The First Life of Vikram Roy (Many Lives Series Book 3) Read Online Free
Author: Laxmi Hariharan
diaphanous shirt swirling behind her. I turn Vishal to me and find he is bleeding from a cut lip. Anger spurts inside me. My fist tightens in a fighter's stance but already the kidnapper has disappeared.
"Vikram, Vishal." My father's hand falls on my shoulder, and we turn to him.
He drops to his knee and hugs the two of us, then carries us up, me, in his right arm, Vishal in his left.
"Dad!" I am embarrassed as he kisses my cheek, then Vishal's. Mortified, I try to wriggle out of his grasp, but he doesn't let me go.
"You were so brave, Vikram." My mother reaches us, grasping Seema to her shoulder as if she will never let her go. She's going to spend the next few years watching over Seema's every step to make sure she is never lost again.
"It was Vishal," I protest. "He found Seema."
"Vikram, you saved your little sister." My mother is firm on that count. She ignores Vishal completely. I can sense the tension radiating from Vishal's little body. His lower lip trembles, and flinging his hand around our father, he lets the tears come. I realise then that my mother will never acknowledge Vishal as part of the family. No matter what he does.
"Who was that woman?" my father wonders aloud. "Why did she try to kidnap Seema?"
"I don't care, don't want to know," Mum cries, clutching Seema to her bosom. "She's safe now. I just want to go home."
She doesn't hear Vishal's stifled sob.
ELEVEN
When not off on one of his secret assignments, Dad sometimes has his old friends over to watch a cricket match. They've known each other for like hundreds of years ... since their boarding school days. Dad's very social. He has lots of friends. Men and ... women.
Mum? She prefers to hang out with her girlfriends.
I wonder if it's easier to have boys and girls for friends if you are a guy? Must be.
The excitement in our living room has reached fever pitch; the commentator is whipping everyone into a frenzy of anticipation … And, guess what, the match hasn't even started.
Mum's been in a tizzy all morning, ordering our cook to make a huge variety of snacks: samosas, vegetable kebabs and chicken wings for the guests. The smells from the kitchen have been making my mouth water all morning. Even though I ate breakfast earlier, I am still hungry. It's my only reason to still hang around the house … the food.
Someone knocks on the door of my room. Expecting it to be Vishal, I hide my comics. If he sees them, he'll want to get hold of them, and of course I don't want to share them with him, not until I have finished reading them first.
As expected, Vishal sidles in without waiting for my permission.
At ten, he looks much younger than the year's difference between us. It's as if a part of him doesn't want to let go of his childhood innocence. What are you afraid of, Vishal? I want to ask him. But I don't want to hear. Not sure if I want to know.
He looks at me, his eyes large, pleading. Unlike mine, his are jet black, like shiny pieces of charcoal.
"What?" I ask, then throw the basketball at the hoop at the far end of the room, and miss.
Vishal doesn't say anything, simply picks up the ball and bounces it on the floor.
"Vishal …?"
He looks up, meets my eyes briefly, looks away.
"You want me to ask her?"
He nods, shaking his head up and down.
"Smells good, right?" I ask.
He nods. Again. And says, "Please? Please ask her?"
This boy can eat. A lot. More than me. It's like he's trying to fill a hole inside him, with food. But he's too scared of Mum to ask her for some.
The open door lets in the sound of Dad and his friends all arguing with each other, all speaking at the same time. They sure can be noisy. The whiff of frying samosas yanks me to my feet. The smell of dough sizzling in clarified butter soaks into the pores of my skin, pushing aside all rational thought. I follow the smell to the door as if in a trance. Vishal is right behind me.
I dawdle by the kitchen entrance. If I go in, to try to
"Vikram, Vishal." My father's hand falls on my shoulder, and we turn to him.
He drops to his knee and hugs the two of us, then carries us up, me, in his right arm, Vishal in his left.
"Dad!" I am embarrassed as he kisses my cheek, then Vishal's. Mortified, I try to wriggle out of his grasp, but he doesn't let me go.
"You were so brave, Vikram." My mother reaches us, grasping Seema to her shoulder as if she will never let her go. She's going to spend the next few years watching over Seema's every step to make sure she is never lost again.
"It was Vishal," I protest. "He found Seema."
"Vikram, you saved your little sister." My mother is firm on that count. She ignores Vishal completely. I can sense the tension radiating from Vishal's little body. His lower lip trembles, and flinging his hand around our father, he lets the tears come. I realise then that my mother will never acknowledge Vishal as part of the family. No matter what he does.
"Who was that woman?" my father wonders aloud. "Why did she try to kidnap Seema?"
"I don't care, don't want to know," Mum cries, clutching Seema to her bosom. "She's safe now. I just want to go home."
She doesn't hear Vishal's stifled sob.
ELEVEN
When not off on one of his secret assignments, Dad sometimes has his old friends over to watch a cricket match. They've known each other for like hundreds of years ... since their boarding school days. Dad's very social. He has lots of friends. Men and ... women.
Mum? She prefers to hang out with her girlfriends.
I wonder if it's easier to have boys and girls for friends if you are a guy? Must be.
The excitement in our living room has reached fever pitch; the commentator is whipping everyone into a frenzy of anticipation … And, guess what, the match hasn't even started.
Mum's been in a tizzy all morning, ordering our cook to make a huge variety of snacks: samosas, vegetable kebabs and chicken wings for the guests. The smells from the kitchen have been making my mouth water all morning. Even though I ate breakfast earlier, I am still hungry. It's my only reason to still hang around the house … the food.
Someone knocks on the door of my room. Expecting it to be Vishal, I hide my comics. If he sees them, he'll want to get hold of them, and of course I don't want to share them with him, not until I have finished reading them first.
As expected, Vishal sidles in without waiting for my permission.
At ten, he looks much younger than the year's difference between us. It's as if a part of him doesn't want to let go of his childhood innocence. What are you afraid of, Vishal? I want to ask him. But I don't want to hear. Not sure if I want to know.
He looks at me, his eyes large, pleading. Unlike mine, his are jet black, like shiny pieces of charcoal.
"What?" I ask, then throw the basketball at the hoop at the far end of the room, and miss.
Vishal doesn't say anything, simply picks up the ball and bounces it on the floor.
"Vishal …?"
He looks up, meets my eyes briefly, looks away.
"You want me to ask her?"
He nods, shaking his head up and down.
"Smells good, right?" I ask.
He nods. Again. And says, "Please? Please ask her?"
This boy can eat. A lot. More than me. It's like he's trying to fill a hole inside him, with food. But he's too scared of Mum to ask her for some.
The open door lets in the sound of Dad and his friends all arguing with each other, all speaking at the same time. They sure can be noisy. The whiff of frying samosas yanks me to my feet. The smell of dough sizzling in clarified butter soaks into the pores of my skin, pushing aside all rational thought. I follow the smell to the door as if in a trance. Vishal is right behind me.
I dawdle by the kitchen entrance. If I go in, to try to
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