In at least three instances they have intercepted teenagers from upper-middle-class families in the city who've been plotting terrorist activity. On all occasions these kids preferred to commit suicide rather than reveal any information.
How weird. Rich kids on a mission other than going to the latest club?
It sounds like a hoax. But RAW is convinced there will be more of them and that the danger to the city is real.
They took the threat seriously enough to have put a high-ranking official like Dad in charge of investigating it. Is this the case he was on when he met his end? What surprises me is how close to home this threat sounds. The kids the report speaks about could be any one of the friends or classmates I grew up with. I could be one of them. Is that why they chose Dad to lead this case? Was it because he came from the same background as these teen recruits?
As I reach the end of the file, I find an envelope with embroidered edges—the design is engraved in pale gold with the recurring motif of a patchwork of trees and leaves. In comparison to the rest of the official-looking pages, the envelope feels delicate. I pull out a handwritten note. The elegant script blots over the thick, handmade paper, like tattooed ink marking skin.
It simply reads: "Meet me at our usual place. You must come. If you don't turn up this time … well … you know better than that. Don't you? Big hug to the kids."
I am sure it's from a woman. The familiarity in the words ... Was she his lover too? A faint smell of jasmine laced with a deeper fragrance of something else I can't quite place wafts from the paper. I bring it close to my nose and sniff it, almost gagging as the full blast of the perfume hits me. Definitely a woman. It seems to be the newest addition to the papers in the box. Is it just another note from one of his lady friends … or something more? Is the threat I read in those words real?
A knock on the door startles me. I drop the letter and the pictures back in the briefcase, shut it, and slide it under the bed.
"Vikky bhaiyya, are you there?"
"Come in," I call out, and by the time Seema walks in, I am lying back on the bed, rubbing my eyes as if I've just woken up from sleep.
"Can't sleep?" I ask.
Shaking her head, she walks in and stands next to the bed, her bare toes wriggling on the floor. She is wearing a pink-and-white T-shirt that comes all the way down to mid-calf.
"I miss him," she says, lower lip trembling.
I feel my heart melt, like an ice-cream cone in the sun. These last few days must have been so confusing for her. I've been so worried about Mum; I haven't really paid any attention to her.
"Come here." I pat the bed next to me.
She climbs onto the mattress. I put an arm around her and she snuggles close. She smells of baby powder, and a gentle, almost-not-there, rosemary and thyme scent—Pears soap. It takes me right back to my own childhood. I've missed a lot of Seema's growing years.
She sniffs a little and I feel her tears dampening my shirt. I want to cry with her. I swallow down my grief. How to comfort a little girl?
"You know, Dad's in a better place," I say lamely.
She nods. "But I miss Vishal. Why isn't he here with us," she asks.
What do I say this time? He's your father's illegitimate son. Your mother doesn't want him around. And now he's decided to go his own way, do his own thing. He did say he'd call her. He will, won't he?
Hoping to distract her, I ask, "Who is that?" I point to the picture on her T-shirt—a figure with big brown eyes and long flowing black hair, which reminds me of the woman in the picture I had just discarded.
"Oh! That's Pocahontas. An Indian princess. She falls in love with John Smith and together they bring peace to her people." She parrots the lines as if she has read them in a book many times. "Papa brought it for me …" Her voice tapers off and I hear her swallow.
I rush in quickly with, "You do know that when they say Indian … they mean Native American Indian, right?"
"Huh? What do you mean?" She frowns.
"As in she is a native of indigenous people from America."
"What is indi-ge-neous?" She yawns.
"It means being originally from that region. Like we are from—"
"—From Bombay," her voice echoes mine, already sleepy.
"Yes. And Pocahontas was born and grew up in America." I continue almost to myself, "She didn't marry John Smith, but was actually taken prisoner by the English, where she married a man named John Rolfe …"
A gentle snore interrupts my monologue. I smile a little. I can't even keep the attention of a six-year-old anymore. Hell! I can't even keep myself interested in my own life. I'm turning into the boring nerd Tenzin always accused me of.
I am alive … yet feel half-dead. I am so not like Dad. He lived life just as he wanted; and he left behind a few secrets. I have to find out what really happened to him. I have to solve the mystery around his death and search for the woman in the pictures. This briefcase feels like a sign. Like Dad's speaking to me. Calling out to me. To be bold. To be myself. Perhaps in looking for the answers I'll find a little of myself too?
I slide into sleep like the sun dropping into the Arabian Sea.
SEVENTEEN
I walk past Churchgate station, against the human tide surging towards the trains. Lawyers, engineers, blue-collar workers, newly minted MBAs on their first job. All united by the lifeline of this city, by its local trains. Not the most elegant means of transport, but it's the fastest way to get around the city and it's the only way to avoid the traffic jams. Just as long as you don't mind having your nose jammed into the throat of the man ahead. But I am not getting on the trains today.
I enter the small café and order a cup of their extra-special chai. Then, I settle down to wait for him. I hope Vishal really does show up this time. The last time, he said he'd come and never did. But, I can be patient. Persistent too.
I order another cup of chai and finish that too.
The light is fading outside. Around me the tables fill up with early diners. The smell of food wafts through the air and my stomach rumbles.
Where is he?
Another chai arrives. I let this one cool. I am all chaied out. I don't touch this cup.
He arrives suddenly.
Vishal walks in, stops at the entrance and looks around before spotting me. As he walks towards me, the college girls at the other tables follow his progress. Crew-cut hair, a cut-off T-shirt showing off the tattoo snaking up his arm, and jeans torn at the knees. He looks down at me, dark eyes shadowed, before dropping down in the chair opposite. Behind him, the headlights of the slow-moving traffic bounce off the windows. The honking of the cars pours between us, filling the silence.
"Tea?" I ask, and without waiting for an answer, I look around for the waiter, who materialises at his elbow, placing a glass filled with the milky brown liquid.
"How—?" I ask, then shut up.
This is his local café. His hostel is just around the corner. He must eat all his meals here.
The waiter appears, placing a plate of food in front of him.
"It's dinner time." Vishal shrugs and is about to dig in. He pauses, asks, "Do you—?"
I'm already shaking my head. "No. Mum's waiting for dinner."
The words are out before I can stop myself. Damn. Fuck. As if the contrast in our situations isn't stark enough, I had to go point that out, right?
Vishal doesn't say anything. He digs into the food. Eats.
I swig the water from the glass, wishing for something stronger. Still, it's good to see him eat. He has a healthy appetite. He seems strong, vital. Alive. A rush of brotherly love surges up, taking me by surprise. I look away. Tilting the glass of water, I drain it off to the last drop. Before I can ask for a refill, the same waiter appears and tops me up.
"Quick service," I comment.
"They know me here," Vishal says, voice neutral. His plate wiped clean, he drains his own glass of water and leans back with a sigh. "Why did you want to meet, Vikram?" he asks.
I grasp my fingers around the glass of water.
What does he see? A brother? An enemy? The favoured son? I lean forward, steeple my palms together so they form a pyramid on the table.
"Vishal, come home," I say.
There's stunned surprise on his face, then he bursts out laughing. A quick short burst—harsh. Loud enough for people at the nearby tables to look up at us.
"Losing your touch, you are, Bro. You sound like one of those newspaper ads for runaways." He makes a rectangle of his hands, miming an ad. "All is forgiven. Come home."
"Forgive us, Vishal," I say, keeping my breathing even. Calm. I pour my heart into the words. Can he see that I mean it? I want to tell him how sorry I am. But I don't want to sound like I am pleading. Though, of course, that is exactly what I am doing.
"It's too late, Vikram." His voice is even, steady.
"It's not. It isn't," I insist.
Our eyes clash. An uncertain look flashes across his, making him look more like the teenager he still is, rather than the grown-up, street-smart man he's pretending to be.
"It's not too late. Never too late," I say.
"Look. Vik. Your mother doesn't want me there. I was never a part of that home."
"She's not all that bad, Vishal. It's just … you remind her of Dad's affairs, all those other women in his life."
He doesn't seem surprised when I refer to Dad's flings in the plural. It's not something we've ever spoken about. But I know that he knows too.
"I know she didn't make you very welcome. But she also didn't disown you, throw you out to starve, did she?" I plead.
"Dad wouldn't have allowed that," he says.
But his voice isn't very convinced. He doesn't meet my gaze now, instead looking across to the crowd on the next table. He pulls out his packet of cigarettes and lights one. The waiter brings him an ashtray immediately. He doesn't offer me one and I don’t ask either.
I press my point. "She did give you a roof over your head all these years."
"Then, at the first opportunity, moved me to a hostel." He says it without malice, blowing out smoke. He looks at the cigarette.
"It's one of the finest colleges in the city. A good hostel." I defend her.
"My point. Exactly." He looks up and smiles a little. Just one side of his lips lift. It's not a happy smile. Cynical. "Which is why I say, let it go. It's fine where I am. I've found my place here. I never did belong at your home."
He gets to his feet and I follow him.
"The bill?" I look around for the waiter.
"It's on my tab."
Seeing the look on my face, he smiles. This one reaches his eyes, lights up his face. He looks mischievous, almost happy.
"I can pay for your chai, Vik. It won't put me on the street."
Relieved, I follow him out of the café onto the footpath. "Do you need anything else, Vishal?"
"Money, you mean?" He says it without heat. "No. Dad's made sure my hostel is all paid for, till I graduate. And I get a monthly allowance."
"He planned it all out, didn't he?" So, Dad's thought this one all the way through.
"Maybe he had to," Vishal agrees.
"Did he know what was coming?" I wonder aloud. He prepared for the worst, he did.
"I think he sensed … something."
There it is, that look in his eyes again. He knows something, Vishal does. Something he's not telling me. I ask quickly, "What do you mean? Tell me."
A shutter falls over his eyes, his features freeze. "I have to go, Vikram. People are waiting for me." He turns to leave.
"Wait, Vishal." I stop him, and when he looks over his shoulder, I ask, "Your mother. Where is she?" All these years and I've never dared ask him about his mum.
There's something like puzzlement, then wariness, on his face.
He frowns, then says, "She's gone."
"What do you mean?" I ask.
But he continues walking, not replying. Hands deep in pockets, his shoulders hunched and his face thrust forward so his chin almost touches his chest.
"Is she dead?" My voice follows him, but he doesn't turn back.
Is she alive? Is that what he meant?
It'll be a few more years before I get the answers to my questions.
SEVENTEEN
When something horrible takes place, you can either surrender to it, let it pull you into its clammy embrace and give in to the emptiness in your heart, or you can somehow, a minute at a time, drag yourself forward.
It's now been a month since Dad's death.
A week since I discovered the contents in the briefcase; a week since the text message. What the fuck was that about? I reach for the phone and read it again. And again. Such innocent words. But strung together they feel like a threat. An empty feeling yawns in the pit of my stomach. I wish I were back at St James, playing cricket, walking to class, sneaking food from the tuck box. It all feels so innocent, so far away, as if it's part of another life.
There's an ache in the back of my throat. I swallow it down and let the cold fingers of reality intrude. Allow it to anchor me to the now. There's no escape. We are, all of us, trying to get back to normal. But what's normal anyway? Hanging out with Tenzin at the mall? Playing cricket with Ash on the hillside? Maybe it's this—reading and rereading this message that's turned my life upside down, while my dreams are haunted by my father's smashed face.
Or is it consoling my mum when she routinely falls apart every other day? Holding her hand at night while she still grieves for Dad. She misses him so much that I can touch her pain. In death she's found the kind of love she had never known when he was alive.
My life until now has been a long winding road stretching out in front of me with no end in sight. Now, I know, there's a "The End" sign at the end of it. And that more than anything gives me the will to keep going. To get up day after day, get Seema off to school, help Mum around the home, accompany her to the mall for grocery shopping. I push my own feelings, my fears, out of the way. I keep watch over them. Keep them safe. For how long can I do this?
Grief has unearthed a cord of steel within me. It keeps me upright, lends urgency to my life. I've never been driven but now inside me is a stirring. A thirst. I want to go to Oxford. I do. And I want to explore the world beyond these shores. The lights in the distance I had only sensed at St James—I yearn to now touch them up-close. But I also want to stay. Vishal's words still echo in my head. Is it to prove him wrong that I want to be here? Especially now, when I know there is someone watching. Assessing. What's the next move?
The thoughts crowd in on me, keeping me awake.
Despite the freezing temperatures in the air-conditioned bedroom, I am sweating. The room feels like a tomb, and going to the windows I fling them open. The warm breeze from the Arabian Sea wraps itself around me like a sensuous woman. It fans the restlessness inside me.
"Go," it whispers. "Go, embrace your destiny. Why do you fight it so?"
Should I leave my family again? And now when they need me more than before. Vishal's accusations echo in my ears. Impatient, I turn away from the silvery line of the sea when my phone buzzes again. No. Not again. I stare at it, willing it away. The message blinks. Asking me to open it. Do I dare? I reach for it and click on the message.
Fuck! My thoughts are being read. Whoever it is, is inside my head. How? How is it even possible? I asked a question and here's my answer. They know that's what I will do. I want to go, get away from here. Run away. No, I must stay.
That's my future.
This is my family.
I fling the phone on the bed so hard it bounces off and drops onto the carpet. Going to the window I stare out. Even as the sun rises over the Arabian Sea, lighting up the curve of the islands in the distance, my mind is made up.
SEVENTEEN
Mum's wearing make-up for the first time since the funeral. She takes her place at the head of the t
able at dinnertime … in the seat Dad used to occupy. She looks a little less fragile than a month ago. Physically she's better. But she's still not really present in the room.
"I'm not going to Oxford," I declare, forking some of the rice into my mouth. I say it more for effect, hoping to get some kind of reaction from her.
Mum looks up at that. Her eyes still dull, lifeless.
"What do you mean?" Her voice comes out hoarse.
"I left you once, to go to St James. I can't do it again. Not now when you and Seema need me."
"Don't say that, listen to me now." Her cheeks flush with colour, and for the first time since Dad's death I hear a little of the original feisty Mum I knew. A light sparks in her eyes, and she protests, "Vik—"
"Look at you, Mum. You can barely take care of yourself."
"I am fine. What's wrong with me?"
I ignore the panic in her voice and push ahead, my voice steady, a little harsh even. "You haven't eaten in days. You stay inside, in your room, all by yourself—"
"—I've just been a little under the weather … understandable, I think, in the circumstances." Her eyes flash amber sparks at me. "Nothing's wrong with me. I can take care of myself, and my daughter, thank you very much."
I swallow down a chuckle at seeing her features so animated.
Well that got her attention. Careful not to let the concern show in my eyes, I say, "But Mum, you look so tired … It's understandable at your age—" She does hate being reminded that she's no longer as young as she used to be. Any mention of her looks fading is guaranteed to get a rise out of her. I peer at her from under half-closed eyelids. I wait for the inevitable explosion. I'm rewarded with her—
"—What do you mean my age?"
There's a clatter as she drops her spoon and walks over to the mirror on the wall opposite the front door. She gasps in surprise. Stays there for a few seconds before walking back. She sinks into the chair, an uncertain, almost scared look on her face. "I do look terrible, don't I?" She laughs a little. "I have let myself go."
The First Life of Vikram Roy (Many Lives Series Book 3) Page 11
