Slumdog Millionaire: A Novel (7 page)

I like Ian. He is fifteen or sixteen years old. He has fair skin, blue eyes and golden hair. He shows me pictures of York. I see a large cathedral. 'It's called York Minster,' he says. He shows me pictures of lovely gardens and museums and parks.

'Have you met Father Timothy's mother? She also lives in York,' I ask him.

'No, but I will meet her after I return, now that I have her address.'

'What about your own mother? Does she also live in York?'

'She used to. But she died ten years ago. A motorcycle rider crashed into her.' He takes out a picture of his mother from his wallet and shows it to me. She had fair skin, blue eyes and golden hair.

'So why have you come to India?' I ask him.

'To meet my dad.'

'What does your father do?'

Ian hesitates. 'He teaches at a Catholic school in Dehradun.'

'Why don't you also live in Dehradun?'

'Because I am studying in York.'

'Then why doesn't your dad live with you in York?'

'There are reasons. But he comes to visit me three times a year. This time I decided to meet him in India.'

'Do you love your dad?'

'Yes, very much.'

'Do you wish your dad could stay with you for ever?'

'Yes. What about your dad? What does he do?'

'I don't have a dad. I am an idiot orphan boy.'

* * *

Three evenings later, Father Timothy invites Father John to dinner with Ian. They eat and talk late into the night and Father Timothy even plays his violin. Father John leaves some time after midnight, but Father Timothy and Ian continue chatting. I lie in bed listening to the sound of laughter drifting from the open window. I have trouble sleeping.

It is a moonlit night and a strong wind is blowing. The eucalyptus trees in the compound are swaying, their leaves making a rustling noise. I feel like going to the lavatory and get up. As I am walking towards the bathroom, I see a light inside Father John's room. I also hear sounds. I tiptoe to the door. It is closed, so I peer through the keyhole. What I see inside is frightening. Ian is stooped over the table and Father John is bending over him. His pyjamas have fallen down to his feet. I am totally confused. I may be an idiot orphan boy, but I know something is wrong. I rush to Father Timothy, who is fast asleep. 'Wake up, Father! Father John is doing something bad to Ian!' I shout.

'To whom? To Ian?' Father Timothy is immediately alert. Both of us rush to Father John's room and Father Timothy bursts inside. He sees what I have just seen. His face goes so pale, I think he is about to faint. He grips the door to keep himself from collapsing. Then his face becomes red with anger. He almost starts frothing at the mouth. I am scared. I have never seen him this angry before. 'Ian, go to your room,' he thunders. 'And you too, Thomas.'

I do as I am told, even more confused than before.

* * *

I am woken early next morning by the sound of two bangs, coming from the direction of the

church. I sense immediately that something is wrong. I rush to the church and witness a scene which shakes me to my core. Father Timothy is lying in a pool of blood near the altar, just below the statue of Jesus Christ on the cross. He is wearing his cassock and looks to be kneeling in prayer. Ten steps away from him lies the body of Father John, splattered with blood. His head appears to have been shattered and little pieces of his brain stick to the pews. He is dressed in leather. There are images of dark serpents on his arms. A shotgun lies clenched in his right hand.

I see this scene, and I feel the breath being choked out of my lungs. I scream. It is a piercing cry, which shatters the stillness of the morning like a bullet. It frightens away the crows sitting on the eucalyptus trees. It causes Joseph, dusting ornaments in the drawing room, to pause and listen. It impels Mrs Gonzalves to finish her shower quickly. And it wakes up Ian, who comes running into the church.

I am bent over Father Timothy, wailing like an eight-year-old wails when he has lost everything in his life. Ian comes and sits beside me. He looks at the lifeless body of Father Timothy and begins crying too. We hold hands and cry together for almost three hours, even after the police jeep with the flashing red light comes, even after the doctor in a white coat arrives with an ambulance, even after they cover the bodies with white cloth, even after they cart away the corpses in the ambulance, even after Joseph and Mrs Gonzalves take us away to the house and try their best to comfort us.

Later, much later, Ian asks me, 'Why did you cry so much, Thomas?'

'Because today I have really become an orphan,' I reply. 'He was my father. Just as he was Father to all those who came to this church. But why were you crying? Is it because of what you did with Father John?'

'No, I was crying because I have lost everything too. I have become an orphan like you.'

'But your father is alive. He is in Dehradun,' I cry.

'No, that was a lie.' He begins sobbing again. 'Now I can tell you the truth. Timothy Francis may have been your Father, but he was my dad.'

* * *

Smita has a sad expression on her face. 'What a tragic story,' she says. 'I now understand what Father Timothy must have meant when he spoke of the burden of a priest. It is amazing how he lived a double life all those years, as a priest who was also secretly a married man and a father.

So what happened to Ian, finally?'

'I don't know. He went back to England. To some uncle, I think.'

'And you?'

'I got sent to a Juvenile Home.'

'I see. Now tell me about the second question,' says Smita and presses 'Play' on the remote.

* * *

We are still in the commercial break.

Prem Kumar leans forward and whispers to me, 'Let me tell you what the next question is going to be. I will ask you what FBI stands for. You have heard of this organization, haven't you?'

'No.' I shake my head.

He grimaces. 'I knew it. Look, we would like you to win at least a little more money. I can change the question for something else. Tell me quickly, are there any abbreviations you are familiar with?'

I think for a while before replying. 'I don't know about FBI, but I know INRL.'

'What's that?'

'It's what's written on top of a cross.'

'Oh! OK, let me check my data bank.'

The commercial break ends. The signature tune comes on.

Prem Kumar turns to me. 'I am curious, Mr Ram Mohammad Thomas, as to your religion. You

seem to have all the religions in your name. Tell me, where do you go to pray?'

'Does one have to go to a temple or a church or a mosque to pray? I believe in what Kabir says.

Hari is in the East, Allah is in the West. Look within your heart, and there you will find both Ram and Karim.'

'Very well said, Mr Thomas. It looks like you are an expert on all religions. And if that is the case, the next question should be fairly easy for you. OK, here it comes, question number two for two thousand rupees. What is the sequence of letters normally inscribed on a cross? Is it a) IRNI, b) INRI, c) RINI or d) NIRI? Is the question clear, Mr Thomas?'

'Yes,' I reply.

'OK. Then let's hear your reply.'

The answer is B. INRI.'

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

'Yes.'

There is a crescendo of drums. The correct answer flashes. 'Absolutely, one hundred per cent correct! You have just won two thousand rupees.'

'Amen,' I say.

A BROTHER'S PROMISE

You should take a good look at all sides of an issue before making a decision. Put

something away in case of an emergency. New neighbours will bring good cheer.

A small problem may occur at home base, but you will solve it quickly and

correctly. Don't offer smart advice unless you are really asked to comment.

This is what the daily horoscope in the
Maharashtra Times
has predicted today for those who are Capricorns like me, born in the last week of December.

I don't read the
Maharashtra Times.
In fact, I don't read any newspaper. But I occasionally pilfer a copy from Mr Barve's rubbish bin. It is useful for stoking the fire in the kitchen, and sometimes, when I have nothing else to do, I flip through its pages as a time pass before they are reduced to ash.

I also don't believe in horoscopes. If I did, I should be dead by now, as per the prediction made by Pandit Ramashankar Shastri. But today's daily horoscope does appear to contain a kernel of truth. New neighbours are moving into the room next door and there is indeed a small problem at home base.

We have just returned from the matinee at Regal Talkies and Salim is in a blind rage. He is tearing down all the posters of Armaan Ali which have adorned the walls of our small room for nearly three years. The poster of Armaan in a leather jacket has been torn to shreds. Armaan on a motorbike has been dismembered with a knife. Armaan with his shirt off, baring his hairy chest, is now in the bin. Armaan with a gun has been diced into tiny pieces and Armaan and his horse have both been roasted over the fire. With all the posters gone, our room, with just two beds, is suddenly looking even more bare than before, and the mildew patches on the whitewashed walls are no longer hidden.

Despite the warning in the daily horoscope, I cannot resist offering some smart advice to Salim.

'Do you now realize the truth of what I told you ten months ago, when you were busy trying to fix Armaan's relationship with Urvashi? I told you not to poke your nose into other people's affairs, or make other people's troubles your own. Remember this as a lesson for the future.'

Salim hears me sullenly as he stomps on the poster of Armaan in a pool surrounded by a bevy of beauties.

I hear footsteps and voices outside the room. It looks as if the new tenants are finally moving into the room next to ours. I am excited. It is always good to meet new people. I hope the new tenants have boys of my age. Putul and Dhyanesh are good company, but they rarely get

permission from their parents to come and play with me on Sundays, which is the only day I don't have to go to work. Ajay, the show-off, is also getting on my nerves. He made fun of me in front of the whole chawl when I told him I had joined a foundry. I know working in a foundry is not half as exciting as working for a film star, but at least it is better than sitting in the street.

* * *

After the time I spent with the actress Neelima Kumari, living in her flat, I had almost forgotten life in a chawl. A bundle of one-room tenements occupied by the lower-middle classes, chawls are the smelly armpit of Mumbai. Those who live here are only marginally better off than those who live in slums like Dharavi. As Mr Barve told me once, the rich people, those who live in their marble and granite four-bedroom flats, they enjoy. The slum people, who live in squalid, tattered huts, they suffer. And we, who reside in the overcrowded chawls, we simply live.

Living in a chawl does have certain advantages. What happened to Neelima Kumari would never happen here, because in a chawl everyone knows everything that is going on. All the residents have a common roof over their heads and a common place where they shit and bathe. The

residents of the chawl may not meet each other for social occasions, but they have to meet while standing in a queue outside the common lavatories. In fact, it is rumoured that Mr Gokhale met Mrs Gokhale while waiting outside the latrine and fell in love. They got married within a month.

There is no chance of my falling in love with any girl in the chawl. They are all fat and ugly, not even remotely like my favourite actress, Priya Kapoor. Besides, they all like stupid things like dolls and cannot play any decent games like boxing and
kabaddi.
Not that I get much time to play these games. The whole day I work at the foundry, returning only at six in the evening. And smelting metal is a tough job. The molten iron smothers you with its heat and your eyes are often blinded by the bright-orange flames.

'Thomas!' I hear a voice. It is Mr Ramakrishna, the administrator of the chawl, calling me. He is a very important man. We go to Mr Ramakrishna whenever the bulb goes out or the water

pressure becomes low. We beg Mr Ramakrishna when we don't have enough money to pay the

monthly rent. We have been after Mr Ramakrishna to repair a section of the first-floor wooden railing which has become weak and wobbly and poses a safety hazard.

I come out of the room and see Mr Ramakrishna standing with a short, middle-aged man who

frowns and looks as though he has not gone to the toilet for a long time. 'Thomas, meet Mr Shantaram. He is our new tenant, who will be staying in the flat next to yours. I have told Mr Shantaram that you are a very responsible boy, so please help him and his wife and daughter settle down. OK, Mr Shantaram, I will now take my leave.'

'Oh no,' I think to myself. 'No boys.' I try to see his wife and daughter, but only catch a fleeting glimpse of a woman with grey hair, and a girl, older than me, with long black hair tied back, sitting on the bed. Shantaram sees me peering into his flat and hastily closes the front door.

'What do you do?' I ask Shantaram.

'I am a scientist, an astronomer. You won't understand. But these days I am taking a break. I am working as the sales manager in the Vimal showroom. This room here is a very temporary

arrangement. We will be shifting to a de luxe apartment in Nariman Point very soon.'

I know Mr Shantaram is lying. Those who can afford to live in Nariman Point never stay in chawls, not even temporarily.

* * *

The walls of the rooms inside the chawl are very thin. If you put your ear against the common wall and concentrate hard or, even better, if you put an inverted glass against the wall and put your ear against it, you can listen to almost everything going on in the next room. Salim and I do this often with our neighbours on the left, whose room adjoins our kitchen wall. Mr and Mrs Bapat are not a young couple any more. It is rumoured that Mr Bapat even beats Mrs Bapat, but they obviously make up at night because Salim and I often hear their heavy breathing and