by Vikas Swarup
‘I know where we will go. Remember that actress Neelima Kumari that Radhey told us about? She needs a servant. I have her address and I also know which local train goes there.’
‘How about going to the police?’
‘Are you out of your mind? Haven’t you learnt anything since Delhi? Whatever you do, wherever you go, never go to the police. Ever.’
We are inside the bathroom in the basement, listening to the steady beat of water dripping from a leaky tap. Salim is on my shoulder with a knife in his hand, trying to work the bolts holding the wire-mesh window in place.
‘Hurry,’ I whisper through clenched teeth.
Upstairs, Maman’s guards trample through our room, opening closets and cupboards. We hear shouts and abuses. A bottle crashes, jangling our frayed nerves even more. Salim is terrified. He is breathing quickly in short gasps. The beating of my heart intensifies till I can almost hear its pounding. Footsteps come closer.
‘Only one is left,’ says Salim. ‘But it is jammed. I don’t think I can open it.’
‘Please . . . please try again!’ I urge him. ‘Our lives depend on it.’
Salim tackles the bolt with renewed urgency, twisting the knife into it with all his strength. Finally, it gives way. He takes out the four bolts and lifts the wire mesh. We can see the palm trees outside swaying gently in the breeze. There is just enough space for us to crawl out. Maman’s men are about to come down the stairs to the basement when Salim manoeuvres himself through the window. Then he grasps my hand and helps me slither out. We clamber on to a mound of gravel and rubble, gasping and panting. The moon is full, the night is calm. We take in deep gulps of fresh air. It smells of coconuts.
We are sitting in a local train going away from Goregaon towards the centre of this vast metropolis. The train is not crowded at this time of night and there are only a few passengers in our compartment. They read newspapers, play cards, criticize the government, fart. A soft-drinks vendor enters the compartment carrying a plastic cool-box filled with multi-coloured bottles. ‘Coke, Fanta, Thums Up, Limca, 7 Up,’ he shouts in a high-pitched voice. The bottles are chilled, we can see tiny droplets of moisture beading their surface. Salim looks at the soft drinks and passes his tongue over his parched lips. He feels his front pocket and pats it reassuringly. The vendor looks at him hopefully. Salim shakes his head and the man moves on.
Soon another pedlar enters the compartment, a bearded old man wearing round glasses. There is a large tray hanging from his neck, filled with a plethora of rusty tins, cloudy glass bottles and small plastic packets containing an assortment of gnarled roots, dry leaves, powders and seeds. ‘Yusuf Fahim, Travelling Hakim,’ he announces. ‘I have a treatment for every ailment. From cancer to constipation, just name your condition.’ Unfortunately for him, there are no sick persons in the compartment, and he departs shortly, leaving behind a pungent smell of turmeric and ginger.
We watch the flickering lights of the city as the train rushes past housing colonies and sports stadiums. We catch fleeting glimpses of people sitting in their drawing rooms, watching TV, eating dinner, making beds. When our destination is only two stops away, we hear shuffling footsteps from the far side of the compartment.
A small, undernourished boy of about seven or eight appears. He is wearing a blue top and dusty shorts. He walks with the help of a stick and holds an ektara in his hands. We do not recognize him: he is not one of Maman’s boys.
He stops no more than fifteen feet from us and breaks into a full-throated rendition of ‘Sunire Maine Nirbal Ke Balaram – I have heard that Krishna comes to the aid of the weak’, one of Surdas’s most famous poems.
We cringe as the singer’s melodious voice cascades over the compartment. Images of Maman’s boys come flooding back to us. Raju and Radhey and Ashok and Moolay. Salim squeezes up to me and I shift deeper into the corner of my seat. But like a radar the singer’s head tracks us. He seems to look at us accusingly through unseeing eyes. For five tortuous minutes we listen to him complete his song. Then he takes out a begging bowl and asks for alms. Only a handful of passengers are left in the compartment and nobody even bothers to hunt for change.
As the empty-handed singer is about to pass our side, Salim takes something from his front pocket. He holds it in a clenched fist and looks guiltily at me. I nod silently. With a pained expression, Salim opens his fist over the singer’s outstretched hand. A crumpled, hundred-rupee note drifts into the beggar’s bowl.
Smita shivers involuntarily. ‘I cannot imagine there are still people in this day and age who can inflict such cruelty on innocent children.’
‘It is sad, but true. If Salim and I had not escaped that night, perhaps we would still be singing songs on local trains, like that blind singer,’ I reply.
‘So did you finally land that job with Neelima Kumari?’
‘Yes, I did.’
‘And what happened to Salim?’
‘Neelima Kumari arranged a room for him in a chawl in Ghatkopar.’
‘But in the last story, weren’t you working in a foundry and living in the chawl?’
‘That was after I had left Neelima Kumari – or rather, after she had left me.’
‘Meaning?’
‘You will soon find out.’
Smita shakes her head, and presses ‘Play’ on the DVD remote.
Prem Kumar faces the camera. ‘We now move on to question number four for ten thousand rupees. This one is also straightforward, but only if you know your devotional singers. Mr Thomas has told us he believes in all the religions. Let’s hope he knows his bhajans.’ He turns to me. ‘Are you ready?’
‘Ready,’ I reply.
‘OK. Question number four. Surdas, the blind poet, was a devotee of which god: a) Ram, b) Krishna, c) Shiva or d) Brahma?’
The music commences.
‘B. Krishna.’
‘Are you absolutely, one hundred per cent sure?’
‘Yes.’
There is a crescendo of drums. The correct answer flashes.
‘Absolutely, one hundred per cent correct! You have just won ten thousand rupees!’ declares Prem Kumar. The audience claps. Prem Kumar grins. I don’t.
HOW TO SPEAK AUSTRALIAN
‘Name, sex and age, please, Sir,’ says the timid-looking census man standing in the porch wearing thick, black-rimmed glasses. He carries a sheaf of forms with him and fiddles with a blue felt pen.
Colonel Taylor has an irritated expression on his face as he begins the introductions. He is dressed in a cream-coloured linen suit. He wears suits all the time, in summer and in winter. They suit his tall frame. He has an oval face with a thick pepper-coloured moustache, thin lips and ruddy cheeks. His sandy hair is swept back. The entire Taylor family and all the servants are gathered on the front porch as if for a group photograph. ‘I am Colonel Charles Taylor, male, forty-six. This is my wife Rebecca Taylor, female, forty-four.’ He points out Mrs Taylor, thin, blonde and dressed in a long skirt. ‘This is our son Roy, male, fifteen.’ Roy is fidgeting with his mobile phone. He is tall and lanky and wears his trademark faded jeans, T-shirt and sneakers. ‘This is our daughter Maggie, female, seventeen.’ Maggie is not so tall, but quite good looking with a round face, blue eyes and golden hair. She wears a really short skirt.
Colonel Taylor draws himself to his full height and puts more force into his voice. ‘I am the Australian Defence Attaché. We are diplomats, so I don’t think you need to enumerate us in your census. The only people from this house who should go into your report are our servants. That is Bhagwati, standing near the gate. He is our driver-cum-gardener, male, fifty-two. We have a maid, Shanti, female, eighteen I think, who is not in the house at the moment. That is Ramu, our cook, male, twenty-five, and this is Thomas, male, fourteen. Will that be all?’
‘No, Sir, I will need to ask your servants some questions, Sir. For the latest census they have introduced a long questionnaire. All kinds of weird things, such as which TV programmes you watch, which foods you
eat, which cities you have visited, and even,’ he sniggers, ‘how often you have sex.’
Mrs Taylor whispers to her husband, ‘Oh Charles, we don’t want Ramu and Thomas wasting their time on this silly exercise. Can’t you get rid of this drongo?’
Colonel Taylor pulls out a packet of cigarettes from his pocket. ‘Look, Mister whatever your name is, my servants really don’t have the time to go through your full questionnaire. So why don’t you accept this packet of Marlboros and move on to the next house? I am sure you can afford to exclude four people from your survey.’
The census man eyes the packet, then licks his lips. ‘Well . . . Sir, you are very kind. But you see, I don’t smoke, Sir. However, if you have some Black Label . . . or even Red Label whisky, I would be happy to oblige, Sir. After all, what difference does it make if we take out four drops from an ocean? No one will miss four people out of a billion!’ He laughs nervously.
Colonel Taylor gives the census man a dirty look. Then he stomps off into the drawing room and returns with a bottle of Johnny Walker Red Label. ‘Here, take this and rack off. Don’t ever bother us again.’
The census man salutes Colonel Taylor. ‘Don’t worry, Sir. I won’t bother you for the next ten years.’ He walks off happily.
Mrs Taylor is also happy. ‘These bloody Indians,’ she smiles. ‘Give them a bottle of whisky and they’ll do anything.’
Bhagwati grins from the gate. He has no clue what is happening. But he smiles whenever Sahib and Memsahib smile. Ramu is also grinning. He smiles whenever he gets to see Maggie in her short skirts.
I am the only one not smiling. Granted, we servants are invisible people, not to be heard during parties and family occasions, but to be left out even from our country’s head count is a bit too galling. And I do wish the Taylors would stop their snobbish references to ‘bloody Indians’. This must be the fiftieth time I have heard them use this expression since I have been with them. Every time I hear it, my blood boils. OK, so the postman and the electrician and the telephone repair man and the constable, and now even the census man, have a weakness for whisky. But it doesn’t mean that all Indians are drunkards. I wish I could explain this to Mrs Taylor some day. But I know I won’t. When you live in a posh locality of Delhi in a nice house, get three hot meals a day and a salary of one thousand five hundred, yes, one thousand five hundred rupees a month, you learn to swallow your pride. And smile whenever Sahib and Memsahib smile.
To be fair to the Taylors, though, they have been very kind to me. Not many people would employ you if you turned up on their doorstep suddenly one day from Mumbai. Moreover, I gave all the wrong references. Colonel Waugh was Colonel Taylor’s predecessor, twice removed. And the Taylors, being Anglicans, had nothing to do with Father Timothy’s Roman Catholic Church. It was pure luck that they needed a servant urgently, having just kicked out the previous domestic help.
In the fifteen months I have been with the family, five more servants have been dismissed. All because of Colonel Taylor. He is The Man Who Knows. Just as there is an omniscient God above, there is Colonel Taylor below. Jagdish, the gardener, stole fertilizer from the shed and Colonel Taylor knew. Result: dismissed the next day. Sheela, the maid, picked up a bracelet from Mrs Taylor’s room and Colonel Taylor knew. Result: dismissed the next day. Raju, the cook, opened the liquor cabinet and drank some whisky at night. Result: beaten up and dismissed the next day. Ajay, the new cook, hatched a plan to steal some money and mentioned this to a friend on the phone. Result: dismissed the next day and both he and his friend arrested by the police. Basanti, the new maid, tried on one of Maggie’s dresses. Result: yes, dismissed the next day. How Colonel Taylor gets to know these things that take place behind closed doors, in the dead of night, or on the telephone, with no one around, is a real mystery.
I am the only one who has survived. I admit, occasionally I am also tempted to pocket the loose change lying around on Mrs Taylor’s dressing table or grab one of the delicious Swiss chocolates from the fridge, but I keep such urges in check. Because I know that Colonel Taylor is The Man Who Knows. And the family trusts me. The fact that I have a Christian name and speak English helps, too. Apart from Shanti, who was employed just two months ago, I am the only one to have exclusive access to the family’s private quarters. I can enter all the bedrooms and I am the only one allowed to watch TV and occasionally to play Nintendo with Roy in the living room. But even I am not allowed to enter Colonel Taylor’s office, known as the Den. It is the small room adjacent to the master bedroom. It has a sturdy brown wooden door, protected by a thick iron grille. The iron grille has three locks: two small ones and one huge golden padlock that says, ‘Yale. Armoured. Boron Shackle.’ On the wall next to the padlock is a small white electronic panel with a picture of a skull and two bones and numbers 0–9 like on a telephone keypad. You can open the padlock only after punching in a code. If you try to open it forcibly you get a 440-volt current and you die. A little light on the panel burns red when the room is closed. Whenever Colonel Taylor enters the room, the light changes to green. No member of the household is allowed to enter this room. Not even Mrs Taylor, Maggie or Roy.
The time I have spent with the Taylors has helped me forget the traumatic events in Mumbai. Shantaram and Neelima Kumari have become painful but distant memories. For the first few months I lived in constant dread, cringing whenever a police jeep with a flashing red light passed the compound. Over time, the feeling of being hunted began to dissipate. I often thought about Gudiya, too, and wondered what had happened to her, but it is difficult to sustain a memory if you don’t have a face to associate with the name. Gradually, she disappeared into the dustbin of my past. But Salim I couldn’t forget. I was often racked with guilt for having left him behind. I wondered how he was coping, whether he was still working as a dabbawallah, but I refrained from contacting him, worried that this might reveal my whereabouts to the police.
Living with the Taylors, I have learnt to do barbies and make fondue. I have become an expert at mixing drinks and measuring whisky by the peg. I have tasted kangaroo steaks and crocodile dumplings imported directly from Canberra. I have become a fan of rugby, tennis, and something called Aussie Rules, which I watch with Roy. But even after all this time, I still struggle with the Australian accent. Every evening I sit in my room and practise speaking like an Australian. ‘G’day Maite, see you at aight at India Gaite,’ I say, and burst out laughing.
I especially enjoy going shopping with Mrs Taylor. She gets most of her provisions from Australia. But from time to time she buys imported products from Super Bazaar and Khan Market. We purchase Spanish chorizo and Roquefort cheese and gherkins in brine and red chillies in olive oil. The best days are when she takes Maggie and Roy with her to Kids Mart, the biggest kids’ store in the whole world. It has clothes and toys and bikes and cassettes. Maggie and Roy buy sweatshirts and jeans and I get to go on the free merry-go-round.
Roy and Maggie get a magazine every month. It is called Australian Geographic. I think it is the best magazine on earth. It is crammed with page upon page of photos of the most gorgeous places in the world, all of which are in Australia. There are beaches with miles of golden sand. Islands fringed with lovely palm trees. Oceans full of whales and sharks. Cities teeming with skyscrapers. Volcanoes spewing out deadly lava. Snow-covered mountains nestling against tranquil green valleys. At the age of fourteen, my only ambition is to see these beautiful places. To visit Queensland and Tasmania and the Great Barrier Reef before I die.
My life with the Taylors is comfortable, too, because I do not have much work to do. Unlike in the actress’s house, where I was the only servant, there are three others here sharing the work. Ramu is the cook and the kitchen is completely under him. Shanti makes the beds and does the washing. I have only to do the vacuuming and the cleaning. From time to time, I also polish the silver cutlery, stack up books in Colonel Taylor’s library and help Bhagwati trim the hedges. All of us live in the servants’ quarters attached to th
e main house. We have one large and two small rooms to ourselves. Bhagwati lives in the large one with his wife and son. Shanti lives alone in the second. And I share the third with Ramu. The room has bunk beds. I sleep in the one on top.
Ramu is a nice bloke. He joined the Taylors four months ago and is an excellent cook. His main claim to fame is that he knows French cooking, having previously worked for a French family. He can make gâteau de saumon and crêpes suzette and cervettes au gratin, which is my favourite dish. Ramu is well built and his face, if you ignore the pockmarks, is quite good looking. He loves to see Hindi movies. His favourite films are those in which the rich heroine runs off with the poor hero. I have a suspicion that Shanti fancies Ramu. The way she looks at him, winking occasionally, makes me think she is trying to give Ramu a signal. But Ramu does not care for Shanti. He is in love with someone else. He has made me swear not to mention this to anyone, so I cannot reveal the name. But I suppose I can mention that she is a beautiful girl with blue eyes and golden hair.
Although I live in the servants’ quarters, the Taylors treat me almost as part of the family. Whenever they go for an outing to McDonald’s, they remember to buy me a kids’ meal. When Roy and Maggie play Scrabble, they always include me. When Roy watches cricket in the TV room, he always invites me to join him (though he gets nasty whenever Australia is losing). Every time the Taylors travel to Australia on holiday, they make a point of getting me a small gift – a keyring saying I LOVE SYDNEY or a T-shirt with a funny message. Sometimes all this kindness makes me cry. When I am eating a slice of Edam cheese or drinking a can of root beer, I find it difficult to believe that I am the same orphan boy who was eating thick blackened chapattis and indigestible stew in a filthy juvenile home not far from here just five years ago. At times I actually start imagining myself as part of this Australian family. Ram Mohammad Taylor. But when one of the servants is scolded or dismissed or when Colonel Taylor wags a finger and says ‘You bloody Indians,’ my dream world comes crashing down and I begin to think of myself as a mongrel peeping through a barred window into an exotic world which does not belong to me.