Slumdog Millionaire: A Novel (28 page)

Now this I call a real tragedy.

* * *

Smita lets out a long breath. 'No wonder film stars are neurotic! You know, I have seen
Mumtaz
Mahal
and I too have always wanted to know the mystery behind that gold bangle. I wonder what Neelima Kumari told that thief.'

'Unfortunately, that will remain a mystery. Now are we just going to talk about Neelima Kumari, or shall I tell you what happened next on the quiz show?'

With a reluctant expression, Smita presses 'Play'.

There is a flurry of activity inside the studio. We are in the middle of a long break. The producer of the show, a tall man with long hair like a woman — or a rock star – is busy conferring with Prem Kumar in a corner. After he leaves, Prem Kumar gestures me to join him.

'Look, Mr Thomas,' Prem Kumar tells me, 'you have done fantastically well on the show. You are sitting pretty with a million rupees in your kitty. Tell me, what do you intend to do now?'

'What do you mean?'

'I mean are you going to just walk away or will you play for the billion-rupee prize? Remember it is Play or Pay now.'

'Well then, I'm going to walk away. I have been lucky up till now, but my luck might just be running out.'

'Now that would be a real pity, Mr Thomas. We think that if you go on to win this quiz you can become the biggest role model for the youth of our country. So we in
W3B
have decided to make it easier for you to win. You remember how I helped you on the second question? If I had not changed the question for you then, you would have been out with not even a rupee in your

pocket. I want to do the same for you on the next three questions. I promise you, if you agree to go into Play or Pay we will help you win, because we want you to win. It will be the best thing that ever happened to our show.'

'What kind of questions did you have in mind?'

'It doesn't really matter, because we will secretly tell you the answers beforehand. If you could trust me on question number two, I am sure you can trust me on questions ten, eleven and

twelve. So do we have a deal?'

'Well, if you are guaranteeing my victory, I can hardly say no. So tell me, what is the next question?'

'Excellent.' Prem Kumar claps his hands. 'Billy,' he tells the producer, 'Mr Thomas has agreed to go into the Play or Pay rounds.' He turns back to me and whispers, 'OK, let me tell you about the next question. I am going to ask you, "What is the length of the Palk Strait between India and Sri Lanka? The choices are going to be a) 64 km, b) 94 km, c) 137 km, and d) 209 km. The correct answer will be c) 137 km. Have you understood?'

'Yes. But how can I be certain that it is the correct answer?'

'Oh, don't you trust us, Mr Thomas? Well, I don't blame you. After all, we are talking about a billion rupees here. So I will prove it to you. Here, look in this book. I am sure you can read numbers.' He pulls out a diary which has page upon page of questions and answers, like a quiz book. He jabs at a question. It is the same question that he has asked me. And it has the same answer: 137 km.

'Are you satisfied now that I am not going to pull a fast one over you?'

I nod my head.

'OK. You'd better return to your seat, and I will join you in a second.'

* * *

The signature tune comes on and the studio sign says 'Applause'. Prem Kumar addresses the

audience. 'Ladies and gentlemen, we are at a historic crossroads in our show. We have with us a contestant who has reached the magic figure of one million rupees. Now he has to decide

whether he goes on to compete for the top prize or retires from the game. The moment of truth has arrived, Mr Thomas. What is your decision? Will you play to win or will you run? Do

remember, though, that if you play, you risk losing all that you have won till now. So what do you say?' He smiles at me reassuringly.

'I will play,' I say softly.

'Excuse me?' says Prem Kumar. 'Could you say that a bit louder, please?'

'I will play,' I say loudly and confidently.

There are gasps from the audience. Someone says, 'Oh, my God!' Another says, 'What an idiot!'

'Is this your final, irrevocable decision?' says Prem Kumar. He smiles at me again.

'Yes,' I say.

'Then we have made history, ladies and gentlemen,' Prem Kumar exults. 'We have with us a

contestant who is prepared to risk it all. We had one other contestant before who risked it all –

and lost. We will see today whether Mr Thomas can create history by becoming the winner of the biggest prize in history. OK, so we are ready for the final three questions in Play or Pay.

Please give him a big round of applause.'

There is a crescendo of drums. 'Play or Pay' flashes on the screen. The audience stand up in their seats and clap enthusiastically.

After the music dies down, Prem Kumar turns to me.

'OK, Mr Thomas, you have won one million rupees and you are in the sudden-death round which we call Play or Pay. You will either win a billion or you will lose everything you have earned till now. So question number ten for ten million, yes, ten million rupees is coming up. Here it is.

Neelima Kumari, the Tragedy Queen, won the National Award—?"

'But this is not the ques—'

'Please, Mr Thomas, don't interrupt me in the middle of the question. Let me complete,' he says sternly. 'So as I was saying, the question is, Neelima Kumari, the Tragedy Queen, won the National Award in which year? Was it a) 1984, b) 1988, c) 1986 or d) 1985?'

I glare at Prem Kumar. He smirks. I understand him now. What he told me in the break was a trick to lure me into this round. But he has not reckoned with my luck. It is still holding.

'I know the answer. It is d) 1985.'

'What?' Prem Kumar is thunderstruck. He is so surprised that he even forgets to ask me whether I am a hundred per cent sure. He presses his button mechanically and the correct answer flashes. It is D.

Prem Kumar looks as though he has seen a ghost. 'Mr . . . Mr Thomas . . . has . . . just won t-ten million rupees,' he stammers, completely flustered.

The audience goes wild. Everyone stands up and cheers. Some people start dancing in the aisles.

Prem Kumar wipes the sweat from his forehead and takes a big swig of lemonade. What should have been a tragedy has become a farce.

X GKRZ OPKNU (OR A LOVE STORY)

Food. That is all I can see, hear, think and smell on the crowded and noisy railway station where I have been standing in my cotton shirt and Levi jeans for the past two hours. If you don't eat for a while, the hunger just shrivels up and dies. But if you don't eat for a long time - and I have not had a meal since yesterday afternoon - your brain does funny things. All around me I can only see people eating and drinking. And my nose follows the trail of food like a dog sniffing out a bone. The aroma of freshly made
jalebis, puris
and
kachoris
makes me dizzy. Even something as basic as a boiled egg, which I have never liked, makes me salivate. But when I finger my pocket I discover only a one-rupee coin, and after last night's loss of my fifty thousand rupees, it doesn't seem lucky any longer. So I lick my parched lips and wonder how to kill my hunger.

I am about to trade in my Kasio digital watch for a plate of
chhole bhature
when my eyes fall on a hoarding next to the railway canteen. It says simply, 'M – Just one kilometre away.' I know instantly where I can get food. For free.

I leave Agra railway station and set about searching for the big red M sign. I take one or two wrong turns, ask a couple of shopkeepers, and find it eventually in the heart of a posh market.

The smartly attired waiters at McDonald's look at me suspiciously but don't shoo me away. They can't turn back a customer in Levi jeans, however scruffy he might be. I position myself close to the wooden bin, the one with the swinging flap. When no one is looking I quickly push my hand inside and take out as many of those nice brown paper bags as are within arm's reach. I exit after using the clean toilet to wash off some of the dirt and grime from my face.

My first attempt at scavenging is quite successful. I sit on a green wooden bench outside and feed contentedly on a half-eaten vegetable burger, some chicken nuggets, two almost full packets of French fries and half a cup of 7 Up. Scavenging is part of the survival gear of a street kid. I knew some boys who used to live off the leftovers found in the air-conditioned compartment of the Rajdhani Express. There were others who were addicted to the pepperoni pizza from Pizza Hut, managing to extract at least seven or eight perfect slices every evening from the bin inside the outlet. But they all agreed that the easiest way to eat a free dinner was to join a marriage procession. Salim used to be an expert at this. The only requirement is to wear neat clothes and proper shoes. You mingle with the guests and then line up at the buffet dinner. The bride's side thinks you are from the groom's family and the groom's side thinks you are from the bride's family. You get to drink ten or fifteen bottles of soft drinks, eat a lavish spread and enjoy a wide range of desserts. You can even make off with some nice stainless-steel cutlery. Salim had acquired almost a full dinner set. But he gave up the habit after an episode in Nariman Point, when he gate-crashed a marriage where the families of the bride and groom had a massive fight which degenerated into fisticuffs. Salim got beaten up by both parties.

* * *

My hunger sated, I decide to explore this unknown town. I walk through its crowded lanes, full of rickshaws, pedestrians and cows. I admire the intricate latticework on old-fashioned
havelis,
savour the smell of food drifting from road-side kebab shops and pure vegetarian
dhabas,
and wrinkle my nose at the stench coming from open drains and tanneries. I read the giant posters stuck on every empty space, urging people to see new films or vote for old politicians. I see old and wizened craftsmen sitting in derelict shops, making exquisite designs in marble, and brash young salesmen selling cellphones in air-conditioned showrooms. I discover that the rich of Agra are no different from the rich of Delhi and Mumbai, living in their marble and Plexiglas houses with guards and alarms. And that the slums of Agra are no different either. They consist of the same cluster of corrugated-iron sheets masquerading as roofs; the same naked children with pot bellies frolic in the mud with pigs, while their mothers wash utensils in sewer water.

I walk along a winding dusty road, and suddenly I see a river. It is yellowish green and muddy.

Its receding water level is a pointer to the fact that the monsoons have still not arrived. Pieces of driftwood and plastic debris float on its eddying currents. In another place I would have traced its meandering route with my eyes, bent down to see its high-water mark on the bank, craned to catch a glimpse of a dead body floating on its surface. But not here, not now. Because my eyes are transfixed by something I have seen on the opposite bank. It is a gleaming white structure which rises up from a square base like a swelling dome, with pointed arches and recessed bays. It is flanked on all four sides by spear-like minarets. It glitters in the sunlight against the turquoise sky like an ivory moon. Its beauty overpowers me.

After an eternity, I turn to the first passer-by I see, a middle-aged man carrying a tiffin box.

'Excuse me, can you tell me what that building is on the other side of the river?'

He looks at me as if I am a lunatic.
'Arrey,
if you don't know that, what are you doing in Agra?

That is the Taj Mahal, idiot.'

The Taj Mahal. The Eighth Wonder of the World. I had heard about it, but never seen its picture.

I stand mesmerized by the monument as the clouds drifting in the sky cast shadows on its dome, the change of light turning the smooth marble from pale cream to ochre to alabaster. The loss of my fifty thousand rupees, the worries about where I will eat next, sleep next, the fear of being caught by the police, pale into insignificance against the purity of its perfection. I decide then and there that I must see the Taj Mahal today. From up close.

Thirty minutes of brisk walking along the embankment brings me to an enormous red-sandstone entrance gate. A large white board says: TAJ MAHAL ENTRY FEES: INDIANS RS.20

FOREIGNERS $20. MONDAYS CLOSED, FRIDAYS FREE. I look at my Kasio day-date

wristwatch. It says Friday, 12 June. Looks like today is my lucky day.

I pass through the metal detector, cross the red-sandstone forecourt with its arched gateway and there, in front of me, the Taj Mahal rises in all its beauty and splendour, shimmering in the afternoon haze. I take in the landscaped garden with fountains and wide paths, the reflecting pool with a glassy image of the Taj dancing in its water, and only then do I notice the overflowing crowds. The Taj is swarming with tourists, young and old, rich and poor, Indian and foreign.

There are flashbulbs popping everywhere, a babble of voices rises in the courtyard, while stern-faced, baton-wielding policemen try to restore order.

After half an hour of aimless exploration, I notice a group of prosperous Western tourists armed with camcorders and binoculars, listening intently to an elderly guide at the base of the dome. I join them discreetly. The guide is pointing towards the marble dome and speaking in a rasping voice. 'I have explained to you the architectural features of the red-sandstone forecourt, the Chowk-i Jilo Khana, which we have just passed. Now I will tell you a little bit about the history of the Taj Mahal.

'One day in the year 1607, Prince Khurram of the royal Mughal household was strolling down Delhi's Meena Bazaar when he caught a glimpse of a girl selling silk and glass beads in a small booth. He was so entranced by her beauty that he fell in love with her then and there. But it took five years before he was finally able to marry this girl. Her real name was Arjuman Banu, but he gave her the new name of Mumtaz Mahal. She was nineteen at the time and he was twenty.

Mumtaz Begum was the niece of Noorjahan or Mehrunnisa, the wife of Jahangir, who in turn