The new fantasy novel by the author of the Ramayana series VORTAL: 6.2 <i>Viveka</i>

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6.2 Viveka

The crossbow in the man's hand wavered slightly as I cried out. I thought he was going to shoot me in reflex and my body tensed at the thought of that metal bolt piercing my flesh.

He cursed in the same pidgin Hindi, using a Marathi and a Gujarati swear word combined.

"Girl, control yourself. You almost tasted the steel of my bow just now."

I raised my arms again, anxious not to anger him. "I'm sorry. I just, I was just, I mean, I couldn't help it. When I saw your face..."

He frowned suspiciously, keeping the crossbow aimed at my chest. "What about my face? What's wrong with it?"

I didn't say anything. I didn't know what to say. How do you tell a man from another world, an alternate Bombay as this obviously was, that he's the spitting image of a Hindi film star in our world? That too, a very major megastar. Right down to the last bicep in his muscular arms and the lean hard line of his jaw. I almost expected him to start dancing that familiar step, the one where Hrithik presses his hands outwards and jerks his body, and sing, "Ek pal ka jeena..." Because that's who he was: the spitting image of Bollywood's current badshah, Hrithik Roshan.

"Don't play games with me, girl," he snarled. "I've had a very nasty day. And it's going to get far worse, thanks to your pardesi associates down there."

He jerked his head in the direction of the battlefield below. Indicating the larger forces coming from the North. I stole a quick glance. The army was still massed in lines stretching as far as I could see in this dusky light. They were clearly waiting...but for what? Then I remembered a scene I'd seen in some film--don't ask me which, okay, I'm not a movie cyclopaedia like Vhy--where the larger army waits for the smaller force to surrender. Some American Civil war saga.

As I glanced down, I saw a horse rider bearing a white flag riding from the ranks of the South army towards the North army. He looked very small and forlorn, but there was no mistaking that white flag--he was a herald, seeking to offer terms of surrender. I hoped his offer was accepted: I couldn't imagine what it would be like if that great North army actually attacked the measly South one.

Then I realized what this duplicate Hrithik Roshan had just said in his pidgin Bambaiya bhasha.

"Wait a sec," I said. "You think I'm with those people down there? No way! I'm on my own here. I'm not even from this world."

"Not from this world," he repeated slowly. "You speak oddly, girl. Which area of the North are you from?"

"I just told you, I'm not from the North or the South. I'm from elsewhere. Besides, you're the one who speaks oddly. What sort of language is that anyway?"

He looked as if I had just insulted his mother. "This is Tapori. The language of my land."

He used his free arm to indicate our surroundings. "You Northerners come here, invade our land, destroy our homes, and now you insult my language too. Tapori is the greatest language in the seven islands. It is the language in which all the great epics were composed." He sneered like the second, tough-guy Hrithik in Kaho Na Pyaar Hain, the one who takes revenge on the bad guys for killing the first, nice-sweetboy Hrithik before the interval. "But what would you know about such things, a common barbarian like you!"

Barbarian, me? If he hadn't had a crossbow in his hand, I would have picked up a rock and slugged him. I settled for putting a hand on my hip, and pointed a finger at him. "Tapori? Is that what you call it? Well, at least you picked a good name. It's tapori Hindi, that's for sure."

He looked at me up and down. As my initial shock at being caught and then at recognizing his famous face wore off slightly, I began to feel afraid again. I was in a strange, hostile land, captured by an armed man who regarded me as an enemy. I had no idea what he might do to me.

"Turn around," he commanded.

I did as he asked, feeling his eyes move over my body as intimately as a hand on bare skin. Suddenly, I felt almost naked in the cut-off jean shorts. Why the hell wasn't I dressed in something less revealing than these flimsy shorts? That was simple: I was supposed to be working on my PC at home, not transported against my will to a strange world and taken prisoner by an armed stranger with a crossbow.

"You wear strange garb too," he said. "I have never seen a Northerner in such garments before. Is it your custom to be as unclad as a common whore? Or perhaps that is your profession?"

I wanted to slap him for saying that. But he was too far away. And it would have been pointless. Besides, he was right. Even in the USA, I hadn't dressed like this out of doors. It was only because I was working alone in the privacy of my own bedroom that I'd slipped into these shorts and the tee shirt to be more comfortable: I should have stuck to a decent Indian churidhar-kurta as usual.

He peered at my cut-offs in a way that made me hold my breath with anxious anticipation. I relaxed only slightly when I realized he was trying to read the designer label.

"Pepe," I said, trying to help. "And the tee shirt's from Columbia, New York. I did a post-grad course in film making there, after passing out of Michigan U."

He tried to repeat the unfamiliar words. When he tried to say "Pepe", it came out sounding like the Punjabi "Papey". I couldn't help laughing.

His face darkened with anger. The crossbow rose an inch higher, pointing at my throat. I stopped laughing.

"Silence, girl! We'll soon see how you laugh when I take you back to my commanders for questioning. We know how to deal with pardesi spies like you."

I held up my hands appeasingly. "Look, I'm sorry. I wasn't trying to make fun of you. It's just that this whole situation is so bizarre."

He put his free hand to his mouth and whistled three loud, sharp tones. Instantly, a horse came riding back out of the smoky dimness. It came within three yards of him and stopped, waiting.

"Wow," I said in English. "That's one hell of a neat trick. You really have that horse trained beautifully."

"Girl," he said curtly. "Stop your barbarian chatter, and get on the horse. I would make you run, but it is too far, and I must be back before the battle commences. Move now!"

"Achcha, baba, I'm getting on," I said, using Bambaiya Hindi again--or Tapori, as he called it with such pathetic pride. "But if you're going to order me around, at least use my name. I'm Viveka. Everybody calls me Viv for short."

"Viveka," he said, looking at me suspiciously as if revealing my name might be some new trick on my part.

"And you are?"

It didn't really matter what his name was, but I couldn't resist asking. I had to know if he had the same name as his filmi counterpart back in our world. If he was the spitting image of a Hindi film superstar in my world, maybe his name was similar too. It would help me figure out how similar or dissimilar things were between the two worlds.

It was eeirily similar. Not the exact same name, but close enough to send a shiver up my spine.

"Rikit," he said gruffly. "Rikit Raushan, son of Ranesh Raushan of Mahim Island. Now, get on that horse before I put a bolt through your unclad leg."

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