Slumdog Millionaire: A Novel (11 page)

The inspection begins. All of us put on our best smiles. Sethji goes over each boy, appraising him from head to toe. I don't know what he is looking for, because he does not ask us any questions, just looks at our faces. He completes one round of inspection. He does not even glance at me twice. Then he goes over the line once again. When he comes to Salim, he stops.

'What is your name?' he asks in a heavy South Indian accent. 'S . . . Salim Ilyasi,' Salim stammers in his excitement.

'When did he arrive?' he asks Gupta.

'About eleven months ago, from Chhapra in Bihar.'

'How old is he?'

'Eight.'

'Does he have anyone?'

'No, Sethji. His whole family died in a communal disturbance.'

'How sad,' says Sethji. 'But he is just the kind of boy I need. Can you sort out the paperwork?'

'You just have to tell me, Sethji. Whoever you want will be restored to you in no time. For this boy, we'll show Mustafa as the uncle. The Welfare Board will not create any problems. In fact, they want to get rid of as many kids as possible.'

'Fine. For this visit, let's settle on just this one kid.'

Gupta looks at Salim, and then he looks at me, standing next to Salim. 'What about him?' He points at me.

Sethji looks me in the eye, and shakes his head. 'He is too old.'

'No, Sethji, he is only ten. Name is Thomas, speaks perfect English.'

'Makes no difference to me. I don't need him. I want the other one.'

'They are thick as thieves, these two. If you take Salim, you have to take Thomas as well.'

Sethji gets annoyed. 'I've told you, Gupta, that I don't want any Thomas Womas. I am only taking one boy and that is Salim.'

'I am sorry, Sethji, but I insist. If you take Salim, you will have to take Thomas. It is a package deal.'

'Package deal?'

'Yes. Buy one, get one free. I won't charge you for Thomas.' Gupta grins, displaying his paan-stained teeth.

Sethji goes into a huddle with his henchmen.

'OK,' he tells Gupta. 'Prepare the papers for these two. I'll collect them on Monday.'

Salim rushes into my arms. He is on top of the world. That night, he doesn't sleep from sheer excitement. He has celluloid dreams of life in Mumbai. Of golden sunsets on Marine Drive with Amitabh and rose-coloured dawns on Chowpatty with Shahrukh. I don't sleep that night either. I toss and turn in my bed. But I don't dream of stardom and paradise. I dream that I am a hawker on the pavement, selling fruits. A dark swarthy man bends down to buy some mangoes from me.

I see his gold chain dangling. He tosses me some change. I put a nice juicy mango in his bag, and then quietly slip in a rotten banana. For free.

* * *

The train journey to Mumbai is uneventful. Salim and I travel in the second-class sleeper

compartment with the henchmen Mustafa and Punnoose. Sethji, we are told, has gone ahead by plane. Mustafa and Punnoose wear
lungis,
smoke
beedis
and sleep most of the time. They tell us very little about Sethji. They say his real name is Babu Pillai, but everybody calls him Maman, meaning 'Uncle' in the Malayalam language. He is originally from Kollam in Kerala, but has been settled in Mumbai for a long time. He is a very kind man, who runs a school for disabled kids, helping them rebuild their lives. Maman believes that disabled children are closer to God.

He rescues children from juvenile homes, which he believes are nothing but jails under another name. If Maman had not saved us, we would have ended up cleaning car windscreens at traffic lights or sweeping floors in private houses. Now we would be taught useful skills and groomed for success. Mustafa and Punnoose are excellent salesmen. By the end of the trip, even I am convinced that being picked by Maman is the best thing that has ever happened to me and that my life will now be transformed.

From time to time, the train passes through slum colonies, lining the edges of the railway tracks like a ribbon of dirt. We see half-naked children with distended bellies waving at us, while their mothers wash utensils in sewer water. We wave back.

* * *

The sights and sounds of Mumbai overwhelm us. Churchgate station looks exactly as it did in

Love in Bombay.
Salim half expects to bump into Govinda singing a song near the church.

Mustafa points out the beach at Marine Drive. I am fascinated by my first sight of the ocean, where giant waves crash and roll against the rocks. Salim doesn't see the majestic ocean. He looks at the stalls selling soft drinks and snacks. 'That is where Govinda and Raveena had
bhel
puri,'
he points out excitedly. We pass through Haji Ali's
dargah.
Salim raises his hands to Allah when he sees the shrine, exactly like he saw Amitabh Bachchan do in the film
Coolie.
We pass through the districts of Worli, Dadar and Mahim, Mustafa and Punnoose pointing out major

landmarks to us. At Mahim Fort, Salim gestures the taxi driver to stop.

'What's the matter?' Mustafa asks.

'Nothing. I just wanted to see the place where the smugglers offload their consignment in the film
Mafia!'

As we approach Bandra, Juhu and Andheri, dotted with the sparkling residences of film stars, with their high boundary walls and platoons of uniformed guards, Salim becomes maudlin.

Through the taxi's tinted windows, we gape at the sprawling bungalows and high-rise apartment blocks like villagers on a first trip to the city. It is as if we are seeing Mumbai through a chromatic lens. The sun seems brighter, the air feels cooler, the people appear more prosperous, the city throbs with the happiness of sharing space with the megastars of Bollywood.

* * *

We reach our destination in Goregaon. Maman's house is not the palatial bungalow we had come to expect. It is a large decrepit building set in a courtyard with a small garden and two palm trees. It is ringed by a high boundary wall topped with barbed wire. Two dark, well-built men sit in the porch smoking
beedis
and wearing thin, coloured
lungis.
They are holding thick bamboo sticks in their hands. They cross their legs and we catch a glimpse of their striped underwear. A strong smell of arrack radiates from them. Punnoose speaks to them in quick-fire Malayalam.

The only word I can catch is 'Maman'. They are obviously guards employed by Mr Babu Pillai.

As we enter the house, Mustafa points out a set of corrugated-iron structures beyond the

courtyard, like huge sheds. 'That is the school Maman runs for crippled children. The children live there as well.'

'How come I don't see any children?' I ask.

'They have all gone out for vocational training. Don't worry, you will meet them in the evening.

Come, let me show you to your room.'

Our room is small and compact, with two bunk beds and a long mirror built into the wall. Salim takes the top bed. There is a bathroom in the basement which we can use. It has a tub and a shower curtain. It is not as luxurious as the houses of film stars, but it will do. It looks as though we are the only children living in the house.

Maman comes to meet us in the evening. Salim tells him how excited he is to be in Mumbai and how he wants to become a famous film star. Maman smiles when he hears this. 'The first and foremost requirement for becoming a film star is the ability to sing and dance. Can you sing?' he asks Salim.

'No,' says Salim.

'Well, don't worry. I will arrange for a top music teacher to give you lessons. In no time at all you will be like Kishore Kumar.'

Salim looks as if he might hug Maman, but restrains himself.

At night we go to the school for dinner. It has a mess hall similar to the one in our Juvenile Home, with cheap linoleum flooring, long wooden tables, and a head cook who is a carbon copy of ours back at the Home. Salim and I are told to sit at a small round table with Mustafa. We are served before the other kids come in. The food is hot and tasty, a definite improvement on the insipid fare we got in Delhi.

One by one the children start trickling in, and instantly challenge our definition of hell. I see boys with no eyes, feeling their way forward with the help of sticks; boys with bent and

misshapen limbs, dragging themselves to the table; boys with two gnarled stumps for legs, walking on crutches; boys with grotesque mouths and twisted fingers, eating bread held between their elbows. Some of them are like clowns. Except they make us cry instead of laugh. It is good Salim and I have almost finished our meal.

We see three boys standing in one corner, watching the others eat, but not being served

themselves. One of them licks his lips. 'Who are these boys?' I ask Mustafa. 'And why aren't they eating?'

'They are being punished,' Mustafa says. 'For not doing enough work. Don't worry, they'll eat later.'

* * *

The music teacher comes the next day. He is a youngish man, with an oval, clean-shaven face, large ears and thin, bony fingers. He carries a harmonium with him. 'Call me Masterji,' he instructs us. 'Now listen to what I sing.' We sit on the floor in rapt attention as he sings,
'Sa re ga
ma pa dha ni sa.'
Then he explains, 'These are the seven basic notes which are present in each and every composition. Now open your mouth and sing these notes loudly. Let the sound come not from your lips, not from your nose, but from the base of your throat.'

Salim clears his throat and begins.
'Sa re ga ma pa dha ni sa.'
He sings full-throated, with abandon. The room resonates with the sound of his clear notes. His voice floats over the room, the notes ringing pure and unsullied.

'Very good.' The teacher claps. 'You have a natural, God-given voice. I have no doubt that with constant practice, you will very soon be able to negotiate the entire range of three and a half octaves.' Then he looks at me. 'OK. Now why don't you sing the same notes.'

'Sa re ga ma pa dha
. . .' I try to sing, but my voice cracks and the notes shatter and fragment like a fistful of marbles dropped on the floor.

The teacher inserts a finger in his ear.
'Hare Ram . . . Hare Ram . . .
You sing like a buffalo. I will have to work really hard on you.'

Salim comes to my rescue. 'No, Masterji, Mohammad has a good voice too. He screams really well.'

* * *

Over the next two weeks, Masterji teaches us several devotional songs by famous saints and how to play the harmonium. We learn the
dohas
of Kabir and the
bhajans
of Tulsidas and Mirabai.

Masterji is a good teacher. Not only does he teach us the songs, he also explains the complex spiritual truths portrayed through these songs in the simple language of common people. I particularly like Kabir, who says in one of his verses:

Maala pherat jug bhaya,

mita na man ka pher,

kar ka manka chhod de,

man ka manka pher.

You have been counting rosary beads for an era,

But the wandering of your mind does not halt,

Forsake the beads in your hand,

And start moving the beads of your heart.

The fact that Salim is Muslim is of little consequence to Masterji as he teaches him Hindu

bhajans.
Salim himself is hardly bothered. If Amitabh Bachchan can play the role of a Muslim coolie and if Salman Khan can act as a Hindu emperor, Salim Ilyasi can sing
Thumaki Chalat
Ram Chandra Baajat Painjaniya
with as much gusto as a temple priest.

* * *

During this period, Salim and I come to know some of the other boys in the cripple school,

despite subtle attempts by Mustafa and Punnoose to prevent us from mixing too much with those they mispronounce as 'handclapped' kids. We learn the sad histories of these boys and discover that when it comes to cruel relatives and policemen, Mumbai is no different from Delhi. But as we learn more and more about these kids, the truth about Maman also starts to unravel.

* * *

We befriend Ashok, a thirteen-year-old with a deformed arm, and receive our first shock.

'We are not schoolchildren,' he tells us. 'We are beggars. We beg in local trains. Some of us are pickpockets as well.'

'And what happens to the money you earn?'

'We are required to give it to Maman's men, in return for food and shelter.'

'You mean Maman is a gangster?'

'What did you think? He is no angel, but at least he gives us two square meals a day.'

My belief in Maman is shattered, but Salim continues to lay faith in the innate goodness of man.

* * *

We have an encounter with Raju, a blind ten-year-old.

'How come you were punished today?'

'I didn't earn enough.'

'How much are you required to give each day?'

'All that we earn. But if you give less than one hundred rupees, you are punished.'

'And what happens then?'

'You don't get food. You sleep hungry. Rats eat your belly.'

'Here, take this chapatti. We saved it for you.'

* * *

We speak to Radhey, an eleven-year-old with a leg missing. 'How come you never get punished?

You always make enough money.'

'Shhh . . . It's a secret.'

'Don't worry. It's safe with us.'

'OK. But don't let any of the other boys know. You see, there is this actress living in Juhu Vile Parle. Whenever I am a little short, I go to her. She not only gives me food, she also gives me money to cover the shortfall.'

'What is her name?'

'Neelima Kumari. They say she was quite famous at one time.' 'What does she look like?' 'She must have been very beautiful in her youth, but now she is getting old. She told me she is in need of domestic help. If I didn't have a leg missing, I would have run away from here and taken up a servant's job in her house.'

I dream that night of going to a house in Juhu Vile Parle. I ring the bell and wait. A tall woman opens the door. She wears a white sari. A strong wind begins howling, making her long black hair fly across her face, obscuring it. I open my mouth to say something, and then discover that she is looking down at me. I look down and discover with a shock that I have no legs.