Slumdog Millionaire: A Novel (6 page)

Father Timothy was from the north of England, a place called York, but had been settled in India for very many years. It was thanks to him that I learnt to read and speak the Queen's English. He taught me Mother Goose Tales and nursery rhymes. I would sing 'Twinkle Twinkle Little Star'

and 'Baa Baa Black Sheep' in my horribly off-key voice, providing, I suppose, an amusing

diversion for Father Timothy from his priestly duties.

Living in the church compound, I felt part of a much larger family. Apart from Father Timothy, his faithful manservant Joseph stayed in the house and Mrs Gonzalves, the maid, also lived close by. And then there was a whole bunch of street kids belonging to the plumbers, cobblers,

sweepers and washermen, who lived practically next door and did not hesitate to use the church grounds for their cricket and football games. Father Timothy taught me about the life of Jesus, and Adam and Eve, and this extended family instructed me on the rudiments of other religions. I came to know about the Mahabharata and the Holy Koran. I learnt about the Prophet's flight from Mecca to Medina and of the burning down of Lanka. Bethlehem and Ayodhya, St Peter and the Hajj all became part of my growing-up.

This is not to suggest, though, that I was a particularly religious child. I was like any other child, with three main preoccupations: eating, sleeping and playing. I spent many an afternoon with the neighbourhood kids of my age, catching butterflies and frightening birds in Father Timothy's garden. While Joseph, the old retainer, dusted curios in the drawing room, I would sneak out and try to pluck ripe mangoes, under the watchful eye of the gardener. If caught, I would give him generous abuse in Hindi. I would dance with abandon in the monsoon rain, try to catch little fish in the small muddy pools of rain water and end up coughing and sneezing, much to the

consternation of Father Timothy. I would play football with the street kids, come back battered and bruised, and then cry the entire night.

Father Timothy lived an active life. He would go for a walk every morning, play golf, volleyball and tennis, read voraciously and take vacations three times a year to meet his aged mother in England. He was also an expert violinist. Most evenings he would sit out in the moonlit garden and play the most soulful melodies you can imagine. And when it rained at night during the monsoon season, I would think of the sky as weeping from hearing his sad tunes.

I enjoyed going into the church. It was an old building built in 1878, with stained-glass windows and a spectacular roof made of timber. The altar was beautifully carved. Above it was a large crucifix of Christ and the letters INRI. There were sculptures of the Virgin and Child enthroned and of many saints. The pews were made of teak wood, but they were full only on Sundays.

Father Timothy would give a long sermon from the pulpit, during which I would doze off, to wake only when he gave everyone the wafer and wine. I also enjoyed hearing the organ and the choir. I fell in love with Easter eggs and Christmas trees, which unfortunately came only once a year, and church weddings, which were held in all seasons. I would wait for Father Timothy to say, 'And you may now kiss the bride.' I would always be the first to throw the confetti.

* * *

My relationship with Father Timothy was never precisely defined. It was never made clear to me whether I was servant or son, parasite or pet. So for the first few years of my life, I lived under the happy illusion that Father Timothy was my real father. But gradually I began to realize something was amiss. For one, all those who came to Mass on Sunday mornings would call him Father, and it intrigued me that he was the father of so many people, and that I had so many brothers and sisters, all much bigger than me. I was also perplexed by the fact that he was white and I was not. So one day I asked him, and he shattered the fantasy world in which I had lived till then. In the gentlest possible way, he explained to me that I was an orphan child left behind by my mother in the clothes bin of St Mary's Orphanage, and that was why he was white and I was not. It was then, for the first time, that I understood the distinction between father and Father. And that night, for the first time, my tears had nothing to do with physical pain.

Once the realization sank in that I did not have a biological connection with Father Timothy and was living in the church only due to his generosity, I became determined to repay, at least in part, the debt I owed him. I began doing little chores for him, like taking the clothes from the laundry basket to the washing machine. Sitting in front of the machine, watching the drum spin round and round and wondering how the clothes came out so magically clean. Once putting some dusty books inside the washing machine as well. Doing the dishes in the kitchen sink. Breaking fine china. Slicing vegetables. On occasion almost chopping off my finger.

Father Timothy introduced me to many of his parishioners. I met old Mrs Benedict, who came religiously to Mass every day, come hail or rain, till she slipped on the pavement one day and died of pneumonia. I attended the wedding of Jessica, who cried so much her father had a heart attack. I was taken once to high tea at the house of Colonel Waugh, who was the Australian Defence Attache in Delhi and who seemed to speak to Father Timothy in a completely foreign language. I went on a fishing trip with Mr Lawrence, who caught nothing, then purchased a large trout from the fish market to deceive his wife.

All the people I met had nothing but praise for Father Timothy. They said he was the best priest this diocese had ever had. I saw him comfort the bereaved, attend to the sick, lend money to the needy and share a meal even with lepers. He had a smile on his face for every member of the parish, a cure for every problem and a quotation from the Bible for every occasion – birth, Baptism, Confirmation, First Communion, marriage or death.

* * *

It is Sunday and the church is full of people gathered for the Mass. But today Father Timothy is not standing alone behind the altar. He has another man with him, also wearing a cassock and a white band at his neck. He looks more like a boxer than a priest. Father Timothy is introducing him. '. . . And it is a great pleasure for us to welcome Father John Little, who has joined the Church of St Joseph as Associate Priest. Father John, as you can see, is much younger than me, and even though he was ordained only three years ago, is vastly experienced. I am sure he will be able to relate much more effectively to our younger worshippers, who, I am well aware, have been referring to me behind my back as "that old fogy".' The congregation titters.

That evening, Father Timothy invites Father John for dinner. Joseph is supposed to serve them, but in my enthusiasm to impress Father Timothy, I pick up the heavy bowl of soup from the kitchen and walk with unsteady steps towards the dining table. As is to be expected from an ill-trained seven-year-old, instead of depositing the soup bowl on the table, I spill it all on Father John. He gets up in a hurry, and the first words that appear on his lips are 'Bloody Hell!' Father Timothy raises an eyebrow, but doesn't say anything.

Three days later, Father Timothy goes away to England on holiday, leaving the church, and me, in the hands of Father John. I meet him two days later coming down the steps of the church.

'Good evening, Father,' I say politely.

Father John looks at me with disdain. 'You're that idiot orphan boy who spilled soup on me the other day! You'd better behave yourself in Father Timothy's absence. I'll be watching you very carefully.'

* * *

Joseph has sent me with a glass of milk to Father John's room. He is watching a movie on the TV. He invites me in. 'Come in, Thomas. Do you want to watch this film with me?' I look at the TV. It is an English film – about priests, I think, because I see a priest in a black cassock talking to another priest in a white cassock. I am relieved Father John is fond of watching good, religious films. But the very next scene sends a chill down my spine, because it shows a young girl, about my age, sitting on a bed. She does not appear to be a normal girl, because she has a funny expression on her face and her eyes are going all over the place. The priest in the black cassock enters her room with a cross in his hand. He points it at her, and she starts speaking the most filthy language I have ever heard, and that too in the hoarse voice of a grown-up man. I put my fingers in my ears, because Father Timothy has instructed me not to listen to such dirty words. Suddenly she stops speaking. She starts laughing, like a mad girl. Then she opens her mouth and horrible, gooey green stuff spews out of it like a jet of water from a garden pipe and lands on the priest. I feel like vomiting. I cannot watch any longer and run down to my room. I hear Father John squealing with laughter. 'Come back, you idiot orphan boy, it's just a film,' he calls out. I get bad dreams that night.

* * *

Three days later I am out shopping with Joseph. We purchase meat and eggs and vegetables and flour. As we are returning to the church late in the evening, I hear the sound of a motorcycle behind me. Before I can look back, the motorcycle rider is upon us. He slaps me on the head and screams away, raising a plume of dust. I catch sight only of his back. He seems like a heavy-set man wearing a leather jacket and tight black trousers, with another similarly dressed man riding pillion. I wonder who the rider is and why he rapped me on the head. It doesn't occur to me that it could be Father John. After all, I am only an idiot orphan boy.

* * *

A week later, I have to deliver some mail to Father John, but he is taking a bath. 'Leave the post on the table,' he shouts from the bathroom. I am about to leave the room when I catch sight of something peeping out from underneath his mattress. I look closely. It is a magazine. I pull it out.

And then I find a whole bunch of them under the mattress. They are not very thick but they have nice glossy covers. They have strange titles like
Gay Parade
and
Out
and
Gay Power.
But the men on their covers do not seem very happy and gay. They are all hairy and naked. I hastily put the magazines back under the mattress. I am about to go out when Father John emerges from the bathroom. He has a towel around his waist. But his chest is covered in strange patterns made in black ink and there are snakes painted on his arms. 'What are you doing here?' he admonishes me. 'Bugger off!'

Why Father John has all these strange designs on his body and keeps those strange magazines under his bed, I don't know. I am just an idiot orphan boy.

* * *

I often see strange-looking young men entering the church at night and going to Father John's room. Visitors used to come to meet Father Timothy as well, sometimes at odd hours of the night, but they never came by motorcycle wearing leather jackets and thick metal chains around their necks. I decide to follow one of these visitors to Father John's room. He knocks and enters and Father John closes the door. I peer through the little keyhole. I know I am doing a very bad thing, but my curiosity is killing me. Through the keyhole I see Father John and the young leather-clad man sitting on the bed. Father John opens his drawer and takes out a plastic packet, which has some white powder in it. He spreads the powder in a thin line on the back of his left hand. Then he does the same to the left hand of his friend. They both bend their faces to the powder and inhale deeply. The white powder seems to disappear into their noses. Brother John laughs, like that mad girl in the film. His friend says, 'This is good stuff, man! Way too good for a priest. How did you get into this Church shit in the first place?'

Father John laughs again. 'I liked the dress,' he says, and gets up from the bed. 'Come,' he tells his friend and puts out his hand. I hastily retreat.

Why Father John puts talcum powder into his nose I don't know. But then I am just an idiot orphan boy.

* * *

Father Timothy finally returns from his holiday in England and I am delighted to see him again. I am pretty sure he has heard lots of complaints about Father John, because within just two days of his return there is a big argument between them in the study. Father John rushes out of the room in a huff.

* * *

Easter is over. All my Easter eggs have been eaten. And Mrs Gonzalves, the house maid, is

sniggering.

'What's the matter, Mrs Gonzalves?' I ask her.

'Don't you know?' she whispers confidentially. 'Joseph caught Father John in the church with another man. But don't tell anyone, and don't whisper a word to Father Timothy, otherwise there'll be hell to pay.'

I don't understand. What's wrong if Father John was with another man in the church? Father Timothy is with other men all the time in the church. Like when he listens to confessions.

* * *

Today, for the first time, I am in the confession box.

'Yes, my son, what have you come to tell me?' asks Father Timothy.

'It is me, Father.'

Father Timothy almost jumps out of his chair. 'What are you doing here, Thomas? Haven't I told you this is not a joking matter?'

'I have come to confess, Father. I have sinned.'

'Really?' Father Timothy softens. 'What wrong have you done?'

'I peeped inside Father John's room through the keyhole. And I looked at some of his things without his permission.'

'That's quite all right, my son. I don't think I want to hear about that.'

'No, you must, Father,' I say, and proceed to tell him about the magazines under the mattress, the designs on the body, the leather-clad visitors at night, and the snorting of the talcum powder.

That evening there is the mother of all showdowns in the study between the two priests. I listen at the door. There is a lot of shouting. Father Timothy ends the discussion by threatening to report Father John to the Bishop. 'I am a priest,' he says. 'And to be a priest, you have to carry a heavy burden. If you can't do this, then return to the seminary.'

* * *

An English backpacker passing through Delhi came to church this morning and Father Timothy

found out that he is also from York. So he brought him home and is allowing him to stay for a few days. He introduces him to me. 'Ian, meet Thomas, who lives with us here. Thomas, this is Ian. Do you know he is also from York? You are always asking me about my mother's city; now you can ask him.'