Authors: Vikas Swarup
Comrade Uday delved into his jute bag and handed Eketi a fat
bunch of leaflets.
Eketi felt the paper. It was nice and glossy, like the tourist
brochure he had picked up from Varanasi, but this one had gory
images of severed heads and men in chains.
'I don't like these photos.' He shuddered. 'They will give me
bad dreams.'
Comrade Babuli let out a sigh. 'Is there no one around here
who believes in our cause? You are the tenth person who has
turned us down today. We thought, being from Jharkhand, at least
you
would support us.'
Comrade Uday, however, wasn't prepared to concede defeat.
'Look, you black bastard,' he snapped. 'We can do this the easy
way or we can do this the hard way. We just killed a hundred
policemen in Gumla District. If you don't cooperate with us, we
will go to your village and bump off each and every family
member that you have. Am I clear?'
Eketi nodded fearfully.
'So think about our offer. We will contact you again in two
weeks' time. OK?'
Eketi nodded again.
'Good. And another word of advice.' Comrade Babuli lowered
his voice. 'You better not tell anyone of our visit.'
'Otherwise your family . . .' Comrade Uday made a slashing
motion across his neck.
'Red salute,' said Comrade Babuli and raised a clenched fist as
he stepped out of the shack.
'
Lal salam
,' said Comrade Uday and made the V sign.
'
Kujelli!
' said Eketi and closed the door. He decided not to tell
anyone about these strange visitors.
He continued to meet Champi every day. They would sit on the
bench, Eketi would regale her with funny stories about his island
and Champi would laugh as she had never laughed before. Most
often, however, they would be quiet, sharing an unspoken
communion. Their friendship did not need a vocabulary. It grew
in between their silences.
On the evening of 20 March Ashok summoned Eketi to his
room. 'I have a plan how to get the sacred rock. Now listen carefully.
Three days from now, there is going to be a big party at the
farmhouse. That is when you will do the job.'
'What will Eketi have to do?'
'I have got you a nice white shirt and black trousers. You wear
these new clothes and enter the farmhouse through the back door
at around ten o'clock. For an hour or so you just hang around the
wooded area, checking that everything is OK. At precisely eleven
thirty you walk down to the garages I showed you.'
'Won't they catch me?'
'I doubt it. There will be so many guests, waiters and cooks at
the party, no one is likely to notice you, but if someone asks you,
you say you are Mr Sharma's driver.'
'Who is Mr Sharma?'
'Doesn't matter. It is a very common surname and there is
bound to be some Mr Sharma at the party. Now on the wall
between the two garages is the mains switchboard. You will open
it and take out the fuse. The electricity for the house will be cut
off and the entire place will be in darkness for at least three to four
minutes. That is when you run into the garden, go to the temple,
make off with the
ingetayi
and get out through the back door
again. It's that simple. Do you think you will be able to do it?'
'No. Eketi doesn't know anything about fuses.'
'Don't worry. I will teach you how to do it. Come with me,'
Ashok said and led the way to the rear of the temple. On a side
wall was the mains switchboard, housed inside a grey metal panel.
Ashok opened the panel door and Eketi saw row upon row of
gleaming electrical switches.
'This is what you need to do.' Ashok indicated the first fuse.
'Just grip this white thing here and pull it out.'
Eketi touched it cautiously.
'Don't worry, it won't give you a shock. Now just yank it.'
Eketi pulled the fuse out and all the lights in the temple were
suddenly extinguished.
'There you go.' Ashok grinned. He took the fuse from Eketi's
hands and plugged it back in, restoring the electricity.
'Can Eketi try again?' the tribal asked and yanked out the fuse
a second time. He clapped as the temple was again plunged into
darkness, before plugging the fuse back in.
'This is not a game, idiot,' Ashok reprimanded him.
Back in the welfare officer's room, Eketi voiced another doubt.
'You said I have to take out the fuse at eleven thirty. But how will
Eketi know when it is eleven thirty? We don't have watches.'
'But I do,' said Ashok and took out a small manual alarm
clock from his suitcase. 'This is already set for eleven thirty.
When you hear the alarm ring you will know it is time. Keep it
with you.'
The tribal pocketed the alarm clock. 'When Eketi is inside the
forest, where will you be? In the farmhouse?'
'Right here, in my room, waiting for you to return with the
sea-rock,' said Ashok.
'What? You are sending Eketi all alone to the farmhouse?'
'Yes. It is your sacred rock, your initiation ceremony. On this
mission you are entirely on your own. If anyone asks you, you don't
know me and I don't know you. Promise me that if something goes
wrong and you are caught, you will not give my name.'
'Eketi swears on spirit blood,' the tribal said solemnly. 'But
will you also promise to take Eketi back to his island after he gets
the
ingetayi
?'
'Absolutely. I will personally escort you.'
The tribal paused and fingered his jawbone. 'Can Eketi take
someone else with him?'
'Someone else? Who?'
'Champi.'
'Oh, that blind cripple?'
'She is not blind. You people are blind.'
'Can't you see that she is the ugliest girl in this city?'
'She is better than all of you put together. Eketi wants to
marry her.'
'Oh really? And do you know what they will call you pair? Mr
and Mrs Freak!' Ashok said and began laughing. He restrained
himself only when Eketi's eyes began glinting with inexplicable
warnings. There was something shadowy and nocturnal about the
tribal tonight. Ashok decided to humour him. 'Fine. I will get
another ticket for her. Now go and sleep. March 23 is just three
days away. And you have work to do.'
The night had a magical, almost dreamlike quality. Eketi lay on the
floor, thinking of Champi and his island. He considered the possibility
of becoming a
torale
on his return to Gaubolambe. Everything
depended on whether Nokai had a cure for Champi's blindness. If
the medicine man did not, he would have to find one himself.
All of a sudden he heard scrunching footsteps and became
instantly alert. A little while later indistinct raised voices started
coming from the neighbouring house. Something seemed to be
happening inside Champi's shack.
And then he heard a piercing scream. He knew instantly it was
Champi. Like a maddened elephant, he bounded out of the shack
and crashed through the rear door of the neighbouring house. The
room looked as if it had been lashed by a storm. The mattress
had been upturned. He saw Champi's brother Munna sprawled
on the floor and Champi's mother lying senseless in one corner.
Champi, wearing a green
salwar kameez
, was flailing against a
short man dressed in a shimmering cream shirt while a tall, wiry
man wearing black trousers watched.
With a terrible roar he launched himself at Champi's
tormentor, grabbed him by the neck and lifted him several feet
into the air. He began squeezing the man's neck till his eyeballs
started to bulge out of their sockets. The tall man flicked open a
Rampuri knife and drew patterns in the air. Eketi flung the short
man on to the wooden table, which splintered from the impact,
and advanced towards the taller one as though the knife in his
hand was a blunt piece of wood. The tall man slashed viciously
and a thin line of blood stained the tribal's vest. Yet he continued
to advance, unmindful of his injury, his lips curled in a feral snarl.
He plucked the knife from the tall man's grasp and opened his
mouth wide to reveal his perfect white teeth, which he then sank
into the man's left shoulder. It was now the tall man's turn to
scream in agony. Meanwhile, gasping and wheezing, the short one
got to his feet. He rammed his head into Eketi's back, causing the
tribal to lose balance momentarily. But instead of exploiting that
little opening, the two men bolted from the hut before Eketi
could scramble back to his feet.
Champi was still cowering when Eketi lifted her in his arms
and took her out of the shack into the cool night. He sat down on
the bench beneath the
gulmohar
tree and made little comforting
sounds as Champi clung to him, shaking like a leaf.
'Take me away, Eketi, take me from this place. I want to come
with you. I want to marry you. I don't want to stay here any
longer,' she sobbed.
'Shhh . . . don't speak.'
'I don't care if Nokai cures my blindness or not. I want to live
with you on your island. For ever.'
'I will take you. In two days' time. Till then, wear this.' He
untied the black string from his neck containing the jawbone, and
fastened it around Champi's neck. 'From now on, Puluga will
protect you from any harm.'
'And what about you?'
'Don't worry about me. The
ingetayi
will protect me. I am
going to get it soon.'
'From where?'
'A farmhouse belonging to someone called Vicky Rai.'
8 August
I have sent Bhola to Patna to fetch Ram Dulari – my
lookalike – and I just can't wait to see her.
9 August
Rosie Mascarenhas announced the news today that
Celebrity
House
, a clone of
Big Brother
, has asked me to participate in
their next reality show, starting in six months' time. She was
insistent that I accept. 'You saw how Shilpa Shetty's career
got a new lease of life after she won
Big Brother
. Now she
has tea with the Queen of England, meets Prime Ministers
and gets Honorary Doctorates. There is even talk of a biopic
being made about her.'
'But my career doesn't need a boost,' I said.
'Still, the extra spotlight can do us no harm. Every actress
in Bollywood is dying to get on to
Celebrity House
. They are
offering it to you on a platter. The script looks pretty good.
They want you to have a big cat-fight with another
contestant and then walk off in a huff. You'll be out of the
house within a week, but the publicity will last for months.'
'But isn't this supposed to be reality TV?' I asked.
'It is,' my publicist said sheepishly. 'But no one will
know.'
'Is life not a thousand times too short for us to bore
ourselves?' I said and instructed her to turn down the offer.
Reality TV was touted as the great new hope for the
digital era. A new genre featuring real people in real
situations, laughing real laughs and shedding real tears. But
it has fallen prey to the easy temptation of pre-packaged
programming, degenerating into a scripted charade
controlled by off-screen handlers in which contestants shed
fake tears and throw sham tantrums to wring a few drops of
interest from the blasé viewers. And why blame the
viewers? All entertainment nowadays is prefabricated. Even
war. No wonder death has also lost its capacity to move
us.
That is why I am waiting for Ram Dulari with bated
breath. In a universe in which everything is rigged and
predictable, she alone might hold the power to surprise me.
10 August
Ram Dulari arrived today from Patna.
Bhola, who escorted her by train, appeared to be in a
daze. He said he had to pinch himself to make sure that he
was not with me. Even the watchman downstairs saluted
Ram Dulari, mistaking her for me returning from a film
shoot.
The resemblance is indeed unsettling. She is slim, a bit
less heavy on the hips and exactly the same height as me:
five foot four. It felt as if I was staring at myself in the
mirror.
I have done only one film in which I had a double role,
playing identical twins, but standing in front of Ram Dulari I
wondered whether art imitated life or life imitated art. Here
we were, Seeta and Geeta, Anju and Manju, Ram and
Shyam, together in a single frame. I could hit my identical
twin, pull her hair, hold her hand or paint her lips without
recourse to special effects.
The poor girl was shaking, whether from exhaustion or
fear I didn't know. She had come wearing a ragged green
sari – probably the same one in which she had got herself
photographed, and her only possession was a battered tan
suitcase which would, no doubt, contain similar rags. So I
led her to the small empty bedroom next to mine, gave her
a couple of my old saris, and told her she would be staying
with me. Her eyes grew wide on seeing the opulence of the
room and she fell at my feet, sobbing in gratitude.
In the evening she came into my bedroom
unannounced, sat down on the carpet and started massaging
my legs. I told her this was not necessary, but she was
insistent. She rubbed my feet for a full hour and eventually
had to be forced to stop, whereupon she started mopping
the tiles in my bathroom.
A little while later, when I took dinner to her room I
found her sleeping on the floor, curled up in a foetal
position. Seeing the childlike innocence of her posture, a
strange, indefinable emotion welled up in me, a mixture of
tenderness and pity. I sat down beside her on the carpet and
gently stroked her hair, transported to the dusty by-lanes of
Azamgarh and the dreamy innocence of my own childhood.
I wonder, though, what will I do with her.
12 August
I was still wondering what to do with Ram Dulari when the
issue resolved itself. Shanti Bai, my Maharashtrian Brahmin
cook for the last three years, has fallen pregnant and
suddenly left the job. Ram Dulari has eased into the
position immediately. She made me some
kadhi
and
sooji ka
halwa
for lunch. I tasted these long-forgotten dishes with
relish. Not only was the food yummy, it brought to mind
Ma's cooking, the true taste of Uttar Pradesh and Bihar.
Like me, Ram Dulari is a vegetarian. Looks like finding
her has been one of my luckiest breaks.
24 August
It's been a fortnight since Ram Dulari came to my flat and
she has charmed me completely. It is hard to believe that
people like her still exist in the world. Not only is she a
great cook, she is also a very hard-working, devoted, honest
person who believes in the old-fashioned values of duty and
fealty. But her utter naivety and blind trust in everyone are
also troubling. This city will gobble her up.
She reminds me so much of my younger sister. I have
not been able to do anything for Sapna, but I can at least do
something for Ram Dulari. She is an orphan; I will make
her my surrogate sister.
26 August
I have thought long and hard about what I can do for Ram
Dulari and I have come to a decision. I will transform this
gauche village belle into a suave sophisticate. She can never
become Shabnam Saxena, but she can at least talk and walk
like me. And then I will find a suitable groom for her, give
her a lavish wedding.
I know this will be quite a task. She is just an illeducated
villager. But I see in her a certain shy polish. She is
a fair-skinned Brahmin, after all, not some vulgar low-caste.
With proper grooming, she can be made presentable. Her
voice is harsh and grating. With practice, it can be made
mellow and refined. She is artless and callow. Through
imitation she will become urbane and genteel.
I have also found a perfect name for my mission of
transforming an ingénue into a lady.
I will call it the Cinderella Project.
27 August
I called Ram Dulari to my bedroom and told her of my
plan. 'I am going to change you into a new person. Look at
me. I am offering you the opportunity of becoming just
like me. What do you say?'
'But why,
didi
?' she asked. 'How can a servant become
like her mistress? It is not right. I am happy as I am.'
'But I am not happy with you as you are.' I made a face.
'If I am your mistress then you have to comply with my
wish.'
'
Ji, didi
.' She bowed her head. 'Whatever you
command.'
'Good. Then we'll begin tomorrow.'
28 August
The first phase of the transformation began today.
I started with a haircut, snipping away at Ram Dulari's
long black tresses, giving her what my Chinese hairstylist
Lori would have called an 'easy shoulder-length flippy
brunette hairstyle'.
Then I handed her a slinky pink dress, the one I wore in
International Moll
, and told her to go into the bathroom and
put it on. It is one of my hottest outfits, with a corset
ribbon lace-up front, sexy thigh slits and a handkerchief
hemline.
After fifteen minutes, Ram Dulari had still not emerged
from the bathroom. So I knocked, entered and nearly died
of laughter. She was trying to wear the dress over her blouse
and petticoat. It was a struggle to make her understand that
the spaghetti straps, low-cut front and exposed back meant
she couldn't even wear her bra underneath it.
'Come on, out with your clothes.' I snapped my
fingers.
She unfastened her blouse and stopped. I gestured that
the bra had to come off too. Her whole frame shook as she
unhooked it. Her bra was one of those cheap white shoddy
ten-rupee things they sell on the pavement. She tried to
cover her bare chest with her hands, but I pushed them
down.
Her breasts are big and high and the nipples brown and
pointy with small aureoles. I reckon she's a size 36C.
'Now take off your petticoat,' I ordered.
She started crying. 'Please don't ask me to do this,
didi
,'
she begged me.
The strangeness of the situation was becoming apparent
to me. To an outsider it would have looked like a scene
straight out of a lesbian film. I relented. 'OK. Forget it. You
don't really need to wear Western clothes.'
Ram Dulari picked up her sari and blouse and ran to her
bedroom as if she had just been violated. I could hear her
muffled crying.
I knew without any doubt that Ram Dulari is a virgin.
This was the first time she had undressed before another
person, her natural inhibition overridden only by her
unquestioning loyalty to me.
What have I done, wrenching this village maiden from
her rural hamlet and bringing her to the evil lights of the
city?
But look at it another way. Ram Dulari is virgin territory,
a mind not yet awakened, a body not yet touched. She is a
tabula rasa
waiting to be moulded by me in any manner I like.
A mother can do this with her daughter – mould her mind
and body in her image – but it has to be done painstakingly,
over a period of ten to twelve years. The Cinderella Project
will try to achieve the same result in just ten months.
Phase One may have been an unmitigated disaster, but
all is not yet lost. I simply made a mistake in the
sequencing. Before I transform Ram Dulari's body, I need to
transform her mind.
30 August
I've started with basic English lessons. Thankfully, since she
has been partially educated, I didn't have to begin with
R-A-T and C-A-T. I went straight to sentence construction,
syntax and grammar.
She is a keen learner, perceptive and intuitive.
'I think you have great potential,' I complimented her.
'Every day, you will sit with me for an hour and do the
exercises I tell you. Now say a full sentence in English,
anything that comes to your mind.'
'I-liking-learning-English,' she said haltingly, and I
clapped in delight.
Phase Two appears to be on track.
14 September
Filmfan
says I am vain. To quote that bitch Devyani who
interviewed me for the latest issue, 'Shabnam is in love with
her own beauty, dazzled by her fair, peach-like complexion.'
So what's wrong with that? I am beautiful, I know it, and
the world acknowledges it. All this talk about a woman
being beautiful from the inside is pure humbug, invented
perhaps by some mousy journalist to hide her own ugliness.
Ask a plain woman how she feels inside; no inner glow can
warm the hearts of dark girls enduring life solely by the
promises of Fair and Lovely cream.
23 September
Ram Dulari was able to read a complete short story today.
A full three pages. Hooray!
11 October
Box Office takings for my latest multi-starrer,
Hello Partner
,
have been disappointing. According to
Trade Guide
, the
movie is likely to sink without a trace. I am not entirely
unhappy. The film was supposed to be a launch pad for
Rabia, yet another untalented star daughter, and the director
was an obnoxious jerk who deserved to pay the price for
editing out three of my key scenes from the final cut.
The Cinderella Project, on the other hand, is going
swimmingly. Ram Dulari has picked up enough English to
answer phone calls.
I have a sneaking suspicion that I have a hit on my
hands.
25 October
A thick letter arrived today, marked 'Highly Confidential'.
Written in childish handwriting, it began, 'My dearest darlin'
Shabnam, I reckon a love like ours is as scarce as hen's teeth.'
I laughed so hard, the letter slipped from my hand and
went flying out of the window. I didn't even bother to
retrieve it.
24 November
I know that a Bollywood actress has to act dumb, especially
one who is a sex bomb. Men shouldn't feel intimidated by
her brains. But yesterday, in an asinine programme on KTV
about celebrity endorsements (I still don't know why Rosie
agreed to send me on that show), I violated the golden rule.
The compère, a mousy-looking middle-aged man, tried
to attack my campaign for PETA. 'People like you do these
campaigns only for cheap publicity without really caring
about them or knowing anything about the cause,' he
alleged. And then, out of the blue, he asked me, 'Have you
heard of Guantanamo Bay?'
'Yes,' I replied. 'It's a military prison somewhere in the
US.'
'Wrong. It's at the south-eastern tip of Cuba. This just
proves my point. You brainless bimbos of Bollywood have
no knowledge of current affairs. All you people care about is
fashion and the latest hairstyles.'
Perhaps he was trying to be deliberately provocative, but
I couldn't stand his patronizing arrogance. So I laid into
him.
'OK, Mister, can you name the film which won the Palm
d'Or at this year's Cannes Film Festival?' I countered.
'Er . . . no,' he replied, not expecting a repartee.
'So should I conclude that all compères are smug, selfabsorbed
idiots who have no knowledge of the arts?'
'That's like comparing apples to oranges,' he protested.
'We make it on the strength of our ability; you have made it
only because you have a beautiful face.'
'If that was the case then every
Playboy
centrefold
should have made it to Hollywood,' I retorted. 'Cinema
does not worship beauty, it worships talent.' And then I
proceeded to question him on the philosophy of Martin
Heidegger (he had not heard of him), the poetry of Osip
Mandelstam (he hadn't heard of him either), the novels of
Bernard Malamud (same response) and the films of Ki-duk
Kim (ditto). By the end of my grilling the asshole needed a
mouse hole to crawl into to prevent further embarrassment.