Slumdog Millionaire: A Novel (24 page)

' "What is your name?" the leader asked me.

'I could have said Ram or Krishna, but I became tongue-tied. One of the attackers pointed to the

tabeez
around my neck. "This bastard is definitely a Muslim, let's kill him," he urged.

' "No. Killing him would be too easy. We will burn this motherfucker alive in this bus. Then he and his community will learn never to touch our homes," said the leader, and laughed. Another man opened a can of petrol and started sprinkling it inside the bus. I used to love the smell of petrol, but since that day I associate it with burning flesh.

The man sitting two rows behind me stood up suddenly. "You have not asked for my name. Let me tell you. It is Ahmed Khan. And I want to see the bastard who will touch this boy," he said.

'There was momentary silence from the ruffians, before their leader spoke. "Oh, so you are a Muslim too. Very well then, you will also be torched along with this boy."

'The man was unperturbed. "Before you torch me, have a look at this," he said, and took out a revolver. He pointed it at the ruffians.

'You should have seen the faces of all those rowdies. Their eyes popped out of their sockets.

They left their swords and tridents in the bus and ran helter-skelter for dear life. My life was saved. I had tears of gratitude in my eyes.

'The man saw me crying and asked me, "What is your name?"

' "Salim . . . Salim Ilyasi," I replied, still sobbing.

' "Don't you know how to lie?" he said. "But I value people who speak the truth even when confronted with death."

'He told me he had an import–expor t business and lived alone in a big house in the Byculla locality. He said he needed someone to do the cooking and cleaning, and generally look after the house whenever he had to travel on business. I did wonder why a businessman like him was

carrying a gun on the bus, but he promised me double what I was earning as a tiffin carrier, and I instantly agreed to become his live-in servant.

'Ahmed had a large, spacious flat with three bedrooms, a good-sized kitchen and a drawing room with a thirty-six-inch TV. I did the cooking, cleaning and dusting, but I did not forget my ambition of becoming an actor. In a way, working for Ahmed was good, because he would be

away from the house most of the day and sometimes even for a week or two. During that time I would do the rounds of the studios. I developed my roll of film and got excellent eight-by-six blow-ups made. I gave them to Mukesh Rawal, who in turn showed them to Pappu Master, the

junior-artist supplier. Believe it or not, after just three months I received my first film offer.'

'Really?' I exclaim. 'Which role did you get and in which film?'

'It was as a college student in the Abbas Rizvi film
Bad Boys
starring Sunil Mehra.'

'Then let's go and see it right away. I would love to watch you on screen and hear your

dialogues.'

'Well . . .' Salim hesitates. He looks down at his shoes. 'You see, my role was cut at the last minute. So on screen you see me for just three seconds, sitting at a desk in a classroom with thirty other students. The only dialogues in that scene are between the hero Sunil and the class teacher.'

'What?' I cry in disappointment. 'Just three seconds! What kind of role is that?'

'Junior artists are supposed to do just those kinds of roles. We are not heroes and heroines. We are merely part of the scenery. Remember those big party scenes in films? Junior artists are the extras who stand around sipping their drinks while the hero and heroine waltz on the dance floor.

We are the passers-by on the street when the hero chases the villain. We are the chaps who clap in a disco when the hero and heroine win a dance competition. But I didn't mind working as a junior artist. It allowed me to fulfil my dream of seeing behind the scenes. And it enabled me to meet the producer, Abbas Rizvi. He liked my looks and promised to give me a longer role in his next film.

'Over the course of the next six months, I discovered many things about Ahmed. All in all, he was a rather strange man. He had just two interests in life: eating good food and watching television. On TV he watched just two programmes – cricket and
Mumbai Crime Watch.
He was fanatical about cricket. Whenever a match was being played, with or without India, he had to watch it. He would get up at three o'clock in the morning if there was a match in the West Indies and at midnight if it was in Australia. He would even watch matches between novice teams like Kenya and Canada.

'He kept a diary in which he recorded every cricket statistic. He knew by heart the batting average of each and every batsman, the bowling figures of each and every bowler, the number of catches taken by a fielder, the stumpings done by a wicket-keeper. He could tell you the highest and lowest-ever scores in a match, the maximum number of runs scored in an over, the biggest victory margins and the narrowest.

'But he stored all this information for a purpose – to bet on cricket matches. I found this out during the India–Englan d series. Ahmed was watching the match on TV and trying to call

someone on his mobile. So I asked him, "What are you doing, Ahmed
bhai?"

'
"I am about to play satta," he replied.

' "Satta? What's that?"

' "It is another name for illegal betting. Satta is organized by powerful underworld syndicates in Mumbai with a daily turnover of millions of rupees. Millions are bet on every cricket match, thousands on every ball. I am one of the biggest punters. This house that you see, this expensive TV, the microwave in the kitchen, the air conditioner in the bedroom, are all due to my winnings from satta. Three years ago, I made a killing in the India–Australi a match. You remember the famous match in Eden Gardens? At a time when India were 232 for 4 and staring at an innings defeat, and the odds were a thousand to one against India, I bet on Laxman and India and cleaned up ten lakh rupees!"

' "Ten lakhs!" My eyes popped out.

' "Yes. Today I am only betting ten thousand on India. I have been trying to ask my bookie for the odds, but his number is continuously engaged." He slapped his mobile a couple of times, looked impatiently at his watch and punched in the number once again. This time he got through.

"Hello, Sharad
bhai?
AK here. Code 3563. What's the rate on the match?" I heard the bookie's voice over the phone with a lot of static. I could hear the commentary in the background: "India already has a lead of 175 over England. Once the lead crosses 250, the odds will turn heavily in favour of India. With less than a lead of 250 it is fifty–fift y either way, but crossing the 250

mark will change that to three to one in India's favour."

' "And what are the odds on an England victory?" Ahmed asked him.

' "Are you crazy?" the bookie replied. "There is no way England can win; their best bet is to hold out for a draw. But if you ask for the odds, they are eight to one. Do you want to book now?"

' "Yeah. Put me down for ten thousand on India losing," said Ahmed.

I was astounded when I heard Ahmed place this bet, because India was in the lead. But Ahmed obviously knew more than the bookie, because by the end of play England had won the match, English flags were fluttering all over Lord's cricket ground, and Ahmed was punching his fists in the air and exulting, "Yes! Yes! Yes!" He called up his bookie again.
"Kyun
Sharad
bhai,
wasn't I right? How much have I cleaned up? Eighty thousand? Ha! Not a bad profit for a few hours'

work!"

'Ahmed went out and got a bottle full of frothy liquid, and that evening I had my first sip of champagne.

'Ahmed's second interest in life was watching
Mumbai Crime Watch.
Have you ever seen it?'

I shake my head. 'No, it wasn't on the TV in Delhi.'

'Well, it is a very boring programme. It is like a news bulletin, except they don't tell you about floods and riots and war and politics. They tell you only about violent crime. Who has been murdered, who has been raped, which bank has been looted, who has escaped from jail, that kind of thing.

'Ahmed would sit in front of the TV with a plate of seekh kebabs and laugh loudly whenever he heard the bulletin on
Mumbai Crime Watch.
For some reason, he found it very amusing.

'From time to time, Ahmed would receive large yellow envelopes by courier. I had strict

instructions not to touch his mail and to leave it on the dining table for him. One afternoon, a large yellow envelope was brought by the delivery boy just when I was having tea. By mistake I spilt tea on the envelope and went into a panic. I knew if Ahmed saw that I had spoilt his packet he would be angry. It might contain valuable commercial documents which could have been

damaged. So I sat down and carefully prised open the gummed flap. I inserted my fingers and pulled out the documents . . . and whistled in surprise.'

'Why? What was there?'

'Nothing much. The packet contained just one glossy eight-by-six colour photograph of a man's face and half a sheet of neatly typed details. Even I could read that much. It said:

Name: Vithalbhai Ghorpade.

Age: 56.

Address: 73/4 Marve Road, Malad.

'That was all.

'I presumed these were the details of some businessman Ahmed had dealings with, and didn't think too much about it. I carefully resealed the flap and put the envelope on the dining table. In the evening, Ahmed came home and opened the envelope. He received a phone call shortly

afterwards. "Yes, I have received the packet," is all he said.

'Almost two weeks later, Ahmed was sitting in front of the TV, watching
Mumbai Crime Watch.

I was in the kitchen, chopping vegetables, but I could hear the presenter speaking. ". . . In yet another gruesome incident in Malad, police are looking for clues to the murder of a prominent businessman named Vithalbhai Ghorpade, who was found murdered in his house on Marve

Road." The name rang a bell. I glanced at the TV and almost cut my finger, because on screen was the same photograph that had been in the yellow envelope. The presenter continued, "Mr Ghorpade, who was fifty-six, was shot dead at point-blank range while he was alone in the house. He is survived by his wife and son. According to Malad police, robbery appears to have been the main motive as the house was ransacked and many valuables were missing."

'I noticed Ahmed laughing when he heard this. This, too, surprised me. Why should Ahmed

laugh over the death of a business associate?

'A month later, there was another yellow envelope. Ahmed was out and I could not resist taking a peek at its contents. This time I steamed it open, so that no marks were left. I opened the flap and pulled out yet another glossy photograph. This one showed the face of a young man with a thick moustache and a long scar running from his left eye to the base of his nose. The typed sheet of paper said:

Name: Jameel Kidwai.

Age: 28.

Address: 35 Shilajit Apartments, Colaba.

'I memorized the name and put the photo back.

'Ahmed came home that evening and looked at the envelope. There was a phone call, as before, and he confirmed receipt of the packet. Exactly a week later, I heard the news on
Crime Watch
that a young lawyer called Jameel Kidwai had been shot dead while getting out of his car near his residence in Shilajit Apartments. The presenter said, "Police suspect a gangland motive in this killing, as Mr Kidwai had represented several mafia dons in court. An investigation has been launched, but there are no clues at present." Ahmed, sitting with a glass of whisky, guffawed when he heard this.

'I was now seriously worried. Why did Ahmed receive pictures of people in the mail and why did those people die soon afterwards? This was still a mystery to me. So when the next yellow envelope was delivered three weeks later, I not only took a peek at the photograph, which was of an elderly man, I also wrote down the address. It was of a house on Premier Road in Kurla. The next day, I followed Ahmed. He took a local train to Kurla and walked to Premier Road. But he didn't enter the house. He just passed it three or four times, as if checking it out. Two weeks later,
Crime Watch
announced that the same elderly man had been found murdered in his house on Premier Road in Kurla.

'I am not a fool. I knew there and then that Ahmed had murdered the man and that I was living with a contract killer. But I didn't know what to do. Ahmed had saved my life once and I couldn't even contemplate betraying him to the police. Meanwhile, Abbas Rizvi called me up and made a firm offer of a supporting role in his next film. When I heard this I ran all the way to the shrine of Haji Ali. I touched my forehead to the cloth covering the tomb and prayed for Rizvi's long life.

'For the next two months I lived an uneasy double life. If Ahmed was a contract killer

masquerading as a businessman, I was an actor masquerading as a servant. Ahmed had licence to kill, but I knew that a day would come when he himself would get killed. I simply hoped that I wouldn't get caught in the crossfire. And then everything fell apart.'

'What happened?'

'It was four months ago – the twentieth of February, to be exact. I remember the day very well, because India was playing Australia in the last match of the series and Ahmed had just placed another bet. He used to bet on everything: not only on which team would win, but also the first wicket to fall, the bowler to take the first wicket, who would win the toss, whether there would be rain during the match. Sometimes he would bet on virtually every ball in the match – whether it would be a four, a six or a dot ball. That morning, Ahmed had just spoken to his bookie.

"Sharad
bhai,
Code 3563. How do you think the pitch will behave? Yesterday it was flat, but will the ball start turning from today? The weather forecast is good, but do you think it might rain later in the day?" Then he placed his bet. "Book me on Sachin Malvankar making his thirty-seventh century today. What's the rate?" The bookie said, "He is already on seventy-eight and everyone feels a century is a sure shot, so the odds are not very promising. The best I can do is thirteen to ten." "OK," said Ahmed, "then put me down for ten lakhs. This way I will at least make a profit of three lakhs."