Q & A

by Vikas Swarup

  ‘I will play,’ I say softly.

  ‘Excuse me?’ says Prem Kumar. ‘Could you say that a bit louder, please?’

  ‘I will play,’ I say loudly and confidently.

  There are gasps from the audience. Someone says, ‘Oh, my God!’ Another says, ‘What an idiot!’

  ‘Is this your final, irrevocable decision?’ says Prem Kumar. He smiles at me again.

  ‘Yes,’ I say.

  ‘Then we have made history, ladies and gentlemen,’ Prem Kumar exults. ‘We have with us a contestant who is prepared to risk it all. We had one other contestant before who risked it all – and lost. We will see today whether Mr Thomas can create history by becoming the winner of the biggest prize in history. OK, so we are ready for the final three questions in Play or Pay. Please give him a big round of applause.’

  There is a crescendo of drums. ‘Play or Pay’ flashes on the screen. The audience stand up in their seats and clap enthusiastically.

  After the music dies down, Prem Kumar turns to me.

  ‘OK, Mr Thomas, you have won one million rupees and you are in the sudden-death round which we call Play or Pay. You will either win a billion or you will lose everything you have earned till now. So question number ten for ten million, yes, ten million rupees is coming up. Here it is. Neelima Kumari, the Tragedy Queen, won the National Award—?”

  ‘But this is not the ques—’

  ‘Please, Mr Thomas, don’t interrupt me in the middle of the question. Let me complete,’ he says sternly. ‘So as I was saying, the question is, Neelima Kumari, the Tragedy Queen, won the National Award in which year? Was it a) 1984, b) 1988, c) 1986 or d) 1985?’

  I glare at Prem Kumar. He smirks. I understand him now. What he told me in the break was a trick to lure me into this round. But he has not reckoned with my luck. It is still holding.

  ‘I know the answer. It is d) 1985.’

  ‘What?’ Prem Kumar is thunderstruck. He is so surprised that he even forgets to ask me whether I am a hundred per cent sure. He presses his button mechanically and the correct answer flashes. It is D.

  Prem Kumar looks as though he has seen a ghost. ‘Mr . . . Mr Thomas . . . has . . . just won t-ten million rupees,’ he stammers, completely flustered.

  The audience goes wild. Everyone stands up and cheers. Some people start dancing in the aisles.

  Prem Kumar wipes the sweat from his forehead and takes a big swig of lemonade.

  What should have been a tragedy has become a farce.

  X GKRZ OPKNU (OR A LOVE STORY)

  Food. That is all I can see, hear, think and smell on the crowded and noisy railway station where I have been standing in my cotton shirt and Levi jeans for the past two hours. If you don’t eat for a while, the hunger just shrivels up and dies. But if you don’t eat for a long time – and I have not had a meal since yesterday afternoon – your brain does funny things. All around me I can only see people eating and drinking. And my nose follows the trail of food like a dog sniffing out a bone. The aroma of freshly made jalebis, puris and kachoris makes me dizzy. Even something as basic as a boiled egg, which I have never liked, makes me salivate. But when I finger my pocket I discover only a one-rupee coin, and after last night’s loss of my fifty thousand rupees, it doesn’t seem lucky any longer. So I lick my parched lips and wonder how to kill my hunger.

  I am about to trade in my Kasio digital watch for a plate of chhole bhature when my eyes fall on a hoarding next to the railway canteen. It says simply, ‘M – Just one kilometre away.’ I know instantly where I can get food. For free.

  I leave Agra railway station and set about searching for the big red M sign. I take one or two wrong turns, ask a couple of shopkeepers, and find it eventually in the heart of a posh market. The smartly attired waiters at McDonald’s look at me suspiciously but don’t shoo me away. They can’t turn back a customer in Levi jeans, however scruffy he might be. I position myself close to the wooden bin, the one with the swinging flap. When no one is looking I quickly push my hand inside and take out as many of those nice brown paper bags as are within arm’s reach. I exit after using the clean toilet to wash off some of the dirt and grime from my face.

  My first attempt at scavenging is quite successful. I sit on a green wooden bench outside and feed contentedly on a half-eaten vegetable burger, some chicken nuggets, two almost full packets of French fries and half a cup of 7 Up. Scavenging is part of the survival gear of a street kid. I knew some boys who used to live off the leftovers found in the air-conditioned compartment of the Rajdhani Express. There were others who were addicted to the pepperoni pizza from Pizza Hut, managing to extract at least seven or eight perfect slices every evening from the bin inside the outlet. But they all agreed that the easiest way to eat a free dinner was to join a marriage procession. Salim used to be an expert at this. The only requirement is to wear neat clothes and proper shoes. You mingle with the guests and then line up at the buffet dinner. The bride’s side thinks you are from the groom’s family and the groom’s side thinks you are from the bride’s family. You get to drink ten or fifteen bottles of soft drinks, eat a lavish spread and enjoy a wide range of desserts. You can even make off with some nice stainless-steel cutlery. Salim had acquired almost a full dinner set. But he gave up the habit after an episode in Nariman Point, when he gate-crashed a marriage where the families of the bride and groom had a massive fight which degenerated into fisticuffs. Salim got beaten up by both parties.

  My hunger sated, I decide to explore this unknown town. I walk through its crowded lanes, full of rickshaws, pedestrians and cows. I admire the intricate latticework on old-fashioned havelis, savour the smell of food drifting from road-side kebab shops and pure vegetarian dhabas, and wrinkle my nose at the stench coming from open drains and tanneries. I read the giant posters stuck on every empty space, urging people to see new films or vote for old politicians. I see old and wizened craftsmen sitting in derelict shops, making exquisite designs in marble, and brash young salesmen selling cellphones in air-conditioned showrooms. I discover that the rich of Agra are no different from the rich of Delhi and Mumbai, living in their marble and Plexiglas houses with guards and alarms. And that the slums of Agra are no different either. They consist of the same cluster of corrugated-iron sheets masquerading as roofs; the same naked children with pot bellies frolic in the mud with pigs, while their mothers wash utensils in sewer water.

  I walk along a winding dusty road, and suddenly I see a river. It is yellowish green and muddy. Its receding water level is a pointer to the fact that the monsoons have still not arrived. Pieces of driftwood and plastic debris float on its eddying currents. In another place I would have traced its meandering route with my eyes, bent down to see its high-water mark on the bank, craned to catch a glimpse of a dead body floating on its surface. But not here, not now. Because my eyes are transfixed by something I have seen on the opposite bank. It is a gleaming white structure which rises up from a square base like a swelling dome, with pointed arches and recessed bays. It is flanked on all four sides by spear-like minarets. It glitters in the sunlight against the turquoise sky like an ivory moon. Its beauty overpowers me.

  After an eternity, I turn to the first passer-by I see, a middle-aged man carrying a tiffin box. ‘Excuse me, can you tell me what that building is on the other side of the river?’

  He looks at me as if I am a lunatic. ‘Arrey, if you don’t know that, what are you doing in Agra? That is the Taj Mahal, idiot.’

  The Taj Mahal. The Eighth Wonder of the World. I had heard about it, but never seen its picture. I stand mesmerized by the monument as the clouds drifting in the sky cast shadows on its dome, the change of light turning the smooth marble from pale cream to ochre to alabaster. The loss of my fifty thousand rupees, the worries about where I will eat next, sleep next, the fear of being caught by the police, pale into insignificance against the purity of its perfection. I decide then and there that I must see the Taj Mahal today. From up close.

  Thirty min
utes of brisk walking along the embankment brings me to an enormous red-sandstone entrance gate. A large white board says: TAJ MAHAL ENTRY FEES: INDIANS RS.20 FOREIGNERS $20. MONDAYS CLOSED, FRIDAYS FREE. I look at my Kasio day-date wristwatch. It says Friday, 12 June. Looks like today is my lucky day.

  I pass through the metal detector, cross the red-sandstone forecourt with its arched gateway and there, in front of me, the Taj Mahal rises in all its beauty and splendour, shimmering in the afternoon haze. I take in the landscaped garden with fountains and wide paths, the reflecting pool with a glassy image of the Taj dancing in its water, and only then do I notice the overflowing crowds. The Taj is swarming with tourists, young and old, rich and poor, Indian and foreign. There are flashbulbs popping everywhere, a babble of voices rises in the courtyard, while stern-faced, baton-wielding policemen try to restore order.

  After half an hour of aimless exploration, I notice a group of prosperous Western tourists armed with camcorders and binoculars, listening intently to an elderly guide at the base of the dome. I join them discreetly. The guide is pointing towards the marble dome and speaking in a rasping voice. ‘I have explained to you the architectural features of the red-sandstone forecourt, the Chowk-i Jilo Khana, which we have just passed. Now I will tell you a little bit about the history of the Taj Mahal.

  ‘One day in the year 1607, Prince Khurram of the royal Mughal household was strolling down Delhi’s Meena Bazaar when he caught a glimpse of a girl selling silk and glass beads in a small booth. He was so entranced by her beauty that he fell in love with her then and there. But it took five years before he was finally able to marry this girl. Her real name was Arjuman Banu, but he gave her the new name of Mumtaz Mahal. She was nineteen at the time and he was twenty. Mumtaz Begum was the niece of Noorjahan or Mehrunnisa, the wife of Jahangir, who in turn was a niece of Akbar’s Persian queen, Bilgis Begum. Mumtaz and Khurram were married in the year 1612, and over the next eighteen years had fourteen children together. Mumtaz was her husband’s inseparable companion on all his journeys and military expeditions. She was his comrade, his counsellor, and inspired him to acts of charity and benevolence towards the weak and the needy. She died in childbirth on the seventh of June 1630 in Burhanpur, only three years after Khurram ascended the Mughal throne as Emperor Shahjahan. It was when Mumtaz Mahal lay dying that she extracted four promises from the Emperor: first, that he erect a monument to match her beauty; second, that he should not marry again; third, that he be kind to their children; and fourth, that he visit the tomb on the anniversary of her death. Mumtaz’s death left the Emperor so heartbroken that his hair is said to have turned grey overnight. But so great was the Emperor’s love for his wife that he ordered the building of the most beautiful mausoleum on earth for her. Work started in 1631. It took twenty-two years and the combined effort of over twenty thousand artisans and master craftsmen from Persia, the Ottoman Empire, and even Europe, and the result is what you see before you, the Taj Mahal, described by Rabindranath Tagore as “a teardrop on the cheek of time”.’

  A young girl in hot pants raises her hand. ‘Excuse me, who is Tagore?’

  ‘Oh, he was a very famous Indian poet who won the Nobel Prize. He can be compared to, let’s say, William Wordsworth,’ the guide answers.

  ‘William who?’

  ‘Never mind. Now, as I was saying, the architectural complex of the Taj Mahal is comprised of five main elements: the Darwaza or main gateway, the Bageecha or garden, the Masjid or mosque, the Naqqar Khana or rest house, and the Rauza or the main mausoleum. The actual tomb is situated inside the Taj, which we will see in a minute. There I will show you the ninety-nine names of Allah on Mumtaz’s tomb, and the pen box set into Shah Jahan’s tomb, which is the distinguishing feature of a male ruler. These cenotaphs, in accordance with Mughul tradition, are only representations of the real coffins, which lie in the same positions in an unadorned and humid underground crypt. The mausoleum is 57 metres square in plan. The central inner dome is 24.5 metres high and 17.7 metres in diameter, and it is surmounted by an outer shell nearly 61 metres in height. The minarets on all four sides are 40 metres high. You will see how sophisticated the artwork of the time was, because even a 3-centimetre decorative element contains more than 50 inlaid gemstones. Also notice that the lettering of the Quranic verses around the archways appears to be uniform, regardless of their height.

  ‘As a monument to enduring love, the Taj reveals its subtleties to those who know how to appreciate beauty. You will notice that the rectangular base of the Taj is in itself symbolic of the different sides from which to view a beautiful woman. The main gate is like a veil over a woman’s face, which should be lifted very gently and slowly on the wedding night. Like a jewel, the Taj sparkles in the moonlight when the semi-precious stones inlaid into the white marble on the main mausoleum catch the glow of the moon. The Taj is pinkish in the morning, milky white in the evening and golden when the moon shines. These changes, it is said, depict the different moods of a woman. I will now take you inside the mausoleum. Please take off your shoes and deposit them here.’

  The tourists take off their shoes and enter the main mausoleum. I remain outside, trying to match the changing colours on the dome with what I had seen of the changing moods of Neelima Kumari.

  Someone taps me lightly on the shoulder. I whirl around to see a bespectacled foreigner with a wife and two kids staring at me. He is bedecked with gizmos of all kinds, from digital camcorder to mini disc player. ‘Excuse me, you speak English?’ he asks me.

  ‘Yes,’ I reply.

  ‘Please, can you tell little bit about Taj Mahal. We are tourists. From Japan. We new to your city. We come just today.’

  I feel like telling him that I am also new to this city, that I also came just today, but his curious face appeals to me. Mimicking the serious tone of the guide, I begin to tell him what I remember. ‘The Taj Mahal was built by Emperor Khurram for his wife Noorjahan, also known as Mumtaz Begum, in 1531. He met her while she was selling bangles in a garden and fell in love with her, but married her only after nineteen years. She then fought with him in all his battles and gave him eighteen kids in fourteen years.’

  The Japanese interrupts me. ‘Eighteen kids in only fourteen years? You sure?’ he asks diffidently.

  ‘Of course,’ I rebuke him. ‘Some must have been twins, you see. Anyway, when the nineteenth child was being born, Mumtaz died in Sultanpur on the sixteenth of June. But before she died she asked the king for four favours. One to build the Taj Mahal, two not to beat their children, three to make his hair grey, and the fourth . . . I don’t remember, but it’s not important. Now, as you can see, the Taj Mahal consists of a gateway, a garden, a guest house and a tomb.’

  The Japanese nods enthusiastically. ‘Yes. Yes. We have seen gateway and garden. Now we see tomb. But where guest house?’

  I scowl at him. ‘Haven’t I told you that the real tombs are underground? Therefore all the area above the ground must have been the guest house. Now inside the mausoleum you will see the tombs of Mumtaz and the Emperor. Don’t forget to see the pen with ninety-nine gemstones on it, and every three centimetres you will see fifty names of God engraved on the walls. The verses on the walls all mean the same, regardless of the different lettering. Isn’t that wonderful? Remember that the dome is 160 metres high and the minarets are seventeen metres tall. Also, if you view the Taj Mahal from different angles you will see different veils of a woman on her wedding night. Go and try it. Before I forget, I must also tell you that Tagore, our famous poet, won the Nobel prize for his poetry on the Taj Mahal, called “The Slap on the Cheek of William Wordsworth.”’

  ‘Really? Wow! So interesting! Guide book no mention all this.’ He turns to his wife and speaks to her in rapid-fire Japanese. Then he translates for my benefit. ‘I tell my wife it is good we no take expensive official guide. You tell us everything so nicely.’ He beams at me. ‘We thank you very much. Arigato.’ He bows to me and slips something into my hand. I bow back. As he
moves on I open my fist to see a neatly folded, crisp new fifty-rupee note. For just five minutes’ work!

  I know two things now: I want to stay in the city of the Taj Mahal, and I wouldn’t mind becoming a tourist guide.

  Dusk is beginning to fall by the time I finally tear myself away from the marble monument, now cloaked in a reddish hue. I have to find a place to stay. I accost a young boy in the street. He is around my age, and wears a white T-shirt, grey pants and blue Hawaii slippers. He is standing still, watching an altercation in the street. I tap him gently on the shoulder. ‘Excuse me,’ I say. He whirls around and looks at me with the kindest eyes I have ever seen. I sense friendship and curiosity and warmth and welcome in those expressive brown eyes. ‘Excuse me,’ I repeat, ‘I am new to this city. Can you show me a place where I can stay?’

  The boy nods his head and says, ‘Uzo Q Fiks X Ckka Lgxyz.’

  ‘Excuse me?’ I say.

  ‘Ykhz Sqpd Hz. Q Fiks X Ckka Lgxyz,’ he repeats, flapping his hands.

  ‘Excuse me, I do not understand this language. I am sorry to have troubled you. I will ask someone else.’

  ‘Ejop Bkggks Hz,’ he insists and takes my arm. He begins pulling me in the direction of the market. I think of breaking free, but his face is so friendly that I allow myself to be led. He walks in a peculiar fashion, almost on tiptoe. He takes me through narrow labyrinthine by-lanes and twisted alleys, and after fifteen minutes we emerge in front of a large mansion. ‘Swapna Palace’ says the brass nameplate next to a huge iron door. He opens the door and we step inside. The mansion has a curved driveway, a massive lawn with a painted Gujarati swing and a fountain in it. I see two gardeners toiling on the grass. An old Contessa car stands in the driveway, being polished by a uniformed chauffeur. My friend is obviously known to the occupants of the mansion, because no one tries to stop him as he takes me up the driveway to the ornate wooden entrance of the house and presses the doorbell. A dark, young, good-looking maid opens the door. She looks at my friend and says, ‘Oh, it is you, Shankar. Why do you come here again and again? You know Madam does not like it when you come this side.’