Q & A

by Vikas Swarup

  That night, Jai breaks into the Taylors’ house. He doesn’t go to the children’s rooms or the master bedroom. He goes straight to the Den. First he switches off the electricity at the mains. Then he short-circuits the electronic panel, cuts the padlock with a chainsaw, pushes aside the iron grille and kicks open the wooden door.

  I am woken by the sound of violent screaming coming from the Taylor residence. At three am I rush into the house and discover Jai’s handiwork. He is inside the Den, beating his head against the wall. ‘These bastards. They live like kings and don’t have a penny in the house,’ he seethes.

  Alarm bells are ringing in my mind. I am convinced that The Man Who Knows will find out about Jai’s treachery even while he is attending a funeral ten thousand miles away. And that I will also be implicated by association.

  ‘Jai, you fool, what have you done?’ I yell at him.

  ‘Nothing more than what I came here to do. I am a professional thief, Thomas. Spent eight years in Tihar Jail. I thought that with all this security, that bastard Taylor was keeping the family jewels in this room. But there’s not a penny here. Six months of effort has gone completely to waste. OK, I am restoring the electricity and then I’m off. I am taking the VCD player and the three-in-one in the TV room. They are crumbs, but I have to respect my profession. You can clean up after me. And if you try and call the police I will break every bone in your body.’

  After Jai has gone, I look around the room. It is full of strange-looking gadgets: microphones like tiny sunflowers and miniature cameras like disembodied eyes. There are pads saying ‘Cipher’ with nonsense combinations of numbers and letters. There are some books: The Art of Espionage, Essentials of a Good Counter Agent, Spying for Dummies. There are papers bearing labels like ‘Top Secret’ and ‘For Your Eyes Only’, drawings of various kinds, one saying ‘Advanced Technology Vessel nuclear reactor design’ and another ‘submarine schemata’. And there is a drawer full of miniature VHS tapes. I look at the labels on the tapes, arranged alphabetically: Ajay, Bhagwati, HC, Jeevan, Jones, Maggie, McGill, Raj, Ramesh, Rebecca, Roy, Shanti, Stuart. And Thomas. Hidden inside the second drawer is a portable video player. With trembling hands I pull out my tape and insert it into the player. The screen comes alive with images from my room. I see myself reclining on my bed; writing in my red diary; talking to Ramu; sleeping. I fast-forward to see whether there are any pictures of Shantaram on the tape. I then insert the tape with Mrs Taylor’s name. She is sitting on her bed. A man enters surreptitiously and takes her in his arms. I can only see his back. He kisses her long and hard. Suddenly there is a knock and the man whirls around and looks me straight in the eye. I almost die of fright. It is the High Commissioner. I hastily take out the tape and switch off the video player. For a couple of minutes I stand absolutely still, worried that a secret camera might be in action even in this room. Then I breathe deeply. Now I know how Colonel Taylor became The Man Who Knows. He has bugged the whole house and probably the whole High Commission. He is a spy. But I’m not Steve Nolan from Spycatcher. I get 1,500 rupees a month, which I have totted up to 43,500 rupees in my red diary. And I don’t want all this money to remain only in a diary. I want to touch the bundles of currency, feel the smooth surface of the crisp new notes. So I will keep my mouth shut. And smile whenever Sahib and Memsahib smile.

  I call up Colonel Taylor on his cellphone number. ‘I am sorry to disturb you, Sir, but there has been a robbery in the house. Jai has taken away the VCD player and the three-in-one. And he also broke into the Den.’

  ‘What???’

  ‘Yes, Sir. I am sorry, Sir.’

  ‘Look, Thomas, this is what I want you to do. I want you to secure the Den immediately. Take out the broken padlock. You don’t have to enter the room. Just put any lock on the door and do not allow anyone to enter it. It is very important that you don’t call the police. If the alarm sounds, just punch in the following code on the keypad on the door: 0007. You got it? 0007 and it will stop. I am taking a flight back immediately and should be in Delhi by tomorrow afternoon, but till I arrive I want you to make sure that no one enters the Den. Have you understood?’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  Colonel Taylor returns to Delhi without even attending his mother’s funeral. He rushes into the Den as soon as the taxi pulls up outside the house. He comes out looking relieved. ‘Thank God, nothing has been taken from the room. Well done, Thomas. I knew I could rely on you.’

  Over the next six months, my life slips back into the same groove as before. A new cook is hired who has not been within a thousand miles of Tihar Jail. Bhagwati is dismissed for taking the car without permission for a wedding in his family. Maggie’s new boyfriend James is discovered and banned from entering the house. Roy is caught taking drugs and given a thrashing. Mrs Taylor and her husband continue to speak to each other with icy formality. Colonel Taylor, I presume, continues to meet Jeevan Kumar in lonely alleys and deserted car parks.

  Maggie and Roy are playing Scrabble in the living room. They ask me to join them. I have learnt many new words playing this game with them, such as ‘bingle’ and ‘brekkie’ and ‘chalkie’ and ‘dosh’ and ‘skite’ and ‘spunk’. Maggie always wins these games. Her vocabulary is really good. She is the only one who knows eight-letter words and once she even made a nine-letter word. I am the worst. I make words like ‘go’ and ‘eat’ and ‘sing’ and ‘last’. Once in a blue moon, I do get six- or seven-letter words, but I still end up with the least points. Sometimes I think Roy invites me as a third player just so that he doesn’t come last. Today, my letters have not been good. Lots of Xs and Js and Ks and Ls. The game is about to end. Maggie has 203 points, Roy has 175 and I have 104. My last seven letters are G, P, E, E, S, A and I. I am thinking of making ‘page’ or ‘see’. Then Roy uses an O from one of Maggie’s words to make ‘on’ and I latch on to it in a flash. I put E, S, P and I before O and A, G and E after N. ‘Espionage’. That’s a total of seventeen points, and triple that for putting it on a red square and add fifty points for using all seven tiles. 101 points. Take that, Maggie!

  I have been hovering around the phone all day. Maggie is expecting a call from James and she has instructed me to pick up the phone before her father does from the Den. The phone finally rings at seven-fifteen pm. I lift the receiver in a flash. But Colonel Taylor has already beaten me to it. ‘Hello,’ he says.

  There is heavy breathing at the other end. Then Jeevan Kumar’s voice floats over the static. ‘Meet me tomorrow, Thursday, at eight pm at the Kwality Ice Cream Shop near India Gate. I have dynamite stuff.’

  ‘Good,’ says Colonel Taylor and disconnects the line.

  Colonel Taylor sits with his stubby of Foster’s in the living room, watching the latest episode of Spycatcher. This time Steve Nolan is in a real dilemma. He has discovered that his best friend, the one he went to college with, the one who was best man at his wedding, is a Commie spy. He is very sad. He doesn’t know what to do. He sits in a bar in a dishevelled condition and drinks loads of whisky. Then the bartender tells him, ‘It’s a dirty world out there, but if no one agrees to do the washing, the whole country goes down the shit house.’ Steve Nolan hears this and gets all charged up. He rushes to the Commie spy’s house in his red Ferrari. ‘You are a good man, doing a bad job,’ he tells his friend, before taking out his gun. ‘Friendship is important. But the country comes first. I am sorry,’ he says and shoots him dead.

  The next night a police jeep and an Ambassador car with flashing red lights come screeching to the house at ten pm. The same Inspector who arrested Ramu gets out, together with the Commissioner of Police. Colonel Taylor is with them, looking like Steve Nolan in the bar. Within ten minutes, the High Commissioner also arrives, looking very grim. ‘What’s all this?’ he asks the Police Chief. ‘Why has Colonel Taylor been declared persona non grata and asked to leave within forty-eight hours by the Foreign Office?’

  ‘Well, Your Excellency, we have evidence of your officer indulging in ac
tivities incompatible with his diplomatic status. I am afraid he will have to leave the country,’ the Police Chief replies.

  ‘But what’s the charge against him?’

  ‘We caught him red-handed taking sensitive and top-secret documents from a man by the name of Jeevan Kumar, who is a clerk in the Ministry of Defence.’

  Colonel Taylor looks ashen. He doesn’t say these Indians are bloody fibbers. He just stands in the middle of the drawing room with his head bowed.

  The High Commissioner lets out a sigh. ‘I must say this is the first time in my long career that any of my officers has been PNG’d. And believe me, Charles is no spy. But if he has to go, he has to go.’ Then he takes the Police Chief aside. ‘Mr Chopra, I have sent you many cases of Black Label over the years. Can you do me a favour and answer one question?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Just for my information, can you tell me how did you come to know about Charles’s meeting today? Did this fellow Kumar lead you to him?’

  ‘Funny you should ask. It was not Jeevan Kumar. Quite the contrary, it was one of your own guys. Called up Inspector Tyagi this morning and told him to go to India Gate at eight pm to catch Colonel Taylor receiving some secret documents.’

  ‘I don’t believe it. How can you be so sure it was an Australian?’

  Inspector Tyagi steps in. ‘Well, Mr Ambassador, the accent was a dead give-away. The man said something like, “G’day maite, cight at aite.” I mean, only an Australian would speak like that, wouldn’t he?’

  The next day, Colonel Taylor leaves Delhi alone on a Qantas flight. Mrs Taylor and the kids will follow later. I am leaving the Taylors, too. With three keyrings, six T-shirts, thirty Australian Geographic magazines which I will sell to a kabariwalla. And 52,000 rupees. In crisp new notes.

  I say my hooroos to the Taylor family. Roy behaves like a whacker. Since he started taking drugs he has kangaroos loose in the top paddock. Maggie’s pashing James. And I am not worried about Mrs Taylor. With the HC around, I know she’ll be apples. As for me, I’m off to meet Salim in Mumbai. It’ll be a bonzer!

  Smita looks at her watch. It shows the time as one-thirty am. ‘Are you sure you want to carry on?’ I ask.

  ‘Do we have a choice?’ she replies. ‘They will file formal charges against you by tomorrow.’ She presses the ‘Play’ button again.

  We are in yet another commercial break. Prem Kumar taps his desk. ‘You know what, Mr Thomas, your luck has finally run out. I am ready to bet you that you cannot answer the next question. So prepare to use one of your Lifeboats.’

  The signature tune begins.

  Prem Kumar turns to me. ‘We now move on to question number five for fifty thousand rupees. This one pertains to the world of diplomacy. When a government declares a foreign diplomat persona non grata, what does it mean? Is it a) that the diplomat is to be honoured, b) that the diplomat’s tenure should be extended, c) that the diplomat is grateful or d) that the diplomat is not acceptable? Have you understood the question, Mr Thomas?’

  ‘Yes,’ I reply.

  ‘OK. Then let’s have your reply. Remember, both Lifeboats are still available to you. You can get A Friendly Tip, or you can ask me for Half and Half and I will remove two wrong answers, leaving you with just two choices. What do you say?’

  ‘I say D.’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘I said D. The diplomat is not acceptable.’

  ‘Is that a guess? Remember, you stand to lose the ten thousand rupees you’ve already won if you give the wrong answer. So if you want, you can quit right now.’

  ‘I know the answer. It is D.’

  There are gasps from the audience.

  ‘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 fifty thousand rupees!’ declares Prem Kumar. The audience stands up and cheers. Prem Kumar wipes the sweat from his brow. ‘I must say, this is remarkable,’ he says out aloud. ‘Tonight Mr Thomas really seems to be The Man Who Knows!’

  HOLD ON TO YOUR BUTTONS

  ‘Khallas. Finished,’ I say, speaking in monosyllables. ‘No more whisky. Bar closed now. Go home.’

  ‘Noooo. Plizz don’t say that. Ged me one m-more peeeg. Lasht one,’ the customer pleads and holds out his empty glass. I look at my watch. It is twelve forty-five am. Technically, the bar does not close till one. With a grimace I pick up the bottle of Black Dog rum. ‘Hundred rupees, please,’ I demand. The man takes a crumpled note from his shirt pocket and I pour a carefully measured peg into his glass.

  ‘Thang you, b-b-b-artender,’ he says, takes a swig of the rum and crashes down on the table, shattering his glass on the floor, spilling the bottle of soda and overturning the bowl of mint chutney. Within seconds he will be fast asleep. Now I not only have to clear up the big mess he has created, but also call a taxi, help him to his feet and somehow send him home. And though I was smart enough to charge him for the drinks in advance, I can forget about getting any tip from this customer.

  Perhaps I myself am to blame for getting into this situation. The customer was displaying all the tell-tale signs of crashing out any minute. But I thought he could stomach one last peg. As usual, I was wrong.

  Even after two months at Jimmy’s Bar and Restaurant, I am unable to assess accurately a drinker’s capacity. I have, though, evolved a rough classification system for drunkards. Top of my list are the horses. These can hold as many as eight pegs without slurring their speech. Then come the asses, who start braying and babbling after just two or three, or become maudlin and sentimental and begin crying. Then come the dogs. The more they drink, the more they want to get into an argument or a fight. Some of them also get frisky with Rosie. Below them are the bears, who drink and then drift off to sleep. And at the bottom are the pigs. They are the ones who vomit after their last peg. This classification is not watertight. I have seen customers who start like horses but end up like pigs. And dogs who turn into bears. Mercifully, this customer has ended up a bear rather than a pig.

  I get rid of the last drunkard and look at the clock on the wall. It is one-ten am. Ever since Rosie and her dad pushed off to Goa for a holiday, I have been returning to my cubby-hole of a house in Dharavi after midnight almost every night. This is partly my fault. If I had not told the manager that I knew how to mix drinks and measure whisky by the peg, that I could tell the difference between a Campari with Soda and a Bloody Mary, I wouldn’t have been asked to officiate as the bartender in Alfred’s absence.

  Jimmy’s Bar and Restaurant in Colaba has fading prints on the walls, mirrors behind the bar, sturdy wooden furniture, and the best menu in South Mumbai. Because the food is so good and the prices so cheap, it attracts customers from all walks of life. On any given day you can find a top-level executive nursing his drink at the bar next to a lowly factory worker. The manager insists that we strike up conversations with customers at the bar, because people drink more when they have company. Rosie’s dad, the doddery bartender Alfred D’Souza, is adept at chatting up patrons. He knows most of the regulars by name and sits with them for hours, listening to their tales of woe and adding steadily to their liquor bill. Rosie herself is becoming quite an expert bar girl. She sits at the bar wearing a low-cut blouse and a tight skirt, occasionally bends down to display some cleavage and entices the customers into ordering expensive imported whisky instead of the cheap Indian brands. Sometimes, though, her antics land her in trouble with boorish customers who fancy her as a cheap lay. I then have to act as informal bouncer.

  Mr Alfred D’Souza thinks there is something brewing between Rosie and me and watches me like a hawk whenever she is around. He is completely mistaken. Rosie is a sweet girl. She is short and bosomy. The way she tilts her head at me and occasionally winks, I feel she might be trying to give me a signal. But my brain is now incapable of receiving it. It is overloaded with memories o
f just one person: Nita. The doctors in Agra have said it will take at least four months for Nita to recover from her injuries. And I know Shyam will never allow me to meet her. That is why I have returned to Mumbai: to exorcise the ghosts of Agra, both of the living and of the dead. But I cannot escape my own history in this city. Memories of the past way-lay me at every intersection. Shantaram, the failed astronomer, mocks me in the streets. Neelima Kumari, the actress, calls out to me on the local train. And Salim, my friend, looks down at me from every billboard. But I have taken a conscious decision not to meet Salim. I do not want him to get sucked up in the vortex of my crazy life and my crazy plans.

  I live in a corner of Mumbai called Dharavi, in a cramped hundred-square-foot shack which has no natural light or ventilation, with a corrugated metal sheet serving as the roof over my head. It vibrates violently whenever a train passes overhead. There is no running water and no sanitation. This is all I can afford. But I am not alone in Dharavi. There are a million people like me, packed in a two-hundred-hectare triangle of swampy urban wasteland, where we live like animals and die like insects. Destitute migrants from all over the country jostle with each other for their own handful of sky in Asia’s biggest slum. There are daily squabbles – over inches of space, over a bucket of water – which at times turn deadly. Dharavi’s residents come from the dusty backwaters of Bihar and UP and Tamil Nadu and Gujarat. They came to Mumbai, the city of gold, with dreams in their hearts of striking it rich and living upper-middle-class lives. But that gold turned to lead a long time ago, leaving behind rusted hearts and gangrenous minds. Like my own.