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, then 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.
ELEVEN
Guess my parents must have 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 colour. 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 life. 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 favourite 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 favourite 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 favourite. 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-coloured, 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 realise 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-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.
The First Life of Vikram Roy (Many Lives Series Book 3) Page 2
