Slumdog Millionaire: A Novel (29 page)

was a niece of Akbar's Persian queen, Bilgis Begum. Mumtaz and Khurram were married in the year 1612, and over the next eighteen years had fourteen children together. Mumtaz was her husband's inseparable companion on all his journeys and military expeditions. She was his comrade, his counsellor, and inspired him to acts of charity and benevolence towards the weak and the needy. She died in childbirth on the seventh of June 1630 in Burhanpur, only three years after Khurram ascended the Mughal throne as Emperor Shahjahan. It was when Mumtaz Mahal

lay dying that she extracted four promises from the Emperor: first, that he erect a monument to match her beauty; second, that he should not marry again; third, that he be kind to their children; and fourth, that he visit the tomb on the anniversary of her death. Mumtaz's death left the Emperor so heartbroken that his hair is said to have turned grey overnight. But so great was the Emperor's love for his wife that he ordered the building of the most beautiful mausoleum on earth for her. Work started in 1631. It took twenty-two years and the combined effort of over twenty thousand artisans and master craftsmen from Persia, the Ottoman Empire, and even

Europe, and the result is what you see before you, the Taj Mahal, described by Rabindranath Tagore as "a teardrop on the cheek of time".'

A young girl in hot pants raises her hand. 'Excuse me, who is Tagore?'

'Oh, he was a very famous Indian poet who won the Nobel Prize. He can be compared to, let's say, William Wordsworth,' the guide answers.

'William who?'

'Never mind. Now, as I was saying, the architectural complex of the Taj Mahal is comprised of five main elements: the
Darwaza
or main gateway, the
Bageecha
or garden, the
Masjid
or mosque, the
Naqqar Khana
or rest house, and the
Rauza
or the main mausoleum. The actual tomb is situated inside the Taj, which we will see in a minute. There I will show you the ninety-nine names of Allah on Mumtaz's tomb, and the pen box set into Shah Jahan's tomb, which is the distinguishing feature of a male ruler. These cenotaphs, in accordance with Mughul tradition, are only representations of the real coffins, which lie in the same positions in an unadorned and humid underground crypt. The mausoleum is 57 metres square in plan. The central inner dome is 24.5 metres high and 17.7 metres in diameter, and it is surmounted by an outer shell nearly 61

metres in height. The minarets on all four sides are 40 metres high. You will see how

sophisticated the artwork of the time was, because even a 3-centimetre decorative element contains more than 50 inlaid gemstones. Also notice that the lettering of the Quranic verses around the archways appears to be uniform, regardless of their height.

'As a monument to enduring love, the Taj reveals its subtleties to those who know how to

appreciate beauty. You will notice that the rectangular base of the Taj is in itself symbolic of the different sides from which to view a beautiful woman. The main gate is like a veil over a woman's face, which should be lifted very gently and slowly on the wedding night. Like a jewel, the Taj sparkles in the moonlight when the semi-precious stones inlaid into the white marble on the main mausoleum catch the glow of the moon. The Taj is pinkish in the morning, milky white in the evening and golden when the moon shines. These changes, it is said, depict the different moods of a woman. I will now take you inside the mausoleum. Please take off your shoes and deposit them here.'

The tourists take off their shoes and enter the main mausoleum. I remain outside, trying to match the changing colours on the dome with what I had seen of the changing moods of Neelima

Kumari.

Someone taps me lightly on the shoulder. I whirl around to see a bespectacled foreigner with a wife and two kids staring at me. He is bedecked with gizmos of all kinds, from digital camcorder to mini disc player. 'Excuse me, you speak English?' he asks me.

'Yes,' I reply.

'Please, can you tell little bit about Taj Mahal. We are tourists. From Japan. We new to your city.

We come just today.'

I feel like telling him that I am also new to this city, that I also came just today, but his curious face appeals to me. Mimicking the serious tone of the guide,begin to tell him what I remember.

'The Taj Mahal was built by Emperor Khurram for his wife Noorjahan, also known as Mumtaz

Begum, in 1531. He met her while she was selling bangles in a garden and fell in love with her, but married her only after nineteen years. She then fought with him in all his battles and gave him eighteen kids in fourteen years.'

The Japanese interrupts me. 'Eighteen kids in only fourteen years? You sure?' he asks diffidently.

'Of course,' I rebuke him. 'Some must have been twins, you see. Anyway, when the nineteenth child was being born, Mumtaz died in Sultanpur on the sixteenth of June. But before she died she asked the king for four favours. One to build the Taj Mahal, two not to beat their children, three to make his hair grey, and the fourth . . . I don't remember, but it's not important. Now, as you can see, the Taj Mahal consists of a gateway, a garden, a guest house and a tomb.'

The Japanese nods enthusiastically. 'Yes. Yes. We have seen gateway and garden. Now we see tomb. But where guest house?'

I scowl at him. 'Haven't I told you that the real tombs are underground? Therefore all the area above the ground must have been the guest house. Now inside the mausoleum you will see the tombs of Mumtaz and the Emperor. Don't forget to see the pen with ninety-nine gemstones on it, and every three centimetres you will see fifty names of God engraved on the walls. The verses on the walls all mean the same, regardless of the different lettering. Isn't that wonderful? Remember that the dome is 160 metres high and the minarets are seventeen metres tall. Also, if you view the Taj Mahal from different angles you will see different veils of a woman on her wedding night.

Go and try it. Before I forget, I must also tell you that Tagore, our famous poet, won the Nobel prize for his poetry on the Taj Mahal, called "The Slap on the Cheek of William Wordsworth."'

'Really? Wow! So interesting! Guide book no mention all this.' He turns to his wife and speaks to her in rapid-fire Japanese. Then he translates for my benefit. 'I tell my wife it is good we no take expensive official guide. You tell us everything so nicely.' He beams at me. 'We thank you very much. Arigato.' He bows to me and slips something into my hand. I bow back. As he moves on I open my fist to see a neatly folded, crisp new fifty-rupee note. For just five minutes' work!

I know two things now: I want to stay in the city of the Taj Mahal, and I wouldn't mind

becoming a tourist guide.

* * *

Dusk is beginning to fall by the time I finally tear myself away from the marble monument, now cloaked in a reddish hue. I have to find a place to stay. I accost a young boy in the street. He is around my age, and wears a white T-shirt, grey pants and blue Hawaii slippers. He is standing still, watching an altercation in the street. I tap him gently on the shoulder. 'Excuse me,' I say. He whirls around and looks at me with the kindest eyes I have ever seen. I sense friendship and curiosity and warmth and welcome in those expressive brown eyes. 'Excuse me,' I repeat, 'I am new to this city. Can you show me a place where I can stay?'

The boy nods his head and says, 'Uzo Q Fiks X Ckka Lgxyz.'

'Excuse me?' I say.

'Ykhz Sqpd Hz. Q Fiks X Ckka Lgxyz,' he repeats, flapping his hands.

'Excuse me, I do not understand this language. I am sorry to have troubled you. I will ask someone else.'

'Ejop Bkggks Hz,' he insists and takes my arm. He begins pulling me in the direction of the market. I think of breaking free, but his face is so friendly that I allow myself to be led. He walks in a peculiar fashion, almost on tiptoe. He takes me through narrow labyrinthine by-lanes and twisted alleys, and after fifteen minutes we emerge in front of a large mansion. 'Swapna Palace'

says the brass nameplate next to a huge iron door. He opens the door and we step inside. The mansion has a curved driveway, a massive lawn with a painted Gujarati swing and a fountain in it. I see two gardeners toiling on the grass. An old Contessa car stands in the driveway, being polished by a uniformed chauffeur. My friend is obviously known to the occupants of the

mansion, because no one tries to stop him as he takes me up the driveway to the ornate wooden entrance of the house and presses the doorbell. A dark, young, good-looking maid opens the door. She looks at my friend and says, 'Oh, it is you, Shankar. Why do you come here again and again? You know Madam does not like it when you come this side.'

Shankar points at me. 'Dz Izzao X Nkkh.'

The maid looks me up and down. 'Oh, so Shankar has brought you here as a new tenant? I don't think there are any rooms left in the outhouse, but I will call Madam.' She disappears into the house.

Presently a middle-aged woman appears at the entrance. She is wearing an expensive silk sari and tons of gold jewellery. Her face is covered in make-up. She might have been beautiful in her youth, but, unlike Neelima Kumari, her face has lost its glow. Plus she has pinched lips which make her look rather severe. I take an instinctive dislike to her.

Shankar gets extremely excited on seeing the woman. 'Q Gkrz Ukj Hjhhu,' he says with a wide grin, but the woman doesn't even register his presence. 'Who are you?' she asks me, looking closely at my clothes. 'And why have you come with Shankar?'

I begin to wilt under her scrutiny.

'My name is Raju Sharma,' I say. There is no way I am going to use any of my real names in this city. Not after killing an unknown man in a train.

'Oh, so you are a Brahmin?' she asks, her eyes turning even more suspicious. I should have realized that a dark-skinned Brahmin would be something of a novelty.

'Yes. I am new to Agra. I have come to ask if there is anywhere I can stay.'

'We have an outhouse where we keep tenants.' I notice she uses the royal 'we'. 'Right now no room is available, but if you can wait a week, we can arrange for a room. It will cost you four hundred rupees per month, with the rent to be paid in advance in full at the beginning of the month. If this is acceptable, Lajwanti can show you the outhouse. But you will have to manage somewhere else for a week.'

'Thank you, Madam,' I reply in English. 'I will take the room and I will pay you four hundred rupees next week.'

The lady looks at me sharply as soon as I speak in English. Her severe features soften somewhat.

'Perhaps you can stay with Shankar for a week. Lajwanti, show him the outhouse.'

That is the end of the interview, conducted at the door.

Lajwanti escorts me to the outhouse, which is immediately behind the mansion and which I

discover to be the North Indian equivalent of the chawl. It has a huge cobbled courtyard, with interconnected rooms constructed all round the periphery. There must have been at least thirty rooms in the tenement. Shankar's room is almost in the middle of the eastern corridor. He unlocks the door and we step inside. There is just one bed and a built-in
almirah
in the room, and, attached to it, a tiny kitchen, just like in our Ghatkopar chawl. The toilets are communal and located at the end of the western corridor. Bathing can only be done in the centre of the courtyard, under a municipal tap, in full view of the residents of the tenement. Lajwanti points out her own room. It is eight rooms before Shankar's. And the room I will get in a week's time is four rooms after Shankar's.

Before Lajwanti returns to the mansion, I ask her a quick question. 'Excuse me, but who is this boy Shankar? I've just met him in front of the Taj Mahal.'

She sighs. 'He is an orphan boy who lives here. We are all very fond of him. The poor fellow has some problem in his brain and cannot talk sense, just utters nonsense words. He roams around the city aimlessly all day. It is Madam's kindness that she has allotted him a room free of charge and also gives him some money to buy food. Otherwise the mental-asylum people would have

picked him up a long time ago.'

I am shocked. Shankar appeared to me to be an intelligent boy, with only a speech defect.

Perhaps my assessment of Madam is also off the mark. Given her benefaction to Shankar, she cannot be as stern as she looks. 'And Madam. Tell me more about her,' I ask Lajwanti.

Like a court historian recounting the genealogy of an empress, Lajwanti explains the impressive lineage of her employer. 'Her real name is Queen Swapna Devi. But we all call her Madam or Rani Sahiba. Her father was the King of the Princely State of Jamgarh, Raja Shivnath Singh, of the Rathore dynasty. On the maternal side, her grandfather was the King of Dharela, near Agra, Raja Ravi Pratap Singh, who is the original owner of this
haveli.
When she was just twenty, Swapna Devi was married to the son of the King of Bhadohi, Kunwar Pratap Singh, belonging to the Gautam dynasty, and shifted to Benares, where the family had a mansion. Unfortunately, her husband, the young prince, died within just two years of the marriage, but she did not remarry.

She continued to live in Benares for another twelve years. In the meantime, her grandfather Raja Ravi Pratap Singh died, bequeathing this
haveli
to her. So she moved to Agra and has lived here for the last ten years.'

'What about children?' I ask her.

Lajwanti shakes her head. 'No. She does not have any offspring, so she keeps herself busy with charitable activities and social occasions. She is probably the richest woman in Agra and very well connected. The police commissioner and the district magistrate eat at her house every week, so you'd better not entertain any ideas about staying here and not paying the rent. If you don't pay her rent on the first, you are out on the second. Better get this straight.'

That evening, Shankar cooks food for me and insists that I sleep in his bed. He sleeps on the hard stone floor. This kindness brings tears to my eyes. The fact that he is also an orphan like me gives rise to a deep bond between us. A bond beyond friendship. Beyond companionship.