Slumdog Millionaire: A Novel (34 page)

* * *

Agra has become the city of death. I have a dead body in my room and a blue notebook in my

hands. I flip through the pages aimlessly, staring at pencil sketches of a woman who was a heartless mother. No, I will not call her 'mother', because to say that would be an insult to all mothers.

I do not know how to react to Shankar's death. I could scream and shout like Bihari. I could abuse all the gods in heaven and all the powers on earth. I could batter down a door, throw some furniture, kick a lamppost. And then I would break down and cry. But today, the tears refuse to come. A slow, molten rage builds up in my guts. I tear the pages from the notebook and shred them into tiny little pieces. Then, all of a sudden, I pick up Shankar in my arms and proceed towards the lighted palace.

The uniformed guards bar my way, but as soon as they see the dead body in my hands they

hastily open the gate. I pass along the curved driveway, where the expensive imported cars of the guests are lined up one after the other. I reach the ornate entrance and find it open in welcome. I pass through the marbled foyer into the dining room, where the guests are about to be served dessert. All conversation ceases the moment they see me.

I climb on to the table, and place Shankar's body gently in the middle, in between a creamy vanilla cake and a bowl of
rasagullas.
The waiters stand as still as statues. The smartly attired businessmen cough and shift uncomfortably in their seats. The ladies take hold of their

necklaces. The District Magistrate and the Police Commissioner watch me with worried eyes.

Swapna Devi, sitting at the head of the table, clad in a heavy silk sari and loaded with jewellery, looks as if she is going to choke. She tries to open her mouth, but finds her vocal chords paralysed. I look directly at her with as much contempt as I can muster and speak.

'Mrs Swapna Devi, if this is your palace, and you are its queen, then acknowledge the prince. I have come to deliver the dead body of your son Kunwar Shankar Singh Gautam to you. He died half an hour ago, in the outhouse where you have kept him hidden all these years. You did not pay for his treatment. You did not fulfil the duty of a mother. Now honour your obligation as a landlady. Please pay for the funeral of your penniless tenant.'

I say my piece, nod at the guests who watch in frozen silence, and walk out of the stuffy palace into the cool night. I am told that no one had dessert.

* * *

Shankar's death affects me deeply. I sleep, cry and sleep again. I stop going to the Taj Mahal. I stop meeting Nita. I stop seeing films. I press the 'Pause' button on my life. For a fortnight or so after Shankar's death, I roam around Agra like a crazed animal. Shakil, the university student, finds me standing outside Shankar's room one evening, staring at the lock on the door like a drunkard looks at a bottle of whisky. Bihari, the cobbler, discovers me sitting next to the municipal tap, with water dripping from my eyes instead of from the tap. Abdul, the gardener at Swapna Palace, catches me tiptoeing around the outhouse like Shankar used to. In the peak of winter, the city becomes a hot and lonely desert for me. I try to lose myself in its anarchic existence. I try to become a nonsense syllable in its ceaseless chatter, and I almost succeed in sending myself into a stupor.

By the time I wake up, it is too late. There is a phone call at the local public call office and Shakil comes running to tell me. 'Raju, Raju, someone called Nita phoned. She wants you in the Emergency Ward of Singhania Hospital right now.'

My heart leaps to my mouth when I hear this and I run the entire three miles to Singhania Hospital. I narrowly avoid crashing into a doctor, almost overturn a trolley and charge into the Emergency Ward like an Inspector bursting in on an armed robbery.

'Where is Nita?' I demand of a bewildered nurse.

'I am here, Raju.' Nita's voice sounds weak. She is behind a curtained partition, lying on a trolley.

One look at her and I almost faint from shock. She has livid bruises all over her face and her lips are peculiarly twisted, as if her jaw has been dislocated. There is blood on two of her teeth, and her left eye is blackened.

'Who . . . who has done this to you?' I ask, barely recognizing my own voice.

She has difficulty speaking. 'It was a man from Mumbai. Shyam sent me to his room at the

Palace Hotel. He tied me up and did all this to me. What you see on my face is nothing. See what he did to my body.'

Nita turns on her side and I see deep red welt marks on her slim back, as if someone has used a horsewhip. Then she pushes up her blouse and I almost die. There are cigarette burn marks all over her chest, looking like ugly pockmarks on the smooth brown flesh of her breasts. I have seen this before.

My blood begins to boil. 'I know who has done this to you. Did he say his name? I will kill him.'

'I don't know his name, but he was tall and—'

Shyam enters the room at this point, clutching a packet of medicine. He takes one look at me, and goes berserk. 'You bastard,' he yells and catches me by the collar. 'How dare you come here?

It is only because of you this has happened to Nita.'

'Are you out of your mind, Shyam?' I cry.

'No, it is you who is mad. You think Nita is your personal property, and you have been telling her to quit the profession and not oblige customers any longer. Do you know how much this party from Mumbai paid for her? Five thousand rupees. But my sister believed you; she must have resisted him and look what happened. Now let me tell you something. If you want to see Nita again, then come to me with four lakh rupees. If you cannot produce this sum, then forget about Nita. If I see you even lurking about the hospital, I will have you killed, understand? Now get out.'

I could have killed Shyam that very instant, throttled him and choked the breath out of his lungs, or gouged out his eyes with my fingernails. But I remembered the promise I had made to Nita and somehow kept my simmering anger in check. I could not bear to see Nita's face any longer, and left the Emergency Ward. I knew only one thing. Somehow I had to get hold of four lakh rupees. But from where?

* * *

I make my plans and wait for an occasion when Swapna Devi is not at home. Two nights later, I see Rani Sahiba being driven away in her Contessa car to yet another party in town, and I break into the grounds of Swapna Palace through a hole in the boundary wall. Lajwanti had explained to me the detailed topography of the house and I have no difficulty in locating the window which opens into Swapna Devi's bedroom. I jimmy open the window and step inside her lavish

bedroom. I have no time to admire her massive carved walnut bed or the teak dressing table. I look only for a large framed painting and discover it on the left wall. It is a brightly coloured picture of horses and is signed by someone called Husain. I hastily remove the painting from its hook and discover a square hole in the wall where a steel safe is embedded. I look underneath the left-hand corner of the mattress and find that there is no key there. I am momentarily put off balance, but relieved to discover the key in the right-hand corner. The key fits perfectly into the lock and the heavy door swings opens slowly. I look inside the safe and get another shock. It is practically empty. There are no emerald necklaces and gold bangles. There are just four thin stacks of currency, some legal documents and a black and white photo of a toddler. I don't have to look very closely to know that it is Shankar's picture. I feel no qualms about stealing from the safe. I stuff the four bundles into my pockets, close the safe, return the painting and the key to their original locations and exit the way I came.

I rush to my room in the outhouse, lock the door behind me and sit down to count the loot. The four bundles total 399,844 rupees. I rummage through all my pockets and find 156 rupees.

Together they make exactly four lakh rupees. Looks like even Goddess Durga has given me her blessings.

I put the money in a brown paper bag, hold it tightly in my right hand and rush to the hospital.

As I am entering the Emergency Ward, a bespectacled, middle-aged man with an unshaven face and unkempt hair barges into me. I fall down on the tiled floor and the brown packet slips from my grasp. The currency notes tumble out of the bag. The man sees the notes and a maniacal glint enters his eyes. He starts picking up the notes like an excited little child. For a second I freeze, wondering whether I am seeing a repeat of the train robbery. But after collecting all the notes, the man returns them to me and folds his hands. 'This money is yours, but I beg you, brother, please lend it to me. Save the life of my son. He is only sixteen. I cannot bear to see him die,' he implores like a beggar.

I hastily stuff the notes back into the brown paper bag and try to get rid of him.

'What is the matter with your son?'

'He was bitten by a mad dog. Now he has got hydrophobia. The doctor says he will die tonight unless I can buy a vaccine called RabCure which is only available at the Gupta Pharmacy. But it costs four lakh rupees and there is no way a schoolteacher like me can raise such a huge sum of money. I know you have that money, brother. I beg you, save my only son's life and I will become your slave for life,' he says and starts crying like a baby.

'This money is required for the treatment of someone very dear to me. I am sorry I cannot help you,' I say and enter through the glass door.

The man runs after me and catches hold of my feet. 'Please wait a minute, brother. Just see this picture. This is my son. Tell me how can I live if he dies tonight?' He holds out a colour photo of a young, good-looking boy. He has expressive black eyes and a warm smile on his lips. He

reminds me of Shankar, and I hastily look away. 'I told you, I am sorry. Please don't trouble me,'

I say and extricate my legs from his arms.

I don't look back to see whether he is still following me, but hurry over to Nita's bed. Shyam and another man from the brothel are sitting on chairs like guards in front of Nita. They are eating samosas from a soggy newspaper. Nita appears to be sleeping. Her face is heavily bandaged.

'Yes?' says Shyam, chomping on a samosa. 'Why have you come, bastard?' 'I have got the money you asked for. Exactly four lakh rupees. Look.' I show him the bundles of notes. Shyam whistles.

'Where did you steal all this money from?'

'That is none of your business. I have come to take Nita away with me.'

'Nita is not going anywhere. The doctors say it will take her four months to recover. And since you are responsible for her injuries, you'd better pay for her treatment as well. She requires plastic surgery. It's bloody expensive, costing me nearly two lakhs. So if you really want Nita, come back with six lakhs, or my friend here will take care of you.'

The man sitting alongside Shyam takes out a switchblade from his pocket and twirls it in his fingers like a barber about to shave a customer's beard. He grins evilly, showing paan-stained teeth.

I know then that Nita will never be mine. That Shyam will never let her go. That even if I somehow bring six lakhs, Shyam will increase the demand to ten lakhs. My mind seems to go numb and I see blackness all around me. A wave of nausea assails me. When I recover, I see a soggy newspaper lying on the floor. It has an advertisement showing the face of a man who is grinning and holding several thousand-rupee notes in his fingers. Underneath the picture is a caption that says, 'Welcome to the greatest show on television. Welcome to
W3B
–
Who Will Win
A Billion?
Phone lines are open. Call now or write to us to see if you will be the lucky winner of the biggest jackpot on earth!' I look at the address given in the advertisement. It says, 'Prem Studios, Khar, Mumbai.' I know in that moment that I am going to Mumbai.

I step out of the Emergency Ward as if in a trance. The antiseptic smell of the hospital doesn't irritate my senses any longer. The bespectacled man is still in the corridor. He looks at me with hopeful eyes, but doesn't try to accost me this time. Perhaps he has reconciled himself to his son's death. I still have the brown paper bag in my hand. I gesture to him. He comes shuffling to me, like a dog expecting a bone. 'Here, take this.' I hand over the bag. 'It has four lakh rupees inside.

Go and save your son's life.'

The man takes the packet, falls down at my feet and begins crying. 'You are not a man, you are a god,' he says.

I laugh. 'If I were God, we wouldn't need hospitals. No, I was just a small tourist guide with big dreams,' I say and try to move forward, but he bars my way again. He takes out a worn leather wallet from his pocket and extracts a card. 'The money you have given me is a debt I owe you.

This is my card. I will repay it as soon as I can, but from this moment I am your servant.'

'I don't think I will need you. In fact, I don't think I will need anyone in Agra. I am going to Mumbai,' I tell him in an absent-minded way and slip his card into my shirt pocket. The man looks at me again with tearful eyes, then rushes out of the hospital, running towards Rakab Ganj and the all-night Gupta Pharmacy.

I am just about to step outside the hospital when a jeep with a flashing red light comes

screeching to a halt. An Inspector and two constables jump out. Two more men emerge from the back seat whom I recognize. One is a guard at Swapna Palace and the other is Abdul, the

gardener. The guard points at me. 'Inspector Sahib, this is that boy Raju. He is the one who has stolen Rani Sahiba's money.' The Inspector instructs his constables. 'Since we found nothing in his room, the cash must be on him. Check the bastard's pockets.' The constables grope through my shirt and trousers. They find a small packet of bubble gum, some corn kernels and a one-rupee coin, which doesn't seem lucky any longer.

'He is clean, Sahib. He doesn't have any money,' one of the constables replies.

'Really? Still, let's take him in for questioning. We'll find out where he was this evening,' the Inspector says brusquely.

'Ztyjoz Hz?' I reply, my lips twisting in a deformed way. 'What did you just say? I didn't get it,'