The First Life of Vikram Roy (Many Lives Series Book 3) (4 page)

Then. Hey! The crowd cheers, forty-five thousand people spring to their feet as one.
 

What happened? What?

Uh! Did we score a goal …? No, I mean a wicket. Did we get a wicket? No, we are batting and the batsman has just hit six runs? No, it's a four. Something. What the—? What is this stupid game? Too many rules. Just don't get it.
 

Dad thumps me on the back and pumps his fist in the air. He raises the flag and screams with the crowd. A wall of sound rams into me. I am swept up to my feet, carried along by the feverish excitement of the audience. I try to peer over the dancing heads of people to find out what just happened. Dad hands me his binoculars. "Take a look."

Like
that's
going to help? Even through the binocs I can just about make out the features of the batsmen. What are they doing? Most are just hanging around the field. Oh! Look. One of them is moving, running up to the rectangle in the centre. That's called the pitch. I think.
 

"Uh! Who's batting?" I ask, forming my lips around the word.
 

"England's batting. We are fielding," Dad replies, his eyes once again riveted by the action on the pitch.

"Why are they all wearing blue?"
 

"Shades of blue. The guys in light blue with the 'wheel' logo on the back of their jerseys are us. The visiting team is in dark blue. Now, can you tell the difference?"

Hmm! I stare through the glasses. I stare some more. I can't really tell who's who. Not really.
 

I nod.

It's only February, officially not yet summer, yet sitting there under the measly cover of the overhead canopy, I begin to slowly sizzle in the growing heat. This has to be the hottest day of my life. Tired of straining my eyes and not quite following the unfolding action, I hand back the binoculars, which he promptly glues to his eyes. I may as well not exist right now.
 

"Dad." I know it's rude but I nudge him anyway. "Dad, I am melting. EVA-PO-RA-TING," I say. "Soon all that will remain of me by the end of the day is a little puddle on the ground that you'll need to mop up to take home."

There's silence, then both Dad and Mark burst out laughing. "You are funny!" He wipes tears from his cheeks. Go on, into the VIP area and get us a beer each, will you?"

I look at the money, then at him. Then back at the money. Me? What about me?

"And while you are at it, get one for yourself."

Yay!
 

"Seriously?" I grin.

No way!

Cracking a wide smile, Dad ruffles my hair. "Yes.
Seriously.
It's a boys' day out, after all." He adds, "Just don't tell Mum, okay?"
 

"Promise." I pinch the flesh of my throat in a gesture that implies, "I will carry this secret forever and not tell anyone."

I mean it. Seriously.

"Way out. Cool!" I rush off to the VIP enclosure.

Which is how I got to be in nearly forty degrees Celsius, a can of beer going fast flat in my hand, in my eleventh-going-on-twelfth year.
 

Yew! The beer tastes awful—bitter, as if someone had removed every crystal of sugar from the liquid and replaced it with something that tastes like acid. Ugh! Don't let it show. Keep a straight face, swig from the can. Swallow. Another gulp. Keep going, till the can is half-empty. Soon the pleasant rush of alcohol numbing my senses takes over. I can't feel my feet, or my hands. The liquid cools my throat as it slips down, sparks off a slight burn when it hits my stomach. It's not unpleasant. A proper man I am now. Just like Dad.
 

For the rest of the match I follow his actions. Rise to my feet when he does, cheer when he does. Hang my head in my palms, too, like him.

The visitors win the match by five runs.

And the captain tears off his No. 10 shirt, pulling it off in celebration, careening around the stadium as they square the thrilling one-day series.

Years later, many years later, I'll repeat the same gesture when the one who takes my family away from me falls.

TWELVE

First visit to St James

"
If your daughter gets pregnant, don't blame us.
"

What? Does the sign really say that? And near the school gates? My eyes trickle away from the board. I feel as if I have intruded on some sacred adult ritual I know nothing about yet. I guess I am not as ready as I thought to walk in the world of grown-ups.

Singhji, our driver, takes the car through the gates and up the driveway. Boys and girls wander around the grounds, talking to each other. Some hold hands.
 

I've never done that. Held a girl's hand. Mum doesn't count. Nor does Seema. Like a real girl, that's what I mean.

I roll down the window, lean out, and breathe in deeply. Fresh air. Yes it really feels pure and tastes of bubbles and ice and everything light. It pours over me. There's this I-don't-care-what-you-think-about-me vibe in the air. I feel a little drunk. Later, I'll find out that students called it "getting a buzz."
 

I turn to Dad. "I already like this place," I say.

Dad laughs. "Bet you do." He rubs his knuckles lightly over my cheek. "A chip off the old block you are turning out to be."

"But Dad … boarding school?" My lips droop downward. I turn away once again, pretending an interest in the scenery.

"I went here, and so did my father. Don't you want to keep the family tradition?"

I nod, swallowing down the hard lump in my throat. Yep, I've heard that often enough. I'm the eldest boy in the family … Blah! Blah.
 

"I don't need to tell you how smart you are, Vik. You spoke your first words when you were only a year old and then it was as if the sentences just poured out."

I know. It's just I hate being called that. Clever. Intelligent. Yes I remember a lot of what I read. And I like words. I see a pattern in them and don't forget things easily. Apparently I have a near photographic memory. So what? I don't understand what the fuss is about.

"St James will give you a chance to explore your talents. Get a real all-round creative education. Something you can't get in a normal day-school in Bombay."
 

I pretend not to hear him, choosing to stare out of the window instead.
 

"They'll help you make the most of your abilities."

I don't see why that is so important. I just want to stay home, play with my videogames, fight a little with Vishal, tease Seema. Best not to say that now. Not when Dad's starting one of his serious man-to-man conversations.

He goes on, "I'll never push you to do anything you don't want to. But this school's good for you. You'll have a chance to find out what you really like and also what you're not good at. And you get to be outdoors. You like that, don't you."

I nod. I do like being out. And it looks all right here. We're surrounded by hills, and there are lots of trees. It's just, why doesn't he want me to stay home. Maybe he doesn't like me too much anymore. He wants me out of the house.
 

"Besides, you don't have to wear a uniform." Dad's voice interrupts my thoughts.

Huh?
 

"No uniforms?" I so don't believe him.

Dad grins and nods and gestures with his chin. "Look carefully, son," he says. He's looking really pleased with himself.

I lean out as far as the door will allow, taking in the details of the passing scene.

"Don't fall out now." He hangs onto me.

A girl walks by. Torn jeans, tank top cut low enough to show just a teasing hint of cleavage. A hat perched on her curls and she's texting on her phone. A satchel is slung sideways over her chest. She looks up, waves, a grin breaking out on her face.
 

Dad raises a hand in greeting. "Wave back, Vik."

I hesitate, then, I slowly raise my arm, but already she has passed by.

"See, this is the other thing you have to learn." Dad's voice, torn by the wind blowing in from the open window hangs over me like a tattered tent. "You just have to act when you have the chance. Seize the moment."
 

I subside against the seat. "Hmmm." What does he mean by that? "You mean, next time a girl waves, I wave back immediately?"

He hugs me, excited. "Exactly, my boy."

"Dad. Please." I wriggle in his grasp. Hope no one else saw that. I really do hate this touchy-feely stuff. Mum as well's been so clingy of late, ever since she realised I'm going to be leaving home soon. Only Vishal treats me the same.
 

A thought strikes me. "Vishal, will he also come, next year?"
 

Dad hesitates. "I hope so … We'll see."

We'll see
… It's a parent's way of saying "No" softly.

"But Dad, he should come too, that way we can keep each other company—" I start to protest as the car comes to a standstill at the entrance of the building for my introductory visit to St James. I slide out from under his embrace and into the cooler arms of the pine-scented Himalayan air.

***

So it's all set. I'm moving to St James in a month. A part of me boggles at the thought of leaving home. Is it really possible to live in any place other than here? This apartment is the only place I have lived in since I was born. I am strangely excited at the thought of leaving everything familiar, to go into the unknown. And yet, the thought of going to boarding school frightens me too. It sounds so … so final. As if I am being packed off, almost punished. Will I ever come back home?
Will my friends in Bombay forget me when I am gone? I'm not sure I want to go. But it will be cool to be on my own. To be away from home. It's thrilling … But scary. As I am preparing to head off, Dad's called away on another hotshot, super-secret assignment.

It's been a while since he's been away on one of these. The past few days Mum has been quiet. Sulking. She doesn't want him to go. I can tell she's worried about him and will miss him. But she doesn't say any of this to him. Just stays in their bedroom, moping. Her bad mood hangs over the entire house. We kids tiptoe around her, not wanting to catch her attention. If we do she'll just scold us, take her anger out on us.

The day of Dad's leaving arrives. His packed bags are by the door. And he's wearing his shoes, now ready to leave.

As if that's a signal, Mum saunters out of her bedroom and stands near him. If he notices her, he doesn't say anything. The silence stretches. He's good at this, Dad. Keeping quiet, waiting for the other person to speak. She sits on the sofa next to him. Stands up again. Nothing. He continues doing up his shoelaces. Finally, she snarls, "The last time you disappeared on a so-called secret mission, you came back with
that
boy."

"Hmm! That's true." Dad looks up and smiles. He really is in a good mood. Almost as if he's happy to be leaving. He likes these adventures, to be off by himself.
 

"Don't you dare surprise me again this time …" she glowers.

"I
do
plan to surprise you …" He grins at her raised eyebrows. Before she can reply with a cutting remark, he says. "I plan to come back with that
Tiffany
bracelet you have been eyeing for ages."
 

"Trying to bribe me?" she snaps. Wow! Not even the mention of her favourite brand is helping. She must be really upset. She's wrapping tendrils of hair around her fingers. She only does that when she is very worried.

"Yes," he says, and not caring about the three of us kids watching, he leans down to brush his lips against her. Next to me, Vishal chortles, and I nudge him to be quiet. They are never this openly affectionate with each other, don't even hold hands in front of us kids … Only fight a lot in front of us. Of course, they do care for each other. But this open kiss …? Hmm! Something's not right.
 

"Dad!" I run to him and hug him around the waist.
 

"Hey!" He bends down and hugs me fiercely. I am as tall as Mum now, but at six feet two inches, Dad still towers over me.
 

"Look after them when I am gone, Vik." His voice is soft, affectionate. A whiff of his cologne, lemony, musky—Old Spice—that's what he likes, wafts over me. He kisses my cheek. His freshly shaven beard is still rough against my softer skin.
 

Dad prefers to treat me as a man, which normally means a pat on the head or a back slap. I can't remember the last time he kissed my cheek.
 

"You can do that, right?" he urges. He wants to hear me promise.

I nod. "I will, Dad. You be safe too."

"I'm always careful." He ruffles my hair and sets me down, going over to gather his bags.

"When will you be back?" Mum's voice is thin, and she bites her lips, trying not to cry.

"I told you already. I don't know."
 

"And you can't even keep in touch with us when you are away?"

Dad shakes his head patiently. "You know the rules, Meera."

"Damn the rules!" Mum bursts out.
 

Vishal giggles at her swearing.
 

"Language, Mum." I admonish her using the same stern tone she often takes with us. I am hoping to get a smile from her. She doesn't even acknowledge my words.
 

"Go, go. Have fun. I know you are happy to be off, to be on your own, playing at being super spy or whatever it is you do …" She is looking at him, her amber eyes large, shimmering with anger and ... and tears. Is she angry with him? Or is she upset? Or both?
 

"Yes, I am." He grins. "Am a darn good spy too."

Dad's enjoying this seeing her get all worked. He knows just what to say to set her off the deep end.
 

Mum places her hands on her hips and just stares at him. "How dare you?" Her cheeks redden, and she makes a sound as if she's choking. She looks around as if searching for something. Uh! Oh! I know what's coming
 

 
She picks up the closest thing at hand, the vase of flowers on the dining table and throws it at him. But Dad's quick too. He steps aside and at the same time, drops his suit bag and moves forward so quickly I don't even see him cross the floor to her. The next thing I know he is putting his arms around her, hugging her. She tries to punch him and he holds her hands down, holding her prisoner, and she is struggling to get free. What the—? Are they fighting? I move forward to help Mum, and then they are kissing. Like full on. Mouth-to-mouth and all.