Q & A

by Vikas Swarup

  ‘Nita is not going anywhere. The doctors say it will take her four months to recover. And since you are responsible for her injuries, you’d better pay for her treatment as well. She requires plastic surgery. It’s bloody expensive, costing me nearly two lakhs. So if you really want Nita, come back with six lakhs, or my friend here will take care of you.’

  The man sitting alongside Shyam takes out a switchblade from his pocket and twirls it in his fingers like a barber about to shave a customer’s beard. He grins evilly, showing paan-stained teeth.

  I know then that Nita will never be mine. That Shyam will never let her go. That even if I somehow bring six lakhs, Shyam will increase the demand to ten lakhs. My mind seems to go numb and I see blackness all around me. A wave of nausea assails me. When I recover, I see a soggy newspaper lying on the floor. It has an advertisement showing the face of a man who is grinning and holding several thousand-rupee notes in his fingers. Underneath the picture is a caption that says, ‘Welcome to the greatest show on television. Welcome to W3B – Who Will Win A Billion? Phone lines are open. Call now or write to us to see if you will be the lucky winner of the biggest jackpot on earth!’ I look at the address given in the advertisement. It says, ‘Prem Studios, Khar, Mumbai.’ I know in that moment that I am going to Mumbai.

  I step out of the Emergency Ward as if in a trance. The antiseptic smell of the hospital doesn’t irritate my senses any longer. The bespectacled man is still in the corridor. He looks at me with hopeful eyes, but doesn’t try to accost me this time. Perhaps he has reconciled himself to his son’s death. I still have the brown paper bag in my hand. I gesture to him. He comes shuffling to me, like a dog expecting a bone. ‘Here, take this.’ I hand over the bag. ‘It has four lakh rupees inside. Go and save your son’s life.’

  The man takes the packet, falls down at my feet and begins crying. ‘You are not a man, you are a god,’ he says.

  I laugh. ‘If I were God, we wouldn’t need hospitals. No, I was just a small tourist guide with big dreams,’ I say and try to move forward, but he bars my way again. He takes out a worn leather wallet from his pocket and extracts a card. ‘The money you have given me is a debt I owe you. This is my card. I will repay it as soon as I can, but from this moment I am your servant.’

  ‘I don’t think I will need you. In fact, I don’t think I will need anyone in Agra. I am going to Mumbai,’ I tell him in an absent-minded way and slip his card into my shirt pocket. The man looks at me again with tearful eyes, then rushes out of the hospital, running towards Rakab Ganj and the all-night Gupta Pharmacy.

  I am just about to step outside the hospital when a jeep with a flashing red light comes screeching to a halt. An Inspector and two constables jump out. Two more men emerge from the back seat whom I recognize. One is a guard at Swapna Palace and the other is Abdul, the gardener. The guard points at me. ‘Inspector Sahib, this is that boy Raju. He is the one who has stolen Rani Sahiba’s money.’ The Inspector instructs his constables. ‘Since we found nothing in his room, the cash must be on him. Check the bastard’s pockets.’ The constables grope through my shirt and trousers. They find a small packet of bubble gum, some corn kernels and a one-rupee coin, which doesn’t seem lucky any longer.

  ‘He is clean, Sahib. He doesn’t have any money,’ one of the constables replies.

  ‘Really? Still, let’s take him in for questioning. We’ll find out where he was this evening,’ the Inspector says brusquely.

  ‘Ztyjoz Hz?’ I reply, my lips twisting in a deformed way.

  ‘What did you just say? I didn’t get it,’ says the Inspector, a little baffled.

  ‘Q Oxqa Ukj Xnz Xi Qaqkp.’

  ‘What is this nonsense?’ the Inspector says angrily. ‘Are you trying to make fun of me, bastard? I’ll teach you a lesson.’ He raises his baton to strike me, but Abdul intervenes. ‘Please don’t hit him, Inspector Sahib. Raju has become mentally unbalanced since his friend Shankar’s death. Shankar also used to speak like this.’

  ‘Oh, is that the case? Then why did you even think of him as a suspect? We won’t get anything out of a lunatic. Come, let’s go,’ he gestures to his constables. Then he looks at me. ‘Sorry to have bothered you, you can go home now.’

  ‘Pdxif Ukj,’ I say. ‘Pdxif Ukj Rznu Hjyd.’

  I am sitting on Smita’s bed with tears falling from my eyes. Smita takes my hand in hers and gently squeezes it. I notice that her eyes too are misting with tears. ‘Poor Shankar,’ she says. ‘From what you’ve told me, he seems to have been an autistic child. What a horrible death he endured. You have really gone through hell, Thomas. You didn’t deserve all that pain.’

  ‘But my hell is still preferable to Nita’s. Just imagine what she has had to undergo since the age of twelve.’

  Smita nods her head. ‘Yes, I can imagine. Is she still in Agra?’

  ‘She should be, but I can’t know for sure. I have had no news of her for the last four months. I don’t know whether I will ever see her again.’

  ‘I am sure you will. Now let’s see the penultimate question.’

  The studio sign says ‘Silence’ but the audience refuses to heed it. They point at me and chatter excitedly among themselves. I am the idiot waiter who has staked a hundred million rupees on one question.

  Prem Kumar addresses the camera. ‘We now move on to question number eleven for ten crores. Believe me, I am getting goosebumps just thinking about it. So, Mr Thomas, are you nervous?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘That’s amazing. Here you are, gambling with the ten million rupees you have already won and you don’t feel even a trace of anxiety. Remember, if you give the wrong answer, you lose everything. But if you give the correct answer, a hundred million rupees are yours. No one has ever won such a large amount, not even in a lottery. So let us see whether history is about to be made, right here, right now. OK, here comes question number eleven, and it is from the world of . . .’ Prem Kumar pauses for dramatic effect, then completes the sentence . . . ‘English Literature!’ The studio sign changes to ‘Applause’.

  ‘Tell me, Mr Thomas, do you have some knowledge of English literature? Have you read English books, plays, poems?’

  ‘Well, I can recite “Baa, Baa, Black Sheep”, if that is what you mean by English poetry.’

  The audience laugh loudly.

  ‘I must confess, I had something slightly more complex in mind, but never mind. You must have heard of Shakespeare?’

  ‘Sheikh who?’

  ‘You know, the Bard of Avon, the greatest playwright in the English language? Oh, how I wish I could return to my college days, when I spent all my time acting in Shakespeare’s plays. Do any of you remember your Hamlet? “To be, or not to be, that is the question. Whether ‘tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, Or to take arms against a sea of troubles, And by opposing end them?” But enough of me. It is Mr Thomas who has to answer the next question – and here it comes, for the astronomical sum of a hundred million rupees. In which play by Shakespeare do we find the character Costard? Is it a) King Lear, b) The Merchant of Venice, c) Love’s Labour’s Lost or d) Othello?’

  The music commences. I stare blankly at Prem Kumar.

  ‘Tell me, Mr Thomas, do you have any clue at all as to what we are talking about here?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘No? Then what do you propose to do? You must give an answer, even if it is based on the toss of a coin. Who knows, if your luck continues to hold, you just might hit on the correct reply and win a hundred million rupees. So what’s your decision?’

  My mind goes blank. I know I have been cornered at last. I think for thirty seconds, and then make up my mind. ‘I will use a Lifeboat.’

  Prem Kumar looks at me quizzically. It seems he has forgotten that this game has something called Lifeboats. He snaps awake at last. ‘A Lifeboat? Yes, of course, you have both of your Lifeboats available. Tell me, which one do you want to use? You can either ask me for Half and Half or go
for A Friendly Tip.’

  I am confused again. Who can I turn to for an answer to this question? Salim will be as clueless as me. The owner of Jimmy’s Bar would have as much awareness of Shakespeare as a drunk has of direction. And literature is as far from the minds of the residents of Dharavi as honesty is from the police. Only Father Timothy could have helped me out on this question, and he is dead. Should I ask for Half and Half? I insert my fingers into my shirt pocket to take out my trusted old coin and am surprised to brush against the edge of a card. I pull it out. It is a visiting card which says, ‘Utpal Chatterjee, English Teacher, St John’s School, Agra’ and then it gives a phone number. I don’t understand at first. I have no recollection of anyone by this name or even how this card got into my shirt pocket. And then, all of a sudden, I remember the scene at the hospital: the bespectacled, unkempt man with a sixteen-year-old son who was dying of hydrophobia. An involuntary cry escapes my lips.

  Prem Kumar hears it and looks at me sharply, ‘Excuse me, what did you say?’

  ‘I said can you please call this gentleman?’ I hand over the card to Prem Kumar. ‘I am using my Friendly Tip Lifeboat.’

  Prem Kumar turns over the card in his fingers. ‘I see. So you do know someone who can help you with this question.’ He has a worried look on his face. He makes eye contact with the producer. The producer spreads his hands. The word ‘Lifeboat’ flashes on the screen. We see the animation of a boat chugging along on the sea, a swimmer shouting for help and being thrown a red lifebuoy.

  Prem Kumar picks up a cordless phone from underneath his desk and passes it to me. ‘Here you are. Ask whatever you want, from whoever you want. But you only have two minutes, and your time starts,’ he looks at his watch, ‘. . . now!’

  I take the phone and dial the number on the card. The call goes through and the phone starts ringing at the other end in Agra. But it simply rings and rings and rings and rings and nobody picks it up. Half a minute passes. The suspense in the studio could be cut with a knife. The audience is watching me with bated breath. To them, I am no different from a trapeze artist in a circus doing a high-wire act without any safety net below. One false move and the trapeze artist will plunge to his death. Ninety more seconds and I will lose a hundred million rupees.

  Just when I am about to hang up, someone picks up the phone. I have just over a minute left now. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Hello. Can I speak to Mr Utpal Chatterjee?’ I say hurriedly.

  ‘Speaking.’

  ‘Mr Chatterjee, I am Ram Mohammad Thomas.’

  ‘Ram Mohammad . . . what?’

  ‘Thomas. You may not know my name, but I helped you out in Singhania Hospital, where your son was hospitalized. Do you remember?’

  ‘Oh, my God.’ Suddenly the tone changes completely. ‘I have been desperately seeking you for the last four months. Thank God you have called. You saved my son’s life, you have no idea how much I have tried to—’

  I cut him short. ‘Mr Chatterjee, I do not have much time. I am a participant in a quiz show and I need you quickly to answer a question for me.’

  ‘A question? Yes, of course, I am ready to do whatever you want.’

  Less than thirty seconds are left now. All eyes are on the wall clock, busily ticking away the seconds.

  ‘Tell me, very quickly, in which one of Shakespeare’s plays is there a character called Costard? Is it a) King Lear, b) The Merchant of Venice, c) Love’s Labour’s Lost or d) Othello?’

  The seconds tick away and there is silence from Chatterjee.

  ‘Mr Chatterjee, can you tell me the answer?’

  Only fifteen seconds are left by the time Chatterjee replies, ‘I don’t know.’

  I am dumbfounded. ‘What?’

  ‘I am sorry, I don’t know the answer. Rather, I’m not sure. I don’t remember this character in The Merchant of Venice or Othello. It is either from King Lear or Love’s Labour’s Lost – I am not sure which.’

  ‘But I can only give one answer.’

  ‘Then go for Love’s Labour’s Lost. But as I said, I am not very sure. Sorry, I cannot be more helpf—’

  Prem Kumar cuts him off. ‘Sorry, Mr Thomas. Your two minutes are up. I need your reply now.’

  The music in the background doesn’t sound suspenseful any longer. It is positively chilling. I go into a deep thought.

  ‘Mr Thomas, how well do you know this Mr Chatterjee?’ Prem Kumar asks me.

  ‘I have met him just once.’

  ‘And how good an English teacher is he?’

  ‘I have no idea.’

  ‘So can you trust his reply, or would you rather go by your own instinct?’

  I make up my mind. ‘I will go by my instinct, and my instinct tells me to trust the answer given by Mr Chatterjee. It is C. Love’s Labour’s Lost.’

  ‘Think again. Remember, you give me the wrong answer and you not only don’t win the hundred million rupees, you also lose the ten million rupees you have won till now.’

  ‘My final answer is still C.’

  ‘Are you absolutely, one hundred per cent sure?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I am asking you again. Are you absolutely, absolutely, one hundred per cent sure?’

  ‘Yes.’

  There is a crescendo of drums. The correct answer flashes on the screen.

  ‘Oh, my God, it is C. You are absolutely, one hundred per cent correct!’ Prem Kumar stands up. ‘Ram Mohammad Thomas, you are the first person on this show to have won a hundred million rupees. Ladies and gentlemen, history has been made! And now we simply have to take a break!’

  The audience goes wild. Everyone stands up and claps for more than a minute.

  Prem Kumar’s face is flushed. He is perspiring profusely.

  ‘So how do you feel?’ he asks me.

  ‘Q Bzzg Cnzxp!’ I say.

  Prem Kumar looks baffled. ‘Excuse me, what did you just say?’

  ‘I said I feel great,’ I reply and look up. I see Shankar smiling at me from above. And it seems that Goddess Durga is really looking out for me tonight.

  THE THIRTEENTH QUESTION

  We are still in the commercial break. Prem Kumar is in a corner, conferring with the long-haired producer. I look around the studio, at the nice panelling, the spotlights, the multiple cameras, the high-tech sound system. Many members of the audience are watching me, wondering perhaps what is going through my mind.

  Prem Kumar ends his consultation and walks up to me. He has a sinister grin on his face. ‘Thomas, we don’t know how you have managed to answer eleven questions so far, but there is no way you will be able to answer the final question.’

  ‘We’ll see.’

  ‘No, I’ll see. Prepare yourself to lose all,’ says Prem Kumar and sits down on his seat.

  The studio sign changes to ‘Applause’. The signature tune comes on. The audience claps loudly.

  Prem Kumar looks at the camera. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, we are standing at the brink of a historic moment, not just for this show but perhaps for posterity. Ram Mohammad Thomas, an eighteen-year-old waiter from Mumbai, has gone further than any other contestant on this show. He is now about to create another milestone. If he answers this last question correctly, he will win the biggest jackpot in history – one billion rupees. If he fails to give me the correct answer, he will lose the single largest sum of money ever to be lost by an individual in sixty seconds – one hundred million rupees. Either way, history will be made. So please clear your minds, fill your hearts and join me in saluting once again our contestant tonight, Mr Ram Mohammad Thomas!’

  The studio sign changes to ‘Applause’. Everyone, even Prem Kumar, stands up and there is sustained clapping.

  I must admire the tactics of W3B. I am being fêted before being sent off the show without a penny. Like a lamb, they are fattening me with adulation before slaughtering me on the next question. The moment I have been waiting for, and dreading, has finally arrived. I take a deep breath and prepare to face my destiny.


  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, I am about to reveal question number twelve, the final question, for one billion rupees, the biggest prize ever offered in the history of the planet. And remember, we are still in Play or Pay mode, so it is win all or lose all. OK, without any further ado, here is the last question for you, Mr Thomas, and this is from . . . the pages of history! We all know that Mumtaz Mahal was the wife of Emperor Shahjahan and that he built the world-famous Taj Mahal in her memory, but what was the name of Mumtaz Mahal’s father? This is the billion-rupee question. Your choices, Mr Thomas, are a) Mirza Ali Kuli Beg, b) Sirajuddaulah, c) Asaf Jah, or d) Abdur Rahim Khan Khanan.

  ‘Think about the answer carefully, Mr Thomas. Remember, you are at a historic crossroads. I know you need time to reflect on your answer, and to allow you just that, we will now take another quick commercial break. Ladies and gentlemen, please don’t even think of going anywhere.’

  The studio sign changes to ‘Applause’. The signature tune plays again.

  Prem Kumar grins widely at me. ‘Got you, didn’t I? Unless you have an MA in Medieval History, there is no way you will be able to answer this. So bid goodbye to the hundred million you have just won and prepare to resume your career as a waiter. Who knows, perhaps I may come by Jimmy’s Bar tomorrow. What will you serve me? Butter chicken and lamb vindaloo?’ He laughs.

  I laugh back. ‘Ha! I’ve got no MA in history, but I do know the answer to this question.’

  ‘What? You must be joking, surely?’

  ‘I am not joking. The answer is Asaf Jah.’

  Prem Kumar looks aghast. ‘How . . . how do you know this?’

  ‘I know it because I worked as a guide for two years at the Taj Mahal.’

  Prem Kumar’s face turns ashen. For the first time he looks at me with a trace of fear. ‘You . . . you are casting some kind of magic, I am sure,’ he says and runs to the producer. They whisper amongst themselves. Prem Kumar gesticulates several times in my direction. Then someone brings in a fat book and they pore over it. Ten minutes pass. The audience begins to get restless. Eventually, Prem Kumar comes back to his seat. His expression is neutral, but I am sure he is squirming inside.