a cord of steel within me. It keeps me upright, lends urgency to my life. I've never been driven but now inside me is a stirring. A thirst. I want to go to Oxford. I do. And I want to explore the world beyond these shores. The lights in the distance I had only sensed at St James—I yearn to now touch them up-close. But I also want to stay. Vishal's words still echo in my head. Is it to prove him wrong that I want to be here?
Especially now, when I know there is someone watching. Assessing. What's the next move?
 

The thoughts crowd in on me, keeping me awake.
 

Despite the freezing temperatures in the air-conditioned bedroom, I am sweating. The room feels like a tomb, and going to the windows I fling them open. The warm breeze from the Arabian Sea wraps itself around me like a sensuous woman. It fans the restlessness inside me.

"Go," it whispers. "Go, embrace your destiny. Why do you fight it so?"

Should I leave my family again? And now when they need me more than before. Vishal's accusations echo in my ears. Impatient, I turn away from the silvery line of the sea when my phone buzzes again. No. Not again. I stare at it, willing it away. The message blinks. Asking me to open it. Do I dare? I reach for it and click on the message.

Fuck! My thoughts are being read. Whoever it is, is inside my head. How? How is it even possible? I asked a question and here's my answer. They know that's what I will do. I want to go, get away from here. Run away. No, I must stay.
 

That's my future.

This
is my family.

I fling the phone on the bed so hard it bounces off and drops onto the carpet. Going to the window I stare out. Even as the sun rises over the Arabian Sea, lighting up the curve of the islands in the distance, my mind is made up.

SEVENTEEN

Mum's wearing make-up for the first time since the funeral. She takes her place at the head of the table at dinnertime … in the seat Dad used to occupy. She looks a little less fragile than a month ago. Physically she's better. But she's still not really present in the room.
 

"I'm not going to Oxford," I declare, forking some of the rice into my mouth. I say it more for effect, hoping to get some kind of reaction from her.
 

Mum looks up at that. Her eyes still dull, lifeless.
 

"What do you mean?" Her voice comes out hoarse.

"I left you once, to go to St James. I can't do it again. Not now when you and Seema need me."

"Don't say that, listen to me now." Her cheeks flush with colour, and for the first time since Dad's death I hear a little of the original feisty Mum I knew. A light sparks in her eyes, and she protests, "Vik—"

"Look at you, Mum. You can barely take care of yourself."

"I am fine. What's wrong with me?"
 

I ignore the panic in her voice and push ahead, my voice steady, a little harsh even. "You haven't eaten in days. You stay inside, in your room, all by yourself—"

"—I've just been a little under the weather … understandable, I think, in the circumstances." Her eyes flash amber sparks at me. "Nothing's wrong with me. I can take care of myself, and my daughter, thank you very much."
 

I swallow down a chuckle at seeing her features so animated.
 

Well
that
got her attention. Careful not to let the concern show in my eyes, I say, "But Mum, you look so tired … It's understandable at
your
age—" She does hate being reminded that she's no longer as young as she used to be. Any mention of her looks fading is guaranteed to get a rise out of her. I peer at her from under half-closed eyelids. I wait for the inevitable explosion. I'm rewarded with her—

"—What do you mean
my
age?"
 

There's a clatter as she drops her spoon and walks over to the mirror on the wall opposite the front door. She gasps in surprise. Stays there for a few seconds before walking back. She sinks into the chair, an uncertain, almost scared look on her face. "I do look terrible, don't I?" She laughs a little. "I have let myself go."

"Understandable," I say, my voice gentle, "considering the circumstances."
 

She sits up straight and picks up her spoon as if to eat again.
 

"Perhaps," she says, and takes a deep breath. She puts down her spoon, the food untouched, and looks at me. Her face is serious. Eyes clear. "I know I haven't really held it together the last few weeks. And I couldn't have made it this far without you. But there's no reason for you to throw away this opportunity." Her features tighten into lines of determination. "Your father would never forgive me if I did that." She blinks away the moisture glittering in her eyes. "You are going, Vikram."

"But—"

"—No." She leans over and slaps me lightly on my cheek with her free hand. "Your dad left us with enough so we can take care of ourselves. Financially. You have nothing to worry about. This—" She looks around her. "This is my life, Vik.
My
problems. I haven't been good at dealing with it so far. But I will, from now on." She squares her shoulders.

"You sure about that, Mum? You don't think I'm abandoning you?" When I say it aloud I realise how much Vishal's words have been bothering me.
 

"No, of course not, Vikky. I would never think that. Whatever gave you that idea?"

I am unable to meet her eyes now, in case she reads the guilt I feel about Vishal in them.
 

"It's the right thing to do. You're making the correct decision."

Her voice is firm, and there is a ring of authority to it that I am grateful for. I may be growing up fast, but I am glad Mum agrees with me.

"You think so?" I look at her with relief. My gut tells me it's the right thing to do; yet I feel as if I am taking my life into my own hands. This entire "having the freedom to make my own big life decisions" thing is energising on paper … but now that I am actually doing it, I am terrified.
 

"Yes." She nods. "What's happened has happened." She sniffles. "Whatever we do, he is not coming back. But why should you put your life on hold? Besides," she sets her spoon down and runs her fingers through my hair, "you are really smart, Vik, and whatever you do, I am sure you'll make a difference to your country. You are so like him that way."

I am not sure what to say, so I just swallow another forkful of food. She is right, I suppose. I am a lot like Dad … but not enough. I don't think I have it in me to give up my life in service to my country.
 

But yes, I will go to Oxford, and study, and make something of my life.
 

Because … that's what
Dad would have wanted.

No, it's because I'm selfish and I like running away. Vishal's voice echoes in my head. I push it away. I am not selfish. I stayed back, didn't I? Stayed back to take care of Mum. Even the anonymous sender of the text message agrees, in fact insists I go. So now I am following the instructions of someone I don't know. Someone who is likely crazed and has no idea why or what they are texting me.
 

No. It's the right thing to do. To leave while I still can. To get away. Get on with my life. It's all I can do, after all.

Seema's been silent all through the meal. She's eating her food with one hand, playing on a
Gameboy
with the other. She's too engrossed in the video game to follow our conversation.

"Where did you find
that?"
I ask.

"Oh!" she starts, looking guilty. "In your room … while you were away. You don't use it anymore so I thought I would try it."

"You can use it … that's okay," I say to ease the doubt on her face. "Does it still work?"

She nods and is already back to playing with it, when I scold her, "You really shouldn't be playing with it at the table. Put that away now."

She heaves a sigh but puts it away.

"She listens only to you," Mum says, not looking too concerned about it.

"You must listen to Mum while I am away," I tell Seema, and when she doesn't give any indication of having heard me, I say in a sharp voice, "Did you hear me, Seema?"

She meets my eyes at that and nods. Once. Then she gets up from the table. "I am done eating, can I leave now?" Without waiting for an answer, she leaves, goes into her room, and slams it shut.

"You
will
be fine, Mum, won't you?" I am still worried about how she's going to cope. But, somewhere in the last few days it's become clear that I can't take on my mother's role, or my father's. All I can do is lead my own life.
So, I go to Oxford.