They are stamped with the unmistakeable font of "The Taj Mahal Palace, Bombay" and the picture of the iconic dome of the Taj Mahal Hotel above it.
My heart slams against my rib cage as if it is about to leap out, and, blood pounding at my temples, I reach as if in a dream for the first of the boxes. They are big, almost like the hatboxes I have seen at a department store at Oxford, so I struggle with the first as I carry it inside.
The second is lighter than the first, so light … almost as if there's a soufflé inside. For some reason the thought of the light cloud-like cake rings a bell. Suddenly, I know what it is, and my instinct is screaming, Don't! Don't open it. Back away. Turn around and run away from here. But I stay, and of course I open it. There's a face in the box.
Her eyes are half-closed; mouth slightly parted so I can see her teeth between her lips. The crooked incisor I'd often teased Seema about. For some reason, that more than anything else brings home the horror of what I am seeing. Do these things even happen in real life? A horrible, choking sensation overwhelms me. It's as if an inhuman, supernatural hand has me in its hold, weighing down like a mountain on my head and neck. The scene in front of me fades, the box receding into the distance. I fall against the door, and hold onto it, supporting myself against it. I am surprised to find my shaking legs still hold me up. I don't want to see what's in the other box. I open the cover. I know it will carry another severed head. I look at it with a kind of macabre fascination … Look away. Look away now. But I can't.
Apparently, in death a severed head still looks just like a live one.
I run back to the bathroom, away from those horrible things, away from all that's left of my family and I'm violently sick. My Legs give out from under me and I collapse on the cold white-tiled floor.
I should have got them out of the country. I should have done more to protect them. I failed. I chose to believe her, and now they are gone and I am going to pay the price for my trust. My stomach heaves once more. I want to move, but my muscles have liquefied. Panic grips me. And as I lie there, ice creeps into my veins. My emotions steel, then cut a path through my thoughts. I cannot let her get away with this. I must beat her at her own game. I will avenge my family.
—To find out what happens next, get your copy of The Many Lives of Ruby Iyer here. Enjoy this excerpt from The Many Lives of Ruby Iyer
Something wet falls on my face and I wipe it away. It's greasy, dark. Its blood mixed with ... with white blobs of, what can it be? Flesh? Human flesh? I look at Vikram in horror.
"Let's get out of here," he urges, and together we turn and run, chased by a grey-black cloud of smoke and rubble.
Outside the hotel, the road is mayhem. There's a woman clad in what must have been a sharp red skirt-suit. Her jacket is torn on both shoulders and hangs from her as if a giant has tried to rip it off her and failed halfway. She shuffles along, one heel on, the other foot bare, muttering, "They're doing this, for what? To save the world from what?"
Why is she still wearing the jacket? And wouldn't it be easier to run if she took off both her stilettos?
Columns of smoke swirl past us towards the open grounds nearby.
Then, a third explosion, farther away, even more muted. It's strong enough for pieces of glass to fly over us. One of them slices through a schoolboy running ahead, burying itself in his skull so he simply falls over. I stop, nearly tripping over him. Vikram's grip pulls at me, urging me to keep running. I jump over the body.
"The boy," I pant as I run, turning my head to see the fallen child. We show no signs of slowing down.
"He's dead," he replies shortly.
I turn, ready to let loose a barrage of words, noticing for the first time the blood flowing from a gash on Vikram's shoulder. He has not let out so much as a gasp of pain. I swallow the retort rising to my throat.
A security guard runs past us—in the wrong direction, towards the hotel—screaming, "Get outta here!"
Vikram and I look at each other, continuing, pushing on till we reach the turn-off to the highway. My lungs are going to burst. Panting, I stop.
"Wait!" I gasp out, relieved when he finally pauses.
I sink to my knees, letting my forehead touch the rough tar of the road. My mouth gasps open to suck oxygen into my greedy lungs. When I sit back on my heels, I see apocalypse. And all I can think of is, "Panky?"
Understanding dawns on Vikram's face. He sinks down next to me, cross-legged, and takes my freezing hands into his larger, warmer palms.
"That wasn't Panky," he says in a soft voice. "It was a corpse in his clothes."
"What do you mean?" The vision of the smashed-up face floats in front of my eyes. It makes the sickness bubble up once more within my gut. As if sensing my shakiness, he presses my palms between his own. He exerts just enough pressure for it to be painful enough to cut through my distress, forcing me to look at him. I hold onto that something steady I have glimpsed in Vikram's eyes right from the beginning.
"The body was rigged. It was someone else made to look like Panky—" The ground around us shakes with the next explosion, and a mushroom-shaped cloud rises up to the sky, but all I can think is that Panky's alive. He's alive.
"Are you sure?" I ask.
He nods. The flames from the burning building pick out the gold in his eyes. A burst of joy, pink, turquoise, and I fling my arms around him in gratitude.
I have to stretch my arms wide so they go around his shoulders. He smells like drying sweat and peppermint, and something deeper, more mysterious. Feels solid too. Strong. I want to lean in to him. Instead I stay still, peer into his eyes. There's no change of expression on his face. But he, too, doesn't move. Then, a man streaks past us.
Half of him is on fire. I smell burning flesh, sweet and acrid at the same time. I may never eat again. Gripping my hand, Vikram pulls me to his feet and urges me away from the half-burnt man, away from the burning hotel, from the charred remains of my past. I stumble a little, hardly aware when he puts out his arm to steady me.
The tarred road in front of me sways. I am tired. So tired. But we keep going. And going. Till we reach the main Western Express Highway. It's less than three kilometers away from the hotel, but it feels as if we have been running forever. My legs give out, and I simply sink to the ground, my hand still clutched in Vikram's.
"I … can't, …" I gasp. "I just need to stop for a bit. I'll catch up with you …"
Panky is alive.
I can rest. For now.
Pillowing my head against my upper arm, I lie down on the road, and I don't even start when he scoops me up and carries me into a vehicle, an SUV. I should protest, should say something, but I'm too tired to care. He places me in the front seat of the car.
I am still wearing my backpack, and I promptly slide down. Vikram's curse floats over me, making me smile, before he manages to hold me up with his chest over mine. Reaching for the seat belt, he tries to strap me in.
"Wait." I sit up long enough to pull off the backpack and slide it to the floor, the handle of the sheathed sword still jutting out of it.
This time when he straps me in, I groan as the seatbelt digs into my hurt side, the white heat searing through me. It's strong enough to drown out everything else, including the insistent pinging of the lightning tree on my back. Not good at all.
I am fading. Feel so light, as if I am going to float away. I don't want to pass out. Not now.
"Nice car," I gasp out. "Didn’t think cops could afford SUVs?"
When he doesn’t comment, I ask, "Why did you park so far away from the hotel?" I answer my own question. "Guess you couldn’t find parking in the hotel parking lot?"
"So many questions,” he mutters. "Should have just left you in there."
It brings a reluctant chuckle to my lips before white pain slices through my side, again making me inhale sharply. "Where are we going?" I ask, my voice a mere thread.
"Home," he replies.
Also, enjoy this excerpt from THE RUBY IYER DIARI
ES, the first novelette in the Ruby Iyer series and a sneak peek into Ruby’s life.
Chapter 1
TEN
THE SOUNDS TRAVEL through the layers surrounding me. I am snug in my warm, little world. I am ready to go.
Impatient, I kick out, only to slam into a barrier. Trapped! I throw out my fists.
I long to be free.
Then, a voice soothes as music filters through. Lush, solemn and gentle. Hypnotic, it pushes all thoughts away, replacing the chaos with white. I quieten. I am drowsy, but can’t sleep.
Ma’s misery wraps me in grief.
Lonely, she is so lonely. Adrift in a world where she does not belong anymore. As if she has been pushed against her will. Is it possible to feel such unhappiness? It’s dark enough to cloud the spotless silver of my mind. I can barely move. What is it that disturbs her so much?
When I tell her about this, my first awake memory, she dismisses it. "No one remembers what it is like to be in the womb, I can tell you how it was to carry you though," she continues. Once she gets going, there is no stopping Ma. She is like a fireman’s water hose - unplugged, out of control. Nothing can withstand her frustrations. "You were the most violent baby ever. So restless I thought you were going to tear your way out. Not like your brother. The calmest child he was."
Just another day when I have disappointed her.
There really is no way to make Ma happy. It’s going to be many years before I realise that. Perhaps I never will.
Right now, I am a ten-year-old trying to figure out the ways of this world. A place, where grown ups tower over me. Where if I don't do as I am told I am punished.
I am always being told to share. But I really don’t want to share my home with another kid.
He is an adorable little doll like creature, my brother. He crawls all over following me, wanting to sleep in my bed, to play with my dolls. He wants to imitate me.
I guess I should be flattered.
He slithers towards the balcony, and standing up holds onto the grill. Above the parapet is vacant space. Opting to keep the flat stylish, Ma’s decided not to have any grills put on the bannister. Sanjay places his chubby little hands on the railing, looking through the grills. I lift him up. He is a heavy baby. Little Mr. Pleased-with-himself he is.
Not as skinny as me. I started life much like him, quite weighty. But the weight just slipped off in my third year. It's probably the stress of having to take care of Dad while Ma is away on another of her social engagements. That was until little bro—Sanjay came along. The child that almost never happened. The boy she had always wanted. Ma didn’t have time for me earlier.
She has less for me now.
I kiss Sanjay on his cheek. He smells of baby powder. My lips touch his pale, pink cheeks and my tongue comes away with the taste of fresh cheese. I am enveloped in a white, sugary rush of affection.
Ma says he smells like himself but also like her.
I hate it.
I heave him up at eye level with the railing. So tempting… It will be easy to simply push him just that little bit over the edge.
I turn away still holding him in my hands. The baby wails, attracting the attention of both Ma and the nanny she’s hired for Sanjay. But Sarita keeps me company instead. For, Ma will not let her darling out of sight. Surprise, surprise, she’s the first to reach me. Ma covers the length of the room, in a single leap. I have never seen her move so fast. Ever. She snatches up her precious son.
She has no idea how close she came to losing him.
Want to read more? Subscribe to my newsletter HERE for a free copy of the RUBY IYER DIARIES
Also, enjoy this excerpt from THE MANY LIVES OF RUBY IYER (RUBY IYER SERIES, #1)
A sudden hot thwack to the cheek has me jerking awake. I gasp, taking in a deep breath of air. Stopping mid-cry, I open my eyes to stare into amber flares. Strong, steady, he burns me up too, but in a different way. His head is silhouetted against the pale pink of dawn creeping in through the open window. The breeze has that dreamy quality, a slight crispness to it, hinting at the rain showers from last night.
It's blessedly cool; at least a good ten degrees lower than the surly heat of the day. I try to bring up my hands to touch his face and find them shackled by his palms. I have scratched his cheek, the fresh marks just beginning to open up the skin. As I watch, a droplet of blood pops out. I raise my head; catch it on the tip of my tongue.
He doesn't move. Just watches me, those amber eyes alert as always, wary with self-restraint. I can see myself in them. I lean forward and flick out my tongue to brush the drop of blood against his lips.
He deepens the kiss, slanting his lips across mine, pressing me back against the bed so just for a second my breasts are crushed against him. I have borne his weight before, but this is different.
Our lips break apart and I fall back. There's a strange look on his face. He is aware of me, aroused, no doubt about that. I also see … pity.
Vikram knows.
He knows that I cut myself.
And then, he knows that I know he knows.
Just like that, the fire in his eyes blanks out, replaced by that freezing desert-like brown sheet of glass. The one I itch to reach out and shatter.
"You are too impetuous, you know that?"
Does that mean I like to follow my heart? "Not anymore …" I say. "Life's too short to play guessing games."
"Get dressed," he orders, but his tone lacks conviction. Neither of us moves. He is still holding my hands, shackling them to the bed. I am very aware of not wearing anything other than a bathrobe. It's just a layer to be pushed aside. My breasts harden, rubbing against the rough cloth. If he looks down, he'll see what I am feeling just now. Does he feel it too?
Vikram himself is in fresh jeans, a light blue shirt tucked in. He is even freshly shaven. The scruffy beard covering his chin is gone, replaced with the slightly lighter skin that comes from having been shielded from the sun long enough for it to look paler than the rest of his face, until the hair on his cheeks grows back. I have a full, unadulterated view of the jut of his chin.
I am still close enough that if I lean just a little closer, my breath will fan over that thin upper lip. The one which lends him that characteristic stern, standoffish appearance, only to be broken by the slight dimple on his chin—the one that peeks out on the rare occasions when he smiles. The pull I have felt right from the beginning feels stronger now. As if strengthened by what we have been through. It's not completely lust, not just attraction ... I just feel this intense curiosity about this man. I want to know him better, to find out what's inside of him. What he thinks, feels—
His tongue flicks out to touch his lips. Can he still taste my blood?
A smile begins to form on my lips. But he is already rising to his feet and I'm free of his touch. It's over. Just like that?
He gestures to the chair next to the bed. On it is a fresh pair of trousers, a shirt, sneakers. Everything seems to be my size, even the brand new underwear still in store wrapping. I blush a little, looking up to thank him, but he is already leaving the room.
Fine, if that is the way it has to be … Angry, more at myself than him for feeling what I had, and even more for letting it show on my face, I spring to my feet, ignoring the warning the broken parts of my body issue to my brain. I swear and look for something to vent my anger on. Will I never be free of this rage writhing inside of me, consuming me? I am more than a little worn out from these ups and downs, these feelings churning inside me, tearing me apart, tying me up in knots till I can't feel my whole self anymore. All that remains are those parts of me throbbing in fury.
Picking up the vase next to the bed, I hurl it against the wall. It breaks with a very satisfying crash, but there is no response from next door. He doesn't care, does he?
Picking up a broken piece of glass, I look at it. Oh! But I want it. The temptation is all around me. In the air, in the darkness, in the dawn light. Hidden beneath the folds of the bed I have sle
pt in. Behind the door Vikram has shut. My temptation of pain and fright.
I can already feel the sharp edge cutting through my skin, spilling out the secrets of the past.
I no longer want to remember.
The glass crashes to the floor to join the other glittering pieces of crystal. I see myself reflected among the cracked infinity pools. Closing my eyes, I let the tears flow.
Want to read more. Click HERE to download The Many Lives of Ruby Iyer
Thanks Shubhi, Josh and Jack
And Ritesh & Mukti
Cover design & all stories copyright © Laxmi Hariharan 2014.
WCAUK Reg No 3455856552
All rights reserved.
Contents
Title Page
From the author
PART 1: BOMBAY
TEN
TEN
TEN
ELEVEN
ELEVEN
ELEVEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
PART 2: ST JAMES
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
THIRTEEN
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
FIFTEEN
FIFTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SIXTEEN
SIXTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
PART 3: MOVING BACK TO BOMBAY
SEVENTEEN
SEVENTEEN
SEVENTEEN
SEVENTEEN
SEVENTEEN
SEVENTEEN
SEVENTEEN
PART 4: RETURN FROM OXFORD
TWENTY-TWO
TWENTY-TWO
TWENTY-TWO
TWENTY-TWO
TWENTY-THREE
TWENTY-THREE
TWENTY-THREE
TWENTY-THREE
Dedication
Copyright
The First Life of Vikram Roy (Many Lives Series Book 3) Page 15
