Q & A

by Vikas Swarup

  ‘“Ten lakhs!” My eyes popped out.

  ‘“Yes. Today I am only betting ten thousand on India. I have been trying to ask my bookie for the odds, but his number is continuously engaged.” He slapped his mobile a couple of times, looked impatiently at his watch and punched in the number once again. This time he got through. “Hello, Sharad bhai?” AK here. Code 3563. What’s the rate on the match?” I heard the bookie’s voice over the phone with a lot of static. I could hear the commentary in the background: “India already has a lead of 175 over England. Once the lead crosses 250, the odds will turn heavily in favour of India. With less than a lead of 250 it is fifty–fifty either way, but crossing the 250 mark will change that to three to one in India’s favour.”

  ‘“And what are the odds on an England victory?” Ahmed asked him.

  ‘“Are you crazy?” the bookie replied. “There is no way England can win; their best bet is to hold out for a draw. But if you ask for the odds, they are eight to one. Do you want to book now?”

  ‘“Yeah. Put me down for ten thousand on India losing,” said Ahmed.

  I was astounded when I heard Ahmed place this bet, because India was in the lead. But Ahmed obviously knew more than the bookie, because by the end of play England had won the match, English flags were fluttering all over Lord’s cricket ground, and Ahmed was punching his fists in the air and exulting, “Yes! Yes! Yes!” He called up his bookie again. “Kyun Sharad bhai, wasn’t I right? How much have I cleaned up? Eighty thousand? Ha! Not a bad profit for a few hours’ work!”

  ‘Ahmed went out and got a bottle full of frothy liquid, and that evening I had my first sip of champagne.

  ‘Ahmed’s second interest in life was watching Mumbai Crime Watch. Have you ever seen it?’

  I shake my head. ‘No, it wasn’t on the TV in Delhi.’

  ‘Well, it is a very boring programme. It is like a news bulletin, except they don’t tell you about floods and riots and war and politics. They tell you only about violent crime. Who has been murdered, who has been raped, which bank has been looted, who has escaped from jail, that kind of thing.

  ‘Ahmed would sit in front of the TV with a plate of seekh kebabs and laugh loudly whenever he heard the bulletin on Mumbai Crime Watch. For some reason, he found it very amusing.

  ‘From time to time, Ahmed would receive large yellow envelopes by courier. I had strict instructions not to touch his mail and to leave it on the dining table for him. One afternoon, a large yellow envelope was brought by the delivery boy just when I was having tea. By mistake I spilt tea on the envelope and went into a panic. I knew if Ahmed saw that I had spoilt his packet he would be angry. It might contain valuable commercial documents which could have been damaged. So I sat down and carefully prised open the gummed flap. I inserted my fingers and pulled out the documents . . . and whistled in surprise.’

  ‘Why? What was there?’

  ‘Nothing much. The packet contained just one glossy eight-by-six colour photograph of a man’s face and half a sheet of neatly typed details. Even I could read that much. It said:

  Name: Vithalbhai Ghorpade.

  Age: 56

  Address: 73/4 Marve Road, Malad.

  That was all.

  ‘I presumed these were the details of some businessman Ahmed had dealings with, and didn’t think too much about it. I carefully resealed the flap and put the envelope on the dining table. In the evening, Ahmed came home and opened the envelope. He received a phone call shortly afterwards. “Yes, I have received the packet,” is all he said.

  ‘Almost two weeks later, Ahmed was sitting in front of the TV, watching Mumbai Crime Watch. I was in the kitchen, chopping vegetables, but I could hear the presenter speaking. “. . . In yet another gruesome incident in Malad, police are looking for clues to the murder of a prominent businessman named Vithalbhai Ghorpade, who was found murdered in his house on Marve Road.” The name rang a bell. I glanced at the TV and almost cut my finger, because on screen was the same photograph that had been in the yellow envelope. The presenter continued, “Mr Ghorpade, who was fifty-six, was shot dead at point-blank range while he was alone in the house. He is survived by his wife and son. According to Malad police, robbery appears to have been the main motive as the house was ransacked and many valuables were missing.”

  ‘I noticed Ahmed laughing when he heard this. This, too, surprised me. Why should Ahmed laugh over the death of a business associate?

  ‘A month later, there was another yellow envelope. Ahmed was out and I could not resist taking a peek at its contents. This time I steamed it open, so that no marks were left. I opened the flap and pulled out yet another glossy photograph. This one showed the face of a young man with a thick moustache and a long scar running from his left eye to the base of his nose. The typed sheet of paper said:

  Name: Jameel Kidwai.

  Age: 28.

  Address: 35 Shilajit Apartments, Colaba.

  I memorized the name and put the photo back.

  ‘Ahmed came home that evening and looked at the envelope. There was a phone call, as before, and he confirmed receipt of the packet. Exactly a week later, I heard the news on Crime Watch that a young lawyer called Jameel Kidwai had been shot dead while getting out of his car near his residence in Shilajit Apartments. The presenter said, “Police suspect a gangland motive in this killing, as Mr Kidwai had represented several mafia dons in court. An investigation has been launched, but there are no clues at present.” Ahmed, sitting with a glass of whisky, guffawed when he heard this.

  ‘I was now seriously worried. Why did Ahmed receive pictures of people in the mail and why did those people die soon afterwards? This was still a mystery to me. So when the next yellow envelope was delivered three weeks later, I not only took a peek at the photograph, which was of an elderly man, I also wrote down the address. It was of a house on Premier Road in Kurla. The next day, I followed Ahmed. He took a local train to Kurla and walked to Premier Road. But he didn’t enter the house. He just passed it three or four times, as if checking it out. Two weeks later, Crime Watch announced that the same elderly man had been found murdered in his house on Premier Road in Kurla.

  ‘I am not a fool. I knew there and then that Ahmed had murdered the man and that I was living with a contract killer. But I didn’t know what to do. Ahmed had saved my life once and I couldn’t even contemplate betraying him to the police. Meanwhile, Abbas Rizvi called me up and made a firm offer of a supporting role in his next film. When I heard this I ran all the way to the shrine of Haji Ali. I touched my forehead to the cloth covering the tomb and prayed for Rizvi’s long life.

  ‘For the next two months I lived an uneasy double life. If Ahmed was a contract killer masquerading as a businessman, I was an actor masquerading as a servant. Ahmed had licence to kill, but I knew that a day would come when he himself would get killed. I simply hoped that I wouldn’t get caught in the crossfire. And then everything fell apart.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘It was four months ago – the twentieth of February, to be exact. I remember the day very well, because India was playing Australia in the last match of the series and Ahmed had just placed another bet. He used to bet on everything: not only on which team would win, but also the first wicket to fall, the bowler to take the first wicket, who would win the toss, whether there would be rain during the match. Sometimes he would bet on virtually every ball in the match – whether it would be a four, a six or a dot ball. That morning, Ahmed had just spoken to his bookie. “Sharad bhai, Code 3563. How do you think the pitch will behave? Yesterday it was flat, but will the ball start turning from today? The weather forecast is good, but do you think it might rain later in the day?” Then he placed his bet. “Book me on Sachin Malvankar making his thirty-seventh century today. What’s the rate?” The bookie said, “He is already on seventy-eight and everyone feels a century is a sure shot, so the odds are not very promising. The best I can do is thirteen to ten.” “OK,” said Ahmed, “then put me down fo
r ten lakhs. This way I will at least make a profit of three lakhs.”

  That whole afternoon Ahmed sat in front of the TV set and watched Malvankar play, cheering his every run with loud whistles. As Malvankar inched towards his century, Ahmed became more and more excited. By the time Malvankar entered the nineties Ahmed was a nervous wreck, biting his fingernails, praying before every ball, cringing whenever Malvankar was beaten by a delivery. But Malvankar played like the master batsman he is. He moved from ninety-one to ninety-five with a magnificent straight drive for four. Then he took a single to reach ninety-six. Another single. Ninety-seven. Then Gillespie bowled a short ball and Malvankar pulled it majestically to the cover boundary. Hayden was running after it, trying to stop it from crossing the rope. Malvankar and his co-batsman Ajay Mishra were running quickly between the wickets. They took one run. Ninety-eight. Then they raced to complete the second. Ninety-nine. Hayden gathered up the ball inches inside the cover boundary and sent in a looping throw, not to Adam Gilchrist, the wicketkeeper, but to the bowler’s end. Malvankar saw the throw coming and shouted “Nooooo!” to Mishra, who was running towards him for the third run. But that idiot Mishra kept on charging down the pitch towards Malvankar. In desperation, Malvankar was forced to set out to complete the third run. He had almost made it to the bowler’s end when the ball from Hayden landed directly on the stumps! Malvankar was caught just six inches outside the crease and declared run out by the third umpire. On ninety-nine.

  ‘You can imagine what happened to Ahmed. He had bet ten lakhs on Malvankar’s thirty-seventh century and now he had lost it all by one run. He cursed Gillespie, he cursed Hayden, and most of all he cursed Mishra. “I want to kill that bastard,” he growled and charged out of the house. He probably went to a bar to drown his sorrows.

  ‘That same afternoon, another yellow envelope came. I was worried that it might contain the picture of a certain Indian batsman, but when I saw what was inside I almost died.’

  ‘Why? What was inside? Tell me quickly.’

  ‘Inside the envelope was a glossy, eight-by-six photograph of Abbas Rizvi, the producer, and a typewritten piece of paper containing his address. I knew that he would be Ahmed’s next victim, and that with his death, my dream of becoming an actor would also die. I had to warn Rizvi. But if Ahmed found out, he would have no qualms about killing me either. After all, he was a professional hitman with a licence to kill.’

  ‘So what did you do?’ I ask breathlessly.

  ‘I did what I had to do. I immediately went to Rizvi and told him about the contract on him. He didn’t believe me, so I showed him the picture and the address which had come by courier. Once he saw the photo in my hand, all his doubts vanished. He told me he would run away to Dubai and lie low for a year or so. He was now so indebted to me, he promised that on his return he would make me a hero in his next film and till then he would get me trained. So that is why he is funding my acting course and why I am counting the days till I turn eighteen.’

  ‘My God, what a story, Salim,’ I say, letting out a deep breath. ‘But by taking that packet to Rizvi, didn’t you expose yourself to Ahmed? He would have received a phone call that evening and he would have known about the missing envelope.’

  ‘No, I didn’t expose myself, because Ahmed did get a packet on the dining table when he returned that evening.’

  ‘But . . . then Ahmed would have killed Rizvi.’

  ‘No, because the packet contained a new picture and a new address, which I got typed at the nearby typing institute.’

  ‘Brilliant. You mean you gave a fictitious address? But how could you give a fictitious picture?’

  ‘I could not. So I did not. I gave Ahmed a real picture and a real address, and he actually went and carried out the hit. But before he could discover that he had killed the wrong guy, I told him I had to go urgently to Bihar and left his employment. I hid here and there, I didn’t enter Byculla, I even stopped going to Haji Ali, which is just opposite. And then last week I saw on Crime Watch that the police had shot a dreaded contract killer by the name of Ahmed Khan in a shoot-out near Churchgate Station. So today I came to Haji Ali to offer my thanks to Allah, and behold, who do I see when I come out but you!’

  ‘Yes, it is an amazing coincidence. But I have just one more question. Whose picture and address did you give Ahmed?’

  ‘The only one worth giving. I gave him a glossy eight-by-six photo of Mr Babu Pillai, and Maman’s address!!’

  Smita claps her hands. ‘Marvellous! I know by now that you are a smart cookie, but I didn’t know that Salim is also a genius. He got licence to kill by proxy, and he chose the perfect target. So what happened after? Did you tell Salim about your participation in the quiz?’

  ‘No. I didn’t reveal why I had come to Mumbai. I simply said that I was in Delhi, working as a servant, and was visiting the city for a couple of days.’

  ‘So Salim has no clue about your appearance on W3B?’

  ‘No. I was going to inform him, but before I could do so the police arrested me.’

  ‘I see. Anyway, now let’s see how the fortuitous meeting with Salim helped your fortunes on the show.’

  In the studio, the lights have been dimmed again.

  Prem Kumar addresses the camera. ‘We now move on to question number nine, for one million rupees.’ He turns to me. ‘Are you ready?’

  ‘Ready,’ I reply.

  ‘OK. Here is question number nine. This one is from the world of sport. Tell me, Mr Thomas, which sport do you play?’

  ‘None.’

  ‘None? Then how come you are so fit? Look at me, I have gained so much flab despite going to the gym every morning.’

  ‘If you had to work as a waiter and commute thirty kilometres every day, you too would become fit,’ I reply.

  The audience titters. Prem Kumar scowls.

  ‘OK, here comes question number nine, from the world of cricket. How many Test centuries has India’s greatest batsman Sachin Malvankar scored? Your choices are a) 34, b) 35, c) 36 or d) 37?’

  The music commences.

  ‘Can I ask a question?’

  ‘Yes, sure.’

  ‘Has India played any other country since the recent series with Australia?’

  ‘No, not to my knowledge.’

  ‘Then I know the answer. It is C. 36.’

  ‘Is that your final answer? Remember, there is a million rupees riding on your reply.’

  ‘Yes, it is C. 36.’

  ‘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! Sachin Malvankar has indeed scored 36 Test centuries. You have just won a million rupees! Ladies and gentlemen, we will now take a short commercial break.’

  ‘Cut!’ I say.

  TRAGEDY QUEEN

  A family drama with doses of comedy and action, ending eventually in tragedy. In film parlance, this is how I would describe the time I spent with Neelima Kumari. She was an actress. And I worked for three years in her flat in Juhu Vile Parle.

  It all began on that same night that Salim and I escaped from the clutches of Maman and his gang. We took the local train and landed in Juhu. We walked up to Neelima Kumari’s flat, pressed the doorbell and waited.

  After a lengthy interval the door is opened. ‘Yes?’ A lady stands before us. Radhey, the lame boy, was right. She is tall and beautiful, just like a heroine, only older. Salim falls at her feet. ‘Arrey.’ She hurriedly steps back. ‘Who are you two? What are you doing here at this hour of night?’

  ‘We are friends of Radhey,’ I reply with folded hands. ‘He told us you are in need of a servant. We have come to offer our services. We know you are a very kind lady. We are in desperate need of food and shelter and promise to do anything you ask us.’

  ‘Yes, I do need a servant, but I cannot keep someone so young.’

  ‘Madam, we are young only in looks
. We can do the work of four men. I can also speak English. Do try us.’

  ‘But I don’t need two servants. I have space only for one.’

  Salim and I look at each other. ‘Then at least pick one of us,’ I say.

  ‘What is your name?’ she asks Salim.

  ‘Salim.’

  ‘Oh, you are Muslim, aren’t you?’

  Salim nods.

  ‘Look, I am sorry, but my aged mother who lives with me cannot eat anything touched by a Muslim. I personally don’t believe in all this polluting-contact nonsense, but what am I to do?’ She shrugs her shoulders. Salim looks crestfallen.

  Then she turns to me. ‘And what about you? What is your name?’

  ‘Ram,’ I tell her.

  So I got the job, and only then did I discover that life with a movie star is not as glamorous as it appears from the outside. When you get to see them without make-up you find that they are exactly like you and me, with the same anxieties and insecurities. The only difference is that we are mainly concerned with money, or lack of it, and they are mainly concerned with fame. Or lack of it.

  They live in a fish bowl. First they hate it, then, as adulation grows, they start loving it. And when people no longer shower attention on them, they just shrivel up and die.

  Neelima Kumari’s flat is spacious and contemporary, tastefully furnished with expensive wall-to-wall carpets and paintings. It has five bedrooms. The large master bedroom with attached bathroom is Neelima’s, and her mother has the next-largest. As far as I know, Neelima has no other relatives.

  Neelima’s bedroom is the best room in the flat. It has a huge bed in the middle with a velvet bedspread. The walls have tiles made of glass so you see your image reflected in a thousand tiny pieces. There is a dresser full of perfumes and bottles. Next to the dresser is a twenty-nine-inch Sony TV, a VCR and the latest VCD player. An expensive chandelier hangs from the ceiling. A soundless air conditioner keeps the room delightfully cool. Glass shelves line the walls, loaded with trophies and awards of all kinds. There is another glass case full of old film magazines. All of them have Neelima Kumari on the cover. Looking at all this, I feel privileged to be working in her house. In her time, she must have been the most famous actress in India.