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

I slide past the security guard who has finally made an appearance at the fringe of the crowd. He tries to push through the people, who don't pay him any heed. They are too busy now arguing with each other, the reason for their gathering forgotten.
 

Leaving my father to find his way out of the maze of bodies, I run around the corner and up the long corridor. The fronds in the fish tanks on either side wave back as I zoom past them and burst through to where the corridor broadens into a lobby. Panting from my exertion, I stand there, trying to get my breath back.
 

My eyes scan the crowded area in front of me. It's as if all of Bombay has decided to make a trip to the aquarium today. I shouldn't be surprised given its Independence Day, the day India won its freedom from the British, and a public holiday.
 

Then, a flash of blue has me looking towards the entrance. It's Vishal, and he is trying his best to hold back a woman pushing a pram. Forgetting he is my sworn enemy, I make a beeline towards him. Veering around the group of people directly ahead, I collide with the girth of a large man and sprawl on the ground. "Are you okay, child?" he asks.

Declining the man's proffered hand, I force my way past the family with two young children and reach Vishal just as the woman pushes him to the ground. I rush at her, kick her in the shin and punch her arm, the one with which she is steering the pram. She cries out, letting go. I am on it in a flash, and driving the pram away from her.
 

I'm almost back at the corridor before I brake to a stop and lean over to raise the cover of the stroller. Seema is fast asleep, her eyes closed as she sucks on her thumb. I marvel at the baby's ability to sleep through the upheaval she has been through. She is covered with a fresh blue-coloured blanket and now wears a little blue hat. It's as if the other woman wanted Seema to be mistaken for a boy.

"Vikram!" Dad, followed by Mum on his heels, reaches me. I look from Dad's eyes to the baby and then to where Vishal has been hauled to his feet by the kidnapper, who slaps him. At Dad's indrawn breath, I hand over the pram to him. "Here," I say, and before either can protest I have run back, retracing my steps to Vishal. My pounding footsteps alert the woman, who looks up and pauses in the act of hitting Vishal a second time. She flings him at me, and turns to run, her long white diaphanous shirt swirling behind her. I turn Vishal to me and find he is bleeding from a cut lip. Anger spurts inside me. My fist tightens in a fighter's stance but already the kidnapper has disappeared.
 

"Vikram, Vishal." My father's hand falls on my shoulder, and we turn to him.

He drops to his knee and hugs the two of us, then carries us up, me, in his right arm, Vishal in his left.

"Dad!" I am embarrassed as he kisses my cheek, then Vishal's. Mortified, I try to wriggle out of his grasp, but he doesn't let me go.

"You were so brave, Vikram." My mother reaches us, grasping Seema to her shoulder as if she will never let her go. She's going to spend the next few years watching over Seema's every step to make sure she is never lost again.

"It was Vishal," I protest. "He found Seema."

"Vikram, you saved your little sister." My mother is firm on that count. She ignores Vishal completely. I can sense the tension radiating from Vishal's little body. His lower lip trembles, and flinging his hand around our father, he lets the tears come. I realise then that my mother will never acknowledge Vishal as part of the family. No matter what he does.

"Who was that woman?" my father wonders aloud. "Why did she try to kidnap Seema?"

"I don't care, don't want to know," Mum cries, clutching Seema to her bosom. "She's safe now. I just want to go home."

She doesn't hear Vishal's stifled sob.
 

ELEVEN

When not off on one of his secret assignments, Dad sometimes has his old friends over to watch a cricket match. They've known each other for like hundreds of years ... since their boarding school days. Dad's very social. He has lots of friends. Men and ... women. 
 

Mum? She prefers to hang out with her girlfriends.

I wonder if it's easier to have boys 
and 
girls for friends if you are a guy? Must be.

The excitement in our living room has reached fever pitch; the commentator is whipping everyone into a frenzy of anticipation … And, guess what, the match hasn't even started.

Mum's been in a tizzy all morning, ordering our cook to make a huge variety of snacks: samosas, vegetable kebabs and chicken wings for the guests. The smells from the kitchen have been making my mouth water all morning. Even though I ate breakfast earlier, I am still hungry. It's my only reason to still hang around the house … the food.
 

Someone knocks on the door of my room. Expecting it to be Vishal, I hide my comics. If he sees them, he'll want to get hold of them, and of course I don't want to share them with him, not until I have finished reading them first.
 

As expected, Vishal sidles in without waiting for my permission.

At ten, he looks much younger than the year's difference between us. It's as if a part of him doesn't want to let go of his childhood innocence. What are you afraid of, Vishal? I want to ask him. But I don't want to hear. Not sure if I want to know.

He looks at me, his eyes large, pleading. Unlike mine, his are jet black, like shiny pieces of charcoal.
 

"What?" I ask, then throw the basketball at the hoop at the far end of the room, and miss.

Vishal doesn't say anything, simply picks up the ball and bounces it on the floor.

"Vishal …?"
 

He looks up, meets my eyes briefly, looks away.

"You want me to ask her?"

He nods, shaking his head up and down.
 

"Smells good, right?" I ask.

He nods. Again. And says, "Please? Please ask her?"

This boy can eat. A lot. More than me. It's like he's trying to fill a hole inside him, with food. But he's too scared of Mum to ask her for some.

The open door lets in the sound of Dad and his friends all arguing with each other, all speaking at the same time. They sure can be noisy. The whiff of frying samosas yanks me to my feet. The smell of dough sizzling in clarified butter soaks into the pores of my skin, pushing aside all rational thought. I follow the smell to the door as if in a trance. Vishal is right behind me.

I dawdle by the kitchen entrance. If I go in, to try to steal a samosa while the food is still being cooked, I risk a tongue-lashing from Mum. She is a tiny lady. At five feet three inches just a little taller than me, but she has a terrible temper.

Finally noticing me, she turns around, completely blanking Vishal as usual. I put my arm around the younger boy and look at her. Please? I plead with my eyes, trying to look suitably pathetic, and hungry.
 

"So,
samosa
?" she asks, her voice like honey. But I am not fooled. It's the tone she uses when she is trying to bargain with me.

"What do you want in return, Mum?" I ask, my voice cautious.

"Babysit Seema."

This isn't a new occurrence. Mum often tries to trick me into taking care of my little sister. So far, I have always managed to evade that particular trap. Today I sense the jaws of the inevitable closing in around me.
 

"When?" I ask. No, don't answer that, I think I already know.

She pulls out two piping-hot golden triangles, laying them on a steel plate. Bringing them over, she holds the plate below my nose. They smell so good. I look at it hungrily, and when she moves the plate to the side, my nose follows it, eyes fixed on it in desperation now. Beside me, Vishal's body tenses, as if to grab the samosas and run away with them.
 

Since the incident at the aquarium he's become my shadow. I'm still not sure how much of the conversation between my parents that day he understood, but something of my mother's dislike of him must have transferred, for he has since avoided her as much as possible, preferring to follow me around instead.
I press down my palm into his shoulder, signalling him to stay quiet.

"Ah!" I sigh aloud. "You are trying to bribe me, Mum."

"Fair negotiating tactic, that's all." She grins, and raising the plate she turns as if to move back to the cooking range.

"Wait!" I say in desperation. "Okay."

"Okay what?"

"Okay, I'll take care of Seema while you go to your girls' card session or whatever," I say, already regretting it. Damn! I'd rather be out in the basketball field, tossing a ball with my friend just now.

"Great!" Without giving me a chance to change my mind, Mum comes over with a samosa in each hand. She shoves one into my mouth. Holds the other one out in front of Vishal. He reaches for it and she drops it into his hand. She doesn't want to risk touching him, but he doesn't notice. He's too busy popping the samosa in his mouth. He chews. Swallows. Lips turn up in a smile. Easy to make him happy, this one.

"Okay, then." She wipes her palms on her apron, before taking it off as she brushes past us towards her room.

"What? Right away?" I blubber, spewing a mouthful of samosa.

"No time like the present, right? Besides, my hair appointment is in half an hour." She pretends to check the time and gasps. "Oh! My. I am late. Have to rush. Vikram," she orders, "the nanny will be leaving in the next ten minutes, so make sure you keep Seema entertained."

Her face already wears a half-dazed expression, as if already at the hairdressing salon. Now that the semi-food-coma brought on by the samosa is fading, I realise with horror what I have let myself in for. No, no. I don't want to be left holding the baby for the next three hours. Her appointments are never quick. She'll probably be gone for half a day. Or more. Oh! No.

"M-u-u-m!" I gasp, opening my mouth to argue.

"Meera, we need more beer!" Dad hollers from the living room, loud enough to be heard over the noise of the thousands of people screaming in excitement at the cricket ground.
 

Taking off her apron, she thrusts it into my face, and I have no choice but to hold it in my hands.

"Oh! Darling, while at it, you might want to make sure you keep the beer supply running, to keep those beasts out there pacified too." She grins, her eyes shining. She's really enjoying it.
 

My lower lip trembles. I can't take care of a little thing like Seema. What if I drop her, or she crawls out of the window when I am not looking? I bite down on it. Hard. Boys don't cry.
 

Leaning down, she pats me on my head. "Look at it this way. I am making sure you are house-trained. Someday some lucky girl is going to thank me for it!"

Uh? What's she saying? Then it sinks in. What she's saying. Sort of. "Girl? Really, Mum," I groan, "I am never getting married." I screw up my face for emphasis.
 

"Wait till the hormones kick in, then we'll see." She sighs, before leaning down. She's going to try to kiss me. I duck, trying to get out of her way, but am not quick enough. She clutches me to her. A full-blown hug and I have no choice but to stay still as she ruffles my hair and kisses me. On both cheeks. I hold my body rigid. Shut my eyes. Then try to slip out of her grasp.
 

"Besides,
you
are the only woman in the world for me, after all," I say. Ha! I know she'll like
that.
I do mean it. Right now, she is the only woman in my life.

"Oh! How sweet." Her cheeks go rosy, but this time I dance away before she goes in for a repeat performance of the kissing and hugging.

"So, you'll buy me the new
Gameboy
then?" No harm asking.

"You know how much your dad hates you playing with make-believe characters, right?"

"Mum, they are not make-believe." I try to set her right. When she frowns, I rush in with, "Now, now, I don't want the prettiest woman in this world to frown. You are, you know, Mum … the most beautiful girl I have ever met."
 

"You charmer, you. When you want, you really can turn it on fully, can't you?" Mum smiles, but I can tell she is really pleased with the compliment. "Okay then."

"Yay!" I hug Vishal and lift him off his feet.

"But don't tell your dad, okay?"
 

I nod, and on cue Dad yells again, "Are you going to stand all day gossiping or will one of you get the beer. We have some very thirsty men here."
 

"Your hair appointment, Mum," I remind her, and am pleased when she gasps in recollection and heads off to her room. "Remember your promise," I yell as she turns to leave.
 

"And you remember yours." She jabs a finger at the closed door to Seema's room.

I know girls love to be flattered. But today I learnt that when you mean it and compliment them with sincerity it actually also feels good. And that turning on the charm will get me everywhere.
 

Mostly.

ELEVEN

ELEVEN

I study at the American School in Breach Candy, where we play basketball, softball and football.
Any
sport other than cricket. So, my father's mission in life is to balance out this gap in my education by taking me to cricket matches. He is fanatical about the sport. Today, he's taking his old friend, Mark Ramesh, to a one-day match.

 
Dad insists I accompany them. So here I am at a packed cricket stadium listening to an animated discussion involving sixes, fours and run-rate calculations in that weird vocabulary which avid cricketers all over the world specialise in. It's Boring with a capital B. I crunch my eyes and look into the distance. I'd rather be playing basketball. Or even babysitting Seema.
 

We are in the stands. The VIP area. All that means is that you get unlimited food and alcohol. There's still no air conditioning. So what's this "VIP" thing all about? And I'm stuck way, way above the ground. Too far away to unpick the details of what I am seeing. The players all look like little stick figures scattered around the ground randomly. I watch Dad's face as he stares intently at the field through his binoculars.