by Vikas Swarup
‘Do you know Albert Fernandes?’ I ask her.
‘No. Who is he?’
‘He has an illegal factory in Dharavi which makes watch-strap buckles.’
‘And?’
‘He plays matka.’
‘Matka?’
‘Illegal gambling with cards.’
‘I see.’
‘So Albert Fernandes plays matka and last Tuesday he had an amazing game.’
‘What happened?’
‘He came up with fifteen winning hands in a row. Can you believe it? Fifteen hands in a row. He cleaned out fifty thousand rupees that evening.’
‘So? I still don’t see the connection.’
‘Don’t you see? He got lucky in cards. I got lucky on the show.’
‘You mean you just guessed the answers and by pure luck got twelve out of twelve correct?’
‘No. I didn’t guess those answers. I knew them.’
‘You knew the answers?’
‘Yes. To all the questions.’
‘Then where does luck come into the picture?’
‘Well, wasn’t I lucky that they only asked those questions to which I knew the answers?’
The look of utter disbelief on Smita’s face says it all. I can take it no longer. I erupt in sadness and anger. ‘I know what you are thinking. Like Godbole, you wonder what I was doing on that quiz show. Like Godbole, you believe I am only good for serving chicken fry and whisky in a restaurant. That I am meant to live life like a dog, and die like an insect. Don’t you?’
‘No, Ram.’ She grasps my hand. ‘I will never believe that. But you must understand. If I am to help you, I have to know how you won that billion. And I confess, I find it difficult to comprehend. Heavens, even I couldn’t answer half those questions.’
‘Well, Madam, we poor can also ask questions and demand answers. And I bet you, if the poor conducted a quiz, the rich wouldn’t be able to answer a single question. I don’t know the currency of France, but I can tell you how much money Shalini Tai owes our neighbourhood moneylender. I don’t know who was the first man on the moon, but I can tell you who was the first man to produce illegal DVDs in Dharavi. Could you answer these questions in my quiz?’
‘Look, Ram, don’t get agitated. I meant no offence. I really want to help you. But if you didn’t cheat, I must know how you knew.’
‘I cannot explain.’
‘Why?’
‘Do you notice when you breathe? No. You simply know that you are breathing. I did not go to school. I did not read books. But, I tell you, I knew those answers.’
‘So do I need to know about your entire life to understand the genesis of your answers?’
‘Perhaps.’
Smita nods her head. ‘I think that is the key. After all, a quiz is not so much a test of knowledge as a test of memory.’ She adjusts her blue dupatta and looks me in the eye. ‘I want to listen to your memories. Can you begin at the beginning?’
‘You mean the year I was born? Year number one?’
‘No. From question number one. But before we start, promise me, Ram Mohammad Thomas, that you will tell me the truth.’
‘You mean like they say in the movies, “The truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth”?’
‘Exactly.’
I take a deep breath. ‘Yes, I promise. But where is your Book of Oaths? The Gita, the Koran or the Bible, any one will do.’
‘I don’t need a book. I am your witness. Just as you are mine.’
Smita takes the shiny disc from its cover and slips it into the DVD player.
THE DEATH OF A HERO
The third bell has sounded. The purple velvet curtain is about to be raised. The lights are progressively dimming, till only the red signs showing EXIT remain, glowing like embers in the darkened hall. Popcorn sellers and cold-drink vendors begin to leave. Salim and I settle down in our seats.
The first thing you must know about Salim is that he is my best friend. The second is that he is crazy about Hindi films. But not all Hindi films. Just the ones featuring Armaan Ali.
They say that first there was Amitabh Bachchan. Then there was Shahrukh Khan. Now there is Armaan Ali. The ultimate action hero. The Indian Greek God. The heart-throb of millions.
Salim loves Armaan. Or, more accurately, he worships Armaan. His tiny room in the chawl is a shrine. It is lined with posters of all kinds depicting the hero in various poses. Armaan in a leather jacket. Armaan on a motorbike. Armaan with his shirt off, baring his hairy chest. Armaan with a gun. Armaan on a horse. Armaan in a pool surrounded by a bevy of beauties.
We are occupying seats A21 and A22 in the very first row of the Dress Circle in Regal Talkies in Bandra. We shouldn’t really be sitting here. The tickets in my front pocket do not say DRESS CIRCLE Rs.150. They say FRONT STALLS Rs.25. The usher was in a good mood today and did us a favour. He told us to go and enjoy the balcony, because the stalls were practically deserted. Even the balcony is almost empty. Apart from Salim and me, there are no more than two dozen people in the rows ahead of us.
When Salim and I go to the movies, we usually sit in the front stalls. It enables us to make catcalls and whistle. Salim believes the nearer you sit to the screen, the closer you are to the action. He says he can lean forward and almost touch Armaan. He can count the veins on Armaan’s biceps, he can see the whites of Armaan’s hazel-green eyes, the fine stubble on Armaan’s cleft chin, the little black mole on Armaan’s chiselled nose.
I am not particularly fond of Armaan Ali. I think he acts the same way in every movie. But I, too, like to sit in the front rows, as close to the giant screen as possible. The heroine’s breasts appear more voluptuous from there.
The curtain has now lifted and the screen flickers to life. First we have the advertisements. Four sponsored by private companies and one by the government. We are told how to come first at school and become a champion in cricket by eating Corn Flakes for breakfast. How to drive fast cars and win gorgeous girls by using Spice Cologne. (‘That’s the perfume used by Armaan,’ exclaims Salim.) How to get a promotion and have shiny white clothes by using Roma soap. How to live life like a king by drinking Red & White Whisky. And how to die of lung cancer by smoking cigarettes.
After the adverts, there is a little pause while the reels are changed. We cough and clear our throats. And then the censor certificate appears on the cinemascope screen. It tells us that the film has been certified U/A, has seventeen reels and a length of 4,639.15 metres. The certificate is signed by one Mrs M. Kane, Chairman of the Censor Board. She is the one who signs all censor certificates. Salim has often asked me about this lady. He really envies her job. She gets to see Armaan’s pictures before anyone else.
The opening credits begin to roll. Salim knows everyone in this film. He knows who is the wardrobe man, who is the hair stylist, who is the make-up man. He knows the names of the production manager, the finance controller, the sound recordist and all the assistants. He doesn’t speak English very well, but he can read names, even the ones in really small print. He has watched this film eight times already and every time he memorizes a new name. But if you were to see the concentration on his face right now, you would think he was watching the First Day First Show with black-market tickets.
Within two minutes, Armaan Ali makes his grand entrance by jumping down from a blue and white helicopter. Salim’s eyes light up. I see the same innocent excitement on his face as when he first saw Armaan, a year ago. In person.
Salim comes running through the door and collapses face-down on the bed.
I am alarmed. ‘Salim! . . . Salim!’ I shout. ‘What’s happened to you? How come you are back so early?’ I turn him on his back. He is laughing.
‘The most amazing thing has happened today. This is the happiest day of my life,’ he declares.
‘What is it? Have you won a lottery?’
‘No. Something even better than winning a lottery. I have seen Armaan Ali.’
Bit by breathless bit, the w
hole story comes out. How Salim caught a glimpse of Armaan Ali while doing his daily round in Ghatkopar. The star was alighting from his Mercedes Benz to enter a five-star hotel. Salim was travelling on a bus to deliver his last tiffin box to a customer. The moment he spotted Armaan, he jumped down from the speeding vehicle, narrowly missing being run down by a Maruti car, and ran towards the actor, who was passing through the hotel’s revolving door. He was stopped by the tall, strapping uniformed guard at the entrance and prevented from entering the hotel. ‘Armaan!’ Salim called, trying desperately to catch the star’s attention. Armaan heard the cry, stopped in his tracks and turned around. His eyes made contact with Salim’s. He gave a faint smile, an imperceptible nod of acknowledgement and continued walking into the lobby. Salim forgot all about the tiffin and came racing home to give me the news of his dream having come true. A customer of Gawli Tiffin Carriers went hungry that afternoon.
‘Does Armaan look different from the way he appears on screen?’ I ask.
‘No. He is even better in real life,’ says Salim. ‘He is taller and more handsome. My ambition in life is to shake his hand, at least once. I probably won’t wash it for a month after that.’
I reflect on how good it is to have simple, uncomplicated ambitions, like shaking a film star’s hand.
Meanwhile, on screen, that hand is holding a gun and pointing it at a group of three policemen. Armaan plays a gangster in this movie. A gangster with a heart. He loots the rich and distributes money to the poor. In between he falls in love with the heroine, Priya Kapoor, an up-and-coming actress, sings six songs and fulfils his beloved mother’s wish by taking her on a pilgrimage to the shrine of Vaishno Devi. At least, that’s the story till the interval.
Priya Kapoor’s entry in the film is greeted with catcalls from the stalls. She is a tall, good-looking actress who won the Miss World title a few years ago. Her body is sculpted like that of a classical beauty, with heavy breasts and a slim waist. She is my favourite actress these days. She pouts a lot in the film, and keeps on saying ‘Shut up’ to the comedian. We laugh.
‘Your ambition is to shake Armaan’s hand,’ I say to Salim. ‘But what do you think is Armaan’s ambition in life? He seems to have it all – face, fame and fortune.’
‘You are wrong,’ Salim replies solemnly. ‘He does not have Urvashi.’
The papers are full of the Armaan–Urvashi break-up, after a whirlwind romance lasting nine months. There is speculation that Armaan is completely heartbroken. That he has stopped eating and drinking. That he might be suicidal. Urvashi Randhawa has returned to her modelling career.
I see Salim crying. His eyes are red and wet with tears. He has not eaten all day. The heart-shaped glass frame containing a picture of Armaan and Urvashi, on which he had spent almost half his meagre salary, lies on the ground, shattered into a hundred pieces.
‘Look, Salim, you are being childish. There is nothing you can do about it,’ I tell him.
‘If only I could meet Armaan. I want to comfort him. To hold his hand and let him cry on my shoulder. They say crying makes the heart lighter.’
‘And what good will that do? Urvashi will not come back to Armaan.’
Suddenly Salim looks up. ‘Do you think I could speak to her? Maybe I could persuade her to come back to Armaan. Tell her that it was all a mistake. Tell her how sad and contrite he is.’
I shake my head. I don’t want Salim tramping all over Mumbai looking for Urvashi Randhawa. ‘It’s not a good idea to poke your nose into other people’s affairs, or make other people’s troubles your own, Salim. Armaan Ali is a mature man. He will deal with his troubles in his own way.’
‘At least I will send him a gift,’ says Salim.
He goes and buys a large bottle of Fevicol glue and sets about sticking the shattered pieces of the heart-shaped frame back together again. It takes him a week, but finally the heart is whole, a grid of criss-crossing black streaks the only reminder of the fault lines on which it broke.
‘I will now send it to Armaan,’ he says. ‘It is a symbol that even a broken heart can be put together again.’
‘With Fevicol?’ I ask.
‘No. With love and care.’
Salim wraps it up in cloth and sends it to Armaan Ali’s home address. I don’t know whether it reached Armaan or not. Whether it was broken by the postal department, smashed by the security guards or trashed by Armaan’s secretary. The important thing is that Salim believes it reached his hero and helped to heal his wound. It made Armaan whole again, and enabled him to resume giving blockbusters, such as this one. Which I am seeing for the first time and Salim for the ninth.
A devotional song is playing on the screen. Armaan and his mother are climbing towards the shrine of Vaishno Devi.
‘They say if you ask Mata Vaishno Devi sincerely for anything, she grants your wish. Tell me, what would you ask?’ I say to Salim.
‘What would you ask?’ he counters.
‘I guess I would ask for money,’ I say.
‘I would ask for Armaan to be reunited with Urvashi,’ he says without thinking even for a second.
The screen says INTERVAL in bold red letters.
Salim and I stand up and stretch our arms and legs. We buy two soggy samosas from the food vendor. The boy selling soft drinks looks at the empty seats mournfully. He will not make a good profit today. We decide to go to the toilet. It has nice white tiles, banks of urinals and clean washbasins. We both have our designated stalls. Salim always goes to the one on the extreme right, and I always take the sole urinal on the left side wall. I empty my bladder and read the graffiti on the wall. FUCK ME . . . TINU PISSED HERE . . . SHEENA IS A WHORE . . . I LOVE PRIYANKA.
Priyanka? I rail against the graffiti artist who has defaced the last inscription. I spit into my hand and try to remove the extra letters, but they have been written with permanent black marker and refuse to budge. Eventually I use my nails to scratch them off the wall and succeed in restoring the graffiti to its original state, just as I had inscribed it four months ago: I LOVE PRIYA.
The second bell sounds. The interval is over. The film is about to resume. Salim has already briefed me on the remaining plot. Armaan and Priya will now sing a song in Switzerland, before Priya is murdered by a rival gang. Then Armaan will kill hundreds of bad guys in revenge, expose corrupt politicians and police officers, and finally die a hero’s death.
We return to A21 and A22. The hall goes dark again. Suddenly, a tall man enters through the balcony door and takes the seat next to Salim. A20. He has two hundred seats to choose from, but he selects A20. It is impossible to see his face, but I can make out that he is an old man with a long, flowing beard. He is wearing what appears to be a pathan suit.
I am curious about this man. Why is he joining the film halfway through? Did he pay half price for his ticket? Salim is not bothered. He is craning forward in anticipation of the love scene between Armaan and Priya which is about to begin.
Armaan has come to Switzerland, ostensibly to locate a contact, but actually to romance Priya and sing a song, in which he is joined by twenty white female dancers wearing traditional costumes that are rather skimpy for a cold mountainous country. The song and dance over, he is now sitting in his hotel room, where a crackling fire burns in the fireplace.
Priya is taking a bath. We hear the sound of running water and Priya humming a tune, and then we see her in the bath. She applies soap to her legs and back. She raises a leg covered in bubbles and uses the shower-head to wash it clean. We hope she will also use it on her ample chest and make all the bubbles disappear, but she disappoints us.
Finally, she emerges from the bath with just a pink towel around her body. Her jet-black hair hangs loose behind her shoulders, glistening with moisture. Her long legs are smooth and hairless. Armaan takes her in his arms and smothers her face with kisses. His lips move down to the hollow of her neck. Soft romantic music begins to play. Priya undoes the buttons on his shirt and Armaan slips out of it languidly,
exposing his manly chest. The glow of the fire envelops the two lovers in a golden tint. Priya makes soft moaning noises. She arches her back and allows Armaan to caress her throat. His hand snakes to her back and tugs at her towel. The pink fabric loosens and falls at her feet. There is a tantalizing glimpse of thigh and back, but no shot of breasts. Salim believes this is where the censors inserted a cut. And why he envies Mrs Kane.
Armaan has now locked Priya in his embrace. We are shown the swell of her breasts, her heavy breathing, the perspiration forming on her forehead. There are catcalls and whistles from the stalls. The old man sitting next to Salim shifts uncomfortably in his seat, crossing his legs. I am not sure, but I think his hand is massaging his crotch.
‘The oldie next to you is getting frisky,’ I whisper to Salim. But he is oblivious to the old man and me. He is gaping at the intertwined bodies thrusting in synchronized rhythm to the music in the background. The camera pans over Armaan’s heaving back and zooms in on the fireplace, where golden-yellow flames are licking the logs with increasing abandon. Fade to black.
There is a fire of similar proportions in our kitchen when I enter the chawl, but instead of logs, Salim is using paper. ‘Bastards! . . . Dogs!’ he mutters while tearing a thick sheaf of glossy paper into pieces.
‘What are you doing, Salim?’ I ask in alarm.
‘I am taking revenge on the bastards who have maligned Armaan,’ he says as he tosses more sheets of paper on to the pyre.
I notice that Salim is tearing pages from a magazine.
‘Which magazine is this? It looks new.’
‘It is the latest issue of Starburst. I will destroy as many copies as I can lay my hands on. I could only buy ten from the news-stand.’
I grab a copy that has not yet been mangled. It has Armaan Ali on the cover, with a screaming headline: ‘THE NAKED TRUTH ABOUT THIS MAN’.
‘But it has your idol on the cover. Why are you destroying it?’ I cry.
‘Because of what they say inside about Armaan.’