The First Life of Vikram Roy (Many Lives Series Book 3) (8 page)

"You were always a good listener." She breaks the silence. "I miss you here, Vik."

"I miss being home too, Mum." I mean it.
 

Yet, I am happy to be away from it all. At least here at St James I can be a kid for a while longer.
 

FIFTEEN

I really don't want to go home for the summer holidays. I've grown to like it here at St James. There's a routine, yet no day is like the rest. And thankfully I don't have to "try" to play musical instruments anymore.
 

So between classes I hang out with Tenzin, then after school I play cricket with Ash and her gang. I often forget I have another home. Sometimes I do think about my family. But it all seems far away. I hope things are better between Mum and Dad. And how has Vishal been getting along? I tried reaching him at his hostel, but he refused to take my calls. He's really upset with me. But what can I do? I am here, far away. Besides, in this world it seems grown-ups have all the power. I wish I could grow up quickly and help him. And Seema? She must have grown taller since I last saw her. I hope they'll be happy to see me.
 

Mind buzzing with thoughts, I pass the communal showers on the way to my room, when a boy's scream stops me in my tracks.
 

What was that? Someone's in trouble ... Should I call for help, find a teacher?

Another scream, this time abruptly cut off as if a hand has been placed over the boy's mouth, convinces me there is no time to waste. I run in, run past the lockers and see the group of boys at the far end of the shower room.
 

"Hey!" I yell, but no one takes heed. They're too busy bent over the figure of the boy in the middle. Even as I watch, one of them raises his fist and slams it into the side of the figure on the ground. A groan of pain. They are beating him up.

"Stop!" I raise my voice louder. No response. They keep at him. Punch, kick, hit, hands raised, knees bent. The boy on the ground disappears from sight as the rest bend over him. These guys are older than me, taller too. At seventeen, they're almost grown men. Some sport moustaches, and many have long hair. They seem older than their years.

I've got to do something.
 

"What are you guys DOING?" I scream.
 

"Go back to your room."
 

I start at the familiar voice.
 

"Tenzin, you?" It's not uncommon for the various cliques to come to blows on campus. Or for seniors to take ragging to an illogical extent. But Tenzin? Here in the middle of the fight? Ten
zen
, my chilled-out roomie?

He peels away from the group and, placing his hands on my shoulders, turns me around, urging me to the exit. "The less you know about this the better it is for you, Vik."

I angrily shrug away his arm. He
is
my friend, but I simply cannot walk away from what he is doing. "Four of you against one of him. He doesn't stand a chance."

"Why does that bother you anyway?"

There's an edge to his voice I have never heard before. I look over my shoulder to see the other three watching us. They are part of Tenzin's "Bhutanese" gang. The world sees Bhutan as a peace-loving, high-on-the-happiness-quotient nation. But as I have found out, the youth of this country are just as angry as kids from anywhere in the world. Perhaps more.
 

"I am sure whatever he's done is wrong, but that doesn't mean you have to beat him up, do you?"

"Just because you come from the land of that fraudster Gandhi, doesn't mean you have to talk like him, okay?" another boy sneers.
 

Anger warms my gut. But rather than show it outright, I stretch myself to my full height. I've grown steadily in the last two years and find I am almost as tall as Tenzin's five feet ten inches now. Thanks to the cricket practice and being out in the open air so much, my shoulders have filled out too. I walk over to the boy who had spoken and ask, "So what did he do?"
 

I don't really want to know the cause of the fight, but this will at least buy me and the boy some time.

Tenzin speaks up again. "He followed my girl to her room, tried to kiss her."
 

I turn to him. "That's wrong. Very wrong," I say. If there's one thing I have learnt here, it's to respect women, to give them space, treat them with courtesy. "There's no excuse for what this guy did. But you sure you want to beat him to death?"

"Yes," Tenzin replies.

"Why not just report him to the school. He'll be expelled," I try to reason.

"No, we solve this our way," the other boy huffs.

"This isn't just about him teasing your girlfriend. It's about him being Korean, right?"
 

When they don't reply, I know I am right.
 

The Korean faction and the Bhutanese boys have been at loggerheads ever since I have been at St James. Strange how even in a community of just 600 students the lines are drawn across race, skin colour, and culture.

The sound of something clanging against the wall startles us. Tenzin puts up a hand, signalling us to be silent. He makes his way to the entrance and looks around. Whatever he sees is not reassuring, because he runs back to us and whispers. "The Koreans ... Let's get out of here." The boys scatter, leaving me behind. Tenzin hesitates. "Go! We'll talk about this later."

He nods and follows his friends.

I turn over the boy on the ground. He's not in good shape: a black eye, broken lip, torn shirt with blood splashed over his collar and covered with boot prints. He groans and his eyes flutter again.
 

"Can you move?" I whisper.

When he nods, I help him to his feet. He cries out in distress as I put an arm around his waist. "Hang in there." I half carry, half drag him to the entrance of the showers, by which time his gang have arrived. Spotting me, they stop in their tracks, and a stocky boy, who I take to be their leader, holds up his fists, ready to fight.
 

"Stop!" the boy I am helping gasps out. "It wasn't him. He helped me."

"Who was it, Kim?" the leader asks.

"Ten–Tenzin," Kim replies.

While the other two relieve me of my burden, the stocky boy puts out his hand. "Hoon," he introduces himself.

"Vikram … Vik," I reply, shaking his hand.

He turns to leave and I hail him. "Hoon, wait. Don't do this. If you go after Tenzin, the fighting is just going to become worse. It's not going to help anybody."

Hoon turns around and smiles grimly. "They should have thought about that before they beat up Kim like this. Now, it's war." He looks at me closely. "You are Tenzin's friend, aren't you?"

I nod.

"Tell him to be very careful. We won't forget your help though." He gives me a mock salute. Then, they are gone.

I really don't like unnecessary violence. Arguments can be resolved with words, with reasoning. And if that means I sound boring and "nerdy", as Tenzin says, so be it.

FIFTEEN

Summer Holidays—1

I am back in Bombay for the summer hols. But this time I also take every opportunity I get to play cricket. Today I am at a practice session at the Cricket Club of India
—the
CCI as it's called. Dad's a member here. The story goes that the erstwhile Maharaja of Patiala—a princely Indian state—had created this club so Indians too could play cricket. Most clubs those days only permitted entry to Europeans.
 

Today, the heat wafts up from the ground, and the pitch shimmers in the morning sunlight. It's hot, already. But that doesn't stop us die-hard fans of the game. I walk to the crease, dressed in the mandatory flannels. Even for informal sessions, the club insists we wear white trousers and shirt, helmet, and cricket pads.

"Hey, your bro's come to watch you play." My fellow batsman points to where a group of figures are watching us from the sidelines.

"Who?" I don't recognise the figures from this distance.

"Vishal … Your brother?" he prompts.

"Ah!" I squint against the sun shining off the grass to make out the features of my brother. It's the first time I've seen Vishal on this trip back.

No longer does he tag along with me, trying to win my attention. He's got a life of his own now. At fourteen, he too has grown, but he is still a foot shorter than me. Got his own friends, he has. All uniformly dressed in baggy jeans with the waistband hanging low enough for their butt cracks to be seen. One of them wears dreadlocks hanging to his waist. The other two have large fluffy hair worn in the style of popular Bollywood heroes. Even at this distance Vishal looks different. As always, he wears his hair really short, almost military cut in its precision. He's also dressed in his usual faded blue denims and cut-off black T-shirt.
 

I raise a hand in greeting. No reply. Strange. I want to call out to him, but just then the umpire calls the start of the game and I take guard.

***

We've been playing for nearly three hours. It's almost lunchtime. The sun is right overhead. And I'd thought it had been hot earlier. Now it's blistering. The heat shimmers up from the pitch. My mouth parched, sweat pours out of my skin only to instantly dry off. A long cold shower—that's all I want, and lots of iced water. I've drunk my way through at least three litres of water in the last three hours, and yet my tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth … Damn shirt's stuck to my back too. Can I go back to St James? And play in the cool air of the Himalayas? I am homesick. Not even a week back and I want to return. What's home anyway? There or here?
 

When we break for lunch, I walk to the clubhouse. Gesturing to the others to proceed, I stop by Vishal. All through the game he's been watching me.
 

"Hey, Bro. How are you?" I greet him, and slap him on the back.

No response. He's not exactly happy to see me, and I'm not sure why. It's only been a year. He's got that look on his face. Half-lost. Half-defiant. He wore the same look when Dad brought him home all those years ago.
 

"You're looking good, Vishal." I try to draw him out of his moody silence.

"You're sweating like a pig." His voice is harsh, tinged with that peculiar breaking-at-the-edge tone which marks the onset of puberty.

I shrug. "It's hot."

"Very different from St James, isn't it? This?" He looks around, then back at me. "Slumming it, are we?"

I don't rise to the bait. Is that what it's about? Me going to St James. And he still in Bombay. He misses me. Yes. That's it.
 

"Why are you so angry, Vishal?"

"Why shouldn't I be?" There's heat in his voice. He's looking at me like he wants to hit me, his body tensed, ready to spring. "You ran away, left me here to face them on my own."

Guilt twists my gut. I wipe the sweat running down my forehead. See the rejection on his face. There's anger and something more. He feels let down. Abandoned.
 

"It wasn't my decision," I say softly. How to make him understand?

"No, of course not," he agrees. "Nothing's ever your decision. You just do as you are told, don't you? The good little obedient boy who gets sent to the top school in the country. While me? I am sent to the local boys' college hostel."

"Vishal—" I feel helpless. After all, it's my parents' decision to send him there.
 

He goes on, "You could have convinced Dad to send me to St James, so we could have been together, but you didn't, did you?"

He's right.
 

The truth is I'm secretly happy he is not at St James. I don't want to share it with him. Don't want to have to introduce him to Ash, or Tenzin or the Koreans, or even my lack of musical abilities. That's my space. Mine. It's my secret world. Away from the fighting, the shimmering resentment between Mum and Dad. A relief from the daily guilt I bear at how Mum treats Vishal. I can be free there. No rules. Not like the ones at home.

"Yes," I say, looking him in the eye, "I could have," I admit. "But I didn't. And … even if I did, I doubt I would have succeeded."

I see the shock on his face. His skin goes pale and his lower lip quivers. Is he going to cry?
 

"You admit it then?" he asks.

I nod.

Next thing, Vishal has launched himself at me. I fall on the ground. The helmet and bat fly out of my hands. Vishal grips me around the waist with his thighs and beats me on my chin, and another to the chest.
 

"Vishal. Stop!" I gasp.
 

He punches my side—once, twice. Pain wracks me.
 

"Enough! You are hurting me!" I yell.

He snatches my cricket bat off me, raises it.
 

What the—? He's going to hit me with it? Why is he so angry? I don't understand. I put up my hand to shield my face. The next he is being lifted off me.

The dreadlocked guy says, "Leave him, his friends are coming back to help. Let's get out of here, before they call the police, or worse."

Police? Why should they call the police?

"Wait," I gasp out. "Vishal, can't we be friends? Please? We are still brothers."

"No," he says, his eyes are feverish, burning me up.
 

It's worse than being under the sizzling rays of the afternoon sun. I lick my cracked lips.

"I looked up to you," he says, "but you were just a fake. Just like your family. You never really wanted me. None of you did."
 

As they walk away, the dreadlocked guy puts his arm around Vishal's shoulders. He's wearing a hoodie with a big
GAP
scrawled on the back.
 

Have I lost him forever?

I swear I'll find a way to make it up to him.
 

FIFTEEN

Summer Holidays—2

Mum's gearing up to have her friends over this afternoon. Dad's got his cricket dos. Mum has her kitty parties. Lots of food, drinks and cards and chattering aunties. My idea of hell.

Every month, Mum and her friends contribute money into a kitty which gets handed over to the charity of choice of the person who is hosting the party. So some good comes of it. But I can't wait to get out of here before the ladies come charging in. I ran into one of them at the ice-cream parlour yesterday and her eyes lit up on seeing me. And it wasn't just because she hadn't seen me for a while. No. Thinking I was out of earshot, I heard her mention to Mum that she thought I'd make a great match for her daughter, some day. No, I don't want to be the object of attention. I have to get out of the house. Go to the gym, or to the CCI. Anywhere but here. But it's the only time I can get with Mum, as she's setting up for the afternoon. Her social life's even more active than what it was a year ago … She's filling her time up, rushing from one social event to other, trying to plug the holes in her life. As if she ever stopped to think, she would fall off a cliff, see things for what they were.