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

  Dad's voice has a smug ring to it when he says, "Ha! Nothing like the love of a good woman to redeem a man!"

  "Dad! What are you talking about?" Woman? She's just a girl." I redden at what he is trying to tell me.

  At which he of course changes the topic. "Oh! Here, Vishal wants to say hi!"

  "Hey, Bro!" On the phone Vishal sounds like a small boy. Vishal is still unwavering in his loyalty to me. The glimmer of hate I had sensed on first meeting him has been replaced by brotherly affection since the aquarium incident.

  "Hey, Vishal … Wassup?"

  "How's St James? You playing cricket now?"

  "Yep … Just, you know … trying my hand at it."

  "What about your Gameboy—? Can I have that if you are not using it anymore?"

  I think of my video game with guilt. Most of my time outside of class is spent practising cricket with Ash. To my surprise I find the game actually appeals to the intellect in me … And, I really like being outdoors. But I am not ready to part with my Gameboy. Yet. It's as if by holding onto it I am keeping a part of my childhood alive.

  "And there are girls there too?" He lowers his voice.

  I nod. "Yep."

  "Can I meet your girlfriend?" he asks, his voice excited.

  "Uh! Sure," I lie, relieved when Dad comes back on the line. I hear him tell Vishal to go back to his room before he resumes the conversation.

  "When you grow up, promise you'll take care of him?"

  "Of course, Dad," I say, surprised.

  There's silence between us as I digest what he says. And at what he doesn't spell out. With Dad, I've learnt, it's the stuff he doesn't say that is the loudest. I know what he means is that given a choice Mum would simply pretend Vishal doesn't exist. But I know Vishal is Dad's son. Just like me. And Dad's worried about what's going to happen to him, and that Vishal needs to be protected till he's old enough to face the world on his own. The silence stretches. I can hear the muted Bombay traffic roar over the telephone lines.

  Even as I'm trying to make sense of my own surroundings, I now see my family clearly for what they are. Perhaps it's the distance, or maybe I really am just old enough to see things for what they are. Either way, it feels I have taken my first steps towards adulthood. I'm not sure I'm ready for this yet.

  "You know I'll take care of all of you, Dad. The man of the family, and all that?" I say trying to keep my voice light.

  Dad laughs, then, "You're a good boy. A better son than I ever was to my father."

  "You make me sound so boring, Dad," I protest.

  "No, no, far from boring. You were just born an old soul. A responsible old soul. I know I can count on you."

  The call leaves me with a strange feeling.

  THIRTEEN

  Music. It'll be the death of me. It's the one thing, maybe the only thing; I'm worse at than cricket. Most mornings now begin with music practice. Already, I have tried my hand at every single instrument here—the guitar, the sitar, the drums, the xylophone, the violin, the saxophone, the flute—and have failed at all of them. There's only one instrument remaining to try my hand at. It's large, unwieldy, and one of the more expensive instruments in school.

  "I really don't want to play this … cello … or anything else for that matter," I mutter to Tenzin as we walk to the music room, where Mr Archer, our music teacher, is waiting for us that morning.

  "You've got to at least try. If not, you'll never know what you're good at." Tenzin's very reasonable that way. In fact, he takes the meaning of "being Zen" to new highs … or depths, as the case maybe. Tenzen, that's what I call him.

  "You're right. But then, you are good at almost all the music instruments in here. Are there any you can't play?"

  He thinks about it then says, "The piano?"

  "See, that's what I mean." I pounce on him. "It's like you have music running through your veins."

  "It's nothing …" He shrugs it off. "You like words and cricket. Shit … me, I enjoy music."

  Do I like words? Yeah, I just happen to remember a lot of them in my head. But cricket? That's new. To think I used to hate the game, and now, it's in my blood. I can't recognise myself anymore.

  Tenzin normally hangs out with other Bhutanese students. But he also likes to spend time with me. With his silken hair flowing to his shoulders, and dressed in his trademark Wu-Tang jeans and Lacquer jersey, he resembles a slick hip-hop gangster … of "royal" origins, since Tenzin is a second cousin to the current king of Bhutan. He also just happens to play the guitar particularly well, and has a great voice to go with it. All of which is a hit with the girls. Works for me too.

  Still, it doesn't get me off having to trying my hand at the cello that morning. I seat myself behind the instrument and am instantly dwarfed by its size. With Mr Archer's help, I steady the cello between my knees before resting it against my upper chest.

  "With the fingertips of your left hand, stop the strings on the fingerboard to determine the pitch of the fingered note. Hold the bow in your right hand to slide the strings to sound the notes," Mr Archer instructs.

  I hold the bow and slide it across while trying hard not to allow my fingers to slip across the strings. With a twang, the string snaps, and I duck to avoid being hurt by the upper half of the string, before it comes to rest dangling like a broken arm.

  "You broke the string?" Mr Archer exclaims.

  "Ah! Yes … Sorry?"

  "No one's ever done that on their very first attempt at playing the cello. Not in all the time I have been here." He shakes his head, his mane of silver hair glinting in the sunlight that is now pouring through the open window. A piercing whistle pulls my attention outside to where Ash is passing by. She holds up a hand in a friendly wave, before pointing to the cello clutched between my thighs and doubling over with mock laughter.

  As if hypnotised, my eyes swivel to Archer. "Can I go, sir?"

  "May as well …" He laughs at me. "Especially since you keep looking at her." He nods towards Ash, who's waiting, impatient. Hands on her hips. She mimics throwing a ball and beckons me to come out and join her.

  "Yeah … can't keep her waiting."

  "You could have spared the cello your attention if all you wanted to do was play cricket. It's quite okay not to play any musical instruments, you know?" He's being so nice about it. I broke the string on the damn thing too.

  "I didn't want to … it was him," I say in my defence, pointing to Tenzin, who has collapsed in the corner of the room and is now choking with laughter. He raises his hand, touching his forefinger to his thumb, holding the other fingers upright.

  "Why you—" I sputter, trying not let loose the choicest four-letter words that run through my head. "You just wanted to see me make a complete ass of myself, right?"

  "Language, boy, language," Mr Archer says mildly. "Asses are very hard-working creatures, you know?"

  "Huh?" I look at him, wondering if he too is taking the piss. He seems to be deathly serious about it. I decide to get out of there, before he changes his mind.

  Getting up, I carefully place the cello back in its case. Then I dart towards Tenzin, but he is already out the door. I chase after him through the basketball court and out to the grassy patch bordering the woods. I leap onto his back, so for a few seconds he dances around with me gripping his back like a monkey. Without warning, he drops backward, me still clinging to his back. I hit the grassy floor, whamming my head against the ground hard enough so everything goes black in front of my eyes for a second. Tenzin's weight bangs into my stomach and I lie there winded. He rolls away from me and onto his back, and the breath gushes back into my aching lungs.

  We lie there looking up at the sun burning away the morning mist. As our breathing returns to normal, he says, "Well that settles it then. You really are a musical retard."

  "Who are you calling a retard?" I protest. "Though when it comes to music I have to agree …"

  "Did you see the look on Archer's face?" Tenzin chuckles.

  "No, b
ecause I was too busy trying to save face. I'm glad it made you happy."

  "I should have taken a picture of your face when the string broke," he says guffawing.

  "I'll get back at you." I say without much fire. I'm too amused by his obvious enjoyment of my discomfort to feel any anger.

  "You're welcome to try, bro!" He gets to his feet and pulls me up.

  "Don't say I didn't warn you." I grip his palm and squeeze with a power I didn't know I had. Tenzin winces and tries to pull his hand out of my grasp. He's the first to look away.

  I'm often the quietest guy in a group. On the outside.

  FOURTEEN

  Ash and I have agreed whoever shows up late for cricket practice has to roll out the pitch—and roll it back up after practice. That is a chore I want to avoid at all costs. It's the only thing that gets me to cricket practice on time. Also, Ash is good at many things, but she is never on time. Never. Not even the threat of having to roll out the pitch is enough to get her to turn up on time. Finally I discover I'm better than her at something. It sounds geeky when I say that I am always on time and she isn't, but I'll take being good at something rather than be last at everything. I think.

  And so, here I am, on the pitch— just rolled out by Ash—ready to bat.

  When it's her turn to bowl, she runs in and throws the first ball, which I manage to make contact with. That is huge progress from where I was a few months ago. Over the past year we've been meeting at least once a week to practice. Really, it's more an excuse to spend time with her.

  I watch her run in for the next ball, how when she raises her arm her shirt stretches firmly across her chest, outlining her breasts. I can't see the shape of her nipples at this distance, but torture myself for a second imagining what they would look like, if she wasn't wearing that shirt. The ball hits the uneven pitch and bounces at me. I manage to duck just in time so it flies over me rather than at my face. I look up to find Ash grinning.

  "Well played." She gives me a thumbs-up sign.

  "You mean well avoided, right?" I walk across the pitch to hand over the bat and the batting pads we wear to protect our legs. "I don't get why we don't wear helmets during practice?"

  "Scared, Vik?" She dares me to contradict her.

  She likes pushing me to my limit. Constantly testing me. As if she's seeing how much I can take before I hit back. It turns me on. Or maybe I just like being tortured by her.

  "No. Just being careful," I reply.

  I take the ball from her and grip it between my fingers the way she's been teaching me.

  "Wow, you sure like to live by the rules, don't you?" Her voice is bored.

  "No, just don't want to be stupid." I try to raise an eyebrow at her. It's something I have picked up from Tenzin. I've seen him use the same expression with great effect. It makes him look cool and aloof, yet sexy. Or so I've heard the girls whisper.

  "What are you trying to do?" She looks confused.

  "Uh! Nothing." I obviously need to practise more in front of a mirror. I walk to the end of the clearing in preparation for my run-up. "Ready?" I yell to where Ash is taking guard.

  When she nods, I run onto the pitch and bowl. The ball bounces off a rough patch and goes full tilt at her. Ha! Ash is getting a taste of her own medicine.

  The next moment, I am running towards her fallen figure. The ball has grazed her head, before flying over the wickets and into the woods beyond. No. No. I didn't mean for that to happen. I hope she's okay. Please, please let her not be hurt. My heart is beating so fast now I can hear the blood pump in my ears.

  "Ash!" My voice comes out all choked.

  Dropping to my knees, I pat her cheeks lightly. Is she unconscious? She's not dead, is she? A thin stream of blood trickles from her temple. I bend closer, bring my face parallel with hers and place a finger below her nose. When I feel her warm breath brush over my skin, I heave a sigh of relief.

  "Ash. Ashley, can you hear me?" I ask again, with more urgency, patting her cheek again. She doesn't move.

  Should I try giving her the kiss of life? Not that I know how to do that. Or perhaps press down on her chest? I place the heel of my right hand in the centre of her chest.

  "What are you doing?" I feel the rumble of her voice through my palms.

  "Ash!" I cry in relief.

  She looks at my face, then down to where my palm is still resting on her chest.

  "Oh!" I remove my hand. "Sorry, I thought you were dying."

  "You are such a pussy, Vikram."

  "What do you mean?" My face warms at her words.

  "Here I was hoping for some mouth-to-mouth … You know?" She blinks her eyelids at me coyly.

  It only maddens me further. "You mean like this?" I touch my lips to hers, and desire slams painfully into my groin.

  Giggling, she pushes at me, so I sit back on my heels.

  "Too late now, dummy." So saying, she springs to her feet, dirt clinging to her jeans, her white T-shirt splotchy with grass stains. Bits of mud stick to her braid. That's when I completely, utterly, crush on her.

  "Ash …" I whisper.

  "Come on." Still smiling, she holds out her hand, and taking it, I rise to my feet. "Let's head back, shall we?"

  We're still holding hands as we enter the school building.

  Dad was right. I really do need to work on my timing.

  FOURTEEN

  The smell of samosas frying in the canteen this morning reminds me of home. I realise I haven't heard from my parents in over a month. Being at St James is like living on a distant satellite. It's on Earth but is not really part of this planet. I can go for months on end without remembering there is a real world out there. My lifeline to the outside is my weekly call home.

  I normally call home every Sunday evening. But so caught up have I been with classes and cricket (and Ash), I haven't called in the last few weeks. Wait, it's been longer than that. It's almost a month since I spoke to them. But Mum hasn't tried calling me either. That's strange. Have they forgotten me? That quickly? I dial home and find out for myself.

  "Hello …? Roy residence." I smile at the little girl's voice on the other end.

  "Hey, Seema, how are you?"

  "Hi, bhaiyya." Her childish endearment of respect makes me feel protective about her. With the almost eleven-year age gap between us, Mum insists she call me bhaiyya—elder brother.

  "What are you doing today, Seema?"

  "I'm going to the pool for a swimming lesson, then maths tuition."

  "Maths on a Sunday? That's quite grim, no?"

  "No, I like maths ... it's the swimming pool I don't like. It's sooo crowded. There is no place to practise only."

  I laugh at her very grown-up expression of disgust. "So where are Mum and Dad?" I ask.

  "In their room … fighting." Her voice is matter of fact.

  "Fighting?"

  "Yes, they are always angry with each other."

  Ah! I have a good idea what they are fighting about.

  Either Dad's announced he is off on one of his secret-service jaunts, else Mum's discovered he is having yet another affair.

  Seema's arrival had kept him faithful for a while. But since my time at St James, I've noticed Mum's increasing dissatisfaction during our phone conversations.

  "And Vishal?"

  "Out playing rugby with his friends. He is always out with those slackers nowadays."

  "Slackers? Where did you learn that word?"

  "Oh! Mum uses it all the time." Mum's obviously making her opinion of his friends very clear around the house.

  "Why don't you knock on their door and tell them I am on the phone?"

  I can hear the silence as she hesitates, trying to decide on a course of action. "Go on," I urge her.

  As she walks to the door of their bedroom, cordless phone in hand, the sounds of home, and of Bombay, filter through: the clang of vessels from the kitchen, a siren in the distance, the faint ever-present sound of honking from the traffic below, the sea breeze whistlin
g in through the open window … It's salty taste springs up on my tongue as if I am right there.

  "Mum, Daddy?" I hear her knock on their door.

  "I can't take this anymore." Mum's voice floats down the phone clearly, as if the door's been flung open. "How many times do I need to forgive you? I am losing count of the women in your life."

  Dad's voice, softer than hers, but still firm, interrupts. "Our daughter's at the door, surely we can keep our peace in front of her?"

  There is the sound of a door slamming shut, and then Dad comes on the line. "Vik. How are you? How's the cricket?"

  "Cricket's coming along fine, Dad."

  "You need to work on your timing, Vik. That's always been your weakness. Remember, timing is more important than strength. If you get your timing right, you can close the deal on many things in life. It's that killer instinct, you know?"

  He has no idea how accurate his words are. Still, it's not helping me to hear about my obvious lack of "killer instinct" from him.

  "Yes, Dad." My voice drips with long-suffering patience.

  "There I go, lecturing you again …" Dad laughs. "Funny how you find yourself turning into your parent without even realising it." It's almost as if Dad is speaking aloud to himself.

  In the silence that follows I jump in with, "How's Vishal? Can I talk to him?"

  Silence.

  Then, he says, slowly, "He's not at home."

  "Where is he, Dad?" I ask.

  A sigh. "Ah, Vik—" He's hesitant. Seems nervous. But why? "We were going to tell you when you came back home, but probably better you know now."

  "What? What is it, Dad?" Even as he is deciding how to tell me, I know.

  "You've sent Vishal away, haven't you?" I ask.

  Silence. Again. Then, "How did you know?" he asks, sounding surprised. But he shouldn't be. Mum's made no secret that she'd like him out of her sight.

  I'm not sure what to say. I stay quiet.

  Dad breaks the silence this time. "He's at St Joseph's. At their hostel."