by Vikas Swarup
‘But you can’t read.’
‘I read enough and I can hear. I overheard Mrs Barve and Mrs Shirke discussing the scurrilous accusations made against Armaan in this issue.’
‘Like what?’
‘That Urvashi left him because he could not satisfy her. That he is gay.’
‘So?’
‘You think they can abuse my hero in this fashion and get away with it? I know this report is a load of nonsense. Armaan’s rivals in the industry are jealous of his success. They have hatched this plot to destroy his reputation. I will not allow them to succeed. I will go to the Starburst office and set fire to it.’
Salim’s anger is white hot. ,And I know why. He hates gays. To tarnish his idol with the brush of homosexuality is the ultimate insult in his book.
I, too, know of perverts and what they do to unsuspecting boys. In dark halls. In public toilets. In municipal gardens. In juvenile homes.
Luckily, Starburst retract their allegation in the next issue. And save a dabbawallah from becoming an arsonist.
Meanwhile, things are hotting up off screen, in seat A20. The old man slides closer to Salim. His leg casually brushes against Salim’s. The first time, Salim thinks it is his own fault. The second time, he thinks it is an accident. The third time, he is convinced it is deliberate.
‘Mohammad,’ he whispers to me, ‘I am going to give a tight kick to the bastard sitting next to me if he doesn’t stop his wandering leg.’
‘Look how old he is, Salim. It’s probably just tremors in his leg,’ I counsel.
The fight sequence has started and Salim is busy watching the action. Armaan has entered the villain’s den and all hell is breaking loose. The hero uses all manner of feints and tackles – boxing, karate, kung fu – to give his opponents a licking.
The old man’s hands are also getting into action. He presses his elbow against the common armrest and lets his arm slide next to Salim’s, touching it ever so lightly. Salim hardly notices this. He is engrossed in the film, which is reaching its climax.
The most famous scene of the movie is about to happen. The one in which Armaan Ali dies after killing all the bad guys. His vest is soaked in blood. There are bullet wounds all over his body. His trousers are coated with dust and grime. He drags himself along the ground towards his mother, who has just arrived on the scene.
Salim is in tears. He leans forward and says poignantly, ‘Mother, I hope I have been a good son. Don’t cry for me. Remember, dying an honourable death is better than living a coward’s life.’
Armaan’s head is in his mother’s lap. He is mimicking Salim: ‘Mother, I hope I have been a good son. Don’t cry for me. Remember, dying an honourable death is better than living a coward’s life.’ The mother is crying too as she cradles his bleeding head in her lap. Tears fall from her eyes on Armaan Ali’s face. He grips her hand. His chest convulses.
Tears fall into my lap. I see another mother who kisses her baby many times on his forehead before placing him in a clothes bin, rearranging the clothes around him. In the background the wind howls. Sirens sound. The police have arrived, as usual, too late. After the hero has done all the work for them. They cannot do anything for him now.
I see that the bearded man’s left hand has moved on. It is now placed in Salim’s lap and rests there gently. Salim is so engrossed in the death scene he does not register it. The old man is emboldened. He rubs his palm against Salim’s jeans. As Armaan takes his last few breaths, the man increases his pressure on Salim’s crotch, till he is almost gripping it.
Salim erupts. ‘You bloody motherfucker! You filthy pervert! I am going to kill you!’ he screams and slaps the man’s face. Hard.
The man hastily removes his hand from Salim’s lap and tries to get up from his seat. But before he can lift himself completely, Salim makes a grab for him. He fails to catch the man’s collar, but gets hold of his beard. As Salim tugs, it comes off in his hand. The man leaps out of his seat with a strangled cry and dashes towards the exit, which is hardly twenty feet away.
At that very instant the electrical power in the theatre fails and the generator kicks in. The screen goes blank and the dark hall is dazzled as the emergency lights flick on. The man is caught unawares, like a deer in a car’s headlamps. He whirls around, unsure of himself.
Just as suddenly, the power comes back. It was only a momentary interruption. The film resumes on the screen, the emergency lights are extinguished. The man rushes past the black curtains to the red EXIT sign, slams open the door and disappears.
But in that split second Salim and I have seen a flash of hazel-green eyes. A chiselled nose. A cleft chin.
As the credits begin to roll over the screen, Salim is left holding in his hand a mass of tangled grey hair smelling vaguely of cologne and spirit gum. This time he does not see the name of the publicity designer and the PRO, the light men and the spot boys, the fight director and the cameraman. He is weeping.
Armaan Ali, his hero, has died.
Smita is staring at me with sceptical eyes. ‘When exactly did this incident happen?’
‘About six years ago. When Salim and I lived in a chawl in Ghatkopar.’
‘And do you realize the significance of what you have just recounted to me?’
‘What?’
‘That if this incident was made public, it could destroy Armaan Ali, end his film career. Of course, that will happen only if what you just told me is true.’
‘So you still don’t believe me?’
‘I didn’t say that.’
‘I can see the doubt in your eyes. If you still don’t believe me, you do so at your own peril. But you cannot disregard the evidence on this DVD. Should we see the first question?’
Smita nods her head and presses ‘Play’ on the remote.
The studio lights have been dimmed. I can hardly see the audience sitting around me in a circle. The hall is illuminated by one spotlight in the centre, where I sit in a leather revolving chair opposite Prem Kumar. We are separated by a semicircular table. There is a large screen in front of me on which the questions will be projected. The studio sign is lit up. It says ‘Silence’.
‘Cameras rolling, three, two, one, you’re on.’
The signature tune comes on and Prem Kumar’s booming voice fills the hall. ‘Here we are once again, ready to find out who will make history today by winning the biggest prize ever offered on earth. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, we are ready to find out Who Will Win A Billion!’
The studio sign changes to ‘Applause’. The audience begins clapping. There are some cheers and whistles, too.
The signature tune fades out. Prem Kumar says, ‘We have three lucky contestants with us tonight, who have been selected at random by our computer. Contestant number three is Kapil Chowdhary from Malda in West Bengal. Contestant number two is Professor Hari Parikh from Ahmedabad, but our first contestant tonight is eighteen-year-old Ram Mohammad Thomas from our very own Mumbai. Ladies and gentlemen, please give him a big round of applause.’
Everyone claps. After the applause dies down, Prem Kumar turns to me. ‘Ram Mohammad Thomas, now that’s a very interesting name. It expresses the richness and diversity of India. What do you do, Mr Thomas?’
‘I am a waiter in Jimmy’s Bar and Restaurant in Colaba.’
‘A waiter! Now isn’t that interesting! Tell me, how much do you make every month?’
‘Around nine hundred rupees.’
‘That’s all? And what will you do if you win today?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You don’t know?’
‘No.’
Prem Kumar scowls at me. I am not following the script. I am supposed to ‘vibe’ and be ‘entertaining’ during the ‘small talk’. I should have said I will buy a restaurant, or a plane, or a country. I could have said I will host a big party. Marry Miss India. Travel to Timbuktu.
‘OK. Let me explain the rules to you. You will be asked twelve questions, and if you answer each one correctl
y, you stand to win the biggest jackpot on earth: one billion rupees! You are free to quit at any point up until question number nine and take whatever you have earned up to then, but you cannot quit beyond question number nine. After that, it is either Play or Pay. But let’s talk about that when we come to that stage. If you don’t know the answer to a question, don’t panic, because you have two Lifeboats available to you – A Friendly Tip and Half and Half. So I think we are all set for the first question for one thousand rupees. Are you ready?’
‘Yes, I am ready,’ I reply.
‘OK, here comes question number one. A nice easy one on popular cinema, I am sure everyone in the audience can answer. Now we all know that Armaan Ali and Priya Kapoor have formed one of the most successful screen pairings of recent times. But can you name the blockbusting film in which Armaan Ali starred with Priya Kapoor for the very first time. Was it a) Fire, b) Hero, c) Hunger, or d) Betrayal?’
The music in the background changes to a suspense tune, with the sound of a ticking time bomb superimposed over it.
‘D. Betrayal,’ I reply.
‘Do you go to the movies?’
‘Yes.’
‘And did you see Betrayal?’
‘Yes.’
‘Are you absolutely, one hundred per cent sure of your answer?’
‘Yes.’
There is a crescendo of drums. The correct answer flashes on the screen.
‘Absolutely, one hundred per cent correct! You’ve just won one thousand rupees! We will now take a quick commercial break,’ declares Prem Kumar.
The studio sign changes to ‘Applause’. The audience claps. Prem Kumar smiles. I don’t.
THE BURDEN OF A PRIEST
If you have been to Delhi by train, you must have visited Paharganj. In all probability you would have arrived at the noisy and dusty Paharganj railway station. You would have exited the station and almost certainly headed left towards Connaught Place, bypassing the crowded market with the cut-price guest houses and cheap prostitutes for tourists. But if you had gone right, past the Mother Dairy and J. J. Women’s Hospital, you would have seen a red building, with a large white cross. That is the Church of St Mary. That is where I was born eighteen years ago on Christmas Day. Or, to be more precise, that is where I was left on the cold winter night of 25 December. Dumped in the large bin the sisters had put out for old clothes. Who left me there and why, I do not know to this day. The finger of suspicion has always pointed towards the maternity ward of J. J. Hospital. Perhaps I was born there and my mother, for reasons known only to her, was forced to abandon me.
In my mind’s eye I have often visualized that scene. A tall and graceful young woman, wearing a white sari, leaves the hospital after midnight with a baby in her arms. The wind is howling. Her long black hair blows across her face, obscuring her features. Leaves rustle near her feet. Dust scatters. Lightning flashes. She walks with heavy footsteps towards the church, clutching the baby to her bosom. She reaches the door of the church and uses the metal ring knocker. But the wind is so strong, it drowns out the sound of the knock. Her time is limited. With tears streaming from her eyes, she smothers the baby’s face with kisses. Then she places him in the bin, arranging the old clothes to make him comfortable. She takes one final look at the baby, averts her eyes and then, running away from the camera, disappears into the night . . .
The sisters of St Mary ran an orphanage and an adoption agency, and I was put up for adoption, together with a clutch of other orphan babies. All the other babies were collected, but no one came for me. A prospective mother and father would see me and exchange glances with each other. There would be an imperceptible shake of the head, and then they would move on to the next cradle. I do not know why. Perhaps I was too dark. Too ugly. Too colicky. Perhaps I didn’t have a cherubic smile, or I gurgled too much. So I remained at the orphanage for two years. Oddly enough, the sisters never got round to giving me a name. I was just called Baby – the baby that no one wanted.
I was finally adopted by Mrs Philomena Thomas and her husband Dominic Thomas. Originally from Nagercoil in Tamil Nadu, they now lived in Delhi. Mrs Thomas worked as a cleaner in St Joseph’s Church and her husband as the gardener. Because they were in their forties without any children of their own, Father Timothy Francis, the parish priest, had been urging them to consider adopting to fill the void in their life. He even directed them to St Mary’s Orphanage. Mr Thomas must have taken one look at me and immediately passed on to the next baby, but Mrs Philomena Thomas selected me the moment she saw me. I was a perfect match for her dark skin!
The Thomases spent two months completing the paperwork for my adoption, but within three days of taking me home and even before I could be christened, Mr Thomas discovered that the void in his wife’s life had already been filled. Not by me, but by a Muslim gentleman by the name of Mastan Sheikh, who was the local ladies’ tailor, specializing in short skirts. Mrs Philomena Thomas ditched her old husband and newly adopted baby and ran off with the tailor, reportedly to Bhopal. Her whereabouts are not known to this day.
On discovering this, Mr Thomas went into a rage. He dragged me in my cradle to the priest’s house and dumped me there. ‘Father, this baby is the root cause of all the trouble in my life. You forced me to adopt him, so now you decide what to do with him.’ And before Father Timothy could even say ‘Amen’, Dominic Thomas walked out of the church. He was last seen buying a train ticket for Bhopal with a shotgun in his hands. So willy-nilly I became Father Timothy’s responsibility. He gave me food, he gave me shelter and he gave me a name: Joseph Michael Thomas. There was no baptism ceremony. No priest dipped my head into a font. No holy water was sprinkled. No white shawl was draped over me. No candle was lit. But I became Joseph Michael Thomas. For six days.
On the seventh day, two men came to meet Father Timothy. A fat man wearing white kurta pyjamas, and a thin, bearded man wearing a sherwani.
‘We are from the All Faith Committee,’ the fat man said. ‘I am Mr Jagdish Sharma. This is Mr Inayat Hidayatullah. Our third board member, Mr Harvinder Singh, representing the Sikh faith, was also to come, but he is unfortunately held up at the Gurudwara. We will come straight to the point. We are told, Father, that you have given shelter to a little orphan boy.’
‘Yes, the poor boy’s adoptive parents have disappeared, leaving him in my care,’ said Father Timothy, still unable to figure out the reason for this unexpected visit.
‘What name have you given this boy?’
‘Joseph Michael Thomas.’
‘Isn’t that a Christian name?’
‘Yes, but—’
‘How do you know that he was born to Christian parents?’
‘Well, I don’t.’
‘Then why have you given him a Christian name?’
‘Well, I had to call him something. What’s wrong with Joseph Michael Thomas?’
‘Everything. Don’t you know, Father, how strong the movement is against conversion in these parts? Several churches have been set fire to by irate mobs, who were led to believe that mass conversions to Christianity were taking place there.’
‘But this is no conversion.’
‘Look, Father, we know you did not have any ulterior motive. But word has got around that you have converted a Hindu boy.’
‘But how do you know he is Hindu?’
‘It won’t matter to the lumpen elements who are planning to ransack your church tomorrow. That is why we have come to help you. To cool things down.’
‘What do you suggest I do?’
‘I suggest you change the boy’s name.’
‘To what?’
‘Well . . . giving him a Hindu name might do the trick. Why not name him Ram, after one of our favourite gods?’ said Mr Sharma.
Mr Hidayatullah coughed gently. ‘Excuse me, Mr Sharma, but aren’t we replacing one evil with another? I mean, what is the proof that the boy was a Hindu at birth? He might have been Muslim, you know. Why can’t he be called Mohammad?’
Luckily for me that Mr Singh did not come that day.
Father Timothy was tall, white and comfortably middle aged. He had a huge house in the church compound with a sprawling garden full of fruit trees. For the next six years, he became my father, mother, master, teacher and priest, all rolled into one. If there has been anything approximating happiness in my life, it was in the time I spent with him.
Father Timothy was from the north of England, a place called York, but had been settled in India for very many years. It was thanks to him that I learnt to read and speak the Queen’s English. He taught me Mother Goose Tales and nursery rhymes. I would sing ‘Twinkle Twinkle Little Star’ and ‘Baa Baa Black Sheep’ in my horribly off-key voice, providing, I suppose, an amusing diversion for Father Timothy from his priestly duties.
Living in the church compound, I felt part of a much larger family. Apart from Father Timothy, his faithful manservant Joseph stayed in the house and Mrs Gonzalves, the maid, also lived close by. And then there was a whole bunch of street kids belonging to the plumbers, cobblers, sweepers and washermen, who lived practically next door and did not hesitate to use the church grounds for their cricket and football games. Father Timothy taught me about the life of Jesus, and Adam and Eve, and this extended family instructed me on the rudiments of other religions. I came to know about the Mahabharata and the Holy Koran. I learnt about the Prophet’s flight from Mecca to Medina and of the burning down of Lanka. Bethlehem and Ayodhya, St Peter and the Hajj all became part of my growing-up.
This is not to suggest, though, that I was a particularly religious child. I was like any other child, with three main preoccupations: eating, sleeping and playing. I spent many an afternoon with the neighbourhood kids of my age, catching butterflies and frightening birds in Father Timothy’s garden. While Joseph, the old retainer, dusted curios in the drawing room, I would sneak out and try to pluck ripe mangoes, under the watchful eye of the gardener. If caught, I would give him generous abuse in Hindi. I would dance with abandon in the monsoon rain, try to catch little fish in the small muddy pools of rain water and end up coughing and sneezing, much to the consternation of Father Timothy. I would play football with the street kids, come back battered and bruised, and then cry the entire night.