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.
30
Age 17
Mum's wearing make-up for the first time since the funeral. She takes her place at the head of the table 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 color, 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."
"Understandable," I say, my voice gentle, "considering the circumstances."
She sits up straight and picks up her spoon as if to eat again.
"Perhaps," she says, and takes a deep breath. She puts down her spoon, the food untouched, and looks at me. Her face is serious. Eyes clear. "I know I haven't really held it together the last few weeks. And I couldn't have made it this far without you. But there's no reason for you to throw away this opportunity." Her features tighten into lines of determination. "Your father would never forgive me if I did that." She blinks away the moisture glittering in her eyes. "You are going, Vikram."
"But—"
"—No." She leans over and slaps me lightly on my cheek with her free hand. "Your dad left us with enough so we can take care of ourselves. Financially. You have nothing to worry about. This—" She looks around her. "This is my life, Vik. My problems. I haven't been good at dealing with it so far. But I will, from now on." She squares her shoulders.
"You sure about that, Mum? You don't think I'm abandoning you?" When I say it aloud I realize how much Vishal's words have been bothering me.
"No, of course not, Vikky. I would never think that. Whatever gave you that idea?"
I am unable to meet her eyes now, in case she reads the guilt I feel about Vishal in them.
"It's the right thing to do. You're making the correct decision."
Her voice is firm, and there is a ring of authority to it that I am grateful for. I may be growing up fast, but I am glad Mum agrees with me.
"You think so?" I look at her with relief. My gut tells me it's the right thing to do; yet I feel as if I am taking my life into my own hands. This entire "having the freedom to make my own big life decisions" thing is energising on paper … but now that I am actually doing it, I am terrified.
"Yes." She nods. "What's happened has happened." She sniffles. "Whatever we do, he is not coming back. But why should you put your life on hold? Besides," she sets her spoon down and runs her fingers through my hair, "you are really smart, Vik, and whatever you do, I am sure you'll make a difference to your country. You are so like him that way."
I am not sure what to say, so I just swallow another forkful of food. She is right, I suppose. I am a lot like Dad … but not enough. I don't think I have it in me to give up my life in service to my country.
But yes, I will go to Oxford, and study, and make something of my life.
Becau
se … that's what Dad would have wanted.
No, it's because I'm selfish and I like running away. Vishal's voice echoes in my head. I push it away. I am not selfish. I stayed back, didn't I? Stayed back to take care of Mum. Even the anonymous sender of the text message agrees, in fact insists I go. So now I am following the instructions of someone I don't know. Someone who is likely crazed and has no idea why or what they are texting me.
No. It's the right thing to do. To leave while I still can. To get away. Get on with my life. It's all I can do, after all.
Seema's been silent all through the meal. She's eating her food with one hand, playing on a Gameboy with the other. She's too engrossed in the video game to follow our conversation.
"Where did you find that?" I ask.
"Oh!" she starts, looking guilty. "In your room … while you were away. You don't use it anymore so I thought I would try it."
"You can use it … that's okay," I say to ease the doubt on her face. "Does it still work?"
She nods and is already back to playing with it, when I scold her, "You really shouldn't be playing with it at the table. Put that away now."
She heaves a sigh but puts it away.
"She listens only to you," Mum says, not looking too concerned about it.
I want to tell Seema to behave herself while I am away. To listen to Mum. To stay out of trouble. But it all sounds so fake. So grown up. I wouldn’t need to tell her all this if I would just stay back and take care of them. But I know I am going, for myself. To get away from everything. Just to hang onto some semblance of sanity in my life. Who am I then, to be telling Seema what she should be doing? So, I stay quiet. Still, it’s as if Seema senses some of those unspoken words, for she look up meets my eyes at that and nods. Once. As if she knows what she has to do.
Then, she gets up from the table, "I am done eating, can I leave now?" She says to no one in particular.
Without waiting for an answer, she leaves, goes into her room, and slams it shut.
"You will be fine, Mum, won't you?" I am still worried about how she's going to cope. But, somewhere in the last few days it's become clear that I can't take on my mother's role, or my father's. All I can do is lead my own life. So, I go to Oxford.
And Mum slowly finds her feet again. Even though Seema still runs circles around her. Still, they do okay. For now.
Part IV
Return From Oxford
31
Age 22
Beyond the aeroplane's wings, the shantytown spreads out like splotches of black on burnt toast. We fly over patchwork roofs in varying shades of brown; some so dark the plane casts a ghostly shadow as we cross over them to come in on the landing strip.
I've been steadily peeling off the outer layers of my clothing—coat, jumper, outer-shirt—over the past few hours. Even the upper layers of the atmosphere seem to reflect the heat from the Earth, the flight path map turning from green to mahogany to a final nutty brown as we approach Bombay. When I left for Oxford, I did not anticipate returning home like this.
I've been summoned back by an email that says my mother and sister are in danger unless I do as I am told. A hoax. I had so wanted it to be a hoax. But then I had clicked the attachment—an air ticket to fly out the very next day. A one-way ticket with my passport number and birthdate, and my address in Oxford.
Whoever it was had done their research. Of course they had.
I had reached for the phone, called Mum and Seema, and was relieved when they had both answered. But it'd been a temporary reprieve. For right after I hung up, my phone had buzzed. Incoming text message:
I had hoped they had forgotten about me after all these years, that those text messages had been just a hoax, the ravings of a mad person. But no, here it was again. They were back. The hair on my nape had stood on end. Hands gone clammy, the phone had slipped out of my nerveless hands. The hiatus was over. I had come full circle. Running from the memories of Dad's murder straight into the nightmare of my missing family. As if the five years in between had never happened. The clock turned back to those early days in Oxford, when my father's distorted face haunted me.
Vishal's words had wriggled their way into my mind, grown to fill my every waking moment at Oxford. Sometimes I had felt like a fraud, living someone else's life. As if I was surviving on borrowed time. It only drove me harder to prove myself. To bury myself in classes, assignments, cricket … girls. And all along, beneath it all, the dream had never faded … that nightmare about finding them at the mortuary had stayed with me. It had sunk in. Become a part of me. As if my intuition had known all along that it would come to this. That I would return to my life gone completely wrong. And now here I was back in Bombay.
Bleary from not having slept a wink on the flight, I join the immigration queue at Bombay airport. I feel lightheaded. The heat of the city outside presses in on the concrete walls of the building. The sultry day waits to embrace me like the arms of an overlooked lover. Sweat beads my upper lip and I wipe it off on the back off my palm. And then, I am at the exit with my single carry-on bag, and inhaling the farts of the city's seventeen million souls. I blink in surprise. It's not what I expected. There are none of the usual crowds at the entrance.
No touts offering taxi rides into the city. In fact, it's taken me less than half an hour from the plane landing to getting to my car pickup. A far cry from the two hours it took me the last time. I've landed at the new Terminal 2 of Bombay's international airport. I look around for my pickup and spot my name scrawled across a board carried by a hoodie-wearing guy. When I reach him, he acknowledges me with a nod.
The surprise of my painless transit through arrivals must still show on my face, for the hoodie-wearing driver—who seems to be the same age as me—says in a perky voice, "Terminal 2 … it's something, eh? One of the few things that seems to work in this city."
When I don't reply, he goes on, "Well, too bad about all the art housed in there. Apparently the largest collection on the continent."
Reaching the parked BMW, he uses his electronic key to unlock the doors, then slides into the driver's seat. I decide to ride shotgun.
"Not that I care about that pretentious arty-farty stuff, but, hey, you know, considering someone somewhere put a lot of effort into it, it's too bad they're not going to be around much longer."
I have no idea what he means by that. "What are you on about?" I ask.
"Ah! Dr B hasn't told you yet, has she?" He chuckles. "I'll leave it to her then. Better not steal her thunder. Know what I mean?" He holds up the first two fingers of his hand, holds it to his temple in a mock shooting gesture.
She? Dr B? Is she the person behind the email? I want to reach over, grab this boy and ask him the questions that rattle around in my head like bullets. I swallow them down. Whatever is going on, I am sure he has little idea. Keep calm. Patient. Wait till you reach the one who emailed you. The one who texted you. Who's been watching you the last few years.
"Where are we going?" I ask.
"You'll see soon enough. What's your hurry?" He joins the heavy traffic heading into South Bombay, and we slow to a crawl.
I lean back against the seat, clenching my shaking hands.
32
Age 22
An hour later we pull off the main Pedder Road into a building that sits bang on the side of this arterial highway. The driver takes the car around into the short driveway that runs around the building. The sign over the entrance says "LOTUS BUILDING" over the peeling sign of a lotus flower. I take the lift to the eighth floor.
A thin boy with greasy hair opens the door. He's wearing a faded blue-grey hoodie with a large GAP logo on the front. Wordlessly I am ushered into the dingy living room. He motions me to wait, and disappears. Unable to sit, I walk across to the balcony and look down at the traffic-clogged road. It's hard to believe this is one of the main thoroughfares of the city. The traffic heaves and coughs its way forward. Brand new BMWs
and Audis sparkle with restrained throttle, trying to keep away from the public buses, black-and-yellow taxis, the lowly Maruti Suzukis and the occasional family of four on a motorcycle.
"Ah! Finally we meet." A woman’s voice glides over my skin. It’s low, husky. Feminine. Not threatening at all. As if she’s really glad to see me. I’ve been dreading this all along. I don't want to turn around. Don't want to face her.
"Well?" It’s the impatient tone in the voice which makes me finally look at her.
"Where are they?" I ask softly. Somehow, the angrier I get, the quieter it is inside of me. The rage cuts through the noise in my head and gives me a laser-sharp focus.
"You mean your family, the only remaining members of your real family, don't you?" She chuckles.
I know she is trying to get a reaction. I don't even nod, just look at her steadily. Thick black hair waterfalls to her waist. Her large curved eyes glitter black, in a face dewy with regular moisturising. She is voluptuous enough that the long white shirt she wears swells over her breasts and tucks in at her waist. Her toenails are painted a bright red, matching the vermillion dot between her eyebrows. As she pushes the hair back from her face, tiny diamonds glitter at her earlobes. She is pretty in a traditional Indian way … and she looks familiar. I am sure I have never met her before, yet I can't get over this nagging feeling that I have seen her somewhere. But where …?
"They are alive. Perhaps. Or they are dead." Her words slice through my thoughts, pinning my attention as if she has thrown a knife at me.
"It's in your hands now, Vik," she says.
"Don't call me that." The easy familiarity with which my name rolls off her tongue disturbs me.
Chosen: Vik's origin story (Many Lives Prequel Book 2) Page 12
