I should comfort her. Instead I stay rooted to my spot, watching the unfolding drama. I don't know it then but the next few minutes are going to change my life forever.
Dad swallows, his Adam's apple bobbing. Shaking his head as if to clear it, he looks to me, a strange look on his face as if he is being torn inside. As if he wants to tell me something but can't. Voice composed, he says, "Vikram."
"Yes, Dad?" I reply, without taking my eyes off the boy, whose lips are now lifted in a slight smile. He looks smug, as if he's won a fight.
I try to push away the sinking feeling inside my stomach. It's as if I have inhaled all the dark clouds in the sky, and now they are choking my insides.
"Meet Vishal." Dad doesn't come forward. His eyes simply plead with me … for what? What does he want me to do? The sound of Mum crying is a steady monotone in the background. It's like the static from a TV set whose reception has been suddenly cut off, leaving the sound from the grainy screen to fill the silence.
"Who is he, Dad?" I feel compelled to ask. Inside, I am thinking, Don't tell me, I don't want to know. But, of course, he does.
"He's your younger brother …" Dad smiles crookedly.
Next to him, Vishal lifts his middle finger at me. He smirks, then rapidly drops his hand to his side before Dad can notice it. I don't rise to the bait. I feel like I have grown older in the last few minutes.
"Hi, Vishal …" I say. I keep my voice steady and force myself to resemble a blank sheet of paper. It's as if everything I knew before this moment has been wiped clean.
"Hi …" Vishal hesitates, then his face brightens with a smile, "… brother." He looks innocent. Like an angel. Is it only me who can hear the scorn threaded through that word?
Guess he's older than I first thought him to be.
Siblings can be a real pain.
3
Age 10
THE SOUND OF a door slamming wakes me up. I played Perfect Dark on my Nintendo late into the night and am still slumped over my table. Not that Mum and Dad are aware of it. They've been too busy fighting. Getting up, I stretch and yawn. Then, I stumble to the bed and fall face down. Ah! Much better. I roll over onto to my back and my eyes fall on the basketball hoop. It mocks me from the far end of the room.
It's been ages since I tossed a ball through it. Now that I've discovered Joanna Dark of Perfect Dark, basketball has lost some of its appeal. Guess I just like strong, feisty girls. It's nothing to do with how beautiful she is. Okay, maybe just a little. Besides, I love shooting aliens too. Shoot baskets … shoot aliens. Hmm! The same thing, right? If only real-life problems could be solved as easily. I can hear Mum and Dad through the half-open door.
"You're taking me for granted, Rajiv. You always have since we got married. But since you brought the boy home, you've just become a lot worse. You think you can get away with anything—"
"—You just need an excuse to blame the boy ... why can't you just let him be?" Dad's baritone rumbles in reply.
"You don't get it, do you?"
Mum sounds desperate. I fling the pillow over my face, trying to block out their voices. It's no use. I can still hear her.
"Every time I look at that boy, I see—"
"See what?" Dad doesn't raise his voice. No, since he lost his temper the day he brought Vishal home, he's been very careful to stay controlled. To not lose his temper again. He has a lot of will power that way.
Mum says I take after him. I don't lose my temper either. Not quickly. But if I am pushed too much, then sometimes I just snap. From the tone of Dad's voice, I know he's not far off from totally losing it either. "Don't push him, Mum. Don't," I whisper aloud, not aware that I am rocking myself. I crawl under the covers and shut my eyes. I am in my own bed, in my own room. I am safe here. Everything will go back to the way it was. It will. It has to.
"—I see my shortcomings. I see your love for that … that other woman … That boy is a reminder of all that is broken in our marriage." Mum's voice is sharp, as if she is trying to hurt him with her words.
"And is that what you think it is … broken?" Dad's voice has gone even softer, so I have to strain to hear him now.
"Isn't it?" Pain threads through her voice.
They've been arguing like this ever since Vishal arrived almost six months ago … and each time they fight, it gets worse. It's as if they hate each other. Grown-ups can be very vicious. And yet they tell kids to be polite, to share things, to never fight.
"God! Meera," Dad pleads. "Don't think for a moment I loved her. It was a few seconds of insanity. She was my childhood crush, the first girl I fell in love with. It was just seeing her after all these years … I couldn't help myself."
"Your male ego couldn't take a woman turning you down … you couldn't rest till you bedded her." She is crying now. "I thought you had changed, but you haven't."
Silence, then Dad says, almost as if he is speaking to himself, "Sometimes I think it's in my genes."
"Genes … Bullshit!"
Another change in Mum since Vishal's arrival—she swears freely now. They both do. It's like they don't really care if we are listening in on their conversations anymore.
"Don't tell me you are going to use that as an excuse now," she says.
"You're right." Dad's voice is contrite. "It is just an excuse. But sometimes I wonder … given the philandering old coot that my grandfather was … and then my own father couldn't keep it zipped, could he?"
"You swore you would stay faithful." Mum sounds sad. "Your promises don't mean much, do they?" Her words have gone all over the place as if the tears are dissolving her sentences, breaking them down. Just as they are melting Dad's heart.
"Don't say that. I love you, would do anything for you—"
"—Just not stay faithful."
"How do I convince you?" His voice is frustrated. There's silence, then a shuffling sound as if he's moved towards her. The sound of struggling, and I hear a smacking sound as if air being inhaled through closed lips. I peek through the crack in the doorway—to my eternal regret, for Mum and Dad have locked lips.
I know they're kissing 'cause I've seen it on the soaps I sometimes watch with Mum. She always tries to cover my eyes every time a couple kisses on screen, but I've peeked through the gaps between her fingers a few times.
It's weird watching my parents kiss in real life. I shouldn't stare. I should look away. Now. But it's so fascinating. I know it's forbidden. I just can't stop looking.
They break away but can't take their eyes off each other. Mum's chest is heaving, her breasts rising up and down so fast it makes me slightly dizzy to watch. Dad reaches out to tuck a strand of hair that has fallen loose from her ponytail. She holds his palm and, bringing it to her lips, kisses it. Oh! No! Are they going to start smooching again? Ugh! It looks gross. But they seem to like it. I wonder what it feels like to touch someone else's lips.
Dad gets to his feet and holds out his hand. Mum takes it and they walk into their bedroom. The door shuts quietly behind them.
Can love tear at you so much? If it can hurt so much then I am never going to fall in love. Not easily.
4
Age 11
GUESS MY PARENTS made up after all, for soon after this, my little sister is born. Seema brings with her a strange calm. The entire family rallies around her. She brings us together once more. Suddenly her needs are more pressing than anything else. Dad and Mum seem to bury their past, forgetting the third person who had come between them in their relationship. As for me …?
The first time I lift Seema in my arms, I completely fall for her. Such a little doll she is, small and pink. Her eyes are shut, and when I carry her I feel her heart beat rapidly. It's as if she has a little toy train inside of her, constantly running to get to the next station. I touch her cheek and she opens her eyes. They are an orange-brown, amber in color. Just like mine. It's like she can see right through to my soul. She smiles at me, wrapping her little fingers around my thumb. I know I am her slave for li
fe. My little sister.
Mum will not let Vishal near Seema. But I can tell the baby fascinates him. He watches from afar, and when he thinks no one is watching, he peers into her crib. He touches her cheek and places his favorite dog-eared teddy bear next to her. It's the only toy he'd brought with him when he arrived.
He's really taken with her.
For once, both my bro and me feel the same way.
One evening towards the end of summer, just before the first monsoons hit the city, we head out to the aquarium. It's our first family outing with Seema. Things are still peaceful enough between Mum and Dad. Vishal and I have called a cautious truce … which basically comes down to each of us pretending the other does not exist.
That suits me just fine.
Vishal is just a year younger than me, but to my eleven-year-old self he feels young and immature. He's just a kid. And he's shorter than me. But when we fight I feel the strength in his body. He's sturdier than me.
The aquarium has always been one of my favorite places in the city. It's quiet, and serene, with the silent shapes of fishes gliding through the water. There's something quite hypnotic about peering through the large glass windows and into the underwater world that you would never guess existed. The giant jellyfish is my favorite. Its umbrella-shaped body pulsates as it swims through the water with tentacles trailing the length of the glass screen of its tank. I stand there entranced by their gelatine-like, squishy, orange-colored, almost transparent bodies. There are two in this tank immersed in a silent waltz. One leads and the other follows.
Mum's voice cuts through my jelly-shaped coma. "Seema, where is she?" I look at the pram placed between us, to find it empty.
Mum sinks to her knees, pushing back the white cover with red hearts which had, till a few seconds earlier, covered my little sister. She peels off the material as if hoping to find Seema crawling below the fabric then turns the pram upside down so the rattle and the red teddy bear—her constant companion—bounce off the floor with a jingle and a squeak. By now Mum is beyond frantic. She turns to me and hugs me tight, squeezing the breath out of me. Putting her head on my shoulder, she weeps. It's the first time someone has turned to me for comfort. I don't realize it then, but this sets the tone for my life. Vikram, the one who stays strong, who others can lean on, the one who everyone can depend on in times of distress.
Who do I turn to?
"Stay with your mother, Vikram. Take care of her," Dad tells me, and grabbing Vishal, he hurries up the corridor, past the octopus next door and the seahorses clinging to the surface of their tanks. He peeks into one of the prams as he passes, scaring the women. I can hear him apologising profusely as he does so. When he touches the baby on the shoulder of another woman, she raises an alarm. It brings her husband to her rescue, and soon a small crowd gathers around them. While Dad tries to placate the gathering, Vishal slips out through a gap in the opening and continues up the corridor. I see his figure disappearing around the bend.
It's my cue to follow.
There is no reason for me to feel so competitive about this. But I can't help it. I can't let my little brother get the better of me. I need to do something to find Seema. I tug at Mum's saree. She's still crying, her eyes following Dad's progress with anxious eyes. "Let me go look for her," I say, and take off running behind Vishal, her—"Be careful"—following in my wake.
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-colored 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.
"Vik, 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 realize 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.
5
Age 11
MUM LOVES TAKING me along on her shopping trips. She says I have good taste in women’s clothes. I don’t know if that’s a compliment or simply her way of showing off her 'little man. I am not little. And I’d much rather be anywhere but here - sitting in the waiting room of her favorite boutique — Dress By Design — with a few other males. I am the only boy here. I straighten my back, and try to look all grown up.
I am grown up.
To my right a fat business man is barking into his phone. Big yellow sapphire ring flashing on the forefinger of his right hand. A diamond glints on his ring finger, and a pearl ring on his little finger. He believes in the power of gemstones in controlling his fate. I know many people like to consult an astrologer and wear gems to help them in life. Mum prefers the tarot. She's forever running off to her favorite tarot reader find out how her next few months are going to be. She never tells Dad about it. He'd yell at her if he finds out.
To my left is a yo
ung guy. He wears a crisp white shirt its collar fast wilting in the Bombay heat. Outside it’s so hot that my body could evaporate almost instantly under the glare of the noon sun. In here the temperature of the air-conditioning is turned so low that the vapour on my breath condenses when I breathe out.
There are no in-betweens in this city.
I pull out my Gameboy ... It’s the only reason I agreed to accompany Mum. She bought me this little nifty device on condition I go along with her on some of her shopping trips.
Fair exchange.
Dad often says that Mum depends on me more than she does on him. I am not sure if that’s a compliment. It doesn't feel like one now. The torture of being stuck in here with these fuddy-duddies is making me reconsider why I agreed. Even the appeal of a Gameboy is fast fading. I look down at its screen and keep my eyes locked on the moving figures. If I pretend hard enough, I can almost believe I am one of the characters in the video game.
Mum’s laughter tinkles up to my ears and from the corner of my eyes I see her walk up to me wearing a black dress that hugs her figure and ends just above her knees. "Well?" She models it for me, turning around this way and that.
The greying businessman next to me has stopped speaking on his phone to peer at her, his eyes wide enough to pop out of his face. The younger man has stopped looking at his watch long enough to sweep a glance at her from head to toe. I notice he doesn’t take his eyes off her chest. I don’t yet know what sex is. But, I just know that they shouldn’t be looking at my Mum that way. Pocketing my Gameboy I jump to my feet.
"Mum!" I walk towards her trying to shield her from the gaze of the other two men. I can feel their eyes trying to peer through the back of my neck.
"Well what do you think Vik?"
"You look great ... But—" I can’t bring myself to say it.
Chosen: Vik's origin story (Many Lives Prequel Book 2) Page 2