‘You’re not Genna’s therapist, Prisha!’ snaps Mei, causing the lunch hall to fall suddenly quiet at her outburst.

  ‘No, I’m her friend,’ Prisha replies, her voice trembling slightly and her cheeks reddening. ‘And, like you, I’m trying to help her.’

  As my two friends lapse into a tense silence, I continue to stare at the newspaper headline, transfixed by the surreal possibility I may be reading my own obituary from a past life.

  6

  ‘Happy Birthday, Prisha!’ I say, feeding her a small piece of birthday cake before stepping away to allow Mei to do the same. Their quarrel earlier in the week has been forgotten and, likewise, I’ve dismissed the idea that I was once some Russian acrobat in a previous life. For my own sanity, I have to believe that the news story was merely a strange coincidence.

  Prisha, in a vibrant lilac sari and with her long black hair combed into a high sheen, grins between mouthfuls as the other guests partake in this cake-feeding tradition. Prisha’s mother and grandmother have already performed a number of other Hindu rituals: anointing her with a sprinkling of dry rice and a dab of orange-red paste on her forehead; circling a small flaming diya lamp on a silver tray round her head in an Aarti ceremony of light; and bestowing upon her an abundance of prayers.

  Once the last guest has honoured the birthday girl with cake, Prisha’s father, a wiry man with a bushy moustache and a thick head of hair, stands up and clears his throat.

  ‘Dearest family and friends,’ begins Mr Sharma, surveying the room and smiling broadly, ‘it gives me great pleasure to celebrate the birthday of our eldest daughter, Prisha, and I thank each and every one of you for coming today. I’m sure you’ll all agree with me that she looks most wondrous and is a credit to our family …’

  As everyone claps, he fishes into his jacket pocket and pulls out a ream of paper, whereupon Prisha’s mother, clearly alarmed that her husband is about to launch into one of his legendary long lectures, politely announces that dinner is served. After a delicious feast of colourful curries, bowls of steaming pilau rice, and plates piled high with samosas and onion bhajis, everyone retires to the living room, where Prisha’s uncle produces a sitar and performs in honour of his niece.

  I take the opportunity during a lull in the festivities to move my overnight bag up to Prisha’s room ready for the sleepover. But, as I’m heading back downstairs to rejoin the party, my attention is caught by a strong scent of sandalwood tinged with the lightest fragrance of rose. The distinct aroma is familiar, yet I can’t place where or when I remember it from. Curious, I follow the trail of scent down the hallway to Mr Sharma’s private study. The door is partly open and, enticed by the smell, I can’t stop myself from peeking inside. Now the aroma grows stronger and, along with the scents of sandalwood and rose, my nostrils fill with a rich earthy odour and the tang of sweat.

  As if drawn by an invisible thread, I’m compelled to step into the room. I notice that the window overlooking the garden is closed and there doesn’t appear to be any incense burning. So where is the smell coming from? I wonder.

  I glance around, spotting Mr Sharma’s planned birthday speech on his desk. Then, looking behind me, I discover to my astonishment an array of ancient weapons on the wall. There’s a curving double-edged dagger decorated in gold; a pair of lethal knives, their sharp triangular blades protruding from H-shaped hand grips; a large heavy wooden club almost the length of a man’s arm; a round polished shield, paired with a long silver sabre; and – the strangest-looking of the lot – a carved wooden stick resembling an elephant’s trunk with a hilt and handle. I get now why Mr Sharma’s study is usually locked and out of bounds!

  Gazing at the impressive weapon collection, I’m reminded of the time I first encountered the Guatemalan jade knife at the museum exhibition organized by Mei’s parents. That time I imagined that I smelt singed hair and heard screams, distant thunder and pounding drums. Phoenix convinced me that that was my Wakening, my first true Glimmer. But here, aside from the lingering smell of rose and sandalwood, I hear nothing alarming. Just laughter, sitar music and chatter coming from the party down the hall.

  I feel a sudden urge to hold one of the weapons.

  Phoenix had me believe that certain objects could be Touchstones to a past life, that skills from a previous incarnation could even be transferred into the present through Glimmers. From a battered medical box during my time as a nurse in the Second World War, I apparently gained in-depth knowledge of first aid, enough to patch up Phoenix’s gunshot wounds. From an incarnation as a Cheyenne, I seemingly learned to ride a horse bareback. And from my training as a samurai warrior, I somehow acquired remarkable fighting abilities; those combat skills enabled me to escape my captors.

  But now, after all my therapy, I question those abilities and wonder if it was just in my imagination. I haven’t ridden a horse since, or attempted any first aid, and the fight with Damien and his gang in the crypt is a hazy memory at the best of times. I have to remind myself that Tanas drugged me with his wax potion, so I must have hallucinated everything.

  My eyes sweep again over the display and rest upon the carved wooden stick. Feeling the need to disprove Phoenix’s claims beyond any doubt, I reach out to grab its hilt –

  ‘Genna!’ barks a harsh voice.

  Jumping out of my skin, I spin round to discover Prisha’s father standing in the doorway, his dark mud-brown eyes narrowed, his moustache bristling. ‘What are you doing in my study?’ he demands. ‘It’s private. You don’t have any right to be in here.’

  ‘M-Mr Sharma, I-I’m sorry,’ I stammer. ‘I … was just admiring your otta.’ I indicate the S-shaped wooden stick.

  He continues to stare at me.

  ‘Y-you have an impressive collection,’ I go on, speaking rapidly in my embarrassment and to fill the awkward silence. I point at the curved gold dagger crowning the display. ‘That’s a beautiful bichuwa … and that pair of katar are exceptional … along with the gada club, and the val and paricha shield … You must have a passion for …’

  As I babble away, I notice his stern expression melting into a beaming smile. ‘You certainly know your Kalarippayattu weapons,’ he says, his tone at once turning warm and friendly. ‘Genna, if I’d known you harboured such an interest in the mother of all martial arts, I’d have introduced you to my collection moons ago.’

  I blink, surprising even myself at my knowledge of the weaponry.

  Joining me beside the display, Mr Sharma lifts the wooden stick from its cradle and offers it to me. ‘This is my own personal otta from my training days as a youth. Here, you may hold it if you so wish.’

  Hesitantly I take the otta from him, bracing myself for the unsettling shift into a Glimmer … but nothing happens. I remain present in the room, clasping the long curved stick, feeling a complete fool.

  Touchstones were clearly just another delusion.

  Mr Sharma studies me intently. ‘Have you ever trained in Kalari?’ he asks.

  ‘No,’ I reply, weighing the weapon in my hand. It feels light yet strong, almost like a natural extension of my own arm.

  ‘I ask because you’re holding the otta in a perfect reverse grip,’ he observes.

  ‘Am I? I’ve never –’ I flip the club over into a normal forward grip without thinking – ‘held one of these before in my life …’ My voice trails away.

  ‘Really?’ His moustache twitches and he raises an incredulous eyebrow. ‘Well, in that case you must have an innate talent,’ he declares. ‘The otta is considered to be the master weapon of Kalarippayattu. It’s a great pity we’re not in Kerala, otherwise I’d recommend you to my old guru to train. She’d be delighted to have such a naturally gifted student in her school.’

  I return the weapon to him, unnerved. ‘Thank you, Mr Sharma, but I’m not a born fighter.’

  He looks deep into my eyes. ‘Then you do not see what I see, Genna.’

  I shift awkwardly under his unwavering gaze. Rarely have I spent so much time alone with Prisha’s father. He usually keeps himself to himself, working in his study.

  ‘I know we haven’t talked about what happened to you,’ he continues, placing the otta back in its place on the wall. ‘It’s none of my business. But from what little I do know, it seems you’ve demonstrated great vignesva as we’d say in Kalari training – real strength.’

  I smile hesitantly. ‘I don’t always feel that strong,’ I admit.

  ‘Tsk! Don’t do yourself such a disservice,’ he chides, turning back to me. ‘Strength doesn’t always come from the things you can do; it comes from overcoming the things you thought you couldn’t.’ He gives me another searching look. ‘Prisha tells me that you believe you may have had past lives. Is this true?’

  I shake my head vehemently. ‘No, no, I don’t think that any more. That was just silly stuff.’

  Mr Sharma furrows his brow in mild disapproval. ‘I wouldn’t be so quick to discard such beliefs,’ he replies softly. ‘For, as it is written in the Bhagavad Gita: “Just as a person discards worn-out clothes and puts on new clothes, the soul discards worn-out bodies and wears new ones.” In my humble opinion, you’ve certainly got the heart and spirit of a Kalari warrior. So, who knows? Perhaps you were one in a past life.’

  And, with a knowing smile, he presses his palms together in front of his heart and inclines his head. Intuitively I return his gesture of respect, then hurriedly leave the room, feeling more bewildered than ever.

  7

  ‘I hope he didn’t upset you,’ says Prisha as we lay out our beds for the night in her room. ‘My dad can be quite intense.’

  ‘No, not at all,’ I lie. ‘It’s more the fact that I recognized each weapon and knew their names in Hindi that’s odd.’

  Mei rolls out her blanket. ‘You’ve been to Prisha’s house countless times. Surely Mr Sharma’s talked about his weapon collection at some point?’

  ‘Not that I remember,’ I reply, setting up my pillow and sleeping bag on the floor beside hers. ‘But, even if he has, that still doesn’t explain how I knew the correct way to hold the otta.’

  ‘Come on, there can’t be that many ways to hold a stick!’ retorts Mei with a laugh.

  ‘According to my father,’ Prisha says earnestly, ‘it takes twelve years to master the otta.’

  Mei rolls her eyes. ‘Guess there’s more to it than I thought.’

  ‘And what about the smells?’ I go on. ‘Where did they come from?’

  With an exasperated sigh, Mei turns to Prisha on her bed. ‘You burn incense all the time, don’t you, Prish?’

  Prisha nods. ‘Yeah, I’ve got some here, in fact,’ she says, pulling a long thin box off a bookshelf, the container clearly labelled SANDALWOOD.

  ‘See? There you go,’ Mei says triumphantly. ‘You probably smelt that when you dropped off your bag.’

  ‘Maybe,’ I concede, ‘but the scent reminded me of somewhere specific. If only I could remember where …’

  ‘Well, if objects and places can potentially trigger these Glimmers, then perhaps smells and tastes can too?’ suggests Prisha. ‘We could try again with my incense.’

  As Prisha lights a stick of sandalwood along with a couple of small diya lamps on her bookshelf, Mei shoots her a sceptical look. ‘Is that really wise?’

  ‘You were the one who googled her death as an acrobat!’ Prisha points out.

  ‘Yes, but I was simply trying to disprove the concept of Glimmers,’ argues Mei. ‘You’re attempting to make one happen. There’s a big difference.’

  Prisha offers a strained smile. ‘OK, I guess you’re right,’ she admits, and climbs into her bed.

  Under the soft flickering glow of the lamps, we chat quietly about her party, her mother’s exquisite cooking, her uncle’s skill at the sitar, and the many fabulous gifts she’s received, including tickets to see the Rushes and a once-in-a-lifetime pilgrimage trip to Varanasi, the sacred ‘City of Light’ in northern India.

  ‘So, d’you wanna come?’ Prisha asks me.

  ‘What? To India?’ I gasp.

  ‘No, dummy!’ she says, laughing. ‘To see the Rushes.’

  My jaw drops open, even more amazed. ‘Err … they’re, like, only my favourite band! Of course!’

  ‘How about you, Mei?’ asks Prisha.

  Mei puts on a pained expression. ‘Er, thanks, but I’d rather shove glass in my ears.’

  ‘They’re not that bad!’ I protest.

  ‘I suppose they’re all right … to look at, I mean,’ Mei teases with a glance at the poster on Prisha’s wall. ‘But can any of them actually sing?’

  ‘Yes! Brandon has an awesome voice,’ I reply defensively, and the two of us fall into our usual argument over music. As our debate heats up, Prisha tactfully interjects, ‘So, you must be excited about going to Barbados tomorrow, Gen?’

  I nod and grin, my heart immediately warming at the thought of seeing Papaya again. ‘I think my parents are even more excited than me. They’ve been packing all week.’

  ‘I sure envy you dodging school,’ says Mei, stifling a yawn. ‘Do spare a thought for us poor souls toiling away, while you’re sunbathing on the beach.’

  I stare at her with a totally blank expression. ‘Er, sorry, who are you again?’ At that, Prisha and Mei both laugh.

  We continue to chat into the night. After a while Mei drops out of the conversation and we glance over to see her flat out on her blanket, snoring lightly.

  ‘Guess it’s time for sleep,’ whispers Prisha, yawning and rolling over. ‘Night, Genna.’

  ‘Night,’ I reply.

  I lie on my back, but sleep evades me as troubled thoughts whirl round my head. I’ve put on a brave face for my friends, but the encounter with Prisha’s father and the Kalari weapons has unsettled me to my core. It was only a week or so ago that I finally accepted my Glimmers were created by my subconscious. In the time since then, I’ve imagined I’ve seen a Watcher, spotted Damien, read what appears to be my own obituary as a circus acrobat, and now I seem to possess innate knowledge of a martial art I’d never heard of before this evening. On their own these events don’t mean much, but together they’re much harder to explain away. Surely they can’t all be figments of my imagination?

  But why now? I’ve had six months with no Glimmers. Maybe I’m simply decompressing. Dr Larsson did warn me that I may relapse or experience flashbacks as my mind accepts the truth and I adjust back to normal life. Perhaps Prisha is right. I need this holiday – a break from everything, time to find myself and come back anew.

  Pushing my concerns aside, I focus on my imminent trip to Barbados and the thrill of seeing the Rushes in concert when I return. As I fantasize about going backstage and meeting the band, a waft of sandalwood incense drifts over me. I roll on to my side and gaze at the trembling flames of the diya lamps on the bookshelf. Some fresh flowers are arranged round a small golden statue of the elephant-headed deity Ganesh. For some reason, the shelf reminds me of a puttara. The word pops unbidden into my head.

  For a moment I lose track of my backstage daydream and see a flash of a thatched wooden building with an earthen red floor … then my eyelids begin to droop. The diya lamps flicker, their flames guttering out. In the semi-darkness, I watch the glowing red tip of the incense and the faint wreaths of smoke as they curl lazily into the air …

  The dawn sun peeks through the slatted windows of the kalari and on to the hard-packed earth of its sunken floor. Trails of sandalwood incense smoke swirl as I bow before the puttara and place my offerings of rose petals on the altar. Having paid my respects to the kalari’s guardian deities, I begin my daily training with a series of stretches, twists, low stances and high kicks.

  Soon my lithe body glistens with sweat as well as the sesame oil that I rubbed on to warm my muscles and which gives my skin the sheen of deep burnished bronze. I wear only a white cloth langoti round my waist; still, the heat of the day is already building and making me sweat even more. All the while my guru sits in the corner, her chin resting upon the hilt of her otta as she observes my progress.

  ‘Aarush, swing your arms to give yourself more momentum,’ she instructs as I try to increase the height of my kicks. Her face is lined like the bark of a walnut tree, and she is just as hard. Although she may be old, she’s practised Kalarippayattu since she was seven years old. There is not one man in the whole valley who would dare take her on in a fight.

  Once I’m limbered up, I turn to a small leather ball that’s suspended from the ceiling by a rope, the other end of which is clasped in my guru’s hand. The ball hangs just above the height of my head; the target set for the first of my high kicks.

  Easy, I think to myself with a grin. I don’t even have to jump for it.

  A high flick of my foot sends the ball swinging. But, as soon as the target settles, my guru lifts it a couple of inches. This time I need to spring off the ground to make contact. With each successful attempt, she raises the ball higher. I cope for the next three kicks until she puts the target well beyond my usual training height.

  ‘Are you expecting me to fight an elephant?’ I ask, incredulous. The leather ball is now halfway to the beamed ceiling.

  ‘This isn’t about the size of your opponent,’ she replies, waving the trunk-like otta at me. ‘It’s about the range and reach of your attack. The higher you can jump, the stronger you are.’ She points the stick’s rounded tip at the target. ‘Now kick that ball!’

  With a deferential bow, I set myself up for the impossible. Taking a run at it, I leap into the air and kick out with my foot. I miss the ball completely and land heavily on my back, where I lie, winded.

  ‘You won’t move it with breath alone,’ she chides, a small smile curling the corner of her mouth.

  Dusting myself off, I prepare to make another attempt. This time as I leap into the air, I swing my arms harder. My toes almost brush the bottom of the ball. I look to my guru, hoping that it’s close enough. But she shakes her silver-haired head.