"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." 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.
14
Age 14
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 so crowded. There is no place to practice 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 whistling 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.
Mum's voice floats down the phone clearly, as if the door's been flung open. "—you’ve gone too far this time. Why did you come back? For what?"
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 realizing 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."
"That's a good school," I blurt out.
"Just not St James," we both say simultaneously.
Dad heaves a sigh. Again. I've never heard him sigh this much before. "I simply can't afford to send both of you to St James. And I've just had it with your mother's non-stop complaints about him. It's better for everyone that Vishal stays at the hostel."
Better for everyone but Vishal. He must really hate us now. But why didn't he call me. Tell me about it? But then, we haven't really spoken since I left home. And I haven't exactly reached out to him either. I, too, have forgotten him. When it comes down to it, I'm just like the rest of my family.
"So I guess things are better now, between you and Mum?" I keep my voice light. "Now that Vishal is not at home anymore."
"Not sure it is. The usual, you know. Ups and downs …" Dad's voice trails off. "Vishal was just an excuse. Nothing I do will make things better between us."
It's the first time he's admitted things aren't great. That's not good. My heart beats faster. Palms clammy, I fidget with the telephone. I should hang up now.
"You and Mum splitting up?" It's out before I can stop myself.
"No …" He doesn't seem very convinced. "No, of course not," he says with more confidence.
I believe him ... Almost.
"How's the girlfriend?" He asks.
Ah! That inevitable girlfriend question. "Nope. I'm concentrating on my studies … and cricket, remember?" I grin repeating his dialogue back at him.
Of course, Dad comes right back with, "Don't become too studious either ... No one wants to date a boring man."
I sigh aloud and make sure he can hear it over the phone. "There really is no pleasing parents," I groan.
That does the trick. "Okay, okay!" Dad changes the topic. "Your mum demands to speak to you now." There's a hint of exasperation —resignation? —In his voice.
"Vikky?" Mum never uses my childhood name, not unless she is really, really upset. Which I guess she is now.
"Hey, Ma. How are you?" I do feel for her. I sense her moving away from Dad; the sound of a door shutting comes over the line. Then, a muffled sob.
"Mum!"
Is she crying? What do I do now? I've no idea what I should say. I so dread a woman's tears, Mum's grief especially—I have no clue how to handle it. It's my undoing.
"Don't cry, Ma, please."
"I am not crying. Of course not," she sniffles.
"You'll just spoil your make-up if you do, and your beautiful face," I say lightly.
"Y
ou are such a smooth talker … just like your dad." I hear the bitterness in her voice now, but ignore her last comment.
"Everything okay, Mum?"
I almost wish I hadn't asked the question, and my worst fears are realized when she hesitates, then says, "No."
I am not sure what to say to that. So I just wait.
"I am not sure how much longer I can take this, Vik …" I can hear her swallow her grief, trying to bring herself under control.
"Uh! Ma, Dad's a good guy, you know." I am used to playing peacemaker between Mum and Dad, but this, trying to sell Dad's merits to Mum, is a little unusual, even for me. Have I overstepped my boundary as a son?
Mum doesn't take offense. I hear her nod. "He's a good man. Just not a good husband."
Silence. Again. What can I say to that? I do agree with her. But I am not going to say that to her, am I?
Both Mum and Dad often confide their true feelings for each other in me. Sometimes they forget I am just a fourteen-year-old.
"You were always a good listener." She breaks the silence. "I miss you here, Vik."
"I miss being home too, Mum." I mean it.
Yet, I am happy to be away from it all. At least here, at St James I can be a kid for a while longer.
15
Age 15
I don't want to go home for the summer holidays. I've grown to like it here at St James. There's a routine, yet no day is like the rest. And thankfully, I don't have to "try" to play musical instruments anymore.
So, between classes I hang out with Tenzin, then after school I play cricket with Ash and her gang. I often forget I have another home. Sometimes I do think about my family. But it all seems far away. I hope things are better between Mum and Dad. And how has Vishal been getting along? I tried reaching him at his hostel, but he refused to take my calls. He's upset with me. But what can I do? I am here, far away. Besides, in this world it seems grown-ups have all the power. I wish I could grow up quickly and help him. And Seema? She must have grown taller since I last saw her. I hope they'll be happy to see me.
Mind buzzing with thoughts, I pass the communal showers on the way to my room, when a boy's scream stops me in my tracks.
What was that? Someone's in trouble ... Should I call for help, find a teacher?
Another scream, this time abruptly cut off as if a hand has been placed over the boy's mouth, convinces me there is no time to waste. I run in, run past the lockers and see the group of boys at the far end of the shower room.
"Hey!" I yell, but no one takes heed. They're too busy bent over the figure of the boy in the middle. Even as I watch, one of them raises his fist and slams it into the side of the figure on the ground. A groan of pain. They are beating him up.
"Stop!" I raise my voice louder. No response. They keep at him. Punch, kick, hit, hands raised, knees bent. The boy on the ground disappears from sight as the rest bend over him. These guys are older than me, taller too. At seventeen, they're almost grown men. Some sport mustaches, and many have long hair. They seem older than their years.
I've got to do something.
"What are you guys DOING?" I scream.
"Go back to your room."
I start at the familiar voice.
"Tenzin, you?" It's not uncommon for the various cliques to come to blows on campus. Or for seniors to take ragging to an illogical extent. But Tenzin? Here in the middle of the fight? Tenzen, my chilled-out roomie?
He peels away from the group and, placing his hands on my shoulders, turns me around, urging me to the exit. "The less you know about this the better it is for you, Vik."
I angrily shrug away his arm. He is my friend, but I simply cannot walk away from what he is doing. "Four of you against one of him. He doesn't stand a chance."
"Why does that bother you anyway?"
There's an edge to his voice I have never heard before. I look over my shoulder to see the other three watching us. They are part of Tenzin's "Bhutanese" gang. The world sees Bhutan as a peace-loving, high-on-the-happiness-quotient nation. But as I have found out, the youth of this country are just as angry as kids from anywhere in the world. Perhaps more.
"I am sure whatever he's done is wrong, but that doesn't mean you have to beat him up, do you?"
"Just because you come from the land of that fraudster Gandhi, doesn't mean you have to talk like him, okay?" another boy sneers.
Anger warms my gut. But rather than show it outright, I stretch myself to my full height. I've grown steadily in the last two years and find I am almost as tall as Tenzin's five feet ten inches now. Thanks to the cricket practice and being out in the open air so much, my shoulders have filled out too. I walk over to the boy who had spoken and ask, "So what did he do?"
I don't really want to know the cause of the fight, but this will at least buy the boy and me some time.
Tenzin speaks up again. "He followed my girl to her room, tried to kiss her."
I turn to him. "That's wrong. Very wrong," I say. If there's one thing I have learnt here, it's to respect women, to give them space, treat them with courtesy. "There's no excuse for what this guy did. But you sure you want to beat him to death?"
"Yes," Tenzin replies.
"Why not just report him to the school. He'll be expelled," I try to reason.
"No, we solve this our way," the other boy huffs.
"This isn't just about him teasing your girlfriend. It's about him being Korean, right?"
When they don't reply, I know I am right.
The Korean faction and the Bhutanese boys have been at loggerheads ever since I have been at St James. Strange how even in a community of just 600 students the lines are drawn across race, skin color, and culture.
The sound of something clanging against the wall startles us. Tenzin puts up a hand, signaling us to be silent. He makes his way to the entrance and looks around. Whatever he sees is not reassuring, because he runs back to us and whispers. "The Koreans ... Let's get out of here." The boys scatter, leaving me behind. Tenzin hesitates. "Go! We'll talk about this later."
He nods and follows his friends.
I turn over the boy on the ground. He's not in good shape: a black eye, broken lip, torn shirt with blood splashed over his collar and covered with boot prints. He groans and his eyes flutter again.
"Can you move?" I whisper.
When he nods, I help him to his feet. He cries out in distress as I put an arm around his waist. "Hang in there." I half carry, half drag him to the entrance of the showers, by which time his gang have arrived. Spotting me, they stop in their tracks, and a stocky boy, who I take to be their leader, holds up his fists, ready to fight.
"Stop!" the boy I am helping gasps out. "It wasn't him. He helped me."
"Who was it, Kim?" the leader asks.
"Ten–Tenzin," Kim replies.
While the other two relieve me of my burden, the stocky boy puts out his hand. "Hoon," he introduces himself.
"Vikram … Vik," I reply, shaking his hand.
He turns to leave and I hail him. "Hoon, wait. Don't do this. If you go after Tenzin, the fighting is just going to become worse. It's not going to help anybody."
Hoon turns around and smiles grimly. "They should have thought about that before they beat up Kim like this. Now, it's war." He looks at me closely. "You are Tenzin's friend, aren't you?"
I nod.
"Tell him to be very careful. We won't forget your help though." He gives me a mock salute. Then, they are gone.
I really don't like unnecessary violence. Arguments can be resolved with words, with reasoning. And if that means I sound boring and "nerdy", as Tenzin says, so be it.
16
Age15
SUMMER HOLIDAYS—1
I am back in Bombay for the summer hols. But this time I also take every opportunity I get to play cricket. Today I am at a practice session at the Cricket Club of India—the CCI as it's called. Dad's a member here. The story goes that the erstwhile Maharaja of Patiala—a princely Indian state—had c
reated this club so Indians too could play cricket. Most clubs those days only permitted entry to Europeans.
Today, the heat wafts up from the ground, and the pitch shimmers in the morning sunlight. It's hot, already. But that doesn't stop us die-hard fans of the game. I walk to the crease, dressed in the mandatory flannels. Even for informal sessions, the club insists we wear white trousers and shirt, helmet, and cricket pads.
"Hey, your bro's come to watch you play." My fellow batsman points to where a group of figures are watching us from the sidelines.
"Who?" I don't recognize the figures from this distance.
"Vishal … Your brother?" he prompts.
"Ah!" I squint against the sun shining off the grass to make out the features of my brother. It's the first time I've seen Vishal on this trip back.
No longer does he tag along with me, trying to win my attention. He's got a life of his own now. At fourteen, he too has grown, but he is still a foot shorter than me. Got his own friends, he has. All uniformly dressed in baggy jeans with the waistband hanging low enough for their butt cracks to be seen. One of them wears dreadlocks hanging to his waist. The other two have large fluffy hair worn in the style of popular Bollywood heroes. Even at this distance, Vishal looks different. As always, he wears his hair short, almost military cut in its precision. He's also dressed in his usual faded blue denims and cut-off black T-shirt.
I raise a hand in greeting. No reply. Strange. I want to call out to him, but just then the umpire calls the start of the game and I take guard.
We've been playing for nearly three hours. It's almost lunchtime. The sun is right overhead. And I'd thought it had been hot earlier. Now it's blistering. The heat shimmers up from the pitch. My mouth parched, sweat pours out of my skin only to instantly dry off. A long cold shower—that's all I want, and lots of iced water. I've drunk my way through at least three liters of water in the last three hours, and yet my tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth. Damn shirt's stuck to my back too. Can I go back to St James? And play in the cool air of the Himalayas? I am homesick. Not even a week back and I want to return. What's home anyway? There or here?
Chosen: Vik's origin story (Many Lives Prequel Book 2) Page 6