Chosen: Vik's origin story (Many Lives Prequel Book 2)

by Laxmi Hariharan

  "But what?" She frowns oblivious to the fact that the two men are all but lapping her up with their eyes. Surely she can see how they are looking at her right?"

  "But Mum, it’s a bit too uh! You know ..."

  "What?" She looks at me as if I am slightly crazy.

  I lower my voice, feeling a blush come on, "short"

  "Really?" She looks down at herself. The neckline of the dress ends just above the 'V' of her breasts. But the skirt is short enough to raise eyebrows in this city.

  "Hmm!" Her palm sweeps the offending hemline. When she raises her eyes to stare at the two men, they look away. The older resumes speaking into his phone. The other grabs a fashion magazine from the table next to him and holds it up in front of his face. Bet he likes to look at the models.

  "Okay." To my relief Mum doesn’t push the point, instead walking back to the dressing rooms.

  Drop back into my seat and look down at the Gameboy. Then, say aloud to no-one in particular. "My Dad’s a spy. He knows officials in high places and has many friends in the police force. So don’t MESS WITH HER." I raise my voice at the end making sure everyone in the room can hear us. Then, resume playing my video game as if the person who had spoken these words is not me. A long silence follows and I don’t dare look up. Then, the younger man simply leaves, walks out to wait for his girlfriend on the street. The older businessman heaves a sigh of relief when his young wife walks out holding the clothes she wants buy. They too leave. Whew! Can relax now.

  I let my body flap against the straight back of the seat, and continue playing the Gameboy with full attention now that they've been dealt with.

  Mum walks out, clad in her saree once again. What a lovely blue color. It sets off her dusky skin which twinkles under the spotlights of the dressing room. Her thick auburn hair brushes her shoulders, framing her face as she walks.

  "You’re so lovely," I smile as I get to my feet.

  "Hmm! And to what do I owe this sudden burst of affection. She frowns at me, but her eyes sparkle with the compliment. "Ice-cream?" She asks.

  I nod with enthusiasm.

  I’ll never let bullies get away with harming those who I care about. Ever.

  6

  Age 11

  When not on one of his secret assignments, Dad sometimes has his old friends over to watch a cricket match together. He has lots of friends. Men and … women. Mum 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.

  Mum's been in a tizzy all morning, ordering our cook to make a huge variety of snacks. The smells from the kitchen have been driving me crazy and I can’t wait to get my hands on them. Just thinking about it is making my stomach grumble. Someone knocks on the door of my room and Vishal sidles in. 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. Head shaking 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 whiff of frying samosas yanks me to my feet, and I can’t resist anymore. I follow the smell to the kitchen as if in a trance and dawdle there. Vishal is right behind me. Finally noticing me, Mum 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."

  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 ask "When?"

  In reply, she pulls out two piping-hot golden triangles. 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. He's also since avoided Mum 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"

  "All's fair." 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.

  "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.

  "Of course, what did you think? 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."

  Now that the semi-food-coma brought on by the samosa is fading, I realize with horror what I have let myself in for. 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.

  "We need more beer!" Dad hollers from the living room.

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

  "Go on." She grins, her eyes shining "the beer ..." She nods towards the living room, really enjoying this.

  I can't take care of a little thing like Seema on my own. What if I drop her, or she crawls out of the window when I am not looking? I begin to panic and something of my terror must have shown on my face for she pauses to lean down and pats me on my head.

  "Look at it this way" she says, "it's good practice."

  Uh? What's she saying? Then it sinks in. "I am never getting married, or having kids of my own" I screw up my face for emphasis. "I HATE girls."

  "We'll see." She leans down and I know she's going to kiss me. I duck, trying to get out of her way, but am not quick enough. She hugs me, and I hold my body rigid. Shut my eyes and try to slip out of her grasp. Then, I don't know why but it just comes out.

  "So, you'll buy me the new Gameboy then?"

  "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, " I don't know why you need to go to the salon, you already look so good Mum!"

  "Hmm! You charmer, 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, " Where's the beer? We have some very thirsty men here."

  Mum turns to leave and I yell "Remember your promise."

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

  So that's what it’s all about. Girls really like being flattered. And turning on the charm will get me everywhere. Mostly.

  7

  Age 11

  I STUDY AT the American School, 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.

  Then. Hey! The crowd cheers, forty-five thousand people spring to their feet as one.

  What happened? What?

  Uh! Did we score a goal …? No, I mean a wicket. Did we get a wicket? No, we are batting and the batsman has just hit six runs? No, it's a four. Something. What the—? What is this stupid game? Too many rules. Just don't get it.

  Dad thumps me on the back and pumps his fist in the air. He raises the flag and screams with the crowd. A wall of sound rams into me. I am swept up to my feet, carried along by the feverish excitement of the audience. I try to peer over the dancing heads of people to find out what just happened. Dad hands me his binoculars. "Take a look."

  Like that's going to help? Even through the binocs I can just about make out the features of the batsmen. What are they doing? Most are just hanging around the field. Oh! Look. One of them is moving, running up to the rectangle in the center. That's called the pitch, I think.

  "Uh! Who's batting?" I ask, forming my lips around the word.

  "The visiting team is batting. We are fielding," Dad replies, his eyes once again riveted by the action on the pitch.

  "But, why are they all wearing blue?"

  "Shades of blue. The guys in light blue with the 'wheel' logo on the back of their jerseys are us. The visiting team is in dark blue. Now, can you tell the difference?"

  Hmm! I stare through the glasses. I stare some more. I can't really tell who's who. Not really.

  I nod.

  It's only February, officially not yet summer, yet sitting there under the measly cover of the overhead canopy, I begin to slowly sizzle in the growing heat. This has to be the hottest day of my life. Tired of straining my eyes and not quite following the unfolding action, I hand back the binoculars, which he promptly glues to his eyes. I may as well not exist right now.

  "Dad." I know it's rude but I nudge him anyway. "Dad, I am melting. EVA-PO-RA-TING," I say. "Soon all that will remain of me by the end of the day is a little puddle on the ground that you'll need to mop up to take home."

  There's silence, then both Dad and Mark burst out laughing. "You are funny! Go on, into the VIP area and get us a beer each, will you?"

  I look at the money, then at him. Then back at the money. Me? What about me?

  "And while you are at it, get one for yourself."

  Yay!

  "Seriously?" I grin.

  No way!

  Cracking a wide smile, Dad ruffles my hair. "Yes. Seriously. It's a boys' day out, after all." He adds, "Just don't tell Mum, okay?"

  "Promise." I nod my head and I mean it. Seriously.

  "Way out. Cool!" I rush off to the VIP enclosure.

  Which is how I got to be in nearly forty degrees Celsius, a can of beer going fast flat in my hand, in my eleventh-going-on-twelfth year.

  Yew! The beer tastes awful—bitter, as if someone had removed every crystal of sugar from the liquid and replaced it with something that tastes like acid. Ugh! Don't let it show. Keep a straight face, swig from the can. Swallow. Another gulp. Keep going, till the can is half-empty. Soon the pleasant rush of alcohol numbing my senses takes over. I can't feel my feet, or my hands. The liquid cools my throat as it slips down, sparks off a slight burn when it hits my stomach. It's not unpleasant. A proper man I am now. Just like Dad.

  For the rest of the match I follow his actions. Rise to my feet when he does, cheer when he does. Hang my head in my palms, too, like him.

  The visitors win the match by five runs.

  And the captain tears off his No. 10 shirt, pulling it off in celebration, careening around the stadium as they square the thrilling one-day series.

  Years later, many years later, I'll repeat the same gesture when the one who takes my family away from me falls.

  8

  Age 11

  FIRST VISIT TO ST JAMES.

  "If your daughter gets pregnant, don't blame us."

  What? Does the sign really say that? And near the school gates? My eyes trickle away from the board. I feel as if I have intruded on some sacred adult ritual I know nothing about yet. I guess I am not as ready as I thought to walk in the world of grown-ups.

  Singhji, our driver, takes the car through the gates and up the driveway. Boys and girls wander around the grounds, talking to each other. Some hold hands.

  I've never done that. Held a girl's hand. Mum doesn't count. Nor does Seema. Like a real girl, that's what I mean.

  I roll down the window, lean out, and breathe in deeply. Fresh air. Yes, it really feels pure and tastes of bubbles and ice and everything light. It pours over me. There's this I-don't-care-what-you-think-about-me vibe in the air. I feel a little drunk. Later, I'll find out that students called it "getting a buzz."

  I turn to Dad. "I already like this place," I say.

  Dad laughs. "Bet you do." He rubs his knuckles lightly over my cheek. "A chip off the old block you are turning out to be."

  "But Dad … boarding school?" My lips droop downward. I turn away once again, pretending an interest in the scenery.

  "I went here, and so did my father. Don't you want to keep the family tradition?"

  I nod, swallowing down the hard lump in my throat. Yep, I've heard that often enough. I'm the eldest boy in the family … Blah! Blah.

  "I don't need to tell you how smart you are, Vik. You spoke your first words when you were only a year old and then it was as if the sentences just poured out."

  I know. It's just I hate being called that. Clever. Intelligent. Yes, I remember a lot of what I read. And I like words. I see a pattern in them and don't forget things easily. Apparently, I have a near photographic memory. So what? I don't understand what the fuss is about.

  "St James will give you a chance to explore your talents. Get a real all-round creative education. Something you can't get in a normal day-school in Bombay."

  I pretend not to hear him, choosing to stare out of the window instead.

  "They'll help you make the most of your abilities."

  I don't see why that’s so important. I just want to stay home, play with my videogames, fight a little with Vishal, tease Seema. Best not to say that now. Not when Dad's starting one of his serious man-to-man conversations.

  He goes on, "I'll never push you to do anything you don't want to. But this school's good for you. You'll have a chance to find out what you really like and also what you're not good at. And you get to be outdoors. You like that, don't you."

  I nod. I do like being out. And it looks all right here. We're surrounded by hills, and there are lots of trees. It's just, why doesn't he wan
t me to stay home. Maybe he doesn't like me too much anymore. He wants me out of the house.

  "Besides, you don't have to wear a uniform." Dad's voice interrupts my thoughts.

  Huh?

  "No uniforms?" I so don't believe him.

  Dad grins, nods, and gestures with his chin. "Look carefully, son," he says. He's looking pleased with himself.

  I lean out as far as the door will allow, taking in the details of the passing scene.

  "Don't fall out now." He hangs onto me.

  A girl walks by. Torn jeans, tank top cut low enough to show just a teasing hint of cleavage. A hat perched on her curls and she's texting on her phone. A satchel is slung sideways over her chest. She looks up, waves, a grin breaking out on her face.

  Dad raises a hand in greeting. "Wave back, Vik."

  I hesitate, then, I slowly raise my arm, but already she has passed by.

  "See, this is the other thing you have to learn." Dad's voice, torn by the wind blowing in from the open window hangs over me like a tattered tent. "You just have to act when you have the chance. Seize the moment."

  I subside against the seat. "Hmmm." What does he mean by that? "You mean, next time a girl waves, I wave back immediately?"

  He hugs me, excited. "Exactly, my boy."

  "Dad. Please." I wriggle in his grasp. Hope no one else saw that. I really do hate this touchy-feely stuff. Mum as well's been so clingy of late, ever since she realized I'm going to be leaving home soon. Only Vishal treats me the same.

  A thought strikes me. "Vishal, will he also come, next year?"

  Dad hesitates. "I hope so … we'll see."

  We'll see … it's a parent's way of saying "No" softly.

  "But Dad, he should come too, that way we can keep each other company—" I start to protest as the car comes to a standstill at the entrance of the building for my introductory visit to St James. I slide out from under his embrace and into the cooler arms of the pine-scented Himalayan air.