Slumdog Millionaire: A Novel (18 page)

* * *

'I make no judgement. I merely related to you what was told me by Prakash Rao. What I heard, what I saw.'

'Surely there can be no truth in such things?'

'Well, all I can say is that at times truth is stranger than fiction.'

'I cannot believe that Rao was killed by someone pricking a voodoo doll. I think you made up this story.'

'Fine, don't believe in the story, but then how do you explain my answer to the next question?'

Smita presses 'Play'.

* * *

question number six for one lakh rupees. This is the perennial favourite in all quiz shows. Yes. I am talking about countries and capitals. Mr Thomas, how familiar are you with capital cities?

For example, do you know the capital of India?'

The audience titters. They are prepared to believe that a waiter might not even know the capital of his country.

'New Delhi.'

'Very good. And what is the capital of the United States of America?'

'New York.'

Prem Kumar laughs. 'No. That is not correct. OK, what is the capital of France?'

'I don't know.'

'And the capital of Japan?'

'I don't know.'

'How about the capital of Italy. Do you know that?'

'No.'

'Well, then I don't see how you can answer the next question without making use of one of your Lifeboats. So here comes question number six for a hundred thousand rupees. What is the capital of Papua New Guinea? Is it a) Port Louis, b) Port-au-Prince, c) Port Moresby or d) Port

Adelaide?'

The suspenseful music commences.

'Do you have any clue at all, Mr Thomas, about this question?'

'Yes, I know which are the incorrect answers.'

'You do?' Prem Kumar says incredulously. The members of the audience begin whispering

amongst themselves.

'Yes. I know it is not Port-au-Prince, which is the capital of Haiti, or Port Louis, which is in Mauritius. And it is also not Port Adelaide, because Adelaide is in Australia. So it has to be C.

Port Moresby.'

'This is amazing. Are you absolutely, one hundred per cent sure?'

'Yes, I am.'

There is a crescendo of drums. The correct answer flashes.

'Absolutely, one hundred per cent correct! It is Port Moresby. You have just won a hundred thousand rupees, you are now a
lakhpati!'
declares Prem Kumar. The audience stand up and cheer. Prem Kumar wipes more sweat from his brow. 'I swear the way you are giving these

answers, it's almost like magic'

* * *

Suddenly her eyes dart down to something lying on the bedroom carpet. She bends to pick it up.

It is a small button with four slits. The type used on shirts. She looks at my shirt. The third button is indeed missing. She hands it to me. 'Here. Better hold on to your buttons.'

MURDER ON THE WESTERN EXPRESS

New Delhi's Paharganj railway station is humming with sound and crawling with people. The grey platforms are bathed in white light. Train engines belch smoke and whistle like impatient bulls.

If you were to search for me in this crowded maze, where would you look? You would probably try to find me among the dozens of street children stretched out on the smooth concrete floor in various stages of rest and slumber. You might even imagine me as an adolescent hawker,

peddling plastic bottles containing tap water from the station's toilet as pure Himalayan aqua minerale. You could visualize me as one of the sweepers in dirty shirt and torn pants shuffling across the platform, with a long swishing broom transferring dirt from the pavement on to the track. Or you could look for me among the regiments of red-uniformed porters bustling about with heavy loads on their heads.

Well, think again, because I am neither hawker, nor porter, nor sweeper. Today I am a bona fide passenger, travelling to Mumbai, in the sleeper class, no less, and with a proper reservation. I am wearing a starched white bush shirt made of one hundred per cent cotton and Levi jeans – yes, Levi jeans, bought from the Tibetan Market. I am walking purposefully towards platform

number five to board the Paschim Express for Mumbai. There is a porter trudging along by my side carrying a light-brown suitcase on his head. The porter has been hired by me and the suitcase on his head belongs to me. It contains a few clothes, some old toys, a bunch of

Australian Geographic
magazines and an electronic game for Salim. The suitcase does not contain any money. I have heard too many stories about robbers on trains who drug you at night and make off with your belongings to take the chance of keeping the most precious cargo of my life in the suitcase – my salary from the Taylors. The manila envelope full of crisp thousand-rupee notes – fifty of them – is therefore with me, hidden in a place where no one can see it.

Inside my underwear. I have used the remaining two thousand to finance the trip. From it I have paid for my clothes, my ticket and the game for Salim, and now I will pay the porter and buy some food and drink. I take a quick look at the loose notes in my front pocket. I reckon I will have just enough to take an auto-rickshaw from Bandra Terminus to Salim's chawl in Ghatkopar.

Won't Salim be surprised to see me arrive in a three-wheeler instead of the local train? And when he sees the game, I hope he doesn't faint from happiness.

Platform number five is more crowded than Super Bazaar. Hawkers are out in as much force as touts outside a government office. Passengers hunt for their names on the reservation chart with the same fervour as students scanning examination results. I find that the railway department has completely mangled my name, making it T. M. Ram. I am happy, nevertheless, to see that I have been allotted lower berth three in coach S7.

The coach is almost at the end of the long train, and the porter is tired and sweating by the time we enter it. I settle down on my designated berth, which is right next to the door, and arrange the suitcase neatly in the space underneath. I pay the porter twenty rupees. He argues for more, points out the long distance from the station's entrance to the coach, and I tip him a further two rupees. Having disposed of the porter, I survey the scene around me.

My cabin has a total of six berths. One above me, two in front of me and two on the side. Sitting on the lower berth opposite me is a family of four, a father, mother and two children – a boy, around my age, and a girl, slightly older. The father is a middle-aged Marwari businessman dressed in the trademark black waistcoat and black cap. He has bushy eyebrows, a pencil

moustache, and a stern expression on his face. His wife is of a similar age and is equally grim looking. She wears a green sari and a yellow blouse and looks at me with suspicious eyes. The boy is tall and gangly and looks friendly, but it is the girl sitting next to the window who draws my attention like a magnet. She is thin and fair, wearing a blue salwar kameez with the
chunni
pulled down over her chest. Her expressive eyes are lined with kohl. She has a flawless

complexion and lovely lips. She is the most beautiful girl I have seen in a long time. One who demands a second look. And a third. I think I can lose myself in those bewitching eyes of hers.

But before I can reflect on her beauty any further, my attention is distracted by a baby who starts crying loudly. It is a baby boy, just a few months old, sitting on the side berth in his mother's lap.

The mother is a young, morose-looking woman wearing a crumpled red sari. It looks as if she is travelling alone. She tries to calm the baby with a rubber pacifier, but the baby continues to wail.

Finally she pushes up her blouse and offers a breast to the baby's lips. He suckles contentedly and she rocks him to sleep. From my seat I glimpse the underside of her plump brown breast and it makes my mouth dry, till I catch the Marwari businessman looking directly at me and I shift my eyes to the window behind her.

A tea vendor enters the compartment. I am the only one who asks for a cup. He dishes out tepid tea in an earthen receptacle, which tastes vaguely of mud. He is followed by a newspaper boy.

The businessman purchases a copy of the
Times of India.
His son buys an
Archie
comic. I buy the latest issue of
Starburst
from my fast-dwindling change.

The train gives a final whistle and begins to move off, an hour and a half behind schedule. I glance at my watch, even though I can clearly see 18:30 displayed on the platform's digital clock.

I shake and twist my wrist, hoping that the others, particularly the girl, will notice that I am wearing a brand new Kasio digital watch, made in Japan, with day and date, which cost me a whopping two hundred rupees in Palika Bazaar.

The father immerses himself in the newspaper, the son in his comic. The mother starts making arrangements for the family's dinner. The other young mother has gone off to sleep, the baby still glued to her breast. I pretend to read the film magazine. It is open at the centrefold, which displays the latest sex symbol, Poonam Singh, in a bikini, but I have no interest in her vital assets. I keep casting furtive glances at the girl, who is looking abstractedly at the urban scenery rushing past the window. She doesn't look at me even once.

At eight pm a black-waistcoated ticket examiner enters the compartment. He asks for all our tickets. I whip mine out with a flourish, but he doesn't even read it. He simply punches it and returns it to me. As soon as he has gone, the mother opens up rectangular cardboard boxes containing food. Lots of it. I see shrivelled
puris,
yellow potatoes, red pickles and dessert. The mouth-watering aroma of home-made
gulab jamuns
and
barfees
fills the compartment. I am beginning to feel hungry too, but the pantry boy has still not come to take orders for dinner.

Perhaps I should have picked up something from the station.

The Marwari family eats heartily. The father gobbles
puri
after
puri.
The mother polishes off the golden-yellow potatoes, taking a juicy chilli pickle after each bite. The boy makes a beeline for the soft
gulab jamuns
and even slurps up the sugary syrup. Only the girl eats lightly. I lick my lips in silence. Strangely enough, the boy offers me a couple of
puris,
but I decline politely. I have heard many stories of robbers disguised as passengers who offer drug-laced food to their fellow travellers and then make off with their money. And there is no reason why boys who read

Archie
comics cannot be robbers. Though if the girl had offered me food I might – no, I would –

have accepted.

After finishing dinner, the boy and girl start playing a board game called
Monopoly.
The father and mother sit side by side and chat. They discuss the latest soaps on TV, something about buying property and travelling to Goa for a holiday.

I pat my abdomen gently where fifty thousand rupees in crisp new notes nestle inside the

waistband of my underwear, and feel the power of all that money seep insidiously into my

stomach, my intestines, my liver, lungs, heart and brain. The hunger gnawing at my stomach disappears miraculously.

Looking at the typical middle-class family scene in front of me, I don't feel like an interloper any more. I am no longer an outsider peeping into their exotic world, but an insider who can relate to them as an equal, talk to them in their own language. Like them, I too can now watch middle-class soaps, play Nintendo and visit Kids Mart at weekends.

Train journeys are about possibilities. They denote a change in state. When you arrive, you are no longer the same person who departed. You can make new friends en route, or find old

enemies; you may get diarrhoea from eating stale samosas or cholera from drinking

contaminated water. And, dare I say it, you might even discover love. Sitting in berth number three of coach S7 of train 2926A, with fifty thousand rupees tucked inside my underwear, the tantalizing possibility which tickled my senses and thrilled my heart was that I might, just might, be about to fall in love with a beautiful traveller in a blue salwar kameez. And when I say love, I don't mean the unrequited, unequal love that we profess for movie stars and celebrities. I mean real, practical, possible love. Love which does not end in tears on the pillow, but which can fructify into marriage. And kids. And family holidays in Goa.

I had only fifty thousand rupees, but every rupee had a technicolour dream written on it and they stretched out on a cinemascope screen in my brain to become fifty million. I held my breath and wished for that moment to last as long as it possibly could, because a waking dream is always more fleeting than a sleeping one.

After a while, the brother and sister tire of their board game. The boy comes and sits next to me.

We begin talking. I learn that his name is Akshay and his sister is Meenakshi. They live in Delhi and are going to Mumbai to attend an uncle's wedding. Akshay is excited about his Playstation 2

and his computer games. He asks me about MTV and surfing the Internet and mentions some

porn sites. I tell him that I speak English, read
Australian Geographic,
play
Scrabble
and have seven girlfriends, three of them foreign. I tell him that I have a Playstation 3 console and a Pentium 5 computer and I surf the Internet day and night. I tell him that I am going to Mumbai to meet my best friend, Salim, and I will be taking a taxi from Bandra Terminus to Ghatkopar.

I should have known that it is more difficult to fool a sixteen-year-old than a sixty-year-old.

Akshay sees through my deception. 'Ha! You don't know anything about computers. Playstation 3 hasn't even been released. You are just a big liar,' he mocks me.

I cannot resist it. 'Oh, so you think it is all a big lie, eh? Well, Mr Akshay, let me tell you that right here, right now, I have fifty thousand rupees in my pocket. Have you ever seen so much money in your life?'