Slumdog Millionaire: A Novel (36 page)

'I know it because I worked as a guide for two years at the Taj Mahal.'

Prem Kumar's face turns ashen. For the first time he looks at me with a trace of fear. 'You . . .

you are casting some kind of magic, I am sure,' he says and runs to the producer. They whisper amongst themselves. Prem Kumar gesticulates several times in my direction. Then someone

brings in a fat book and they pore over it. Ten minutes pass. The audience begins to get restless.

Eventually, Prem Kumar comes back to his seat. His expression is neutral, but I am sure he is squirming inside.

The studio sign changes to 'Applause' and the signature music commences.

'Ladies and gentlemen, before we went into the break I asked the question, what was the name of the father of Mumtaz Mahal? I am sure all of you thought that that was the final question, but it was not.'

The audience is astounded. I am stunned. Are they introducing another question? The air

becomes thick with tension.

Prem Kumar continues. 'Not only was that not the last question, it was not a question at all. We were simply recording a commercial for Mumtaz Tea, which is one of the sponsors on this show.

For this reason, we had to introduce a dummy question.'

The audience members start whispering among themselves. There is suppressed laughter.

Someone shouts, 'You really fooled us, Mr Kumar!' The tension dissipates. The studio sign changes to 'Applause' again.

I am the only one not smiling. I know now that this is really a show run by crooks.

The studio sign changes to 'Silence' and the signature music commences. Prem Kumar speaks into the camera. 'Ladies and gentlemen, I am now about to reveal question number twelve, the final question, for one billion rupees, the biggest prize ever offered in the history of the planet.

And remember, we are still in Play or Pay mode, so it is win all or lose all. OK, without any further ado, here is the last question for you, Mr Thomas, and this is from the world of . . .

Western classical music! Beethoven's Piano Sonata No. 29, Opus 106, also known as the

'Hammerklavier Sonata', is in which key? Is it in a) B flat major, b) G minor, c) E flat major, or d) C minor?

'Think about the answer carefully, Mr Thomas. Remember, you are at a historic crossroads. This is the most momentous decision of your life. I know you need time to reflect on your answer, and to allow you just that, we will now take another quick commercial break. Ladies and gentlemen, please don't even think of going anywhere.'

The studio sign changes to 'Applause'. Prem Kumar looks at me with a sly grin. The audience start chattering amongst themselves.

Prem Kumar stands up. 'I am just going round the corner. I will be right back.'

I stand up as well. 'I need to go to the toilet.'

'Then you'd better come with me,' he says. 'The rules stipulate the contestant must be

accompanied everywhere.'

* * *

Prem Kumar and I are the only people in the washroom. He whistles as he urinates. Then he notices me looking at him. 'How come you are simply standing? Don't tell me that the last question is so tough that you have even forgotten how to empty your bladder.' He throws his head back and laughs. 'Too bad it had to end this way. But without my help you would have been out a long time ago, on the second question itself. Which means you would have gone home with just one thousand rupees. So how about we make a deal? Tomorrow, when I come to your

restaurant, I promise to give you a thousand-rupee tip. And, believe me, this is a promise I will keep.' He smiles patronizingly at me.

'You didn't do me any favour by telling me the answer to question number two, you did yourself a favour,' I say.

Prem Kumar looks at me sharply. 'What do you mean?'

'What I mean, Mr Prem Kumar, is that I did not come on your show to win money. No, far from it.' I shake my head exaggeratedly. 'No, I came on your quiz show to take revenge.'

Prem Kumar's peeing is cut short midstream. He zips up his trousers hastily and looks at me sidelong. 'Revenge? What do you mean? Revenge on whom?'

'On you,' I say defiantly. I step backwards and pull a gun from the waistband of my trousers. It is a small, snub-nosed revolver, very compact, no bigger than my fist. I grip it tightly in my hand and point it at him.

The blood drains from Prem Kumar's face. 'You . . . you have made a mistake, Mr Thomas. We have never met before,' he says, his voice barely a whisper.

'No,
you
have made a mistake. We did meet once, outside Neelima Kumari's flat. It was early in the morning. You swaggered out in blue jeans and a white shirt, with bloodshot eyes and

unwashed hair. You were carrying a sheaf of currency notes which you had forced Neelima to part with, and you were twirling a car key in your fingers. You ruined her. But that was not enough for you. You did the same to my beloved Nita.'

'Nita?' Prem Kumar raises his eyebrows. 'That name means nothing to me.'

'She is the girl who almost died in Agra thanks to you, and now,' I grip the gun tighter, 'it is your turn.'

Prem Kumar looks anxiously at my hand. He stalls for time. 'Did you say Agra? But I haven't been to Agra for months.'

'Let me refresh your memory. Four months ago you stayed at the Palace Hotel. You called a girl to your room. You tied her up. And then you brutally beat her and burned her with a lighted cigarette, just as you did to Neelima.'

I see his lip begins to quiver. Then it begins to curl.

'She was a prostitute, for God's sake. I paid her pimp five thousand rupees. I didn't even know her name.'

'Her name is Nita.' I raise my gun.

Prem holds his palms towards me. 'No . . . No . . .' he cries and steps back. His right foot plunges into the open drain behind him. 'Don't shoot – drop that thing now, please.' He pauses to step out of the drain.

I point the gun directly at his heart. I can see he is trembling. 'I swore I would avenge the person responsible for hurting Nita. But I didn't know how to find you. And then I saw an advertisement in a newspaper in Agra. It showed your face, grinning like a monkey, inviting people to

participate in a quiz show in Mumbai. That is why I am here. I would have shot you at the first question I couldn't answer, but miraculously I have been able to answer every single one. So when you helped me on question number two you didn't do me a favour at all, you merely

prolonged your life a little bit longer. But now there is no escape.'

'Listen to me,' pleads Prem Kumar. He is cracking now. 'I did treat Neelima badly and I did get rough with that prostitute in Agra. But what will you gain by shooting me? You will not get your money. Drop that gun now, and I promise you I will allow you to win the top prize. Just think, you will have wealth beyond the wildest dreams of a waiter like you.'

I laugh bitterly. 'What would I do with all that wealth? Eventually a man needs just six feet of cloth for his shroud.'

He is turning paler and holding out his hand defensively. 'Please, don't pull the trigger. Look, the moment you kill me you will be arrested. And then you will be hanged. You will die, too.'

'So what? The only thing I live for is revenge.'

'Please reconsider the situation, Thomas. I swear to you, spare my life and I will tell you the answer to the last question. You will be our biggest winner.'

'I am not returning to the quiz show, and neither are you,' I say and remove the safety catch.

Prem Kumar's bravado is shattering. I see him for the coward that he is. He grips the wall behind him and closes his eyes tightly. The moment I have been waiting for for the last four months has finally arrived. I have Prem Kumar before me and a loaded gun in my hand. The gun is really good. I have fired a test bullet and found the recoil minimal. In any case, at point-blank range I can hardly miss.

I increase the pressure on the trigger, but the more I try to squeeze it the more resistance I encounter. It is almost as if my finger is turning to stone.

In films they show you that killing a man is as easy as popping a balloon. Bam, bam, bam . . .

people in films fire guns as though bullets are going out of circulation. They kill people like we squish ants. Even a novice hero, who has never even seen a gun in his life, is able to shoot and kill ten baddies in the villain's den from five hundred feet away. But real life is very different. It is easy to pick up a loaded gun and point it in someone's face. But when you know that a real bullet will strike a real heart and that the scarlet liquid will be blood and not tomato ketchup, you are forced to think twice. It is not easy to kill a man. You need to first switch off from your brain.

Drinking can do that. And so can anger.

So I try to summon up as much anger as I can. I call to mind all that has brought me to this pass in life. Images of Neelima Kumari and Nita float through my mind. I see the black cigarette-burn marks on Neelima's body, the red welts on Nita's back, the bruises all over her face, her blackened eye, her dislocated jaw. But instead of a rising anger, I feel a spreading sadness, and instead of a bullet coming out of my gun, I find tears coming out of my eyes.

I try to drum up support from other quarters. I think of all the indignities I have suffered, all the hurt and humiliation I have endured. I see the bloody corpse of Father Timothy, the kindest man I have known, and the limp body of Shankar, the gentlest boy I have met. I recall all the merchants of suffering who have passed through my life. Images of Swapna Devi, Shantaram

and Maman buzz through my brain, and I try to compress all these emotions into that split-second in which the bullet will be fired. Despite my effort, I find I cannot pin the blame for all my misfortunes on the man in front of me. I do not have enough anger in me to justify his death.

And I realize then that, try as I might, I cannot kill in cold blood, not even a vermin like Prem Kumar.

I lower the gun.

All this happens within a space of half a minute. Prem Kumar endures it with eyes tightly closed.

When he hears no sound of gunshot, he opens one eye. He is sweating like a dog. He stares blankly at me, a gun in my hand and indecision writ large on my face.

Finally, he opens both his eyes. 'Thank you for sparing my life, Thomas,' he says with his chest heaving. 'In return for your mercy, I will tell you the answer to the last question. You have already won fair and square. The question on Mumtaz Mahal was indeed the last question, and you knew the answer. So now I will tell you the answer to the new question.'

'And how do I know that you won't change it again at the last minute?'

'Hold on to your gun. But believe me, you won't have to use it, because now I sincerely want you to win the top prize. A billion rupees is a billion rupees. And you will get it all in cash.'

For the first time, I am tempted by the prospect of all this money. With a billion I can achieve many things. I can buy Nita's freedom. I can fulfil Salim's dream of becoming a star. I can light up the lives of thousands of fellow orphans and street kids like me. I can get my hands on a beautiful red Ferrari. I make up my mind. It is 'yes' to a billion and 'no' to murder.

'OK, so what's the answer?' I ask.

'I will tell you,' says Prem Kumar. He looks down at his feet and pauses.

'What's the problem?' I ask.

'I have realized that if I tell you the answer, I will be in violation of my contract and also the rules of the show. Your prize could be invalidated.' He shakes his head slowly. 'No, I will not tell you the answer.'

I am confused.

A hint of a smile begins to cross Prem's face. 'I said I can't tell you the answer, but there's nothing in my contract which prevents me from dropping a hint. Now listen carefully. I am going to the railway station immediately after this show and I am going to board a train. I have been invited to visit four friends in Allahabad, Baroda, Cochin and Delhi, but I can only visit one of them. So I have decided to go to Allahabad, to wash off all my sins by taking a dip in the Sangam. OK?'

'OK,' I nod.

We leave the washroom and return to our seats. Prem Kumar gives me an anxious look. I wonder if he will keep his word. Everyone claps when I sit down. My gun is sitting uncomfortably in my side pocket. I lay my hand over it.

The studio sign changes to 'Silence'.

Prem Kumar turns to me. 'Mr Ram Mohammad Thomas, before we took our last break I asked

you the final question, question number twelve, for one billion rupees. I will repeat that question again. Beethoven's Piano Sonata No. 29, Opus 106, also known as the 'Hammerklavier Sonata', is in which key? Is it in a) B flat major, b) G minor, c) E flat major, or d) C Minor? Are you ready with a reply?'

'No.'

'No?'

'I mean I do not know the answer to this question.'

The camera zooms in on my face. There are audible gasps from the audience.

'Well, Mr Thomas, as I told you, you are standing at a historic crossroads. One path leads to unimaginable wealth and fortune, but the other three simply take you back to your starting point.

So even if you take a wild guess, guess carefully. You can win all or lose all. This is the most important decision of your life.'

'I would like to use a Lifeboat.'

'OK, you still have one Lifeboat left, and that is Half and Half. So we will take away two incorrect answers, leaving one correct answer and one wrong answer. You then have a fifty–fifty chance of getting the right answer.'

The word 'Lifeboat' flashes on the screen. We see an animated boat chugging along on the sea, a swimmer shouting for help and being tossed a red lifebuoy. The screen changes to display the full question once again. Then two answers disappear and only choices A and C flash on the screen.

'There you have it,' says Prem Kumar. 'It is either A or C. Give me the right answer and you will become the first man in history to win a billion rupees. Give me the wrong answer and you will become the first man in history to lose a hundred million in less than a minute. What is your decision?'