Slumdog Millionaire: A Novel (13 page)

rupees. This one is also straightforward, but only if you know your devotional singers. Mr Thomas has told us he believes in all the religions. Let's hope he knows his
bhajans.'
He turns to me. 'Are you ready?'

'Ready,' I reply.

'OK. Question number four. Surdas, the blind poet, was a devotee of which god: a) Ram, b) Krishna, c) Shiva or d) Brahma?'

The music commences.

'B. Krishna.'

'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 ten thousand rupees!' declares Prem Kumar. The audience claps. Prem Kumar grins. I don't.

HOW TO SPEAK AUSTRALIAN

'Name, sex and age, please, Sir,' says the timid-looking census man standing in the porch wearing thick, black-rimmed glasses. He carries a sheaf of forms with him and fiddles with a blue felt pen.

Colonel Taylor has an irritated expression on his face as he begins the introductions. He is dressed in a cream-coloured linen suit. He wears suits all the time, in summer and in winter.

They suit his tall frame. He has an oval face with a thick pepper-coloured moustache, thin lips and ruddy cheeks. His sandy hair is swept back. The entire Taylor family and all the servants are gathered on the front porch as if for a group photograph. 'I am Colonel Charles Taylor, male, forty-six. This is my wife Rebecca Taylor, female, forty-four.' He points out Mrs Taylor, thin, blonde and dressed in a long skirt. 'This is our son Roy, male, fifteen.' Roy is fidgeting with his mobile phone. He is tall and lanky and wears his trademark faded jeans, T-shirt and sneakers.

'This is our daughter Maggie, female, seventeen.' Maggie is not so tall, but quite good looking with a round face, blue eyes and golden hair. She wears a really short skirt.

Colonel Taylor draws himself to his full height and puts more force into his voice. 'I am the Australian Defence Attache. We are diplomats, so I don't think you need to enumerate us in your census. The only people from this house who should go into your report are our servants. That is Bhagwati, standing near the gate. He is our driver-cum-gardener, male, fifty-two. We have a maid, Shanti, female, eighteen I think, who is not in the house at the moment. That is Ramu, our cook, male, twenty-five, and this is Thomas, male, fourteen. Will that be all?'

'No, Sir, I will need to ask your servants some questions, Sir. For the latest census they have introduced a long questionnaire. All kinds of weird things, such as which TV programmes you watch, which foods you eat, which cities you have visited, and even,' he sniggers, 'how often you have sex.'

Mrs Taylor whispers to her husband, 'Oh Charles, we don't want Ramu and Thomas wasting their time on this silly exercise. Can't you get rid of this drongo?'

Colonel Taylor pulls out a packet of cigarettes from his pocket. 'Look, Mister whatever your name is, my servants really don't have the time to go through your full questionnaire. So why don't you accept this packet of Marlboros and move on to the next house? I am sure you can afford to exclude four people from your survey.'

The census man eyes the packet, then licks his lips. 'Well . . . Sir, you are very kind. But you see, I don't smoke, Sir. However, if you have some Black Label . . . or even Red Label whisky, I would be happy to oblige, Sir. After all, what difference does it make if we take out four drops from an ocean? No one will miss four people out of a billion!' He laughs nervously.

Colonel Taylor gives the census man a dirty look. Then he stomps off into the drawing room and returns with a bottle of Johnny Walker Red Label. 'Here, take this and rack off. Don't ever bother us again.'

The census man salutes Colonel Taylor. 'Don't worry, Sir. I won't bother you for the next ten years.' He walks off happily.

Mrs Taylor is also happy. 'These bloody Indians,' she smiles. 'Give them a bottle of whisky and they'll do anything.'

Bhagwati grins from the gate. He has no clue what is happening. But he smiles whenever Sahib and Memsahib smile. Ramu is also grinning. He smiles whenever he gets to see Maggie in her short skirts.

I am the only one not smiling. Granted, we servants are invisible people, not to be heard during parties and family occasions, but to be left out even from our country's head count is a bit too galling. And I do wish the Taylors would stop their snobbish references to 'bloody Indians'. This must be the fiftieth time I have heard them use this expression since I have been with them.

Every time I hear it, my blood boils. OK, so the postman and the electrician and the telephone repair man and the constable, and now even the census man, have a weakness for whisky. But it doesn't mean that all Indians are drunkards. I wish I could explain this to Mrs Taylor some day.

But I know I won't. When you live in a posh locality of Delhi in a nice house, get three hot meals a day and a salary of one thousand five hundred, yes, one thousand five hundred rupees a month, you learn to swallow your pride. And smile whenever Sahib and Memsahib smile.

To be fair to the Taylors, though, they have been very kind to me. Not many people would

employ you if you turned up on their doorstep suddenly one day from Mumbai. Moreover, I gave all the wrong references. Colonel Waugh was Colonel Taylor's predecessor, twice removed. And the Taylors, being Anglicans, had nothing to do with Father Timothy's Roman Catholic Church.

It was pure luck that they needed a servant urgently, having just kicked out the previous domestic help.

In the fifteen months I have been with the family, five more servants have been dismissed. All because of Colonel Taylor. He is The Man Who Knows. Just as there is an omniscient God

above, there is Colonel Taylor below. Jagdish, the gardener, stole fertilizer from the shed and Colonel Taylor knew. Result: dismissed the next day. Sheela, the maid, picked up a bracelet from Mrs Taylor's room and Colonel Taylor knew. Result: dismissed the next day. Raju, the cook, opened the liquor cabinet and drank some whisky at night. Result: beaten up and dismissed the next day. Ajay, the new cook, hatched a plan to steal some money and mentioned this to a friend on the phone. Result: dismissed the next day and both he and his friend arrested by the police. Basanti, the new maid, tried on one of Maggie's dresses. Result: yes, dismissed the next day. How Colonel Taylor gets to know these things that take place behind closed doors, in the dead of night, or on the telephone, with no one around, is a real mystery.

I am the only one who has survived. I admit, occasionally I am also tempted to pocket the loose change lying around on Mrs Taylor's dressing table or grab one of the delicious Swiss chocolates from the fridge, but I keep such urges in check. Because I know that Colonel Taylor is The Man Who Knows. And the family trusts me. The fact that I have a Christian name and speak English helps, too. Apart from Shanti, who was employed just two months ago, I am the only one to have exclusive access to the family's private quarters. I can enter all the bedrooms and I am the only one allowed to watch TV and occasionally to play Nintendo with Roy in the living room. But even I am not allowed to enter Colonel Taylor's office, known as the Den. It is the small room adjacent to the master bedroom. It has a sturdy brown wooden door, protected by a thick iron grille. The iron grille has three locks: two small ones and one huge golden padlock that says,

'Yale. Armoured. Boron Shackle.' On the wall next to the padlock is a small white electronic panel with a picture of a skull and two bones and numbers 0– 9 like on a telephone keypad. You can open the padlock only after punching in a code. If you try to open it forcibly you get a 440-volt current and you die. A little light on the panel burns red when the room is closed. Whenever Colonel Taylor enters the room, the light changes to green. No member of the household is allowed to enter this room. Not even Mrs Taylor, Maggie or Roy.

* * *

The time I have spent with the Taylors has helped me forget the traumatic events in Mumbai.

Shantaram and Neelima Kumari have become painful but distant memories. For the first few

months I lived in constant dread, cringing whenever a police jeep with a flashing red light passed the compound. Over time, the feeling of being hunted began to dissipate. I often thought about Gudiya, too, and wondered what had happened to her, but it is difficult to sustain a memory if you don't have a face to associate with the name. Gradually, she disappeared into the dustbin of my past. But Salim I couldn't forget. I was often racked with guilt for having left him behind. I wondered how he was coping, whether he was still working as a
dabbawallah,
but I refrained from contacting him, worried that this might reveal my whereabouts to the police.

* * *

Living with the Taylors, I have learnt to do barbies and make fondue. I have become an expert at mixing drinks and measuring whisky by the peg. I have tasted kangaroo steaks and crocodile dumplings imported directly from Canberra. I have become a fan of rugby, tennis, and something called Aussie Rules, which I watch with Roy. But even after all this time, I still struggle with the Australian accent. Every evening I sit in my room and practise speaking like an Australian.

'G'day Maite, see you at aight at India Gaite,' I say, and burst out laughing.

I especially enjoy going shopping with Mrs Taylor. She gets most of her provisions from

Australia. But from time to time she buys imported products from Super Bazaar and Khan

Market. We purchase Spanish chorizo and Roquefort cheese and gherkins in brine and red

chillies in olive oil. The best days are when she takes Maggie and Roy with her to Kids Mart, the biggest kids' store in the whole world. It has clothes and toys and bikes and cassettes. Maggie and Roy buy sweatshirts and jeans and I get to go on the free merry-go-round.

Roy and Maggie get a magazine every month. It is called
Australian Geographic.
I think it is the best magazine on earth. It is crammed with page upon page of photos of the most gorgeous

places in the world, all of which are in Australia. There are beaches with miles of golden sand.

Islands fringed with lovely palm trees. Oceans full of whales and sharks. Cities teeming with skyscrapers. Volcanoes spewing out deadly lava. Snow-covered mountains nestling against

tranquil green valleys. At the age of fourteen, my only ambition is to see these beautiful places.

To visit Queensland and Tasmania and the Great Barrier Reef before I die.

My life with the Taylors is comfortable, too, because I do not have much work to do. Unlike in the actress's house, where I was the only servant, there are three others here sharing the work.

Ramu is the cook and the kitchen is completely under him. Shanti makes the beds and does the washing. I have only to do the vacuuming and the cleaning. From time to time, I also polish the silver cutlery, stack up books in Colonel Taylor's library and help Bhagwati trim the hedges. All of us live in the servants' quarters attached to the main house. We have one large and two small rooms to ourselves. Bhagwati lives in the large one with his wife and son. Shanti lives alone in the second. And I share the third with Ramu. The room has bunk beds. I sleep in the one on top.

Ramu is a nice bloke. He joined the Taylors four months ago and is an excellent cook. His main claim to fame is that he knows French cooking, having previously worked for a French family.

He can make
gateau de saumon
and
crepes suzette
and
cervettes au gratin,
which is my favourite dish. Ramu is well built and his face, if you ignore the pockmarks, is quite good looking. He loves to see Hindi movies. His favourite films are those in which the rich heroine runs off with the poor hero. I have a suspicion that Shanti fancies Ramu. The way she looks at him, winking occasionally, makes me think she is trying to give Ramu a signal. But Ramu does not care for Shanti. He is in love with someone else. He has made me swear not to mention this to anyone, so I cannot reveal the name. But I suppose I can mention that she is a beautiful girl with blue eyes and golden hair.

Although I live in the servants' quarters, the Taylors treat me almost as part of the family.

Whenever they go for an outing to McDonald's, they remember to buy me a kids' meal. When

Roy and Maggie play
Scrabble,
they always include me. When Roy watches cricket in the TV

room, he always invites me to join him (though he gets nasty whenever Australia is losing).

Every time the Taylors travel to Australia on holiday, they make a point of getting me a small gift – a keyring saying I LOVE SYDNEY or a T-shirt with a funny message. Sometimes all this kindness makes me cry. When I am eating a slice of Edam cheese or drinking a can of root beer, I find it difficult to believe that I am the same orphan boy who was eating thick blackened chapattis and indigestible stew in a filthy juvenile home not far from here just five years ago. At times I actually start imagining myself as part of this Australian family. Ram Mohammad Taylor.

But when one of the servants is scolded or dismissed or when Colonel Taylor wags a finger and says 'You bloody Indians,' my dream world comes crashing down and I begin to think of myself as a mongrel peeping through a barred window into an exotic world which does not belong to me.

But there is one thing that does belong to me, and that is the money piling up from my salary, though I have yet either to see or touch it. After bad experiences with a string of servants, Colonel Taylor decided not to give me a monthly salary on the grounds that I am a minor. He gives me only fifty rupees per month as pocket money. I am supposed to receive the rest of my salary as accumulated savings only on termination of employment. And only then if I have

behaved well. Otherwise, like Raju and Ajay, it is bye bye without pay. Unlike me, Ramu gets his salary every month. A full two thousand rupees. He has already accumulated a kitty of eight thousand rupees which he keeps safely hidden inside a hollow space in the mattress of his bed. I have only a hundred rupees in my pocket, but I have a little red diary in which I keep adding up my salary every month. As of today, the Taylors owe me 22,500 rupees. Just the thought of owning all this money makes me giddy. Every night I dream of visiting the places I see in