Slumdog Millionaire: A Novel (3 page)

Godbole has been punishing me for more than an hour but he has still not finished. Every half-hour or so he comes up with a new instrument of torture. First he inserted a wooden rod into my anus. With chilli powder smeared on it. It felt as if a molten, searing spike was being driven through my backside. I choked and gagged with pain. Then he thrust my head into a bucket of water and held it there till my lungs were about to explode. I spluttered and gasped and quite nearly drowned.

Now he is holding a live wire in his hand like a sparkler on Diwali. He dances around me like a drunken boxer and suddenly lunges at me. He jabs at the sole of my left foot with the naked wire.

The electric current shoots up my body like hot poison. I recoil and convulse violently.

Godbole shouts at me. 'Bastard, you still won't tell me what trick you used on the show? Who told you the answers? Tell me, and this torture will end. You will get a nice hot meal. You can even go home.'

But home seems like a far-off place right now. And a hot meal would make me vomit. If you don't eat for a long time, the hunger just shrivels and dies, leaving only a dull ache in the pit of your stomach.

The first wave of nausea is beginning to assail me now. I am blacking out. Through a thick mist, I see a tall woman, with flowing black hair. The wind is howling behind her, making her jet-black hair fly across her face, obscuring it. She is wearing a white sari of thin fabric that flutters and vibrates like a kite. She opens her arms and cries, 'My son . . . my son . . . what are they doing to you?'

'Mother!' I scream and reach out for her across the chasm of mist and fog, but Godbole grabs me roughly by the neck. I feel as if I am running without moving forward. He slaps me hard and the blackness lifts.

Godbole is holding out the pen once again. It is black with a shiny golden nib. Blue ink glistens at its tip. 'Sign the confession statement,' he orders.

The confession statement is quite simple. 'I, Ram Mohammad Thomas, do hereby state that on 10 July I was a participant in the quiz show
Who Will Win A Billion?
I confess that I cheated. I did not know the answers to all the questions. I hereby withdraw my claim to the top prize or any other prize. I beg forgiveness. I am making this statement in full control of my senses and without any undue pressure from anyone. Signed: Ram Mohammad Thomas.'

I know it is only a question of time before I sign this statement. I will not be able to hold out much longer. We were always told never to pick a quarrel with the police. Street boys like me come at the bottom of the food chain. Above us are the petty criminals, like pickpockets. Above them come the extortionists and loan sharks. Above them come the dons. Above them come the big business houses. But above all of them are the police. They have the instruments of naked power. And there is nobody to check them. Who can police the police? So I will sign the

statement. After ten, maybe fifteen, more slaps. After five, perhaps six, more shocks.

All of a sudden, I hear a commotion at the door. Constables are shouting. Voices are raised. The door shudders and slams open. A young woman bursts into the room. She is of average height and slim build. She has nice teeth and lovely arched eyebrows. In the middle of her forehead she wears a large round blue
bindi.
Her dress consists of a white salwar kameez, a blue
dupatta
and leather sandals. Her long black hair is loose. A brown bag hangs from her left shoulder. There is a certain presence about her.

Godbole is so flustered he touches the live wire to his own hand, and yelps in pain. He is about to grab the intruder by the collar, then realizes she is a woman. 'Who the hell are you, bursting in like this? Can't you see I am busy?'

'My name is Smita Shah,' the woman announces calmly to Godbole. 'I am Mr Ram Mohammad

Thomas's lawyer.' Then she looks at me, at my condition, and hastily averts her eyes.

Godbole is stunned. He is so stunned that he does not notice that I am equally stunned. I have never seen this woman before. I don't have money to hire a taxi. I can hardly hire a lawyer.

'Come again?' Godbole croaks. 'You are his lawyer?'

'Yes. And what you are doing to my client is completely illegal and unacceptable. I want an immediate end to this treatment. He reserves the right to prosecute you under sections 330 and 331 of the Indian Penal Code. I demand to be shown the papers regarding his arrest. I see no evidence of any FIR having been recorded. No grounds for arrest have been communicated as required under Article 22 of the Constitution and you are in breach of Section 50 of the CrPC.

Now unless you can produce his arrest warrant, I am removing my client from the police station to consult with him in private.'

'Er . . . mmm . . . I . . . I will have to speak to . . . to the Commissioner. Please wait,' is all Godbole can say. He looks at the woman with a helpless expression, shakes his head, and slinks out of the room.

I am impressed. I didn't know lawyers wielded such power over the police. The food chain will have to be revised.

I don't know at what point Godbole returns to the room, what he says to the lawyer, or what the lawyer says to him, because I have passed out. From pain and hunger and happiness.

* * *

I am sitting on a leather couch with a cup of hot, steaming tea in my hands. A rectangular desk is strewn with papers. On top is a glass paperweight and a red table lamp. The walls of the room are painted rose pink. The shelves are lined with thick black books with gold letters on the spines. There are framed certificates and diplomas on the walls. A potted money plant grows sideways in one corner of the room.

Smita returns with a plate and a glass in her hands. I smell food. 'I know you must be hungry, so I've brought you some chapattis, some mixed vegetables and a Coke. It was all I had in my fridge.'

I grasp her hand. It feels warm and moist. 'Thank you,' I say. I still don't know how she got to the police station, or why. All she has told me is that she read about my arrest in the papers, and came as soon as she could. Now I am at her house in Bandra. I will not ask her when she brought me here, or why. One doesn't question a miracle.

I begin eating. I eat all the chapattis. I polish off all the vegetables. I drink all the Coke. I eat till my eyes bulge out.

* * *

It is late evening now. I have eaten and slept. Smita is still with me, but now I am in her

bedroom, sitting on a large bed with a blue bedspread. Her bedroom is different from that of my former employer, the film star Neelima Kumari. Instead of the huge mirrors and trophies and acting awards lining the shelves, there are books and a large brown teddy bear with glass eyes.

But, like Neelima, she has a Sony TV and even a DVD player.

Smita is sitting with me on the edge of the bed holding a disc case in her fingers. 'Look, I've managed to get a copy of your show's DVD footage. Now we can go over it with a toothcomb. I want you to explain to me exactly how you came to answer all those questions. And I want you to tell me the truth.'

'The truth?'

'Even if you did cheat, I am here to protect you. What you tell me cannot be used against you in a court of law.'

The first doubts start creeping into my mind. Is this woman too good to be true? Has she been planted by that baldy Johnson to ferret out incriminating truths from me? Can I trust her?

Time to take a decision. I take out my trusted one-rupee coin. Heads I cooperate with her. Tails I tell her ta-ta. I flip the coin. It is heads.

'Do you know Albert Fernandes?' I ask her.

'No. Who is he?'

'He has an illegal factory in Dharavi which makes watch-strap buckles.'

'And?'

'He plays matka.'

'Matka?'

'Illegal gambling with cards.'

'I see.'

'So Albert Fernandes plays matka and last Tuesday he had an amazing game.'

'What happened?'

'He came up with fifteen winning hands in a row. Can you believe it? Fifteen hands in a row. He cleaned out fifty thousand rupees that evening.'

'So? I still don't see the connection.'

'Don't you see? He got lucky in cards. I got lucky on the show.'

'You mean you just guessed the answers and by pure luck got twelve out of twelve correct?'

'No. I didn't guess those answers. I knew them.'

'You
knew
the answers?'

'Yes. To all the questions.'

'Then where does luck come into the picture?'

'Well, wasn't I lucky that they only asked those questions to which I knew the answers?'

The look of utter disbelief on Smita's face says it all. I can take it no longer. I erupt in sadness and anger. 'I know what you are thinking. Like Godbole, you wonder what I was doing on that quiz show. Like Godbole, you believe I am only good for serving chicken fry and whisky in a restaurant. That I am meant to live life like a dog, and die like an insect. Don't you?'

'No, Ram.' She grasps my hand. 'I will never believe that. But you must understand. If I am to help you, I have to know how you won that billion. And I confess, I find it difficult to

comprehend. Heavens, even I couldn't answer half those questions.'

'Well, Madam, we poor can also ask questions and demand answers. And I bet you, if the poor conducted a quiz, the rich wouldn't be able to answer a single question. I don't know the currency of France, but I can tell you how much money Shalini Tai owes our neighbourhood

moneylender. I don't know who was the first man on the moon, but I can tell you who was the first man to produce illegal DVDs in Dharavi. Could you answer these questions in my quiz?'

'Look, Ram, don't get agitated. I meant no offence. I really want to help you. But if you didn't cheat, I must know how you knew.'

'I cannot explain.'

'Why?'

'Do you notice when you breathe? No. You simply know that you are breathing. I did not go to school. I did not read books. But, I tell you, I knew those answers.'

'So do I need to know about your entire life to understand the genesis of your answers?'

'Perhaps.'

Smita nods her head. 'I think that is the key. After all, a quiz is not so much a test of knowledge as a test of memory.' She adjusts her blue
dupatta
and looks me in the eye. 'I want to listen to your memories. Can you begin at the beginning?'

'You mean the year I was born? Year number one?'

'No. From question number one. But before we start, promise me, Ram Mohammad Thomas, that you will tell me the truth.'

'You mean like they say in the movies, "The truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth"?'

'Exactly.'

I take a deep breath. 'Yes, I promise. But where is your Book of Oaths? The Gita, the Koran or the Bible, any one will do.'

'I don't need a book. I am your witness. Just as you are mine.' Smita takes the shiny disc from its cover and slips it into the DVD player.

THE DEATH OF A HERO

The third bell has sounded. The purple velvet curtain is about to be raised. The lights are progressively dimming, till only the red signs showing EXIT remain, glowing like embers in the darkened hall. Popcorn sellers and cold-drink vendors begin to leave. Salim and I settle down in our seats.

The first thing you must know about Salim is that he is my best friend. The second is that he is crazy about Hindi films. But not all Hindi films. Just the ones featuring Armaan Ali.

They say that first there was Amitabh Bachchan. Then there was Shahrukh Khan. Now there is Armaan Ali. The ultimate action hero. The Indian Greek God. The heart-throb of millions.

Salim loves Armaan. Or, more accurately, he worships Armaan. His tiny room in the chawl is a shrine. It is lined with posters of all kinds depicting the hero in various poses. Armaan in a leather jacket. Armaan on a motorbike. Armaan with his shirt off, baring his hairy chest. Armaan with a gun. Armaan on a horse. Armaan in a pool surrounded by a bevy of beauties.

We are occupying seats A21 and A22 in the very first row of the Dress Circle in Regal Talkies in Bandra. We shouldn't really be sitting here. The tickets in my front pocket do not say DRESS

CIRCLE RS.150. They say FRONT STALLS Rs.25. The usher was in a good mood today and

did us a favour. He told us to go and enjoy the balcony, because the stalls were practically deserted. Even the balcony is almost empty. Apart from Salim and me, there are no more than two dozen people in the rows ahead of us.

When Salim and I go to the movies, we usually sit in the front stalls. It enables us to make catcalls and whistle. Salim believes the nearer you sit to the screen, the closer you are to the action. He says he can lean forward and almost touch Armaan. He can count the veins on

Armaan's biceps, he can see the whites of Armaan's hazel-green eyes, the fine stubble on

Armaan's cleft chin, the little black mole on Armaan's chiselled nose.

I am not particularly fond of Armaan Ali. I think he acts the same way in every movie. But I, too, like to sit in the front rows, as close to the giant screen as possible. The heroine's breasts appear more voluptuous from there.

The curtain has now lifted and the screen flickers to life. First we have the advertisements. Four sponsored by private companies and one by the government. We are told how to come first at school and become a champion in cricket by eating Corn Flakes for breakfast. How to drive fast cars and win gorgeous girls by using Spice Cologne. ('That's the perfume used by Armaan,'

exclaims Salim.) How to get a promotion and have shiny white clothes by using Roma soap.

How to live life like a king by drinking Red & White Whisky. And how to die of lung cancer by smoking cigarettes.

After the adverts, there is a little pause while the reels are changed. We cough and clear our throats. And then the censor certificate appears on the cinemascope screen. It tells us that the film has been certified U/A, has seventeen reels and a length of 4,639.15 metres. The certificate is signed by one Mrs M. Kane, Chairman of the Censor Board. She is the one who signs all

censor certificates. Salim has often asked me about this lady. He really envies her job. She gets to see Armaan's pictures before anyone else.