Slumdog Millionaire: A Novel (35 page)

says the Inspector, a little baffled.

'Q Oxqa Ukj Xnz Xi Qaqkp.'

'What is this nonsense?' the Inspector says angrily. 'Are you trying to make fun of me, bastard?

I'll teach you a lesson.' He raises his baton to strike me, but Abdul intervenes. 'Please don't hit him, Inspector Sahib. Raju has become mentally unbalanced since his friend Shankar's death.

Shankar also used to speak like this.'

'Oh, is that the case? Then why did you even think of him as a suspect? We won't get anything out of a lunatic. Come, let's go,' he gestures to his constables. Then he looks at me. 'Sorry to have bothered you, you can go home now.'

'Pdxif Ukj,' I say. 'Pdxif Ukj Rznu Hjyd.'

* * *

I am sitting on Smita's bed with tears falling from my eyes. Smita takes my hand in hers and gently squeezes it. I notice that her eyes too are misting with tears. 'Poor Shankar,' she says.

'From what you've told me, he seems to have been an autistic child. What a horrible death he endured. You have really gone through hell, Thomas. You didn't deserve all that pain.'

'But my hell is still preferable to Nita's. Just imagine what she has had to undergo since the age of twelve.' Smita nods her head. 'Yes, I can imagine. Is she still in Agra?'

'She should be, but I can't know for sure. I have had no news of her for the last four months. I don't know whether I will ever see her again.'

'I am sure you will. Now let's see the penultimate question.'

* * *

The studio sign says 'Silence' but the audience refuses to heed it. They point at me and chatter excitedly among themselves. I am the idiot waiter who has staked a hundred million rupees on one question.

Prem Kumar addresses the camera. 'We now move on to question number eleven for ten crores.

Believe me, I am getting goosebumps just thinking about it. So, Mr Thomas, are you nervous?'

'No.'

'That's amazing. Here you are, gambling with the ten million rupees you have already won and you don't feel even a trace of anxiety. Remember, if you give the wrong answer, you lose

everything. But if you give the correct answer, a hundred million rupees are yours. No one has ever won such a large amount, not even in a lottery. So let us see whether history is about to be made, right here, right now. OK, here comes question number eleven, and it is from the world of

. . .' Prem Kumar pauses for dramatic effect, then completes the sentence . . . 'English Literature!'

The studio sign changes to 'Applause'.

'Tell me, Mr Thomas, do you have some knowledge of English literature? Have you read English books, plays, poems?'

'Well, I can recite "Baa, Baa, Black Sheep", if that is what you mean by English poetry.'

The audience laugh loudly.

'I must confess, I had something slightly more complex in mind, but never mind. You must have heard of Shakespeare?'

'Sheikh who?'

'You know, the Bard of Avon, the greatest playwright in the English language? Oh, how I wish I could return to my college days, when I spent all my time acting in Shakespeare's plays. Do any of you remember your Hamlet? "To be, or not to be, that is the question. Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, Or to take arms against a sea of troubles, And by opposing end them?" But enough of me. It is Mr Thomas who has to answer the next question – and here it comes, for the astronomical sum of a hundred million rupees. In which play by Shakespeare do we find the character Costard? Is it a)
King Lear,
b)
The Merchant
of Venice,
c)
Love's Labour's Lost
or d)
Othello?'

The music commences. I stare blankly at Prem Kumar. 'Tell me, Mr Thomas, do you have any

clue at all as to what we are talking about here?'

'No.'

'No? Then what do you propose to do? You must give an answer, even if it is based on the toss of a coin. Who knows, if your luck continues to hold, you just might hit on the correct reply and win a hundred million rupees. So what's your decision?'

My mind goes blank. I know I have been cornered at last. I think for thirty seconds, and then make up my mind. 'I will use a Lifeboat.'

Prem Kumar looks at me quizzically. It seems he has forgotten that this game has something called Lifeboats. He snaps awake at last. 'A Lifeboat? Yes, of course, you have both of your Lifeboats available. Tell me, which one do you want to use? You can either ask me for Half and Half or go for A Friendly Tip.'

I am confused again. Who can I turn to for an answer to this question? Salim will be as clueless as me. The owner of Jimmy's Bar would have as much awareness of Shakespeare as a drunk has of direction. And literature is as far from the minds of the residents of Dharavi as honesty is from the police. Only Father Timothy could have helped me out on this question, and he is dead.

Should I ask for Half and Half? I insert my fingers into my shirt pocket to take out my trusted old coin and am surprised to brush against the edge of a card. I pull it out. It is a visiting card which says, 'Utpal Chatterjee, English Teacher, St John's School, Agra' and then it gives a phone number. I don't understand at first. I have no recollection of anyone by this name or even how this card got into my shirt pocket. And then, all of a sudden, I remember the scene at the hospital: the bespectacled, unkempt man with a sixteen-year-old son who was dying of hydrophobia. An involuntary cry escapes my lips.

Prem Kumar hears it and looks at me sharply, 'Excuse me, what did you say?'

'I said can you please call this gentleman?' I hand over the card to Prem Kumar. 'I am using my Friendly Tip Lifeboat.'

Prem Kumar turns over the card in his fingers. 'I see. So you do know someone who can help you with this question.' He has a worried look on his face. He makes eye contact with the producer. The producer spreads his hands. The word 'Lifeboat' flashes on the screen. We see the animation of a boat chugging along on the sea, a swimmer shouting for help and being thrown a red lifebuoy.

Prem Kumar picks up a cordless phone from underneath his desk and passes it to me. 'Here you are. Ask whatever you want, from whoever you want. But you only have two minutes, and your time starts,' he looks at his watch, '. . . now!'

I take the phone and dial the number on the card. The call goes through and the phone starts ringing at the other end in Agra. But it simply rings and rings and rings and rings and nobody picks it up. Half a minute passes. The suspense in the studio could be cut with a knife. The audience is watching me with bated breath. To them, I am no different from a trapeze artist in a circus doing a high-wire act without any safety net below. One false move and the trapeze artist will plunge to his death. Ninety more seconds and I will lose a hundred million rupees.

Just when I am about to hang up, someone picks up the phone. I have just over a minute left now. 'Hello?' 'Hello. Can I speak to Mr Utpal Chatterjee?' I say hurriedly. 'Speaking.'

'Mr Chatterjee, I am Ram Mohammad Thomas.'

'Ram Mohammad . . . what?'

'Thomas. You may not know my name, but I helped you out in Singhania Hospital, where your son was hospitalized. Do you remember?'

'Oh, my God.' Suddenly the tone changes completely. 'I have been desperately seeking you for the last four months. Thank God you have called. You saved my son's life, you have no idea how much I have tried to—'

I cut him short. 'Mr Chatterjee, I do not have much time. I am a participant in a quiz show and I need you quickly to answer a question for me.'

'A question? Yes, of course, I am ready to do whatever you want.' Less than thirty seconds are left now. All eyes are on the wall clock, busily ticking away the seconds.

'Tell me, very quickly, in which one of Shakespeare's plays is there a character called Costard? Is it a)
King Lear,
b)
The Merchant of Venice, c) Love's Labour's Lost
or d)
Othello?'

The seconds tick away and there is silence from Chatterjee.

'Mr Chatterjee, can you tell me the answer?'

Only fifteen seconds are left by the time Chatterjee replies, 'I don't know.'

I am dumbfounded. 'What?'

'I am sorry, I don't know the answer. Rather, I'm not sure. I don't remember this character in
The
Merchant of Venice
or
Othello.
It is either from
King Lear
or
Love's Labour's Lost
– I am not sure which.'

'But I can only give one answer.'

'Then go for
Love's Labour's Lost.
But as I said, I am not very sure. Sorry, I cannot be more helpf—' Prem Kumar cuts him off. 'Sorry, Mr Thomas. Your two minutes are up. I need your

reply now.'

The music in the background doesn't sound suspenseful any longer. It is positively chilling. I go into a deep thought.

'Mr Thomas, how well do you know this Mr Chatterjee?' Prem Kumar asks me.

'I have met him just once.'

'And how good an English teacher is he?'

'I have no idea.'

'So can you trust his reply, or would you rather go by your own instinct?'

I make up my mind. 'I will go by my instinct, and my instinct tells me to trust the answer given by Mr Chatterjee. It is C.
Love's Labour's Lost.'

'Think again. Remember, you give me the wrong answer and you not only don't win the hundred million rupees, you also lose the ten million rupees you have won till now.'

'My final answer is still C

'Are you absolutely, one hundred per cent sure?'

'Yes.'

'I am asking you again. Are you absolutely, absolutely, one hundred per cent sure?'

'Yes.'

There is a crescendo of drums. The correct answer flashes on the screen.

'Oh, my God, it is C. You are absolutely, one hundred per cent correct!' Prem Kumar stands up.

'Ram Mohammad Thomas, you are the first person on this show to have won a hundred million rupees. Ladies and gentlemen, history has been made! And now we simply have to take a break!'

The audience goes wild. Everyone stands up and claps for more than a minute. Prem Kumar's face is flushed. He is perspiring profusely.

'So how do you feel?' he asks me. '

Q Bzzg Cnzxp!' I say.

Prem Kumar looks baffled. 'Excuse me, what did you just say?'

'I said I feel great,' I reply and look up. I see Shankar smiling at me from above. And it seems that Goddess Durga is really looking out for me tonight.

THE THIRTEENTH QUESTION

We are still in the commercial break. Prem Kumar is in a corner, conferring with the long-haired producer. I look around the studio, at the nice panelling, the spotlights, the multiple cameras, the high-tech sound system. Many members of the audience are watching me, wondering perhaps

what is going through my mind.

Prem Kumar ends his consultation and walks up to me. He has a sinister grin on his face.

'Thomas, we don't know how you have managed to answer eleven questions so far, but there is no way you will be able to answer the final question.'

'We'll see.'

'No, I'll see. Prepare yourself to lose all,' says Prem Kumar and sits down on his seat.

The studio sign changes to 'Applause'. The signature tune comes on. The audience claps loudly.

Prem Kumar looks at the camera. 'Ladies and gentlemen, we are standing at the brink of a

historic moment, not just for this show but perhaps for posterity. Ram Mohammad Thomas, an eighteen-yearold waiter from Mumbai, has gone further than any other contestant on this show.

He is now about to create another milestone. If he answers this last question correctly, he will win the biggest jackpot in history – one billion rupees. If he fails to give me the correct answer, he will lose the single largest sum of money ever to be lost by an individual in sixty seconds –

one hundred million rupees. Either way, history will be made. So please clear your minds, fill your hearts and join me in saluting once again our contestant tonight, Mr Ram Mohammad

Thomas!'

The studio sign changes to 'Applause'. Everyone, even Prem Kumar, stands up and there is

sustained clapping.

I must admire the tactics of
W3B.
I am being feted before being sent off the show without a penny. Like a lamb, they are fattening me with adulation before slaughtering me on the next question. The moment I have been waiting for, and dreading, has finally arrived. I take a deep breath and prepare to face my destiny.

'Ladies and gentlemen, I am about to reveal question number twelve, the final question, for one billion rupees, the biggest prize ever offered in the history of the planet. And remember, we are still in Play or Pay mode, so it is win all or lose all. OK, without any further ado, here is the last question for you, Mr Thomas, and this is from . . . the pages of history! We all know that Mumtaz Mahal was the wife of Emperor Shahjahan and that he built the world-famous Taj

Mahal in her memory, but what was the name of Mumtaz Mahal's father? This is the billion-

rupee question. Your choices, Mr Thomas, are a) Mirza Ali Kuli Beg, b) Sirajuddaulah, c) Asaf Jah, or d) Abdur Rahim Khan Khanan.

'Think about the answer carefully, Mr Thomas. Remember, you are at a historic crossroads. I know you need time to reflect on your answer, and to allow you just that, we will now take another quick commercial break. Ladies and gentlemen, please don't even think of going

anywhere.'

The studio sign changes to 'Applause'. The signature tune plays again.

Prem Kumar grins widely at me. 'Got you, didn't I? Unless you have an MA in Medieval History, there is no way you will be able to answer this. So bid goodbye to the hundred million you have just won and prepare to resume your career as a waiter. Who knows, perhaps I may come by

Jimmy's Bar tomorrow. What will you serve me? Butter chicken and lamb vindaloo?' He laughs.

I laugh back. 'Ha! I've got no MA in history, but I do know the answer to this question.'

'What? You must be joking, surely?'

'I am not joking. The answer is Asaf Jah.'

Prem Kumar looks aghast. 'How . . . how do you know this?'