Slumdog Millionaire: A Novel (12 page)

I wake up, drenched in sweat.

* * *

We get introduced to Moolay, a thirteen-year-old with an amputated arm.

'I hate my life,' he says.

'Why don't you run away?'

'Where to? This is Mumbai, not my village. There is no space to hide your head in this vast city.

You need to have connections even to sleep in a sewage pipe. And you need protection from the other gangs.'

'Other gangs?'

'Yes. Two boys ran away last month. They came back within three days. They couldn't find any work. Bhiku's gang wouldn't allow them to operate in their area. Here, at least we get food and shelter, and when we are working for Maman none of the other gangs bother us.'

'We don't want to get involved with any gangs,' I tell him and recite a
doha. 'Kabira Khara
Bazaar Mein, Mange Sabki Khair, Na Kahu Se Dosti, Na Kahu Se Bair.
Kabir is in the market place, wishing the welfare of all; He wants neither friendship nor enmity with anyone at all.'

* * *

We meet Sikandar, the import from Pakistan.

A ripple of excitement goes round the mess hall. A new kid has arrived. Mustafa brings in the new inmate and we all crowd around him. Mustafa is the most excited. 'We got him this morning from Shakeel Rana's consignment,' he says and slaps his thighs in delight.

The boy is no more than twelve years old. We touch him as though he is a caged animal. But he doesn't look like an animal. He looks more like the alien we saw in a Britannia biscuits

commercial on TV, with an oval, tapering head, Chinese eyes, a thick nose and thin lips. Mustafa tells Punnoose, 'He is from the Shrine of Shah Dola in Pakistani Punjab. These boys are called

"Rat Children".'

'How do they get a head like that?'

'I have heard that they put iron rings on the baby's head to stop it growing. That is how you get this unique head design.'

'I think he has a lot of potential. Maman will be pleased,' says Punnoose.

'Yes,' Mustafa concurs. 'A real high-value item.'

For some reason, the rat boy reminds me of a bear I saw once with Father Timothy in Connaught Place. He had a tight collar round his neck and a black mask covering his mouth. His owner would poke him hard with a pointed stick and he would stand on both his hind legs, saluting the people gathered round him. They would throw coins at him. The owner would pick up the money and pull him away for another performance. I was struck by the eyes of the bear, which seemed so sad that I had asked Father Timothy, 'Do bears cry?'

* * *

I discover Jitu, hiding in a closet.

He holds a plastic bag in his hand with a yellowish-white substance inside. He opens the end over his nose and mouth and inhales deeply, pressing the bottom of the bag towards his face. His clothes smell of paint and solvent. There is a rash around his nose. His mouth is sweaty and sticky. After he inhales, his half-closed eyes turn glassy and his hand begins to tremble.

'Jitu! . . . Jitu!' I shake him. 'What are you doing?'

'Don't disturb me,' he says in a drowsy voice. 'I am floating on air. I am sleeping on the clouds.' I slap him. He coughs up black phlegm. 'I am addicted to glue,' he tells me later. 'I buy it from the cobbler. Glue takes the hunger away, and the pain. I see bright colours, and occasionally my mother.'

I ask him for some glue and try it. After I inhale, I start to feel a little dizzy, the floor beneath me appears to shift and I begin to see images. I see a tall woman, clad in a white sari, holding a baby in her arms. The wind howls, making her hair fly across her face, obscuring it. But the baby reaches out his tiny hand, and with gentle fingers smooths away her tresses, prises open her face.

He sees two haggard, cavernous eyes, a crooked nose, sharp pointy teeth glistening with fresh blood, and maggots crawling out of the folds of her lined and wrinkled skin which sags over her jaw. He shrieks in terror and tumbles from her lap.

I never try glue again.

* * *

Meanwhile, our musical training is coming to an end. Masterji is extremely pleased with Salim's progress. 'You have now mastered the art of singing. Only one lesson is left.'

'And what is that?'

'The
bhajans
of Surdas.'

'Who is Surdas?'

'He is the most famous of all
bhakti
singers, who composed thousands of songs in praise of Lord Krishna. One day he fell into an abandoned well. He could not get out. He remained there for six days. He went on praying and on the seventh day he heard a child's voice asking him to hold his hands so that he could pull him out. With the boy's aid, Surdas got out of the well, but the boy disappeared. The boy was none other than Lord Krishna. After that Surdas devoted his life to composing songs in praise of Krishna. With the single-stringed
ektara
in his hand, he began singing songs depicting Krishna's childhood.' Masterji begins singing,
'Akhiyan hari darshan Ki
Pyasi
– My eyes are hungry for your presence, Lord Krishna.'

'Why are his eyes hungry?' I ask.

'Didn't I tell you? Surdas was completely blind.'

* * *

On the last day of our musical training, Masterji showers accolades on Salim for singing one of Surdas's
bhajans
perfectly. I am testy and distracted. My encounters with Maman's boys have left me distraught. Though in a sense we are all children of a lesser god, Maman's boys seem to me to be a particularly disadvantaged lot.

Punnoose comes into the room to talk to Masterji. They speak in low voices, then Punnoose takes out his purse and begins counting out some money. He hands over a sheaf of notes to the music teacher, who tucks it gratefully in the front pocket of his
kurta.
They leave the room together, leaving me alone with Salim and a harmonium.

'I should never have left Delhi,' I tell Salim. 'You have at least become a good singer, but I have gained nothing from this trip.'

It is then that I notice a hundred-rupee note lying on the floor. Punnoose must have dropped it while counting the money. My first impulse is to pocket it, but Salim snatches it from my hand and insists that we must return it. So we go down the corridor to the room Maman uses as his office, where Punnoose and Mustafa hang out.

As we approach the door, we hear voices coming from inside. Maman is talking to Punnoose. 'So what did the Master say after finishing his lessons? He is getting more and more expensive.'

'He said that the older one is useless, but the young kid has a lot of potential. He says he's never trained a more talented boy before.'

'So you think he can bring in at least three hundred?'

'What is three hundred? When he sings it is magic. And his face? Who can resist his face? I would say easily a potential of four to five hundred. We have hit the jackpot, Maman.'

'And the other boy? The tall one?'

'Who cares? The bastard will have to fend for himself. Either he gets us a hundred each night or he remains hungry.'

'OK. Send them out on the trains from next week. We will do them tonight. After dinner.'

* * *

A chill runs down my spine as I hear these words. I catch Salim's hand and rush back to our

room. Salim is confused about the conversation we heard, and the reference to numbers. But the jigsaw is piecing itself together in my brain.

'Salim, we have to escape from this place. Now.'

'But why?'

'Because something very bad is going to happen to us tonight, after dinner.'

'I don't understand.'

'I understand everything. Do you know why we were taught the
bhajans
of Surdas?'

'Because he was a great poet?'

'No. Because he was blind. And that is what we are going to become tonight, so that we can be made to beg on local trains. I am convinced now that all the cripple boys we have met here have been deliberately maimed by Maman and his gang.'

But such cruelty is beyond Salim's comprehension. He wants to stay.

'Why don't you run away alone?' he asks me.

'I can't go without you.'

'Why?'

'Because I am your guardian angel, and you are part of my package deal.'

Salim hugs me. I take out the one-rupee coin from my pocket. 'Look, Salim,' I tell him. 'You believe in destiny, don't you? So let this coin decide our future. Heads we leave, tails we stay, OK?'

Salim nods. I flip the coin. It is heads.

Salim is finally reconciled to escaping from Maman's den, but his mind is full of doubt. 'Where will we go? What will we do? We don't know anyone in this city.'

'I know where we will go. Remember that actress Neelima Kumari that Radhey told us about?

She needs a servant. I have her address and I also know which local train goes there.'

'How about going to the police?'

'Are you out of your mind? Haven't you learnt anything since Delhi? Whatever you do, wherever you go, never go to the police. Ever.'

* * *

We are inside the bathroom in the basement, listening to the steady beat of water dripping from a leaky tap. Salim is on my shoulder with a knife in his hand, trying to work the bolts holding the wire-mesh window in place.

'Hurry,' I whisper through clenched teeth.

Upstairs, Maman's guards trample through our room, opening closets and cupboards. We hear shouts and abuses. A bottle crashes, jangling our frayed nerves even more. Salim is terrified. He is breathing quickly in short gasps. The beating of my heart intensifies till I can almost hear its pounding. Footsteps come closer.

'Only one is left,' says Salim. 'But it is jammed. I don't think I can open it.'

'Please . . . please try again!' I urge him. 'Our lives depend on it.'

Salim tackles the bolt with renewed urgency, twisting the knife into it with all his strength.

Finally, it gives way. He takes out the four bolts and lifts the wire mesh. We can see the palm trees outside swaying gently in the breeze. There is just enough space for us to crawl out.

Maman's men are about to come down the stairs to the basement when Salim manoeuvres

himself through the window. Then he grasps my hand and helps me slither out. We clamber on to a mound of gravel and rubble, gasping and panting. The moon is full, the night is calm. We take in deep gulps of fresh air. It smells of coconuts.

* * *

We are sitting in a local train going away from Goregaon towards the centre of this vast

metropolis. The train is not crowded at this time of night and there are only a few passengers in our compartment. They read newspapers, play cards, criticize the government, fart. A soft-drinks vendor enters the compartment carrying a plastic cool-box filled with multi-coloured bottles.

'Coke, Fanta, Thums Up, Limca, 7 Up,' he shouts in a high-pitched voice. The bottles are chilled, we can see tiny droplets of moisture beading their surface. Salim looks at the soft drinks and passes his tongue over his parched lips. He feels his front pocket and pats it reassuringly. The vendor looks at him hopefully. Salim shakes his head and the man moves on.

Soon another pedlar enters the compartment, a bearded old man wearing round glasses. There is a large tray hanging from his neck, filled with a plethora of rusty tins, cloudy glass bottles and small plastic packets containing an assortment of gnarled roots, dry leaves, powders and seeds.

'Yusuf Fahim, Travelling Hakim,' he announces. 'I have a treatment for every ailment. From cancer to constipation, just name your condition.' Unfortunately for him, there are no sick persons in the compartment, and he departs shortly, leaving behind a pungent smell of turmeric and ginger.

We watch the flickering lights of the city as the train rushes past housing colonies and sports stadiums. We catch fleeting glimpses of people sitting in their drawing rooms, watching TV, eating dinner, making beds. When our destination is only two stops away, we hear shuffling footsteps from the far side of the compartment.

A small, undernourished boy of about seven or eight appears. He is wearing a blue top and dusty shorts. He walks with the help of a stick and holds an
ektara
in his hands. We do not recognize him: he is not one of Maman's boys.

He stops no more than fifteen feet from us and breaks into a full-throated rendition of
'Sunire
Maine Nirbal Ke Balaram
– I have heard that Krishna comes to the aid of the weak', one of Surdas's most famous poems.

We cringe as the singer's melodious voice cascades over the compartment. Images of Maman's boys come flooding back to us. Raju and Radhey and Ashok and Moolay. Salim squeezes up to me and I shift deeper into the corner of my seat. But like a radar the singer's head tracks us. He seems to look at us accusingly through unseeing eyes. For five tortuous minutes we listen to him complete his song. Then he takes out a begging bowl and asks for alms. Only a handful of

passengers are left in the compartment and nobody even bothers to hunt for change.

As the empty-handed singer is about to pass our side, Salim takes something from his front pocket. He holds it in a clenched fist and looks guiltily at me. I nod silently. With a pained expression, Salim opens his fist over the singer's outstretched hand. A crumpled, hundred-rupee note drifts into the beggar's bowl.

* * *

Smita shivers involuntarily. 'I cannot imagine there are still people in this day and age who can inflict such cruelty on innocent children.'

'It is sad, but true. If Salim and I had not escaped that night, perhaps we would still be singing songs on local trains, like that blind singer,' I reply.

'So did you finally land that job with Neelima Kumari?'

'Yes, I did.'

'And what happened to Salim?'

'Neelima Kumari arranged a room for him in a chawl in Ghatkopar.'

'But in the last story, weren't you working in a foundry and living in the chawl?'

'That was after I had left Neelima Kumari – or rather, after she had left me.'

'Meaning?'

'You will soon find out.'

Smita shakes her head, and presses 'Play' on the DVD remote.

* * *

Prem Kumar faces the camera. 'We now move on to question number four for ten thousand