Slumdog Millionaire: A Novel (25 page)

That whole afternoon Ahmed sat in front of the TV set and watched Malvankar play, cheering his every run with loud whistles. As Malvankar inched towards his century, Ahmed became

more and more excited. By the time Malvankar entered the nineties Ahmed was a nervous

wreck, biting his fingernails, praying before every ball, cringing whenever Malvankar was beaten by a delivery. But Malvankar played like the master batsman he is. He moved from

ninety-one to ninety-five with a magnificent straight drive for four. Then he took a single to reach ninety-six. Another single. Ninety-seven. Then Gillespie bowled a short ball and

Malvankar pulled it majestically to the cover boundary. Hayden was running after it, trying to stop it from crossing the rope. Malvankar and his cobatsman Ajay Mishra were running quickly between the wickets. They took one run. Ninety-eight. Then they raced to complete the second.

Ninety-nine. Hayden gathered up the ball inches inside the cover boundary and sent in a looping throw, not to Adam Gilchrist, the wicketkeeper, but to the bowler's end. Malvankar saw the throw coming and shouted "Nooooo!" to Mishra, who was running towards him for the third run.

But that idiot Mishra kept on charging down the pitch towards Malvankar. In desperation,

Malvankar was forced to set out to complete the third run. He had almost made it to the bowler's end when the ball from Hayden landed directly on the stumps! Malvankar was caught just six inches outside the crease and declared run out by the third umpire. On ninety-nine.

'You can imagine what happened to Ahmed. He had bet ten lakhs on Malvankar's thirty-seventh century and now he had lost it all by one run. He cursed Gillespie, he cursed Hayden, and most of all he cursed Mishra. "I want to kill that bastard," he growled and charged out of the house. He probably went to a bar to drown his sorrows.

'That same afternoon, another yellow envelope came. I was worried that it might contain the picture of a certain Indian batsman, but when I saw what was inside I almost died.'

'Why? What was inside? Tell me quickly.'

'Inside the envelope was a glossy, eight-by-six photograph of Abbas Rizvi, the producer, and a typewritten piece of paper containing his address. I knew that he would be Ahmed's next victim, and that with his death, my dream of becoming an actor would also die. I had to warn Rizvi. But if Ahmed found out, he would have no qualms about killing me either. After all, he was a

professional hitman with a licence to kill.'

'So what did you do?' I ask breathlessly.

'I did what I had to do. I immediately went to Rizvi and told him about the contract on him. He didn't believe me, so I showed him the picture and the address which had come by courier. Once he saw the photo in my hand, all his doubts vanished. He told me he would run away to Dubai and lie low for a year or so. He was now so indebted to me, he promised that on his return he would make me a hero in his next film and till then he would get me trained. So that is why he is funding my acting course and why I am counting the days till I turn eighteen.'

'My God, what a story, Salim,' I say, letting out a deep breath. 'But by taking that packet to Rizvi, didn't you expose yourself to Ahmed? He would have received a phone call that evening and he would have known about the missing envelope.'

'No, I didn't expose myself, because Ahmed did get a packet on the dining table when he

returned that evening.'

'But . . . then Ahmed would have killed Rizvi.'

'No, because the packet contained a new picture and a new address, which I got typed at the nearby typing institute.'

'Brilliant. You mean you gave a fictitious address? But how could you give a fictitious picture?'

'I could not. So I did not. I gave Ahmed a real picture and a real address, and he actually went and carried out the hit. But before he could discover that he had killed the wrong guy, I told him I had to go urgently to Bihar and left his employment. I hid here and there, I didn't enter Byculla, I even stopped going to Haji Ali, which is just opposite. And then last week I saw on
Crime
Watch
that the police had shot a dreaded contract killer by the name of Ahmed Khan in a shoot-out near Churchgate Station. So today I came to Haji Ali to offer my thanks to Allah, and behold, who do I see when I come out but you!'

'Yes, it is an amazing coincidence. But I have just one more question. Whose picture and address did you give Ahmed?'

'The only one worth giving. I gave him a glossy eight-by-six photo of Mr Babu Pillai, and Maman's address!!'

* * *

Smita claps her hands. 'Marvellous! I know by now that you are a smart cookie, but I didn't know that Salim is also a genius. He got licence to kill by proxy, and he chose the perfect target. So what happened after? Did you tell Salim about your participation in the quiz?'

'No. I didn't reveal why I had come to Mumbai. I simply said that I was in Delhi, working as a servant, and was visiting the city for a couple of days.'

'So Salim has no clue about your appearance on
W3B?'

'No. I was going to inform him, but before I could do so the police arrested me.'

'I see. Anyway, now let's see how the fortuitous meeting with Salim helped your fortunes on the show.'

* * *

In the studio, the lights have been dimmed again.

Prem Kumar addresses the camera. 'We now move on to question number nine, for one million rupees.' He turns to me. 'Are you ready?'

'Ready,' I reply.

'OK. Here is question number nine. This one is from the world of sport. Tell me, Mr Thomas, which sport do you play?'

'None.'

'None? Then how come you are so fit? Look at me, I have gained so much flab despite going to the gym every morning.'

'If you had to work as a waiter and commute thirty kilometres every day, you too would become fit,' I reply.

The audience titters. Prem Kumar scowls.

'OK, here comes question number nine, from the world of cricket. How many Test centuries has India's greatest batsman Sachin Malvankar scored? Your choices are a) 34, b) 35, c) 36 or d) 37?'

The music commences.

'Can I ask a question?'

'Yes, sure.'

'Has India played any other country since the recent series with Australia?'

'No, not to my knowledge.'

'Then I know the answer. It is C. 36.'

'Is that your final answer? Remember, there is a million rupees riding on your reply.'

'Yes, it is C. 36.'

'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! Sachin Malvankar has indeed scored 36 Test

centuries. You have just won a million rupees! Ladies and gentlemen, we will now take a short commercial break.'

'Cut!' I say.

TRAGEDY QUEEN

A family drama with doses of comedy and action, ending eventually in tragedy. In film parlance, this is how I would describe the time I spent with Neelima Kumari. She was an actress. And I worked for three years in her flat in Juhu Vile Parle.

It all began on that same night that Salim and I escaped from the clutches of Maman and his gang. We took the local train and landed in Juhu. We walked up to Neelima Kumari's flat,

pressed the doorbell and waited.

After a lengthy interval the door is opened. 'Yes?' A lady stands before us. Radhey, the lame boy, was right. She is tall and beautiful, just like a heroine, only older. Salim falls at her feet.
'Arrey.'

She hurriedly steps back. 'Who are you two? What are you doing here at this hour of night?'

'We are friends of Radhey,' I reply with folded hands. 'He told us you are in need of a servant.

We have come to offer our services. We know you are a very kind lady. We are in desperate need of food and shelter and promise to do anything you ask us.'

'Yes, I do need a servant, but I cannot keep someone so young.'

'Madam, we are young only in looks. We can do the work of four men. I can also speak English.

Do try us.'

'But I don't need two servants. I have space only for one.'

Salim and I look at each other. 'Then at least pick one of us,' I say.

'What is your name?' she asks Salim.

'Salim.'

'Oh, you are Muslim, aren't you?'

Salim nods.

'Look, I am sorry, but my aged mother who lives with me cannot eat anything touched by a

Muslim. I personally don't believe in all this polluting-contact nonsense, but what am I to do?'

She shrugs her shoulders. Salim looks crestfallen.

Then she turns to me. 'And what about you? What is your name?'

'Ram,' I tell her.

* * *

So I got the job, and only then did I discover that life with a movie star is not as glamorous as it appears from the outside. When you get to see them without make-up you find that they are exactly like you and me, with the same anxieties and insecurities. The only difference is that we are mainly concerned with money, or lack of it, and they are mainly concerned with fame. Or lack of it.

They live in a fish bowl. First they hate it, then, as adulation grows, they start loving it. And when people no longer shower attention on them, they just shrivel up and die.

Neelima Kumari's flat is spacious and contemporary, tastefully furnished with expensive wall-to-wall carpets and paintings. It has five bedrooms. The large master bedroom with attached

bathroom is Neelima's, and her mother has the next-largest. As far as I know, Neelima has no other relatives.

Neelima's bedroom is the best room in the flat. It has a huge bed in the middle with a velvet bedspread. The walls have tiles made of glass so you see your image reflected in a thousand tiny pieces. There is a dresser full of perfumes and bottles. Next to the dresser is a twenty-nine-inch Sony TV, a VCR and the latest VCD player. An expensive chandelier hangs from the ceiling. A soundless air conditioner keeps the room delightfully cool. Glass shelves line the walls, loaded with trophies and awards of all kinds. There is another glass case full of old film magazines. All of them have Neelima Kumari on the cover. Looking at all this, I feel privileged to be working in her house. In her time, she must have been the most famous actress in India.

Neelima's mother is a real pain in the neck. Though she is nearly eighty, she has the energy of a forty-year old and is always after me. I am the only full-time servant in the house. There is a Maharashtrian brahmin lady who comes to cook in the evening and also does the dishes, and a part-time maid who does the washing. I do everything else. I do the dusting and the cleaning, I iron the clothes and make evening tea, I do errands outside the house, buy the milk and pay all the utility bills. But Neelima's mother is never satisfied, even though I address her very respectfully as 'Maaji'. 'Ram, you have not brought my milk,' she will say. 'Ram, you have not ironed my bed sheet . . . Ram, you have not dusted this room properly . . . Ram you are again wasting time . . . Ram you have not heated my tea.' Sometimes I get so irritated at her constant nitpicking, I want to tape her mouth.

Neelima, though quirky at times, is not so demanding. She wants me to become a live-in servant.

There are plenty of empty bedrooms in the flat where I could stay, but her mother refuses to allow a 'male' to live in the house. So I am banished to a chawl in Ghatkopar, from where I commute every day to her flat. She pays rent for the room in the chawl. In a way it suits me, because Salim can also stay with me in the same room.

* * *

I am out shopping with Neelima. She doesn't own a car, so we take a taxi. I don't enjoy going out with her. She only buys cosmetics or clothes and I have to carry her heavy bags. She never goes to a McDonald's or a Pizza Hut. And she never, ever, buys me anything.

Today, we are in Cuff Parade, in a very expensive shop which sells saris. She looks at hundreds of them for over two hours, then she buys three for fifty thousand rupees, which is almost equal to my salary for two years. As we are stepping out of the air-conditioned showroom, a group of girls dressed in school uniform approaches her. They look very excited. 'Excuse me, are you Neelima Kumari, the actress?' asks one of them.

'Yes,' says Neelima, looking quite pleased.

'See,' the girl screams to her friends. 'I told you she is Neelima.' Then she turns to us again.

'Neelimaji, we are great fans of yours. Seeing you is like a dream come true. We are not carrying autograph books, but will you please sign our exercise books?'

'Of course, with pleasure,' says Neelima and takes a pen from her handbag. One by one the girls hold out their exercise books, thrilled to bits. Neelima asks each one her name and then records in her sprawling handwriting, 'To Ritu with love, Neelima.' 'To Indu with love, Neelima.' 'To Malti with love, Neelima.' 'To Roshni with love, Neelima.' The girls read their inscriptions and squeal with delight.

Neelima is positively glowing from all this adulation. This is the first time I have seen anyone recognize her and I marvel at the impact it has on her. Suddenly she looks at me with concern, sweating in the heat, holding a heavy shopping bag. 'Ram, you must be feeling quite hungry by now. Come, let's have an ice cream,' she says. I squeal with delight.

* * *

From time to time, Neelima teaches me about the art of film-making. She tells me about the

various technicians involved in the making of a film. 'People think that a film is made only by the actors and the director. They don't know about the thousands of people behind the scenes, without whose efforts the film would never be made. It is only after these technicians have done their work that a director can snap his fingers and tell his actors, "Lights, camera, action!"' She tells me about sets and props and lighting and make-up and stunt men and spot boys.

Then she teaches me about genres. 'I hate the movies they make these days, in which they try to cram everything – tragedy, comedy, action and melodrama. No. A good film has to respect its genre. I always used to choose my films carefully, after fully understanding what the story meant and what it involved for me. You will never catch me singing and dancing in one scene and dying two reels later. No, Ram. A character has to be consistent. Just as a great painter is identified by his unique signature style, an actor is known for his unique niche. A genre of his own. A great artist is not one who merely fits into a genre, but one who defines the genre. Did you see the review of that new film
Relationship of the Heart
in the
Times of India?
The reviewer wrote that Pooja, the actress, made a complete hash of the death scene. "How I wish Neelima Kumari had been in this film to do justice to the character. The young actresses of today should learn their craft from legends like her." It really gladdened my heart to read this. To be held out as an example, as the epitome of a genre, is the ultimate compliment an actor can receive. I am getting the review framed.'