The First Life of Vikram Roy (Many Lives Series Book 3) (14 page)

I try the date of my mother's birthday, their wedding anniversary date, the date of my birthday, Seema's birth. No luck.

Then I set the numbers to 0911.

Nope. Still doesn't work. Strange. I was so sure it was this one. It's why he had chosen to stay on in the force and fight the war on terror within his own country. 9/11 had made him recommit to his chosen path, despite the dangers involved. He'd loved his country almost as much as the women in his life.

What else? What can it be? I try the numbers for Vishal's birthday and it snaps open.

I lean back and stare at the briefcase. Not my birthday, or Seema's, but Vishal's birthday. He used that as the password? What's in here? Heartbeat racing now, I reach out to open it and am surprised to see my hands are trembling. I pull out a family album.

There are photographs of my father's growing years in Mussoorie. Of my grandfather, including one of him standing next to a Bentley, wearing an impressive turban, holding a child—my father probably. Then Dad as a teenager, growing up in Bombay: a gangly boy with big ears who had become a dashing young man. He's always well dressed in slim trousers, well-fitted shirts and with thick tousled hair falling over his broad forehead. I can see his appeal. I understand now why the girls had liked him. There's something arresting … in his gaze. I share more than a passing resemblance with him.
 

Another photo catches my eye. This one feels different … The only one in which he is bare-chested, a sprinkling of hair on his chest. His arm is around a woman—clearly not Mum. She has long black hair flowing to her waist and is wearing a bikini top and a sarong. She looks up at my father with adoring eyes, laughing at something he's saying. My father's gaze locks with her, echoing the almost obsessed look in his eyes. In the background is a beach. Was this taken in Bombay? I can't tell.
 

I turn the page, and it's almost as if Dad has thrown himself headlong into domesticated bliss after that. The usual birthdays—mine, Mum's. Family outings, wedding anniversaries, Seema's arrival. More family gatherings. As I am about to put away the album, two pictures fall out. The first of a child ... I know immediately it is Vishal. It's unfamiliar, the first picture I have seen of him as a baby. But it had to be him. After all, Dad used his birthday as the password to this briefcase.
 

The other picture shows a woman holding baby Vishal on a beach. They stare at the camera, wearing an identical, serious expression. The woman seems on the verge of tears. I flip back the pages of the album, back to the picture of Dad with the woman on the beach. There she is, the same woman. It's her all right: that strong curve of the jaw, those large dark eyes outlined with kohl; only in the later picture her features are drawn, and between those arches of her eyebrows is smeared vermillion, an angry crimson that soars almost to the top of her forehead, slashing across her face like an open wound. Who is she?

A shiver runs down my back. She's looking at me, through me. There's something else here—a hidden image between the pictures that I am not seeing. There's nothing else in the box.

It doesn't seem right. He wouldn't have come all the way to St James to hand over a family album. But, of course, he was a spy … Spies don't take the easy way out if they can hide something and make you look for it. Standard procedure.

I hunt around the walls of the box. Find a tiny space at the bottom and tug at it till the entire bottom comes away in my hand. Below are files with newspaper cuttings, some documents and a small handgun …
 

A gun?

I weigh it in my hand. It's light. Lighter than it looks. It carries the burden of death easily. It's not the first time I've seen a gun, of course not. I have always known Dad carried a gun. It's one of those things we knew but just never acknowledged or spoke about. It brings home just how dangerous his job really was. And yet he had never let on how risky his work had been. To us he was this easy-going, always smiling, good-humoured dad.
 

He lived surrounded by violence.
 

And died by it too.
 

Keeping the gun aside, I look at the paper clippings. All talk about threats to the city and are dated at intervals over the last ten years.
 

The document is what interests me the most. Stamped "Confidential" and with the seal of RAW, it's dated a little more than year ago. It gives details of a radical organisation that has infiltrated the city and many of the government's own essential services. According to this report, a big attack on the city is imminent and this threat comes from within the country. They call it "youth violence".

Reports prior to this one reveal how this organisation has been enlisting rich kids from Bombay to be part of this movement.

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.