Slumdog Millionaire

Slumdog Millionaire: A Novel by Vikas Swarup

PROLOGUE

I have been arrested. For winning a quiz show.

They came for me late last night, when even the stray dogs had gone off to sleep. They broke open my door, handcuffed me and marched me off to the waiting jeep with a flashing red light.

There was no hue and cry. Not one resident stirred from his hut. Only the old owl on the tamarind tree hooted at my arrest.

Arrests in Dharavi are as common as pickpockets on the local train. Not a day goes by without some hapless resident being taken away to the police station. There are some who have to be physically dragged off by the constables, screaming and kicking all the while. And there are those who go quietly. Who expect, perhaps even wait for, the police. For them, the arrival of the jeep with the flashing red light is actually a relief.

In retrospect, perhaps I should have kicked and screamed. Protested my innocence, raised a stink, galvanized the neighbours. Not that it would have helped. Even if I had succeeded in waking some of the residents, they would not have raised a finger to defend me. With bleary eyes they would have watched the spectacle, made some trite remark like 'There goes another one,' yawned, and promptly gone back to sleep. My departure from Asia's biggest slum would make no difference to their lives. There would be the same queue for water in the morning, the same daily struggle to make it to the seven-thirty local in time.

They wouldn't even bother to find out the reason for my arrest. Come to think of it, when the two constables barged into my hut, even I didn't. When your whole existence is 'illegal', when you live on the brink of penury in an urban wasteland where you jostle for every inch of space and have to queue even for a shit, arrest has a certain inevitability about it. You are conditioned to believe that one day there will be a warrant with your name on it, that eventually a jeep with a flashing red light will come for you.

There are those who will say that I brought this upon myself. By dabbling in that quiz show.

They will wag a finger at me and remind me of what the elders in Dharavi say about never crossing the dividing line that separates the rich from the poor. After all, what business did a penniless waiter have to be participating in a brain quiz? The brain is not an organ we are authorized to use. We are supposed to use only our hands and legs.

If only they could see me answer those questions. After my performance they would have looked upon me with new respect. It's a pity the show has yet to be telecast. But word seeped out that I had won something. Like a lottery. When the other waiters heard the news, they decided to have a big party for me in the restaurant. We sang and danced and drank late into the night. For the first time we did not eat Ramzi's stale food for dinner. We ordered chicken biryani and seekh kebabs from the five-star hotel in Marine Drive. The doddery bartender offered me his daughter in marriage. Even the grouchy manager smiled indulgently at me and finally gave me my back wages. He didn't call me a worthless bastard that night. Or a rabid dog.

Now Godbole calls me that, and worse. I sit cross-legged in a ten-by-six-foot cell with a rusty metal door and a small square window with a grille, through which a shaft of dusty sunlight streams into the room. The lock-up is hot and humid. Flies buzz around the mushy remains of an over-ripe mango lying squished on the stone floor. A sad-looking cockroach lumbers up to my leg. I am beginning to feel hungry. My stomach growls.

I am told that I will be taken to the interrogation room shortly, to be questioned for the second time since my arrest. After an interminable wait, someone comes to escort me. It is Inspector Godbole himself.

Godbole is not very old, perhaps in his mid forties. He has a balding head and a round face dominated by a handlebar moustache. He walks with heavy steps and his overfed stomach droops over his khaki trousers. 'Bloody flies,' he swears and tries to swat one circling in front of his face. He misses.

Inspector Godbole is not in a good mood today. He is bothered by these flies. He is bothered by the heat. Rivulets of sweat run down his forehead. He smears them off with his shirt sleeve. Most of all, he is bothered by my name. 'Ram Mohammad Thomas – what kind of a nonsense name is that, mixing up all the religions? Couldn't your mother decide who your father was?' he says, not for the first time.

I let the insult pass. It is something I have become inured to.

Outside the interrogation room two constables stand stiffly to attention, a sign that someone important is inside. In the morning they had been chewing paan and exchanging dirty jokes.

Godbole literally pushes me into the room, where two men are standing in front of a wall chart listing the total number of kidnappings and murders in the year. I recognize one of them. He is the same man, with long hair like a woman – or a rock star – who had been present during the recording of the quiz show, relaying instructions through a headset to the presenter. I don't know the other man, who is white and completely bald. He wears a mauvecoloured suit and a bright-orange tie. Only a white man would wear a suit and tie in this stifling heat. It reminds me of Colonel Taylor.

The ceiling fan is running at full speed, yet the room feels airless in the absence of a window.

Heat rises from the bleached white walls and is trapped by the low wooden ceiling. A long, thin beam bisects the room into two equal parts. The room is bare except for a rusty table in the center with three chairs around it. A metal lampshade hangs directly over the table from the wooden beam.

Godbole presents me to the white man like a ringmaster introducing his pet lion. 'This is Ram Mohammad Thomas, Sir.'

The white man dabs his forehead with a handkerchief and looks at me as though I am a new species of monkey. 'So this is our famous winner! I must say he looks older than I thought.' I try to place his accent. He speaks with the same nasal twang as the prosperous tourists I'd seen thronging Agra from far-off places like Baltimore and Boston.

The American eases himself into a chair. He has deep-blue eyes and a pink nose. The green veins on his forehead look like little branches. 'Hello,' he addresses me. 'My name is Neil Johnson. I represent NewAge Telemedia, the company that licenses the quiz. This is Billy Nanda, the producer.'

I remain quiet. Monkeys do not speak. Especially not in English. He turns to Nanda. 'He understands English, doesn't he?'

'Are you out of your mind, Neil?' Nanda admonishes him. 'How can you expect him to speak English? He's just a dumb waiter in some godforsaken restaurant, for Chrissake!'

The sound of an approaching siren pierces the air. A constable comes running into the room and whispers something to Godbole. The Inspector rushes out and returns with a short, corpulent man dressed in the uniform of a top-level police officer. Godbole beams at Johnson, displaying his yellow teeth. 'Mr Johnson, Commissioner Sahib has arrived.'

Johnson rises to his feet. 'Thank you for coming, Mr Commissioner. I think you already know Billy here.'

The Commissioner nods. 'I came as soon as I got the message from the Home Minister.'

'Ah yes . . . He is an old friend of Mr Mikhailov's.'

'Well, what can I do for you?'

'Commissioner, I need your help on W3B.'

'W3B?'

'Short for Who Will Win A Billion?'

'And what's that?'

'It's a quiz show that has just been launched – in thirty-five countries – by our company. You may have seen our advertisements all over Mumbai.'

'I must have missed them. But why a billion?'

'Why not? Did you watch Who Wants To Be A Millionaire?'

'Kaun Banega Crorepati? That show was a national obsession. It was mandatory viewing in my family.'

'Why did you watch it?'

'Well . . . because it was so interesting.'

'Would it have been half as interesting if the top prize had been ten thousand instead of a million?'

'Well . . . I suppose not.'

'Exactly. You see, the biggest tease in the world is not sex. It's money. And the greater the sum of money, the bigger the tease.'

'I see. So who's the quiz master on your show?'

'We have Prem Kumar fronting it.'

'Prem Kumar? That B-grade actor? But he's not half as famous as Amitabh Bachchan, who presented Crorepati.'

'Don't worry, he will be. Of course, we were partly obliged to choose him because he has a 29 percent stake in the Indian subsidiary of New Age Telemedia.'

'OK. I get the picture. Now how does this guy, what's his name, Ram Mohammad Thomas, fit into all this? 'He was a participant in our fifteenth episode last week.'

'And?'

'And answered all twelve questions correctly to win a billion rupees.'

'What? You must be joking!'

'No, it's no joke. We were as amazed as you are. This boy is the winner of the biggest jackpot in history. The episode has not been aired yet, so not many people know about it.'

'OK. If you say he won a billion, he won a billion. So what's the problem?'

Johnson pauses. 'Can Billy and I talk to you in private?'

The Commissioner motions Godbole to leave. The Inspector glowers at me and exits. I remain in the room, but no one takes any notice. I am just a waiter. And waiters don't understand English.

'OK. Now tell me,' says the Commissioner.

'You see, Commissioner, Mr Mikhailov is not in a position to pay a billion rupees right now,' says Johnson.

'Then why did he offer it in the first place?'

'Well . . . it was a commercial gimmick.'

'Look, I still don't understand. Even if it was a gimmick, won't your show do even better now that someone has won the top prize? I remember that whenever a contestant won a million on Who Wants To Be A Millionaire?, viewing figures doubled.'

'It's the timing, Commissioner, the timing. Shows like W3B cannot be dictated by chance, by a roll of the dice. They have to follow a script. And according to our script, a winner was not due for at least eight months, by which time we would have recouped most of our investment through ad revenues. But now this fellow Thomas has wrecked all our plans.'

The Commissioner nods. 'OK, so what do you want me to do?'

'I want your help to prove that Thomas cheated on the show. That he couldn't have known the answers to all twelve questions without an accomplice. Just think. He's never been to school.

He's never even read a newspaper. There's no way he could have won the top prize.'

'Well . . . I'm not so sure.' The Commissioner scratches his head. 'There have been cases of boys from poor backgrounds turning out to be geniuses in later life. Wasn't Einstein himself a high-school drop-out?'

'Look, Mr Commissioner, we can prove right now that this guy is no Einstein,' says Johnson. He gestures to Nanda.

Nanda approaches me, running his fingers through his luxuriant hair. He addresses me in Hindi.

'Mr Ram Mohammad Thomas, if you were indeed brilliant enough to win on our show, we would like you to prove it by taking part in another quiz for us, now.

These will be very simple questions. Almost anyone of average intelligence will know the answers.' He sits me down on a chair. 'Are you ready? Here comes question number one. What is the currency of France? The choices are a) Dollar, b) Pound, c) Euro, or d) Franc.'

I keep silent. Suddenly, the Commissioner's open palm swoops down and hits me tightly across my cheek. 'Bastard, are you deaf? Answer or I'll break your jaw,' he threatens.

Nanda starts hopping around like a madman – or a rock star. 'Pleeeeze, can we do this the civilized way?' he asks the Commissioner. Then he looks at me. 'Yes? What's your answer?'

'Franc,' I reply sullenly.

'Wrong. The correct answer is Euro. OK, question number two. Who was the first man to set foot on the moon? Was it a) Edwin Aldrin, b) Neil Armstrong, c) Yuri Gagarin, or d) Jimmy Carter?'

'I don't know.'

'It was Neil Armstrong. Question number three. The Pyramids are situated in a) New York, b) Rome, c) Cairo, or d) Paris?'

'I don't know.'

'In Cairo. Question number four. Who is the President of America? Is it a) Bill Clinton, b) Colin Powell, c) John Kerry, or d) George Bush?'

'I don't know.'

'It's George Bush. I am sorry to say, Mr Thomas, that you didn't get a single answer right.' Nanda turns to the Commissioner, and reverts to English. 'See, I told you this guy's a moron. The only way he could have answered those questions last week was by cheating.'

'Any idea how he could have cheated?' asks the Commissioner.

'That's what beats me. I have got you two copies of the DVD footage. Our experts have gone over it with a microscope, but so far we have got zilch. Something will turn up eventually.'

The hunger in my belly has now risen to my throat, making me dizzy. I double up, coughing.

Johnson, the baldy American, looks at me sharply. 'Do you remember, Mr Commissioner, that case of the Army Major who won a million pounds on Who Wants To Be A Millionaire? It occurred in England, a few years ago. The company refused to pay. The police launched an investigation and succeeded in convicting the Major. It turned out he had a professor as an accomplice in the audience who signaled the correct answers through coded coughs. It's a cert something similar has happened here.'

'So do we need to look out for a cougher in the audience?'

'No. There's no evidence of coughing. He must have used some other signal.'

'What about being buzzed by a pager or mobile?'

'No. We are pretty sure he had no gadgets on him. And neither pager nor cellphone would have worked in the studio.'

The Commissioner is struck by an idea. 'Do you think he might have a memory chip implanted in the brain?'

Johnson sighs. 'Mr Commissioner, I think you have been watching too many science-fiction films. Look, whatever it is, you have to help us find it. We don't know who the accomplice was.

We don't know what signalling system was used. But I am one hundred per cent sure this boy is a con. You have to help us prove it.'

'Have you considered buying him off?' the Commissioner suggests hopefully. 'I mean he probably doesn't even know the number of zeros in a billion. I imagine he would be quite happy if you threw him just a couple of thousand rupees.'

I feel like punching the Commissioner's lights out. Admittedly, before the quiz show I didn't know the value of a billion. But that's history. Now I know. And I am determined to get my prize. With all nine zeros.

Johnson's answer reassures me. 'We can't do that,' he says. 'It would make us vulnerable to a law suit. You see, he is either a bona fide winner or a crook. Therefore either he gets a billion or he goes to jail. There's no halfway house here. You have to help me ensure he goes to jail. Mr Mikhailov would have a coronary if he had to shell out a billion now.'

The Commissioner looks Johnson directly in the eye. 'I understand your point,' he drawls. 'But what's in it for me?'

As if on cue, Johnson takes him by the arm into a corner. They speak in hushed tones. I catch just three words: 'ten percent'. The Commissioner is clearly excited by what he is told. 'OK, OK, Mr Johnson, consider your job done. Now let me call in Godbole.'

The Inspector is summoned. 'Godbole, what have you got out of him so far?' the Commissioner asks.

Godbole gazes at me balefully. 'Nothing, Commissioner Sahib. The bastard keeps on repeating the same story that he just "knew" the answers. Says he got lucky.'

'Lucky, eh?' sneers Johnson.

'Yes, Sir. I have so far not used third degree, otherwise he would be singing like a canary by now. Once you permit me, Sir, I can get the names of all his accomplices out in no time.'

The Commissioner looks quizzically at Johnson and Nanda. 'Are you comfortable with that?'

Nanda shakes his head vigorously, sending his long hair flying. 'No way. No torture. The papers have already got wind of the arrest. If they find out he has been mistreated, we will be finished.

I've enough problems on my plate already without having to worry about being sued by a bloody civil rights NGO.'

The Commissioner pats him on the back. 'Billy, you have become just like the Americans. Don't worry. Godbole is a professional. There won't be a single mark on the boy's body.'

Bile rises in my stomach like a balloon. I feel like retching.

The Commissioner prepares to depart. 'Godbole, by tomorrow morning I want the name of the collaborator and full details of the MO. Use any means necessary to extract the information. But be careful. Remember, your promotion depends on this.'

'Thank you, Sir. Thank you.' Godbole puts on a plastic smile. 'And don't worry, Sir. By the time I am through with this boy, he will be ready to confess the murder of Mahatma Gandhi.'

I try to recall who murdered Mahatma Gandhi, who is known to have said 'Hey Ram!' just before dying. I remember this because I had exclaimed, 'That's my name!' And Father Timothy had gently explained that it was the name of Lord Ram, the Hindu god who had been banished into the jungle for fourteen years.

Godbole, meanwhile, has returned after seeing off the Commissioner and the two men. He wheezes into the interrogation room and slams the door shut. Then he snaps his fingers at me.

'OK, motherfucker, strip!'

* * *

Sharp, throbbing pain oozes from every pore of my body. My hands are tied to the wooden beam with coarse rope. The beam is nine feet above the ground, so my legs dangle in the air and my hands and feet feel like they are being pulled apart. I am completely naked. The ribs on my chest jut out like those on starving African babies.

Godbole has been punishing me for more than an hour but he has still not finished. Every half-hour or so he comes up with a new instrument of torture. First he inserted a wooden rod into my anus. With chilli powder smeared on it. It felt as if a molten, searing spike was being driven through my backside. I choked and gagged with pain. Then he thrust my head into a bucket of water and held it there till my lungs were about to explode. I spluttered and gasped and quite nearly drowned.

Now he is holding a live wire in his hand like a sparkler on Diwali. He dances around me like a drunken boxer and suddenly lunges at me. He jabs at the sole of my left foot with the naked wire.

The electric current shoots up my body like hot poison. I recoil and convulse violently.

Godbole shouts at me. 'Bastard, you still won't tell me what trick you used on the show? Who told you the answers? Tell me, and this torture will end. You will get a nice hot meal. You can even go home.'

But home seems like a far-off place right now. And a hot meal would make me vomit. If you don't eat for a long time, the hunger just shrivels and dies, leaving only a dull ache in the pit of your stomach.

The first wave of nausea is beginning to assail me now. I am blacking out. Through a thick mist, I see a tall woman, with flowing black hair. The wind is howling behind her, making her jet-black hair fly across her face, obscuring it. She is wearing a white sari of thin fabric that flutters and vibrates like a kite. She opens her arms and cries, 'My son . . . my son . . . what are they doing to you?'

'Mother!' I scream and reach out for her across the chasm of mist and fog, but Godbole grabs me roughly by the neck. I feel as if I am running without moving forward. He slaps me hard and the blackness lifts.

Godbole is holding out the pen once again. It is black with a shiny golden nib. Blue ink glistens at its tip. 'Sign the confession statement,' he orders.

The confession statement is quite simple. 'I, Ram Mohammad Thomas, do hereby state that on 10 July I was a participant in the quiz show Who Will Win A Billion? I confess that I cheated. I did not know the answers to all the questions. I hereby withdraw my claim to the top prize or any other prize. I beg forgiveness. I am making this statement in full control of my senses and without any undue pressure from anyone. Signed: Ram Mohammad Thomas.'

I know it is only a question of time before I sign this statement. I will not be able to hold out much longer. We were always told never to pick a quarrel with the police. Street boys like me come at the bottom of the food chain. Above us are the petty criminals, like pickpockets. Above them come the extortionists and loan sharks. Above them come the dons. Above them come the big business houses. But above all of them are the police. They have the instruments of naked power. And there is nobody to check them. Who can police the police? So I will sign the statement. After ten, maybe fifteen, more slaps. After five, perhaps six, more shocks.

All of a sudden, I hear a commotion at the door. Constables are shouting. Voices are raised. The door shudders and slams open. A young woman bursts into the room. She is of average height and slim build. She has nice teeth and lovely arched eyebrows. In the middle of her forehead she wears a large round blue bindi. Her dress consists of a white salwar kameez, a blue dupatta and leather sandals. Her long black hair is loose. A brown bag hangs from her left shoulder. There is a certain presence about her.

Godbole is so flustered he touches the live wire to his own hand, and yelps in pain. He is about to grab the intruder by the collar, then realizes she is a woman. 'Who the hell are you, bursting in like this? Can't you see I am busy?'

'My name is Smita Shah,' the woman announces calmly to Godbole. 'I am Mr Ram Mohammad Thomas's lawyer.' Then she looks at me, at my condition, and hastily averts her eyes.

Godbole is stunned. He is so stunned that he does not notice that I am equally stunned. I have never seen this woman before. I don't have money to hire a taxi. I can hardly hire a lawyer.

'Come again?' Godbole croaks. 'You are his lawyer?'

'Yes. And what you are doing to my client is completely illegal and unacceptable. I want an immediate end to this treatment. He reserves the right to prosecute you under sections 330 and 331 of the Indian Penal Code. I demand to be shown the papers regarding his arrest. I see no evidence of any FIR having been recorded. No grounds for arrest have been communicated as required under Article 22 of the Constitution and you are in breach of Section 50 of the CrPC.

Now unless you can produce his arrest warrant, I am removing my client from the police station to consult with him in private.'

'Er . . . mmm . . . I . . . I will have to speak to . . . to the Commissioner. Please wait,' is all Godbole can say. He looks at the woman with a helpless expression, shakes his head, and slinks out of the room.

I am impressed. I didn't know lawyers wielded such power over the police. The food chain will have to be revised.

I don't know at what point Godbole returns to the room, what he says to the lawyer, or what the lawyer says to him, because I have passed out. From pain and hunger and happiness.

* * *

I am sitting on a leather couch with a cup of hot, steaming tea in my hands. A rectangular desk is strewn with papers. On top is a glass paperweight and a red table lamp. The walls of the room are painted rose pink. The shelves are lined with thick black books with gold letters on the spines. There are framed certificates and diplomas on the walls. A potted money plant grows sideways in one corner of the room.

Smita returns with a plate and a glass in her hands. I smell food. 'I know you must be hungry, so I've brought you some chapattis, some mixed vegetables and a Coke. It was all I had in my fridge.'

I grasp her hand. It feels warm and moist. 'Thank you,' I say. I still don't know how she got to the police station, or why. All she has told me is that she read about my arrest in the papers, and came as soon as she could. Now I am at her house in Bandra. I will not ask her when she brought me here, or why. One doesn't question a miracle.

I begin eating. I eat all the chapattis. I polish off all the vegetables. I drink all the Coke. I eat till my eyes bulge out.

* * *

It is late evening now. I have eaten and slept. Smita is still with me, but now I am in her bedroom, sitting on a large bed with a blue bedspread. Her bedroom is different from that of my former employer, the film star Neelima Kumari. Instead of the huge mirrors and trophies and acting awards lining the shelves, there are books and a large brown teddy bear with glass eyes.

But, like Neelima, she has a Sony TV and even a DVD player.

Smita is sitting with me on the edge of the bed holding a disc case in her fingers. 'Look, I've managed to get a copy of your show's DVD footage. Now we can go over it with a toothcomb. I want you to explain to me exactly how you came to answer all those questions. And I want you to tell me the truth.'

'The truth?'

'Even if you did cheat, I am here to protect you. What you tell me cannot be used against you in a court of law.'

The first doubts start creeping into my mind. Is this woman too good to be true? Has she been planted by that baldy Johnson to ferret out incriminating truths from me? Can I trust her?

Time to take a decision. I take out my trusted one-rupee coin. Heads I cooperate with her. Tails I tell her ta-ta. I flip the coin. It is heads.

'Do you know Albert Fernandes?' I ask her.

'No. Who is he?'

'He has an illegal factory in Dharavi which makes watch-strap buckles.'

'And?'

'He plays matka.'

'Matka?'

'Illegal gambling with cards.'

'I see.'

'So Albert Fernandes plays matka and last Tuesday he had an amazing game.'

'What happened?'

'He came up with fifteen winning hands in a row. Can you believe it? Fifteen hands in a row. He cleaned out fifty thousand rupees that evening.'

'So? I still don't see the connection.'

'Don't you see? He got lucky in cards. I got lucky on the show.'

'You mean you just guessed the answers and by pure luck got twelve out of twelve correct?'

'No. I didn't guess those answers. I knew them.'

'You knew the answers?'

'Yes. To all the questions.'

'Then where does luck come into the picture?'

'Well, wasn't I lucky that they only asked those questions to which I knew the answers?'

The look of utter disbelief on Smita's face says it all. I can take it no longer. I erupt in sadness and anger. 'I know what you are thinking. Like Godbole, you wonder what I was doing on that quiz show. Like Godbole, you believe I am only good for serving chicken fry and whisky in a restaurant. That I am meant to live life like a dog, and die like an insect. Don't you?'

'No, Ram.' She grasps my hand. 'I will never believe that. But you must understand. If I am to help you, I have to know how you won that billion. And I confess, I find it difficult to comprehend. Heavens, even I couldn't answer half those questions.'

'Well, Madam, we poor can also ask questions and demand answers. And I bet you, if the poor conducted a quiz, the rich wouldn't be able to answer a single question. I don't know the currency of France, but I can tell you how much money Shalini Tai owes our neighbourhood moneylender. I don't know who was the first man on the moon, but I can tell you who was the first man to produce illegal DVDs in Dharavi. Could you answer these questions in my quiz?'

'Look, Ram, don't get agitated. I meant no offence. I really want to help you. But if you didn't cheat, I must know how you knew.'

'I cannot explain.'

'Why?'

'Do you notice when you breathe? No. You simply know that you are breathing. I did not go to school. I did not read books. But, I tell you, I knew those answers.'

'So do I need to know about your entire life to understand the genesis of your answers?'

'Perhaps.'

Smita nods her head. 'I think that is the key. After all, a quiz is not so much a test of knowledge as a test of memory.' She adjusts her blue dupatta and looks me in the eye. 'I want to listen to your memories. Can you begin at the beginning?'

'You mean the year I was born? Year number one?'

'No. From question number one. But before we start, promise me, Ram Mohammad Thomas, that you will tell me the truth.'

'You mean like they say in the movies, "The truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth"?'

'Exactly.'

I take a deep breath. 'Yes, I promise. But where is your Book of Oaths? The Gita, the Koran or the Bible, any one will do.'

'I don't need a book. I am your witness. Just as you are mine.' Smita takes the shiny disc from its cover and slips it into the DVD player.

THE DEATH OF A HERO

The third bell has sounded. The purple velvet curtain is about to be raised. The lights are progressively dimming, till only the red signs showing EXIT remain, glowing like embers in the darkened hall. Popcorn sellers and cold-drink vendors begin to leave. Salim and I settle down in our seats.

The first thing you must know about Salim is that he is my best friend. The second is that he is crazy about Hindi films. But not all Hindi films. Just the ones featuring Armaan Ali.

They say that first there was Amitabh Bachchan. Then there was Shahrukh Khan. Now there is Armaan Ali. The ultimate action hero. The Indian Greek God. The heart-throb of millions.

Salim loves Armaan. Or, more accurately, he worships Armaan. His tiny room in the chawl is a shrine. It is lined with posters of all kinds depicting the hero in various poses. Armaan in a leather jacket. Armaan on a motorbike. Armaan with his shirt off, baring his hairy chest. Armaan with a gun. Armaan on a horse. Armaan in a pool surrounded by a bevy of beauties.

We are occupying seats A21 and A22 in the very first row of the Dress Circle in Regal Talkies in Bandra. We shouldn't really be sitting here. The tickets in my front pocket do not say DRESS CIRCLE RS.150. They say FRONT STALLS Rs.25. The usher was in a good mood today and did us a favour. He told us to go and enjoy the balcony, because the stalls were practically deserted. Even the balcony is almost empty. Apart from Salim and me, there are no more than two dozen people in the rows ahead of us.

When Salim and I go to the movies, we usually sit in the front stalls. It enables us to make catcalls and whistle. Salim believes the nearer you sit to the screen, the closer you are to the action. He says he can lean forward and almost touch Armaan. He can count the veins on Armaan's biceps, he can see the whites of Armaan's hazel-green eyes, the fine stubble on Armaan's cleft chin, the little black mole on Armaan's chiselled nose.

I am not particularly fond of Armaan Ali. I think he acts the same way in every movie. But I, too, like to sit in the front rows, as close to the giant screen as possible. The heroine's breasts appear more voluptuous from there.

The curtain has now lifted and the screen flickers to life. First we have the advertisements. Four sponsored by private companies and one by the government. We are told how to come first at school and become a champion in cricket by eating Corn Flakes for breakfast. How to drive fast cars and win gorgeous girls by using Spice Cologne. ('That's the perfume used by Armaan,' exclaims Salim.) How to get a promotion and have shiny white clothes by using Roma soap.

How to live life like a king by drinking Red & White Whisky. And how to die of lung cancer by smoking cigarettes.

After the adverts, there is a little pause while the reels are changed. We cough and clear our throats. And then the censor certificate appears on the cinemascope screen. It tells us that the film has been certified U/A, has seventeen reels and a length of 4,639.15 metres. The certificate is signed by one Mrs M. Kane, Chairman of the Censor Board. She is the one who signs all censor certificates. Salim has often asked me about this lady. He really envies her job. She gets to see Armaan's pictures before anyone else.

The opening credits begin to roll. Salim knows everyone in this film. He knows who is the wardrobe man, who is the hair stylist, who is the make-up man. He knows the names of the production manager, the finance controller, the sound recordist and all the assistants. He doesn't speak English very well, but he can read names, even the ones in really small print. He has watched this film eight times already and every time he memorizes a new name. But if you were to see the concentration on his face right now, you would think he was watching the First Day First Show with black-market tickets.

Within two minutes, Armaan Ali makes his grand entrance by jumping down from a blue and white helicopter. Salim's eyes light up. I see the same innocent excitement on his face as when he first saw Armaan, a year ago. In person.

Salim comes running through the door and collapses face-down on the bed.

I am alarmed. 'Salim! . . . Salim!' I shout. 'What's happened to you? How come you are back so early?' I turn him on his back. He is laughing.

'The most amazing thing has happened today. This is the happiest day of my life,' he declares.

'What is it? Have you won a lottery?'

'No. Something even better than winning a lottery. I have seen Armaan Ali.'

Bit by breathless bit, the whole story comes out. How Salim caught a glimpse of Armaan Ali while doing his daily round in Ghatkopar. The star was alighting from his Mercedes Benz to enter a five-star hotel. Salim was travelling on a bus to deliver his last tiffin box to a customer.

The moment he spotted Armaan, he jumped down from the speeding vehicle, narrowly missing being run down by a Maruti car, and ran towards the actor, who was passing through the hotel's revolving door. He was stopped by the tall, strapping uniformed guard at the entrance and prevented from entering the hotel. 'Armaan!' Salim called, trying desperately to catch the star's attention. Armaan heard the cry, stopped in his tracks and turned around. His eyes made contact with Salim's. He gave a faint smile, an imperceptible nod of acknowledgement and continued walking into the lobby. Salim forgot all about the tiffin and came racing home to give me the news of his dream having come true. A customer of Gawli Tiffin Carriers went hungry that afternoon.

'Does Armaan look different from the way he appears on screen?' I ask.

'No. He is even better in real life,' says Salim. 'He is taller and more handsome. My ambition in life is to shake his hand, at least once. I probably won't wash it for a month after that.'

I reflect on how good it is to have simple, uncomplicated ambitions, like shaking a film star's hand.

Meanwhile, on screen, that hand is holding a gun and pointing it at a group of three policemen.

Armaan plays a gangster in this movie. A gangster with a heart. He loots the rich and distributes money to the poor. In between he falls in love with the heroine, Priya Kapoor, an up-and-coming actress, sings six songs and fulfils his beloved mother's wish by taking her on a pilgrimage to the shrine of Vaishno Devi. At least, that's the story till the interval.

Priya Kapoor's entry in the film is greeted with catcalls from the stalls. She is a tall, good-looking actress who won the Miss World title a few years ago. Her body is sculpted like that of a classical beauty, with heavy breasts and a slim waist. She is my favourite actress these days. She pouts a lot in the film, and keeps on saying 'Shut up' to the comedian. We laugh.

'Your ambition is to shake Armaan's hand,' I say to Salim. 'But what do you think is Armaan's ambition in life? He seems to have it all – face, fame and fortune.'

'You are wrong,' Salim replies solemnly. 'He does not have Urvashi.'

* * *

The papers are full of the Armaan–Urvash i break-up, after a whirlwind romance lasting nine months. There is speculation that Armaan is completely heartbroken. That he has stopped eating and drinking. That he might be suicidal. Urvashi Randhawa has returned to her modelling career.

I see Salim crying. His eyes are red and wet with tears. He has not eaten all day. The heart-shaped glass frame containing a picture of Armaan and Urvashi, on which he had spent almost half his meagre salary, lies on the ground, shattered into a hundred pieces.

'Look, Salim, you are being childish. There is nothing you can do about it,' I tell him.

'If only I could meet Armaan. I want to comfort him. To hold his hand and let him cry on my shoulder. They say crying makes the heart lighter.'

'And what good will that do? Urvashi will not come back to Armaan.'

Suddenly Salim looks up. 'Do you think I could speak to her? Maybe I could persuade her to come back to Armaan. Tell her that it was all a mistake. Tell her how sad and contrite he is.'

I shake my head. I don't want Salim tramping all over Mumbai looking for Urvashi Randhawa.

'It's not a good idea to poke your nose into other people's affairs, or make other people's troubles your own, Salim. Armaan Ali is a mature man. He will deal with his troubles in his own way.'

'At least I will send him a gift,' says Salim.

He goes and buys a large bottle of Fevicol glue and sets about sticking the shattered pieces of the heart-shaped frame back together again. It takes him a week, but finally the heart is whole, a grid of criss-crossing black streaks the only reminder of the fault lines on which it broke.

'I will now send it to Armaan,' he says. 'It is a symbol that even a broken heart can be put together again.'

'With Fevicol?' I ask.

'No. With love and care.'

Salim wraps it up in cloth and sends it to Armaan Ali's home address. I don't know whether it reached Armaan or not. Whether it was broken by the postal department, smashed by the security guards or trashed by Armaan's secretary. The important thing is that Salim believes it reached his hero and helped to heal his wound. It made Armaan whole again, and enabled him to resume giving blockbusters, such as this one. Which I am seeing for the first time and Salim for the ninth.

* * *

A devotional song is playing on the screen. Armaan and his mother are climbing towards the shrine of Vaishno Devi.

'They say if you ask Mata Vaishno Devi sincerely for anything, she grants your wish. Tell me, what would you ask?' I say to Salim.

'What would you ask?' he counters.

'I guess I would ask for money,' I say.

'I would ask for Armaan to be reunited with Urvashi,' he says without thinking even for a second.

The screen says INTERVAL in bold red letters.

* * *

Salim and I stand up and stretch our arms and legs. We buy two soggy samosas from the food vendor. The boy selling soft drinks looks at the empty seats mournfully. He will not make a good profit today. We decide to go to the toilet. It has nice white tiles, banks of urinals and clean washbasins. We both have our designated stalls. Salim always goes to the one on the extreme right, and I always take the sole urinal on the left side wall. I empty my bladder and read the graffiti on the Wall. FUCK ME . . . TINU PISSED HERE . . . SHEENA IS A WHORE . . . I LOVE PRIYANKA.

Priyanka? I rail against the graffiti artist who has defaced the last inscription. I spit into my hand and try to remove the extra letters, but they have been written with permanent black marker and refuse to budge. Eventually I use my nails to scratch them off the wall and succeed in restoring the graffiti to its original state, just as I had inscribed it four months ago: I LOVE PRIYA.

* * *

The second bell sounds. The interval is over. The film is about to resume. Salim has already briefed me on the remaining plot. Armaan and Priya will now sing a song in Switzerland, before Priya is murdered by a rival gang. Then Armaan will kill hundreds of bad guys in revenge, expose corrupt politicians and police officers, and finally die a hero's death.

We return to A21 and A22. The hall goes dark again. Suddenly, a tall man enters through the balcony door and takes the seat next to Salim. A20. He has two hundred seats to choose from, but he selects A20. It is impossible to see his face, but I can make out that he is an old man with a long, flowing beard. He is wearing what appears to be a pathan suit.

I am curious about this man. Why is he joining the film halfway through? Did he pay half price for his ticket? Salim is not bothered. He is craning forward in anticipation of the love scene between Armaan and Priya which is about to begin.

Armaan has come to Switzerland, ostensibly to locate a contact, but actually to romance Priya and sing a song, in which he is joined by twenty white female dancers wearing traditional costumes that are rather skimpy for a cold mountainous country. The song and dance over, he is now sitting in his hotel room, where a crackling fire burns in the fireplace.

Priya is taking a bath. We hear the sound of running water and Priya humming a tune, and then we see her in the bath. She applies soap to her legs and back. She raises a leg covered in bubbles and uses the shower-head to wash it clean. We hope she will also use it on her ample chest and make all the bubbles disappear, but she disappoints us.

Finally, she emerges from the bath with just a pink towel around her body. Her jet-black hair hangs loose behind her shoulders, glistening with moisture. Her long legs are smooth and hairless. Armaan takes her in his arms and smothers her face with kisses. His lips move down to the hollow of her neck. Soft romantic music begins to play. Priya undoes the buttons on his shirt and Armaan slips out of it languidly, exposing his manly chest. The glow of the fire envelops the two lovers in a golden tint. Priya makes soft moaning noises. She arches her back and allows Armaan to caress her throat. His hand snakes to her back and tugs at her towel. The pink fabric loosens and falls at her feet. There is a tantalizing glimpse of thigh and back, but no shot of breasts. Salim believes this is where the censors inserted a cut. And why he envies Mrs Kane.

Armaan has now locked Priya in his embrace. We are shown the swell of her breasts, her heavy breathing, the perspiration forming on her forehead. There are catcalls and whistles from the stalls. The old man sitting next to Salim shifts uncomfortably in his seat, crossing his legs. I am not sure, but I think his hand is massaging his crotch.

'The oldie next to you is getting frisky,' I whisper to Salim. But he is oblivious to the old man and me. He is gaping at the intertwined bodies thrusting in synchronized rhythm to the music in the background. The camera pans over Armaan's heaving back and zooms in on the fireplace, where golden-yellow flames are licking the logs with increasing abandon. Fade to black.

* * *

There is a fire of similar proportions in our kitchen when I enter the chawl, but instead of logs, Salim is using paper. 'Bastards! . . . Dogs!' he mutters while tearing a thick sheaf of glossy paper into pieces.

'What are you doing, Salim?' I ask in alarm.

'I am taking revenge on the bastards who have maligned Armaan,' he says as he tosses more sheets of paper on to the pyre.

I notice that Salim is tearing pages from a magazine.

'Which magazine is this? It looks new.'

'It is the latest issue of Starburst. I will destroy as many copies as I can lay my hands on. I could only buy ten from the news-stand.'

I grab a copy that has not yet been mangled. It has Armaan Ali on the cover, with a screaming headline:

'THE NAKED TRUTH ABOUT THIS MAN'.

'But it has your idol on the cover. Why are you destroying it?' I cry.

'Because of what they say inside about Armaan.'

'But you can't read.'

'I read enough and I can hear. I overheard Mrs Barve and Mrs Shirke discussing the scurrilous accusations made against Armaan in this issue.'

'Like what?'

'That Urvashi left him because he could not satisfy her. That he is gay.'

'So?'

'You think they can abuse my hero in this fashion and get away with it? I know this report is a load of nonsense. Armaan's rivals in the industry are jealous of his success. They have hatched this plot to destroy his reputation. I will not allow them to succeed. I will go to the Starburst office and set fire to it.'

Salim's anger is white hot. ,And I know why. He hates gays. To tarnish his idol with the brush of homosexuality is the ultimate insult in his book.

I, too, know of perverts and what they do to unsuspecting boys. In dark halls. In public toilets. In municipal gardens. In juvenile homes.

Luckily, Starburst retract their allegation in the next issue. And save a dabbawallah from becoming an arsonist.

* * *

Meanwhile, things are hotting up off screen, in seat A20. The old man slides closer to Salim. His leg casually brushes against Salim's. The first time, Salim thinks it is his own fault. The second time, he thinks it is an accident. The third time, he is convinced it is deliberate.

'Mohammad,' he whispers to me, 'I am going to give a tight kick to the bastard sitting next to me if he doesn't stop his wandering leg.'

'Look how old he is, Salim. It's probably just tremors in his leg,' I counsel.

The fight sequence has started and Salim is busy watching the action. Armaan has entered the villain's den and all hell is breaking loose. The hero uses all manner of feints and tackles – boxing, karate, kung fu – to give his opponents a licking.

The old man's hands are also getting into action. He presses his elbow against the common armrest and lets his arm slide next to Salim's, touching it ever so lightly. Salim hardly notices this. He is engrossed in the film, which is reaching its climax.

The most famous scene of the movie is about to happen. The one in which Armaan Ali dies after killing all the bad guys. His vest is soaked in blood. There are bullet wounds all over his body.

His trousers are coated with dust and grime. He drags himself along the ground towards his mother, who has just arrived on the scene.

Salim is in tears. He leans forward and says poignantly, 'Mother, I hope I have been a good son.

Don't cry for me. Remember, dying an honourable death is better than living a coward's life.'

Armaan's head is in his mother's lap. He is mimicking Salim: 'Mother, I hope I have been a good son. Don't cry for me. Remember, dying an honourable death is better than living a coward's life.'

The mother is crying too as she cradles his bleeding head in her lap. Tears fall from her eyes on Armaan Ali's face. He grips her hand. His chest convulses.

Tears fall into my lap. I see another mother who kisses her baby many times on his forehead before placing him in a clothes bin, rearranging the clothes around him. In the background the wind howls. Sirens sound. The police have arrived, as usual, too late. After the hero has done all the work for them. They cannot do anything for him now.

I see that the bearded man's left hand has moved on. It is now placed in Salim's lap and rests there gently. Salim is so engrossed in the death scene he does not register it. The old man is emboldened. He rubs his palm against Salim's jeans.

As Armaan takes his last few breaths, the man increases his pressure on Salim's crotch, till he is almost gripping it.

Salim erupts. 'You bloody motherfucker! You filthy pervert! I am going to kill you!' he screams and slaps the man's face. Hard.

The man hastily removes his hand from Salim's lap and tries to get up from his seat. But before he can lift himself completely, Salim makes a grab for him. He fails to catch the man's collar, but gets hold of his beard. As Salim tugs, it comes off in his hand. The man leaps out of his seat with a strangled cry and dashes towards the exit, which is hardly twenty feet away.

At that very instant the electrical power in the theatre fails and the generator kicks in. The screen goes blank and the dark hall is dazzled as the emergency lights flick on. The man is caught unawares, like a deer in a car's headlamps. He whirls around, unsure of himself.

Just as suddenly, the power comes back. It was only a momentary interruption. The film resumes on the screen, the emergency lights are extinguished. The man rushes past the black curtains to the red EXIT sign, slams open the door and disappears.

But in that split second Salim and I have seen a flash of hazel-green eyes. A chiselled nose. A cleft chin.

As the credits begin to roll over the screen, Salim is left holding in his hand a mass of tangled grey hair smelling vaguely of cologne and spirit gum. This time he does not see the name of the publicity designer and the PRO, the light men and the spot boys, the fight director and the cameraman. He is weeping.

Armaan Ali, his hero, has died.

* * *

Smita is staring at me with sceptical eyes. 'When exactly did this incident happen?'

'About six years ago. When Salim and I lived in a chawl in Ghatkopar.'

'And do you realize the significance of what you have just recounted to me?'

'What?'

'That if this incident was made public, it could destroy Armaan Ali, end his film career. Of course, that will happen only if what you just told me is true.'

'So you still don't believe me?'

'I didn't say that.'

'I can see the doubt in your eyes. If you still don't believe me, you do so at your own peril. But you cannot disregard the evidence on this DVD. Should we see the first question?'

Smita nods her head and presses 'Play' on the remote.

* * *

The studio lights have been dimmed. I can hardly see the audience sitting around me in a circle.

The hall is illuminated by one spotlight in the centre, where I sit in a leather revolving chair opposite Prem Kumar. We are separated by a semicircular table. There is a large screen in front of me on which the questions will be projected. The studio sign is lit up. It says 'Silence'.

'Cameras rolling, three, two, one, you're on.'

The signature tune comes on and Prem Kumar's booming voice fills the hall. 'Here we are once again, ready to find out who will make history today by winning the biggest prize ever offered on earth. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, we are ready to find out Who Will Win A Billion!'

The studio sign changes to 'Applause'. The audience begins clapping. There are some cheers and whistles, too.

The signature tune fades out. Prem Kumar says, 'We have three lucky contestants with us tonight, who have been selected at random by our computer. Contestant number three is Kapil Chowdhary from Malda in West Bengal. Contestant number two is Professor Hari Parikh from Ahmedabad, but our first contestant tonight is eighteen-year-old Ram Mohammad Thomas from our very own Mumbai. Ladies and gentlemen, please give him a big round of applause.'

Everyone claps. After the applause dies down, Prem Kumar turns to me. 'Ram Mohammad Thomas, now that's a very interesting name. It expresses the richness and diversity of India.

What do you do, Mr Thomas?'

'I am a waiter in Jimmy's Bar and Restaurant in Colaba.'

'A waiter! Now isn't that interesting! Tell me, how much do you make every month?'

'Around nine hundred rupees.'

'That's all? And what will you do if you win today?'

'I don't know.'

'You don't know?'

'No.'

Prem Kumar scowls at me. I am not following the script. I am supposed to 'vibe' and be 'entertaining' during the 'small talk'. I should have said I will buy a restaurant, or a plane, or a country. I could have said I will host a big party. Marry Miss India. Travel to Timbuktu.

'OK. Let me explain the rules to you. You will be asked twelve questions, and if you answer each one correctly, you stand to win the biggest jackpot on earth: one billion rupees! You are free to quit at any point up until question number nine and take whatever you have earned up to then, but you cannot quit beyond question number nine. After that, it is either Play or Pay. But let's talk about that when we come to that stage. If you don't know the answer to a question, don't panic, because you have two Lifeboats available to you – A Friendly Tip and Half and Half. So I think we are all set for the first question for one thousand rupees. Are you ready?'

'Yes, I am ready,' I reply.

'OK, here comes question number one. A nice easy one on popular cinema, I am sure everyone in the audience can answer. Now we all know that Armaan Ali and Priya Kapoor have formed one of the most successful screen pairings of recent times. But can you name the blockbusting film in which Armaan Ali starred with Priya Kapoor for the very first time. Was it a) Fire, b) Hero, c) Hunger, or d) Betrayal?'

The music in the background changes to a suspense tune, with the sound of a ticking time bomb superimposed over it.

'D. Betrayal,' I reply.

'Do you go to the movies?'

'Yes.'

'And did you see Betrayal?'

'Yes.'

'Are you absolutely, one hundred per cent sure of your answer?'

'Yes.'

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

'Absolutely, one hundred per cent correct! You've just won one thousand rupees! We will now take a quick commercial break,' declares Prem Kumar.

The studio sign changes to 'Applause'. The audience claps. Prem Kumar smiles. I don't.

THE BURDEN OF A PRIEST

If you have been to Delhi by train, you must have visited Paharganj. In all probability you would have arrived at the noisy and dusty Paharganj railway station. You would have exited the station and almost certainly headed left towards Connaught Place, bypassing the crowded market with the cut-price guest houses and cheap prostitutes for tourists. But if you had gone right, past the Mother Dairy and J. J. Women's Hospital, you would have seen a red building, with a large white cross. That is the Church of St Mary. That is where I was born eighteen years ago on Christmas Day. Or, to be more precise, that is where I was left on the cold winter night of 25 December.

Dumped in the large bin the sisters had put out for old clothes. Who left me there and why, I do not know to this day. The finger of suspicion has always pointed towards the maternity ward of J. J. Hospital. Perhaps I was born there and my mother, for reasons known only to her, was forced to abandon me.

In my mind's eye I have often visualized that scene. A tall and graceful young woman, wearing a white sari, leaves the hospital after midnight with a baby in her arms. The wind is howling. Her long black hair blows across her face, obscuring her features. Leaves rustle near her feet. Dust scatters. Lightning flashes. She walks with heavy footsteps towards the church, clutching the baby to her bosom. She reaches the door of the church and uses the metal ring knocker. But the wind is so strong, it drowns out the sound of the knock. Her time is limited. With tears streaming from her eyes, she smothers the baby's face with kisses. Then she places him in the bin, arranging the old clothes to make him comfortable. She takes one final look at the baby, averts her eyes and then, running away from the camera, disappears into the night . . .

* * *

The sisters of St Mary ran an orphanage and an adoption agency, and I was put up for adoption, together with a clutch of other orphan babies. All the other babies were collected, but no one came for me. A prospective mother and father would see me and exchange glances with each other. There would be an imperceptible shake of the head, and then they would move on to the next cradle. I do not know why. Perhaps I was too dark. Too ugly. Too colicky. Perhaps I didn't have a cherubic smile, or I gurgled too much. So I remained at the orphanage for two years.

Oddly enough, the sisters never got round to giving me a name. I was just called Baby – the baby that no one wanted.

I was finally adopted by Mrs Philomena Thomas and her husband Dominic Thomas. Originally from Nagercoil in Tamil Nadu, they now lived in Delhi. Mrs Thomas worked as a cleaner in St Joseph's Church and her husband as the gardener. Because they were in their forties without any children of their own, Father Timothy Francis, the parish priest, had been urging them to consider adopting to fill the void in their life. He even directed them to St Mary's Orphanage. Mr Thomas must have taken one look at me and immediately passed on to the next baby, but Mrs Philomena Thomas selected me the moment she saw me. I was a perfect match for her dark skin!

The Thomases spent two months completing the paperwork for my adoption, but within three days of taking me home and even before I could be christened, Mr Thomas discovered that the void in his wife's life had already been filled. Not by me, but by a Muslim gentleman by the name of Mastan Sheikh, who was the local ladies' tailor, specializing in short skirts. Mrs Philomena Thomas ditched her old husband and newly adopted baby and ran off with the tailor, reportedly to Bhopal. Her whereabouts are not known to this day.

On discovering this, Mr Thomas went into a rage. He dragged me in my cradle to the priest's house and dumped me there. 'Father, this baby is the root cause of all the trouble in my life. You forced me to adopt him, so now you decide what to do with him.' And before Father Timothy could even say 'Amen', Dominic Thomas walked out of the church. He was last seen buying a train ticket for Bhopal with a shotgun in his hands. So willy-nilly I became Father Timothy's responsibility. He gave me food, he gave me shelter and he gave me a name: Joseph Michael Thomas. There was no baptism ceremony. No priest dipped my head into a font. No holy water was sprinkled. No white shawl was draped over me. No candle was lit. But I became Joseph Michael Thomas. For six days.

On the seventh day, two men came to meet Father Timothy. A fat man wearing white kurta pyjamas, and a thin, bearded man wearing a sherwani.

'We are from the All Faith Committee,' the fat man said. 'I am Mr Jagdish Sharma. This is Mr Inayat Hidayatullah. Our third board member, Mr Harvinder Singh, representing the Sikh faith, was also to come, but he is unfortunately held up at the Gurudwara. We will come straight to the point. We are told, Father, that you have given shelter to a little orphan boy.'

'Yes, the poor boy's adoptive parents have disappeared, leaving him in my care,' said Father Timothy, still unable to figure out the reason for this unexpected visit.

'What name have you given this boy?'

'Joseph Michael Thomas.'

'Isn't that a Christian name?'

'Yes, but—'

'How do you know that he was born to Christian parents?'

'Well, I don't.'

'Then why have you given him a Christian name?'

'Well, I had to call him something. What's wrong with Joseph Michael Thomas?'

'Everything. Don't you know, Father, how strong the movement is against conversion in these parts? Several churches have been set fire to by irate mobs, who were led to believe that mass conversions to Christianity were taking place there.'

'But this is no conversion.'

'Look, Father, we know you did not have any ulterior motive. But word has got around that you have converted a Hindu boy.'

'But how do you know he is Hindu?'

'It won't matter to the lumpen elements who are planning to ransack your church tomorrow. That is why we have come to help you. To cool things down.'

'What do you suggest I do?'

'I suggest you change the boy's name.'

'To what?'

'Well . . . giving him a Hindu name might do the trick. Why not name him Ram, after one of our favourite gods?' said Mr Sharma.

Mr Hidayatullah coughed gently. 'Excuse me, Mr Sharma, but aren't we replacing one evil with another? I mean, what is the proof that the boy was a Hindu at birth? He might have been Muslim, you know. Why can't he be called Mohammad?'

Mr Sharma and Mr Hidayatullah debated the respective merits of Ram and Mohammad for the next thirty minutes. Finally, Father Timothy gave up. 'Look, if it takes a name change to get the mob off my back, I will do it. How about if I accept both your suggestions and change the boy's name to Ram Mohammad Thomas? That should satisfy everyone.'

Luckily for me that Mr Singh did not come that day.

* * *

Father Timothy was tall, white and comfortably middle aged. He had a huge house in the church compound with a sprawling garden full of fruit trees. For the next six years, he became my father, mother, master, teacher and priest, all rolled into one. If there has been anything approximating happiness in my life, it was in the time I spent with him.

Father Timothy was from the north of England, a place called York, but had been settled in India for very many years. It was thanks to him that I learnt to read and speak the Queen's English. He taught me Mother Goose Tales and nursery rhymes. I would sing 'Twinkle Twinkle Little Star' and 'Baa Baa Black Sheep' in my horribly off-key voice, providing, I suppose, an amusing diversion for Father Timothy from his priestly duties.

Living in the church compound, I felt part of a much larger family. Apart from Father Timothy, his faithful manservant Joseph stayed in the house and Mrs Gonzalves, the maid, also lived close by. And then there was a whole bunch of street kids belonging to the plumbers, cobblers, sweepers and washermen, who lived practically next door and did not hesitate to use the church grounds for their cricket and football games. Father Timothy taught me about the life of Jesus, and Adam and Eve, and this extended family instructed me on the rudiments of other religions. I came to know about the Mahabharata and the Holy Koran. I learnt about the Prophet's flight from Mecca to Medina and of the burning down of Lanka. Bethlehem and Ayodhya, St Peter and the Hajj all became part of my growing-up.

This is not to suggest, though, that I was a particularly religious child. I was like any other child, with three main preoccupations: eating, sleeping and playing. I spent many an afternoon with the neighbourhood kids of my age, catching butterflies and frightening birds in Father Timothy's garden. While Joseph, the old retainer, dusted curios in the drawing room, I would sneak out and try to pluck ripe mangoes, under the watchful eye of the gardener. If caught, I would give him generous abuse in Hindi. I would dance with abandon in the monsoon rain, try to catch little fish in the small muddy pools of rain water and end up coughing and sneezing, much to the consternation of Father Timothy. I would play football with the street kids, come back battered and bruised, and then cry the entire night.

Father Timothy lived an active life. He would go for a walk every morning, play golf, volleyball and tennis, read voraciously and take vacations three times a year to meet his aged mother in England. He was also an expert violinist. Most evenings he would sit out in the moonlit garden and play the most soulful melodies you can imagine. And when it rained at night during the monsoon season, I would think of the sky as weeping from hearing his sad tunes.

I enjoyed going into the church. It was an old building built in 1878, with stained-glass windows and a spectacular roof made of timber. The altar was beautifully carved. Above it was a large crucifix of Christ and the letters INRI. There were sculptures of the Virgin and Child enthroned and of many saints. The pews were made of teak wood, but they were full only on Sundays.

Father Timothy would give a long sermon from the pulpit, during which I would doze off, to wake only when he gave everyone the wafer and wine. I also enjoyed hearing the organ and the choir. I fell in love with Easter eggs and Christmas trees, which unfortunately came only once a year, and church weddings, which were held in all seasons. I would wait for Father Timothy to say, 'And you may now kiss the bride.' I would always be the first to throw the confetti.

* * *

My relationship with Father Timothy was never precisely defined. It was never made clear to me whether I was servant or son, parasite or pet. So for the first few years of my life, I lived under the happy illusion that Father Timothy was my real father. But gradually I began to realize something was amiss. For one, all those who came to Mass on Sunday mornings would call him Father, and it intrigued me that he was the father of so many people, and that I had so many brothers and sisters, all much bigger than me. I was also perplexed by the fact that he was white and I was not. So one day I asked him, and he shattered the fantasy world in which I had lived till then. In the gentlest possible way, he explained to me that I was an orphan child left behind by my mother in the clothes bin of St Mary's Orphanage, and that was why he was white and I was not. It was then, for the first time, that I understood the distinction between father and Father. And that night, for the first time, my tears had nothing to do with physical pain.

Once the realization sank in that I did not have a biological connection with Father Timothy and was living in the church only due to his generosity, I became determined to repay, at least in part, the debt I owed him. I began doing little chores for him, like taking the clothes from the laundry basket to the washing machine. Sitting in front of the machine, watching the drum spin round and round and wondering how the clothes came out so magically clean. Once putting some dusty books inside the washing machine as well. Doing the dishes in the kitchen sink. Breaking fine china. Slicing vegetables. On occasion almost chopping off my finger.

Father Timothy introduced me to many of his parishioners. I met old Mrs Benedict, who came religiously to Mass every day, come hail or rain, till she slipped on the pavement one day and died of pneumonia. I attended the wedding of Jessica, who cried so much her father had a heart attack. I was taken once to high tea at the house of Colonel Waugh, who was the Australian Defence Attache in Delhi and who seemed to speak to Father Timothy in a completely foreign language. I went on a fishing trip with Mr Lawrence, who caught nothing, then purchased a large trout from the fish market to deceive his wife.

All the people I met had nothing but praise for Father Timothy. They said he was the best priest this diocese had ever had. I saw him comfort the bereaved, attend to the sick, lend money to the needy and share a meal even with lepers. He had a smile on his face for every member of the parish, a cure for every problem and a quotation from the Bible for every occasion – birth, Baptism, Confirmation, First Communion, marriage or death.

* * *

It is Sunday and the church is full of people gathered for the Mass. But today Father Timothy is not standing alone behind the altar. He has another man with him, also wearing a cassock and a white band at his neck. He looks more like a boxer than a priest. Father Timothy is introducing him. '. . . And it is a great pleasure for us to welcome Father John Little, who has joined the Church of St Joseph as Associate Priest. Father John, as you can see, is much younger than me, and even though he was ordained only three years ago, is vastly experienced. I am sure he will be able to relate much more effectively to our younger worshippers, who, I am well aware, have been referring to me behind my back as "that old fogy".' The congregation titters.

That evening, Father Timothy invites Father John for dinner. Joseph is supposed to serve them, but in my enthusiasm to impress Father Timothy, I pick up the heavy bowl of soup from the kitchen and walk with unsteady steps towards the dining table. As is to be expected from an ill-trained seven-year-old, instead of depositing the soup bowl on the table, I spill it all on Father John. He gets up in a hurry, and the first words that appear on his lips are 'Bloody Hell!' Father Timothy raises an eyebrow, but doesn't say anything.

Three days later, Father Timothy goes away to England on holiday, leaving the church, and me, in the hands of Father John. I meet him two days later coming down the steps of the church.

'Good evening, Father,' I say politely.

Father John looks at me with disdain. 'You're that idiot orphan boy who spilled soup on me the other day! You'd better behave yourself in Father Timothy's absence. I'll be watching you very carefully.'

* * *

Joseph has sent me with a glass of milk to Father John's room. He is watching a movie on the TV. He invites me in. 'Come in, Thomas. Do you want to watch this film with me?' I look at the TV. It is an English film – about priests, I think, because I see a priest in a black cassock talking to another priest in a white cassock. I am relieved Father John is fond of watching good, religious films. But the very next scene sends a chill down my spine, because it shows a young girl, about my age, sitting on a bed. She does not appear to be a normal girl, because she has a funny expression on her face and her eyes are going all over the place. The priest in the black cassock enters her room with a cross in his hand. He points it at her, and she starts speaking the most filthy language I have ever heard, and that too in the hoarse voice of a grown-up man. I put my fingers in my ears, because Father Timothy has instructed me not to listen to such dirty words. Suddenly she stops speaking. She starts laughing, like a mad girl. Then she opens her mouth and horrible, gooey green stuff spews out of it like a jet of water from a garden pipe and lands on the priest. I feel like vomiting. I cannot watch any longer and run down to my room. I hear Father John squealing with laughter. 'Come back, you idiot orphan boy, it's just a film,' he calls out. I get bad dreams that night.

* * *

Three days later I am out shopping with Joseph. We purchase meat and eggs and vegetables and flour. As we are returning to the church late in the evening, I hear the sound of a motorcycle behind me. Before I can look back, the motorcycle rider is upon us. He slaps me on the head and screams away, raising a plume of dust. I catch sight only of his back. He seems like a heavy-set man wearing a leather jacket and tight black trousers, with another similarly dressed man riding pillion. I wonder who the rider is and why he rapped me on the head. It doesn't occur to me that it could be Father John. After all, I am only an idiot orphan boy.

* * *

A week later, I have to deliver some mail to Father John, but he is taking a bath. 'Leave the post on the table,' he shouts from the bathroom. I am about to leave the room when I catch sight of something peeping out from underneath his mattress. I look closely. It is a magazine. I pull it out.

And then I find a whole bunch of them under the mattress. They are not very thick but they have nice glossy covers. They have strange titles like Gay Parade and Out and Gay Power. But the men on their covers do not seem very happy and gay. They are all hairy and naked. I hastily put the magazines back under the mattress. I am about to go out when Father John emerges from the bathroom. He has a towel around his waist. But his chest is covered in strange patterns made in black ink and there are snakes painted on his arms. 'What are you doing here?' he admonishes me. 'Bugger off!'

Why Father John has all these strange designs on his body and keeps those strange magazines under his bed, I don't know. I am just an idiot orphan boy.

* * *

I often see strange-looking young men entering the church at night and going to Father John's room. Visitors used to come to meet Father Timothy as well, sometimes at odd hours of the night, but they never came by motorcycle wearing leather jackets and thick metal chains around their necks. I decide to follow one of these visitors to Father John's room. He knocks and enters and Father John closes the door. I peer through the little keyhole. I know I am doing a very bad thing, but my curiosity is killing me. Through the keyhole I see Father John and the young leather-clad man sitting on the bed. Father John opens his drawer and takes out a plastic packet, which has some white powder in it. He spreads the powder in a thin line on the back of his left hand. Then he does the same to the left hand of his friend. They both bend their faces to the powder and inhale deeply. The white powder seems to disappear into their noses. Brother John laughs, like that mad girl in the film. His friend says, 'This is good stuff, man! Way too good for a priest. How did you get into this Church shit in the first place?'

Father John laughs again. 'I liked the dress,' he says, and gets up from the bed. 'Come,' he tells his friend and puts out his hand. I hastily retreat.

Why Father John puts talcum powder into his nose I don't know. But then I am just an idiot orphan boy.

* * *

Father Timothy finally returns from his holiday in England and I am delighted to see him again. I am pretty sure he has heard lots of complaints about Father John, because within just two days of his return there is a big argument between them in the study. Father John rushes out of the room in a huff.

* * *

Easter is over. All my Easter eggs have been eaten. And Mrs Gonzalves, the house maid, is sniggering.

'What's the matter, Mrs Gonzalves?' I ask her.

'Don't you know?' she whispers confidentially. 'Joseph caught Father John in the church with another man. But don't tell anyone, and don't whisper a word to Father Timothy, otherwise there'll be hell to pay.'

I don't understand. What's wrong if Father John was with another man in the church? Father Timothy is with other men all the time in the church. Like when he listens to confessions.

* * *

Today, for the first time, I am in the confession box.

'Yes, my son, what have you come to tell me?' asks Father Timothy.

'It is me, Father.'

Father Timothy almost jumps out of his chair. 'What are you doing here, Thomas? Haven't I told you this is not a joking matter?'

'I have come to confess, Father. I have sinned.'

'Really?' Father Timothy softens. 'What wrong have you done?'

'I peeped inside Father John's room through the keyhole. And I looked at some of his things without his permission.'

'That's quite all right, my son. I don't think I want to hear about that.'

'No, you must, Father,' I say, and proceed to tell him about the magazines under the mattress, the designs on the body, the leather-clad visitors at night, and the snorting of the talcum powder.

That evening there is the mother of all showdowns in the study between the two priests. I listen at the door. There is a lot of shouting. Father Timothy ends the discussion by threatening to report Father John to the Bishop. 'I am a priest,' he says. 'And to be a priest, you have to carry a heavy burden. If you can't do this, then return to the seminary.'

* * *

An English backpacker passing through Delhi came to church this morning and Father Timothy found out that he is also from York. So he brought him home and is allowing him to stay for a few days. He introduces him to me. 'Ian, meet Thomas, who lives with us here. Thomas, this is Ian. Do you know he is also from York? You are always asking me about my mother's city; now you can ask him.'

I like Ian. He is fifteen or sixteen years old. He has fair skin, blue eyes and golden hair. He shows me pictures of York. I see a large cathedral. 'It's called York Minster,' he says. He shows me pictures of lovely gardens and museums and parks.

'Have you met Father Timothy's mother? She also lives in York,' I ask him.

'No, but I will meet her after I return, now that I have her address.'

'What about your own mother? Does she also live in York?'

'She used to. But she died ten years ago. A motorcycle rider crashed into her.' He takes out a picture of his mother from his wallet and shows it to me. She had fair skin, blue eyes and golden hair.

'So why have you come to India?' I ask him.

'To meet my dad.'

'What does your father do?'

Ian hesitates. 'He teaches at a Catholic school in Dehradun.'

'Why don't you also live in Dehradun?'

'Because I am studying in York.'

'Then why doesn't your dad live with you in York?'

'There are reasons. But he comes to visit me three times a year. This time I decided to meet him in India.'

'Do you love your dad?'

'Yes, very much.'

'Do you wish your dad could stay with you for ever?'

'Yes. What about your dad? What does he do?'

'I don't have a dad. I am an idiot orphan boy.'

* * *

Three evenings later, Father Timothy invites Father John to dinner with Ian. They eat and talk late into the night and Father Timothy even plays his violin. Father John leaves some time after midnight, but Father Timothy and Ian continue chatting. I lie in bed listening to the sound of laughter drifting from the open window. I have trouble sleeping.

It is a moonlit night and a strong wind is blowing. The eucalyptus trees in the compound are swaying, their leaves making a rustling noise. I feel like going to the lavatory and get up. As I am walking towards the bathroom, I see a light inside Father John's room. I also hear sounds. I tiptoe to the door. It is closed, so I peer through the keyhole. What I see inside is frightening. Ian is stooped over the table and Father John is bending over him. His pyjamas have fallen down to his feet. I am totally confused. I may be an idiot orphan boy, but I know something is wrong. I rush to Father Timothy, who is fast asleep. 'Wake up, Father! Father John is doing something bad to Ian!' I shout.

'To whom? To Ian?' Father Timothy is immediately alert. Both of us rush to Father John's room and Father Timothy bursts inside. He sees what I have just seen. His face goes so pale, I think he is about to faint. He grips the door to keep himself from collapsing. Then his face becomes red with anger. He almost starts frothing at the mouth. I am scared. I have never seen him this angry before. 'Ian, go to your room,' he thunders. 'And you too, Thomas.'

I do as I am told, even more confused than before.

* * *

I am woken early next morning by the sound of two bangs, coming from the direction of the church. I sense immediately that something is wrong. I rush to the church and witness a scene which shakes me to my core. Father Timothy is lying in a pool of blood near the altar, just below the statue of Jesus Christ on the cross. He is wearing his cassock and looks to be kneeling in prayer. Ten steps away from him lies the body of Father John, splattered with blood. His head appears to have been shattered and little pieces of his brain stick to the pews. He is dressed in leather. There are images of dark serpents on his arms. A shotgun lies clenched in his right hand.

I see this scene, and I feel the breath being choked out of my lungs. I scream. It is a piercing cry, which shatters the stillness of the morning like a bullet. It frightens away the crows sitting on the eucalyptus trees. It causes Joseph, dusting ornaments in the drawing room, to pause and listen. It impels Mrs Gonzalves to finish her shower quickly. And it wakes up Ian, who comes running into the church.

I am bent over Father Timothy, wailing like an eight-year-old wails when he has lost everything in his life. Ian comes and sits beside me. He looks at the lifeless body of Father Timothy and begins crying too. We hold hands and cry together for almost three hours, even after the police jeep with the flashing red light comes, even after the doctor in a white coat arrives with an ambulance, even after they cover the bodies with white cloth, even after they cart away the corpses in the ambulance, even after Joseph and Mrs Gonzalves take us away to the house and try their best to comfort us.

Later, much later, Ian asks me, 'Why did you cry so much, Thomas?'

'Because today I have really become an orphan,' I reply. 'He was my father. Just as he was Father to all those who came to this church. But why were you crying? Is it because of what you did with Father John?'

'No, I was crying because I have lost everything too. I have become an orphan like you.'

'But your father is alive. He is in Dehradun,' I cry.

'No, that was a lie.' He begins sobbing again. 'Now I can tell you the truth. Timothy Francis may have been your Father, but he was my dad.'

* * *

Smita has a sad expression on her face. 'What a tragic story,' she says. 'I now understand what Father Timothy must have meant when he spoke of the burden of a priest. It is amazing how he lived a double life all those years, as a priest who was also secretly a married man and a father.

So what happened to Ian, finally?'

'I don't know. He went back to England. To some uncle, I think.'

'And you?'

'I got sent to a Juvenile Home.'

'I see. Now tell me about the second question,' says Smita and presses 'Play' on the remote.

* * *

We are still in the commercial break.

Prem Kumar leans forward and whispers to me, 'Let me tell you what the next question is going to be. I will ask you what FBI stands for. You have heard of this organization, haven't you?'

'No.' I shake my head.

He grimaces. 'I knew it. Look, we would like you to win at least a little more money. I can change the question for something else. Tell me quickly, are there any abbreviations you are familiar with?'

I think for a while before replying. 'I don't know about FBI, but I know INRL.'

'What's that?'

'It's what's written on top of a cross.'

'Oh! OK, let me check my data bank.'

The commercial break ends. The signature tune comes on.

Prem Kumar turns to me. 'I am curious, Mr Ram Mohammad Thomas, as to your religion. You seem to have all the religions in your name. Tell me, where do you go to pray?'

'Does one have to go to a temple or a church or a mosque to pray? I believe in what Kabir says.

Hari is in the East, Allah is in the West. Look within your heart, and there you will find both Ram and Karim.'

'Very well said, Mr Thomas. It looks like you are an expert on all religions. And if that is the case, the next question should be fairly easy for you. OK, here it comes, question number two for two thousand rupees. What is the sequence of letters normally inscribed on a cross? Is it a) IRNI, b) INRI, c) RINI or d) NIRI? Is the question clear, Mr Thomas?'

'Yes,' I reply.

'OK. Then let's hear your reply.'

The answer is B. INRI.'

'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 two thousand rupees.'

'Amen,' I say.

A BROTHER'S PROMISE

You should take a good look at all sides of an issue before making a decision. Put something away in case of an emergency. New neighbours will bring good cheer.

A small problem may occur at home base, but you will solve it quickly and correctly. Don't offer smart advice unless you are really asked to comment.

This is what the daily horoscope in the Maharashtra Times has predicted today for those who are Capricorns like me, born in the last week of December.

I don't read the Maharashtra Times. In fact, I don't read any newspaper. But I occasionally pilfer a copy from Mr Barve's rubbish bin. It is useful for stoking the fire in the kitchen, and sometimes, when I have nothing else to do, I flip through its pages as a time pass before they are reduced to ash.

I also don't believe in horoscopes. If I did, I should be dead by now, as per the prediction made by Pandit Ramashankar Shastri. But today's daily horoscope does appear to contain a kernel of truth. New neighbours are moving into the room next door and there is indeed a small problem at home base.

We have just returned from the matinee at Regal Talkies and Salim is in a blind rage. He is tearing down all the posters of Armaan Ali which have adorned the walls of our small room for nearly three years. The poster of Armaan in a leather jacket has been torn to shreds. Armaan on a motorbike has been dismembered with a knife. Armaan with his shirt off, baring his hairy chest, is now in the bin. Armaan with a gun has been diced into tiny pieces and Armaan and his horse have both been roasted over the fire. With all the posters gone, our room, with just two beds, is suddenly looking even more bare than before, and the mildew patches on the whitewashed walls are no longer hidden.

Despite the warning in the daily horoscope, I cannot resist offering some smart advice to Salim.

'Do you now realize the truth of what I told you ten months ago, when you were busy trying to fix Armaan's relationship with Urvashi? I told you not to poke your nose into other people's affairs, or make other people's troubles your own. Remember this as a lesson for the future.'

Salim hears me sullenly as he stomps on the poster of Armaan in a pool surrounded by a bevy of beauties.

I hear footsteps and voices outside the room. It looks as if the new tenants are finally moving into the room next to ours. I am excited. It is always good to meet new people. I hope the new tenants have boys of my age. Putul and Dhyanesh are good company, but they rarely get permission from their parents to come and play with me on Sundays, which is the only day I don't have to go to work. Ajay, the show-off, is also getting on my nerves. He made fun of me in front of the whole chawl when I told him I had joined a foundry. I know working in a foundry is not half as exciting as working for a film star, but at least it is better than sitting in the street.

* * *

After the time I spent with the actress Neelima Kumari, living in her flat, I had almost forgotten life in a chawl. A bundle of one-room tenements occupied by the lower-middle classes, chawls are the smelly armpit of Mumbai. Those who live here are only marginally better off than those who live in slums like Dharavi. As Mr Barve told me once, the rich people, those who live in their marble and granite four-bedroom flats, they enjoy. The slum people, who live in squalid, tattered huts, they suffer. And we, who reside in the overcrowded chawls, we simply live.

Living in a chawl does have certain advantages. What happened to Neelima Kumari would never happen here, because in a chawl everyone knows everything that is going on. All the residents have a common roof over their heads and a common place where they shit and bathe. The residents of the chawl may not meet each other for social occasions, but they have to meet while standing in a queue outside the common lavatories. In fact, it is rumoured that Mr Gokhale met Mrs Gokhale while waiting outside the latrine and fell in love. They got married within a month.

There is no chance of my falling in love with any girl in the chawl. They are all fat and ugly, not even remotely like my favourite actress, Priya Kapoor. Besides, they all like stupid things like dolls and cannot play any decent games like boxing and kabaddi. Not that I get much time to play these games. The whole day I work at the foundry, returning only at six in the evening. And smelting metal is a tough job. The molten iron smothers you with its heat and your eyes are often blinded by the bright-orange flames.

'Thomas!' I hear a voice. It is Mr Ramakrishna, the administrator of the chawl, calling me. He is a very important man. We go to Mr Ramakrishna whenever the bulb goes out or the water pressure becomes low. We beg Mr Ramakrishna when we don't have enough money to pay the monthly rent. We have been after Mr Ramakrishna to repair a section of the first-floor wooden railing which has become weak and wobbly and poses a safety hazard.

I come out of the room and see Mr Ramakrishna standing with a short, middle-aged man who frowns and looks as though he has not gone to the toilet for a long time. 'Thomas, meet Mr Shantaram. He is our new tenant, who will be staying in the flat next to yours. I have told Mr Shantaram that you are a very responsible boy, so please help him and his wife and daughter settle down. OK, Mr Shantaram, I will now take my leave.'

'Oh no,' I think to myself. 'No boys.' I try to see his wife and daughter, but only catch a fleeting glimpse of a woman with grey hair, and a girl, older than me, with long black hair tied back, sitting on the bed. Shantaram sees me peering into his flat and hastily closes the front door.

'What do you do?' I ask Shantaram.

'I am a scientist, an astronomer. You won't understand. But these days I am taking a break. I am working as the sales manager in the Vimal showroom. This room here is a very temporary arrangement. We will be shifting to a de luxe apartment in Nariman Point very soon.'

I know Mr Shantaram is lying. Those who can afford to live in Nariman Point never stay in chawls, not even temporarily.

* * *

The walls of the rooms inside the chawl are very thin. If you put your ear against the common wall and concentrate hard or, even better, if you put an inverted glass against the wall and put your ear against it, you can listen to almost everything going on in the next room. Salim and I do this often with our neighbours on the left, whose room adjoins our kitchen wall. Mr and Mrs Bapat are not a young couple any more. It is rumoured that Mr Bapat even beats Mrs Bapat, but they obviously make up at night because Salim and I often hear their heavy breathing and panting, their 'oohs' and 'aahs', and we snicker.

I adjust a stainless-steel cup against the wall adjoining Mr Shantaram's room and bury my ear in it. I can hear Shantaram speaking.

'This place is nothing less than a black hole. It is totally beneath my dignity to be staying here, but just for the sake of you two, I will endure this humiliation till I get a proper job. Listen, I don't want any of the street boys to enter the house. God knows what hell holes they have come from. There are two right next to us. Rascals of the highest order, I think. And Gudiya, if I catch you talking to any boy in the chawl, you will receive a hiding with my leather belt, understood?' he thunders. I drop the cup in panic.

* * *

Over the next couple of weeks, I hardly see Shantaram and I never see his wife or daughter. She probably goes to college every day, but by the time I return home from the foundry, she is inside her house and the door is always firmly shut.

Salim doesn't even notice that we have new neighbours. He hardly gets any spare time from his work as a tiffin delivery boy. He wakes up at seven in the morning and gets dressed. He wears a loose white shirt, cotton pyjamas and puts a white Nehru cap on his head. The cap is the badge of identification of all dabbawallahs in Mumbai, and there are nearly five thousand of them. Over the next two hours he collects home-cooked meals in lunch boxes from approximately twenty-five flats. Then he takes them to the Ghatkopar local train station. Here the tiffins are sorted according to their destination, each with colour-coded dots, dashes and crosses on the lids, and then loaded on to special trains to be delivered promptly at lunch time to middle-class executives and blue-collar workers all over Mumbai. Salim himself receives tiffins by another train, which he delivers in the Ghatkopar area after deciphering the dots and dashes which constitute the address. He has to be very careful, because one mistake could cost him his job. He dare not hand over a container with beef to a Hindu, or one with pork to a Muslim or one with garlic and onions to a Jain vegetarian.

* * *

It is nine at night. Salim is flipping through the pages of a film magazine. I am kneeling on my bed with my left ear inside a stainless-steel cup held to the wall. I hear Shantaram speaking to his daughter. 'Here, Gudiya, see through the eyepiece. I have adjusted the telescope now. Can you see the bright-red object in the middle? That is Mars.'

I whisper to Salim, 'Quick, get a cup. You must hear this.'

Salim also glues his ear to the wall. Over the next thirty minutes, we listen to a running commentary on the state of the sky. We hear about stellar constellations and galaxies and comets. We hear about the Great Bear and the Little Bear. We hear of something called the Milky Way and the Pole Star. We learn about the rings of Saturn and the moons of Jupiter.

Listening to Shantaram, I am filled with a strange longing. I wish I too had a father who would teach me about stars and planets. The night sky, which till now was just a big black mass to me, suddenly becomes a place of meaning and wonder. As soon as Shantaram's tutorial ends, Salim and I crane our necks out of our first-floor window and try to find the celestial landmarks pointed out by him. Without the aid of a telescope we see only little white dots in the dark sky, but we squeal with delight when we recognize the seven stars of the Great Bear, and even the knowledge that the dark patches on the moon are not blemishes but craters and seas fills us with a sense of satisfaction, as though we have unlocked the mysteries of the universe.

That night I don't dream about a woman in a fluttering white sari. I dream about rings around Saturn and moons around Jupiter.

* * *

A week later, I am alerted by a totally new sound coming from Shantaram's room. 'Meow!' I scramble to the wall with my stainless-steel listening device in hand.

I hear Gudiya speaking. 'Papa, look, I've got a cat. Isn't he lovely? My friend Rohini gave him to me from her cat's new litter. Can I keep him?'

'I am not in favour of any pets,' Mrs Shantaram grumbles. 'There's hardly space in this room for humans – where will we keep an animal?'

'Please, Mummy, he is such a tiny thing. Papa, please agree,' she pleads.

'OK, Gudiya,' says Shantaram. 'You can keep him. But what will you call him?'

'Oh, thank you, Papa. I was thinking of calling him Tommy.'

'No, that is such a commonplace name. This cat is going to live in an astronomer's family, so it should be named after one of the planets.'

'Which one? Should we call him Jupiter?'

'No. He is the smallest in the family, so he can only be called Pluto.'

'Great, I love the name, Papa. Here, Pluto! Pluto, come and have some milk.'

'Meow!' says Pluto.

* * *

These little snippets force me to reconsider my opinion of Shantaram. Perhaps he is not so bad after all. But, once again, I learn that appearances can be deceptive and the dividing line between good and bad is very thin indeed.

I see Shantaram come home one evening, completely drunk. His breath stinks of whisky. He walks with unsteady steps and needs help to climb up the flight of stairs. This happens the next day, and the day after that. Pretty soon it is common knowledge in the chawl that Mr Shantaram is a drunkard.

Drunkards in Hindi films are invariably funny characters. Think of Keshto Mukherjee with a bottle and you cannot help bursting out laughing. But drunkards in real life are not funny, they are frightening. Whenever Shantaram comes home in a stupor, we don't need listening devices.

He hurls abuses at the top of his voice and Salim and I quiver with fear in our room as if we are the ones being shouted at. His swearing becomes such a ritual that we actually wait for the sound of his snoring before falling asleep ourselves. We come to dread the interval between Shantaram's return from work and his crashing out in bed. This interval is, for us, the zone of fear.

We think this is a passing phase and that Shantaram will eventually recover. But it actually gets worse. Shantaram begins drinking even more and then he starts throwing things. He begins with plastic cups and books, which he throws at the wall in disgust. Then he starts breaking pots and pans. The ruckus he creates makes living next door very difficult. But we know complaining to Mr Ramakrishna is out of the question. The voices of a thirteen-year-old and an eleven-year old habitual rent offender do not carry much weight. So we simply duck in bed whenever an object thuds on to our common wall and cringe in fear whenever we hear the sound of a plate crashing or china breaking.

Even this phase does not last long. Pretty soon, Shantaram starts throwing objects at people.

Mainly his family members. He reserves maximum ire for his wife. 'You bloody bitch! You are the one who has brought me down in life. I could be writing research papers on black holes, and instead I am showing blouse pieces and saris to wretched housewives. I hate you! Why don't you die?' he would holler, and throw a peppershaker, a glass, a plate. At his wife, his daughter, her cat.

One night he exceeds all limits and throws a piping-hot cup of tea at his wife. Gudiya tries to shield her mother and the burning liquid falls on her instead, scalding her face. She shrieks in agony. Shantaram is so drunk he doesn't even realize what he has done. I rush out to get a taxi for Mrs Shantaram to take her daughter to hospital. Two days later, she comes to me and asks whether I will go with her to visit Gudiya. 'She gets very lonely. Perhaps you can talk to her.'

So I accompany Mrs Shantaram on my first-ever visit to a hospital.

* * *

The first thing that assails your senses when you enter a hospital is the smell. I feel nauseated by the cloying, antiseptic smell of disinfectant, which permeates every corner of the dirty wards.

The second thing that strikes you is that you don't see any happy people. The patients lying on their green beds are moaning and groaning and even the nurses and doctors seem grim. But the worst thing is the indifference. No one is really bothered about you. I had imagined there would be doctors and nurses swarming all over Gudiya, but I find her lying all alone on a bed inside the Burns Unit with not a single nurse on duty. Her face is completely bandaged; only her black eyes can be seen.

'Gudiya, look who has come to see you,' Mrs Shantaram says, beaming at me.

I feel diffident approaching the girl. She is obviously much older than me. I am just a voyeur who has heard some snippets from her life; I hardly know her. I don't see her lips, but I can see from her eyes that she is smiling at me and that breaks the ice between us.

I sit with her for three hours, talking about this and that. Gudiya asks me, 'How did you get such an unusual name – Ram Mohammad Thomas?'

'It is a very long story. I will tell you when you are well.'

She tells me about herself. I learn that she is about to finish her Intermediate and start University.

Her ambition is to become a doctor. She asks me about myself. I don't tell her anything about Father Timothy or what happened to me later, but I recount my experiences in the chawl. I tell her about life as a foundry worker. She listens to me with rapt attention and makes me feel very important and wanted.

A doctor comes and tells Mrs Shantaram that her daughter is lucky. She has received only first-degree burns and will not have any permanent scars. She will be discharged within a week.

The three hours that I spend with Gudiya enable me to learn a lot about her father. Mrs

Shantaram tells me, 'My husband is a famous space scientist. Rather, he was a scientist. He used to work in the Aryabhatta Space Research Institute, where he investigated stars with the help of huge telescopes. We used to live in a big bungalow on the Institute's campus. Three years ago he discovered a new star. It was a very important scientific discovery but one of his fellow astronomers took credit for it. This shattered my husband completely. He started drinking. He started having fights with his colleagues and one day he got so angry with the director of the Institute he almost beat him to death. He was thrown out of the Institute immediately and I had to beg the director not to have him arrested by the police. After leaving the Institute, my husband got a job as a physics teacher in a good school, but he could not keep his drinking and his violent temper in check. He would thrash boys for minor lapses and was kicked out in just six months.

Since then he has been doing odd jobs, working as a canteen manager in an office, as an

accountant in a factory, and now as a sales assistant in a clothes showroom. And because we have exhausted all our savings, we are forced to live in a chawl.'

'Can't Mr Shantaram stop drinking?' I ask her.

'My husband swore to me he would not touch alcohol again and I had begun to hope that the worst was over. But he couldn't stick to his promise, and look what has happened.'

'Do me a favour, Ram Mohammad Thomas,' Gudiya says. 'Please look after Pluto till I return home.'

'Definitely,' I promise.

Suddenly she stretches out her arm and takes my hand in hers. 'You are the brother I never had.

Isn't he, Mummy?' she says. Mrs Shantaram nods her head.

I do not know what to say. This is a new relationship for me. In the past, I have imagined myself as someone's son, but never as someone's brother. So I just hold Gudiya's hand and sense an unspoken bond pass between us.

That night I dream of a woman in a white sari holding a baby in her arms. The wind howls behind her, making her hair fly across her face, obscuring it. She places the baby in a laundry bin and leaves. Just then, another woman arrives. She is also tall and graceful, but her face is swathed in bandages. She plucks the baby from the bin and smothers him with kisses. 'My little brother,' she says. 'S-i-s-t-e-r,' the baby gurgles back. 'Meeeow!' A strangled cry from a cat suddenly pierces the night. I wake up and try to figure whether the cry I heard came from the dream or the adjacent room.

I discover Pluto's limp and mangled body the next morning, lying in the same dustbin in which Mr Barve disposes of his copy of the Maharashtra Times. The cat's neck has been broken and I can smell whisky on his furry body. Shantaram tells his wife that Pluto has run away. I know the truth, but it is pointless mentioning it. Pluto has indeed run away. To another, better world, I think.

'I like Gudiya very much,' I tell Salim. 'I have to ensure that Shantaram does not repeat what he did to her.'

'But what can you do? It is his family.' 'It is our business as well. After all, we are neighbours.'

'Don't you remember what you told me once? That it's not a good idea to poke your nose into other people's affairs, or make other people's troubles your own, Mohammad?'

I have no response to this.

* * *

Gudiya comes home, but I don't get to see her because Shantaram will not permit a boy to enter his house. Mrs Shantaram tells me that her husband has realized what he has done and will now reform, even though in her heart of hearts she knows that Shantaram is beyond redemption. But even she did not know the depths to which her husband could descend.

Barely a week after Gudiya returns from the hospital, he does something to her again. He tries to touch her. But not like a father. At first, I don't understand. All I hear is some references to Gudiya being his moon and then Mrs Shantaram crying, and Gudiya screaming, 'Papa, don't touch me! Papa, please don't touch me!'

Something snaps in my brain when I hear Gudiya's plaintive cry. I want to rush into Shantaram's room and kill him with my bare hands. But even before I can gather my courage, I hear Shantaram's loud snores. He has crashed out. Gudiya is still weeping. I don't need a glass to hear her sobbing.

Her crying affects me in a strange way. I don't know how a brother should react on listening to his sister's sorrow, because I have no experience of being a brother. But I know that somehow I have to comfort her. Unfortunately, it is not very easy to comfort someone when there is a wall, howsoever thin, between you. I notice then that right at the bottom of the wall, where the water pipes go into the other flat, there is a small circular opening, large enough to thrust an arm through. I jump down from the bed and, lying spreadeagled on the ground, push my hand through the opening. 'Sister, don't weep. Here, hold my hand,' I cry. And someone does grasp my hand. I feel fingers caress my arm, my elbow, my wrist, like a blind man feeling someone's face.

Then fingers interlock with mine and I feel a magical transference of power, energy, love, call it what you will; the fact is that in that instant I become one with Gudiya and I feel her pain as if it is my own.

Salim, meanwhile, is still sitting on his bed, watching the scene in amazement. 'Are you mad, Mohammad? Do you realize what you are doing?' he admonishes me. 'This hole through which you have pushed your hand is the same hole through which rats and cockroaches come into our room.'

But I am oblivious to Salim and to everything else. I don't know how long I hold Gudiya's hand, but when I wake up the next morning I find myself lying on the ground with my hand still thrust through the hole and a family of cockroaches sleeping peacefully inside my shirt pocket.

* * *

The next night, Shantaram again comes home in a drunken stupor and tries to molest Gudiya.

'You are more beautiful than all the stars and planets. You are my moon. You are my Gudiya, my doll. Yesterday you evaded me, but today I will not let you leave me,' he says.

'Stop behaving like this!' Mrs Shantaram cries, but her husband takes no notice.

'Don't worry, Gudiya, there is nothing wrong in my love for you. Even Shahjahan, the great emperor, fell in love with his own daughter, Jahan Ara. And who can deny a man the privilege of gathering fruit from a tree he himself has planted.'

'You are a demon,' Mrs Shantaram yells, and Shantaram hits her. I hear a bottle break.

'No!' I hear Gudiya scream.

I feel as though an oxyacetylene torch has pierced my brain and molten metal has been poured over my heart. I can tolerate it no more. I run to Mr Ramakrishna's room and tell him that Shantaram is doing something terrible to his own wife and daughter. But Ramakrishna behaves as if I am talking about the weather.

'Look,' he tells me. 'Whatever happens inside the four walls of a home is a private matter for that family and we cannot interfere. You are a young orphan boy. You have not seen life. But I know the daily stories of wife-beating and abuse and incest and rape, which take place in chawls all over Mumbai. Yet no one does anything. We Indians have this sublime ability to see the pain and misery around us, and yet remain unaffected by it. So, like a proper Mumbaikar, close your eyes, close your ears, close your mouth and you will be happy like me. Now go, it is time for my sleep.'

I rush back to my room. I hear Shantaram snoring and Gudiya screaming that she is dirty. 'Don't touch me! Nobody touch me! I will infect whoever comes near me.'

I think she is losing her mind. And I am losing mine.

'Infect me,' I say, and thrust my hand through the hole in the wall.

Gudiya catches it. 'I will not live much longer, Ram Mohammad Thomas,' she sobs. 'I will commit suicide rather than submit to my father.' Her pain floats through the hole and envelops me in its embrace.

I begin crying. 'I will never allow this to happen,' I tell her. 'This is a brother's promise.'

Salim gives me a dirty look, as if I have committed a criminal act by making this promise. But I am beyond right and wrong. I feel Gudiya's bony fingers, the flesh on her hands, and know that we are both hunted animals, partners in crime. My crime was that I, an orphan boy, had dared to make other people's troubles my own. But what was Gudiya's crime? Simply that she was born a girl and Shantaram was her father.

* * *

I carry out my promise the next evening, when Shantaram returns from work and climbs the rickety stairs to the first floor. He walks with slow, bumbling steps. Even his clothes reek of whisky. As he is about to pass that section of the railing which has not yet been fixed by Mr Ramakrishna, I charge at him from behind. I slam into his back and he slams into the wooden railing. The railing is already weak and wobbly. It cannot take his weight. It cracks and splinters.

Shantaram loses his balance and topples to the ground below.

In films, they show a villain falling from the roof of a skyscraper and it seems as if he is floating in the air; he twists his legs and flaps his arms and screams, 'Aaaaaaaaaaaah!' In real life, it doesn't happen like that at all. Shantaram drops down like a rock. There is no flapping of hands or legs. He hits the ground facedown and lies spread-eagled, hands and legs outstretched.

Only when I see Shantaram's limp body on the ground do I realize what I have done. And then I visualize the consequences of my act.

The crime-scene officers arrive in a jeep with a flashing red light and make a nice neat outline in chalk. They take photos and say, 'This is where the body fell.' Then they look up and see me on the first floor. The inspector points at me. 'That is the boy who pushed him down. Arrest him!' I am taken to jail, where I am stripped and beaten. Then I am presented in court, where a stern-faced judge sits in a black robe with a ceiling fan above him. A faded and dusty golden sign with the words Satyameva Jayate – Truth Always Prevails – is fixed on the wall behind him. The judge takes one look at me and pronounces his verdict. 'Ram Mohammad Thomas, I find you guilty of the premeditated murder of Mr Shantaram. Under Section 302 of the Indian Penal Code, I hereby sentence you to death by hanging.'

'No!' I cry and try to run, but my legs are shackled and my wrists are handcuffed. I am blindfolded and led to the execution cell. A noose is placed around my neck, a lever is pulled. I shriek in pain as my legs suddenly dangle in the air and the breath is choked from my lungs. I open my eyes and find that I am in heaven. But heaven seems just like the chawl and I look down and see the body of Shantaram lying spread-eagled on the ground. People are gathering around it now. Someone shouts, 'Call the police!'

I don't wait another moment. I scramble down the stairs and start running. I run past the gate and the milk booth and the multi-storey building. I run to the local station and take the Express to Victoria Terminus. I search every platform for a particular train. I find it at last and jump inside just as it is pulling away.

I left Mumbai, I left Gudiya, I left Salim, and ran away to the only other city I knew. Delhi.

* * *

Throughout this story, Smita remains perfectly silent. I can see now that she has been deeply affected. I detect a hint of a teardrop in the corner of her eye. Perhaps, being a woman, she can relate to Gudiya's torment.

I pick up the remote. 'Let us see question number three,' I say, and press 'Play'.

* * *

Prem Kumar swivels on his chair and addresses me. 'Mr Thomas, you have answered two questions correctly to win two thousand rupees. Now let us see whether you can answer the third question for five thousand rupees. Are you ready?'

'Ready,' I reply.

'OK. Question number three. This is from the field of—' Just then the central spotlight goes off, plunging Prem Kumar and me into darkness. 'Oops! Houston, we have a problem,' says Prem Kumar. The audience laughs. I don't get the joke.

'What did you just say?' I ask Prem Kumar.

'Oh, that is a famous line from the film Apollo Thirteen. I am sure you don't see English films.

You use this line when you suddenly have a major problem, and we do have a major problem here. The show cannot proceed till we fix the spotlight.'

As the technicians start checking out the wiring of the spotlight, Prem Kumar listens to a voice on his headset. Then he leans forward and whispers in my ear, 'OK, buster, your golden run has lasted all of two questions and is now about to end. The next question is really tough, especially for a waiter. I would love to help you win more, but the producer has just informed me he wants to move on to the next contestant, a maths professor. Sorry, tough luck!' He takes a sip of lemonade and smacks his lips.

The spotlight is now fixed. The studio sign changes to 'Applause'.

As the clapping dies down, Prem Kumar looks at me. 'Mr Thomas, you have answered two questions correctly to win two thousand rupees. Now let us see whether you can answer the third question for five thousand rupees. Are you ready?'

'Ready,' I reply.

'OK. Our next question is from the world of astronomy. Tell me, Mr Thomas, do you know how many planets there are in our solar system?'

'What are my choices?'

'That is not the question, Mr Thomas. I am just asking whether you know the number of planets in the solar system.'

'No.'

'No? I hope you know the name of the planet we are living on.'

The audience laughs.

'Earth,' I reply sullenly.

'Good. So you do know the name of a planet. OK, are you ready for question number three?'

'Ready,' I reply.

'OK. Here is question number three. Which is the smallest planet in our solar system? Is it a) Pluto, b) Mars, c) Neptune or d) Mercury?'

A sound escapes my lips even before the music can commence, and it is 'Meow!'

'Excuse me?' says Prem Kumar in astonishment. 'What did you say? For a moment I thought I heard a meow.'

'What I said was "A".'

'A?'

'Yes. The answer is A. Pluto.'

'Are you absolutely, one hundred per cent sure that it is A?'

'Yes.'

There is a crescendo of drums. The correct answer flashes.

'Absolutely, one hundred per cent correct! Pluto is indeed the smallest planet in our solar system.

Mr Thomas, you have just won five thousand rupees!'

The audience are impressed with my general knowledge. Some people stand up and clap.

But Smita is still silent.

A THOUGHT FOR THE CRIPPLED

The sun seems weaker, the birds less chirpy, the air more polluted, the sky a shade darker.

When you have been plucked from a beautiful big bungalow, with a lovely sunlit garden, and dumped in a crumbling house where you are forced to live in a crowded dormitory with dozens of other kids, I suppose you do acquire a somewhat jaundiced view of life.

And it doesn't help if you actually have jaundice. Jaundice is a pretty uncomfortable disease, but it has one very good outcome. You are removed from the stuffy dormitory and put in a room all by yourself. It is a huge room with a metal bed and green curtains. It is called the isolation ward.

I have been confined to bed for the last two weeks. But it seems as if I have been sick ever since they picked me up from the church after Father Timothy's death. They didn't come for me in a jeep with a flashing red light. They came in a blue van with wire-meshed windows. Like the type they use to round up stray dogs. Except this one was for rounding up stray boys. If I had been younger they would probably have sent me to an adoption home and promptly put me up for sale. But since I was eight years old, I was sent to the Delhi Juvenile Home for Boys, in Turkman Gate.

The Juvenile Home has a capacity of seventy-five, and a juvenile population of one hundred and fifty. It is cramped, noisy and dirty. It has just two toilets with leaky washbasins and filthy latrines. Rats scurry through its hallways and kitchen. It has a classroom with ramshackle desks and a cracked blackboard. And teachers who haven't taught in years. It has a sports ground where grass grows as tall as wickets and where, if you are not careful, you can graze yourself against stones the size of footballs. There is a sports instructor in crisp white cotton bush shirt and knife-edge pressed trousers. He keeps cricket and badminton equipment in a nice glass case, but never allows us to touch it. The mess hall is a large room with cheap flooring and long wooden tables.

But the surly head cook sells the meat and chicken that is meant for us to restaurants, and feeds us a daily diet of vegetable stew and thick, blackened chapattis. He picks his nose constantly and scolds anyone who asks for more. The warden, Mr Agnihotri, is a kind, elderly man who wears starched kurta pyjamas made of khadi cotton cloth, but we all know that the real power is wielded by his deputy, Mr Gupta, nicknamed the Terror of Turkman Gate. He is the worst of the lot, a short, hairy man who smells of leather and chews paan all day. He wears two thick gold chains around his neck which jangle when he walks, and carries a short bamboo cane with which he whacks us whenever he feels like it. There are dark rumours that he calls boys to his room late at night, but nobody will discuss it. We want to talk about the good things. Like being allowed to watch television in the common room for two hours every evening. We huddle around the twenty-one-inch Dyanora TV and watch Hindi film songs on Channel V and middle-class soaps on Doordarshan. We especially like watching the films on Sunday.

These films are about a fantasy world. A world in which kids have mothers and fathers, and birthdays. A world in which they live in huge houses, drive in huge cars and get huge presents.

We saw this fantasy world, but we never got carried away by it. We knew we could never have a life like Amitabh Bachchan's or Shahrukh Khan's. The most we could aspire to was to become one of those who held power over us. So whenever the teacher asked us, 'What do you want to become when you grow up?' no one said pilot or prime minister or banker or actor. We said cook or cleaner or sports teacher or, at the very best, warden. The Juvenile Home diminished us in our own eyes.

I came to know many boys in the Home very intimately. Some younger, mostly older. I met Munna and Kallu and Pyare and Pawan and Jashim and Irfan. Being sent to the Juvenile Home from Father Timothy's house was like a transfer from heaven to hell for me. But only when I met the other boys did I realize that for many of them this was their heaven. They came from the slums of Delhi and Bihar, from the shantytowns of UP and even from as far away as Nepal. I heard their stories of drug-addicted fathers and prostitute mothers. I saw their scars from beatings at the hands of greedy uncles and tyrannical aunts. I learnt of the existence of bonded labour and family abuse. And I came to fear the police. They were the ones responsible for sending most of the boys to the Juvenile Home. Boys caught stealing bread from a roadside stall or hawking black-market tickets at a theatre, and unable to bribe the constable. Or, most often, framed simply because the inspector didn't like their faces.

Many of these boys were 'repeaters', which meant that they had been returned to the Juvenile Home even after someone had taken custody of them from the Juvenile Welfare Board. Munna returned after being ill-treated by his stepmother. Jashim was hounded out by his cruel brother.

Pawan returned because the relative he was restored to put him to work in a seedy motel and the police caught him. Despite such experiences, many boys still pined to be 'restored', ready to exchange a known hell for an unknown one.

Without even trying, I became their leader. Not because I was bigger, not because I was more aggressive, but because I spoke English. I was the orphan boy who could speak and read the magic language, and its effect on the officials was electric. The head warden would ask how I was doing from time to time. The sports teacher allowed me to set up a makeshift cricket pitch in the front courtyard, where we got in four or five decent games before Munna broke the warden's window and all sports were banned. The stern cook occasionally obliged me with a second helping. Gupta never called me to his room at night. And the doctor instantly put me in the isolation ward without the usual delay, thereby preventing me from infecting the whole dormitory.

* * *

I had been enjoying my exclusive stay in the isolation ward for over two weeks when another bed was moved into the room. A new boy had arrived, I was told, in a very bad condition. He was brought in on a stretcher in the afternoon, wearing a torn orange vest, stained and scuffed shorts, and a yellow tabeez around his neck. And that was my first meeting with Salim Ilyasi.

Salim is everything that I am not. He has a wheatish complexion and a cherubic face. He has curly black hair and when he smiles his cheeks dimple. Though he is only seven years old, he has a keen, questioning mind. He tells me his story in short, halting sentences.

He comes from a very poor family, which used to live in a village in Bihar. The village was mostly made up of poor peasants, but there were also a few rich landowners. It was predominantly Hindu, but there were a couple of Muslim families too, like Salim's. His father was a labourer, his mother a housewife, his elder brother worked in a tea stall. Salim himself attended the village school. They lived in a small thatched hut at the edge of the zamindar's compound.

Last week, in the cold and frosty month of January, an incident took place in the village's Hanuman temple. Someone broke into the sanctum sanctorum at night and desecrated the idol of the monkey god. The temple's priest claimed he saw some Muslim youths lurking near the grounds. Bas, that was it! The moment the Hindus heard this they went on a rampage. Armed with machetes and pickaxes, sticks and torches, they raided the homes of all the Muslim families.

Salim was playing outside the hut and his father, mother and brother were having tea inside when the mob attacked. Before his very eyes, they set fire to the hut. He heard his mother's shrieks, his father's cries, his brother's wails, but the mob would not allow anyone to escape. His whole family was burnt to death in the inferno. Salim ran to the railway station and jumped on to the first train he saw. It took him to Delhi with no food, no clothes and not one familiar face. He lay on the platform for two days, cold and hungry, delirious with fever and grief, before a constable discovered him and sent him to the Juvenile Home.

Salim says he has bad dreams at night. He hears the sounds of the mob. His mother's shrieks echo in his ears. He shudders when he visualizes his brother writhing in the flames. He says he has begun to hate and fear all Hindus. He asks my name.

'Mohammad,' I tell him.

* * *

Over time, Salim and I become very good friends. We have many things in common. We are both orphans, with no hope of being 'restored'. We both love playing marbles. And we both love watching films. I use my influence to get him a bed next to mine when we move back to the dormitory.

Late one night, Salim is summoned to Gupta's room. Gupta is a widower and lives alone on the compound. Salim is worried. 'Why is he calling me?' he asks me.

'I don't know,' I reply. 'I've never been to his room. But we can find out today.' So Salim walks down to Gupta's room and I tiptoe behind him.

Gupta is sitting in his room wearing crumpled kurta pyjamas when Salim knocks on the door.

'Come . . . come, Salim,' he says in a slurred voice. He has a glassful of golden liquid in his hand.

He gulps it down and wipes his mouth. His eyes look like big buttons. I watch from the little space between the two curtains in the doorway. He strokes Salim's face, tracing his fingers over his bony nose and thin lips. Then abruptly he orders, 'Take off your shorts.'

Salim is confused by this request. 'Just do as I say, bastard, or I will give you a tight slap,' Gupta snarls. Salim complies. He pushes down his shorts hesitatingly. I avert my eyes.

Gupta approaches Salim from behind, his gold chains jangling. 'Good,' he mutters. I see him unfasten the cord of his pyjamas and lower them. I can see his hairy backside. Salim has still not understood what is happening, but a fog is lifting from my brain. With startling clarity I suddenly comprehend what had happened in Father John's room that night. And what had followed the next day.

I let out a piercing scream that shatters the silence of the night like a bullet. It wakes up the boys sleeping peacefully in the dormitories; it wakes up the cook, snoring in the kitchen; it wakes up the warden in his bedroom; it even wakes up the stray dogs, which begin to bark madly.

Gupta doesn't know what has hit him. He hastily pulls up his pyjamas and tries to shoo Salim away. But the cook, the warden and the guards are already on their way to Gupta's room. They discover his dirty secret that night (though they do nothing about it). But Gupta also discovers me lurking behind the curtains. From then on he becomes my mortal enemy. Salim is shaken, but unhurt. He had given up his animus against Hindus a long time ago. But a fear of abuse is embedded in him for the rest of his life.

* * *

It is a beautiful spring day. And it appears even more beautiful because we are outside the confines of the Juvenile Home. We have all been taken on a day trip by an international NGO.

We travel by air-conditioned bus all over Delhi. We have lunch in the zoo and see the animals.

For the first time we see a hippopotamus and kangaroos and giraffes and the giant sloth. We see pelicans and flamingos and the duck-billed platypus. Then we are taken to the Qutub Minar, the highest tower in India. Laughing and jostling, we climb the stairs and peer out from the first-floor balcony. The men and women on the ground seem like ants. We shout 'Hooooo' and listen for the sound to peter out before it reaches the ground. Finally, we are taken to India Gate to see a big carnival. We are each given ten rupees to spend on any attraction we choose. I want to ride on the giant wheel, but Salim tugs at my sleeve and pulls me to another booth. 'Pandit Ramashankar Shastri,' it says. 'World-famous Palmist. Only Rs.10 per reading.' An old man is sitting inside the booth, wearing a dhoti kurta. He has a white moustache, a vermilion tilak on his forehead, and thick lenses. A black choti juts out from the back of his head.

'I want to show my hand,' Salim says. 'It is only ten rupees.'

'Don't be foolish,' I tell him. 'These chaps are conmen. They cannot know your future. And, in any case, there's not much in our future worth knowing.'

'I want to show my hand just the same.' Salim is adamant.

'Fine.' I give in. 'You go ahead, but I'm not spending my ten rupees on this crap.'

Salim pays the money and eagerly extends his left hand. The pandit shakes his head. 'No, not the left hand. That is for girls. Boys have to show their right hand.'

Salim quickly extends his right palm. The palmist peers at it with a magnifying glass, and analyses the scrabbly lines as if they were a map of buried treasure. Finally he puts down the magnifying glass and lets out a satisfied sigh. 'You have a remarkable hand, my boy. I have never seen a better fate line. I see a very bright future for you.'

'Really?' Salim is delighted. 'What will I become?'

Mr Shastri has obviously not thought about that. He closes his eyes for ten seconds, then opens them. 'You have a beautiful face. You will be a very famous actor,' he declares.

'Like Armaan Ali?' squeals Salim.

'Even more famous,' says the pandit. He turns to me. 'Do you also want to show your hand? It is only ten rupees.'

'No, thank you,' I say and begin to move away, but Salim bars my way.

'No, Mohammad, you have to show your hand. For my sake, please.'

With a resigned look, I fork out my ten rupees and extend my right hand.

The pandit scowls at me as he adjusts his thick glasses and examines my palm. He pores over it for more than five minutes. He makes some notes, does some calculations.

'What's the matter?' Salim asks, alarmed.

The palmist frowns slightly and shakes his head. 'The line of head is strong, but the line of heart is weak. And, most importantly, the line of life is short. The stars do not seem to be right. The alignment of the planets is inauspicious. The Mount of Jupiter is good, but the Mount of Saturn cancels it out. There are obstacles and pitfalls. I can do something to ease your way, but it will cost you.'

'How much?'

'Around two hundred rupees. Why don't you ask your father? Isn't he the one who owns the big bus?'

I laugh. 'Ha! Panditji, before spinning this yarn about my future, you should have checked out who we really are. We are not rich kids. We are orphans from the Delhi Juvenile Home in

Turkman Gate and this bus doesn't even belong to us. Still, you conned us into parting with twenty rupees.' I pull Salim. 'Come, let's go. We have wasted enough time here.'

As we are walking away, the palmist calls me. 'Listen! I want to give you something.' I return to the booth. The pandit gives me an old one-rupee coin.

'What's this, Panditji?'

'It's a lucky coin. Keep it. You will need it.'

I hold it in my fist.

Salim wants an ice cream, but we have just one rupee and that won't buy us anything. We watch the other kids enjoying their rides. I flip the coin aimlessly and it slips out of my fingers and rolls underneath a bench. I bend down to pick it up. It has come up heads. Next to it lies a ten-rupee note, dropped by someone. Like Magic. Salim and I buy ice creams. I slip the coin carefully into my pocket. It is indeed my lucky charm.

Salim is sad that my future has not turned out to be as bright as his, but he is also excited about becoming a film star. In front of us is a huge billboard of a new film. In lurid colours, it shows the hero with a gun in his hands, blood on his chest and a black bandanna around his head; a villain wearing a twisted grin; a heroine with big breasts. Salim stares at it, transfixed.

'What are you looking at, Salim?' I ask.

'I am trying to see if the black headband will suit me,' he replies.

* * *

We are sitting in class, but Mr Joshi, our portly teacher who specializes in burping and picking his nose, is not teaching. He is reading a novel, which is carefully hidden inside the textbook he holds in his hands. We pass the time making paper aeroplanes, etching patterns on the wooden desks and dozing. Suddenly Munna, who has been instructed to monitor the corridor, comes running in. 'Masterji, Masterji,' he says breathlessly, 'Warden Sahib is coming.'

Mr Joshi lets out a loud burp and quickly jettisons his novel. He snaps his fingers and stands up.

'OK boys, so what were we discussing? Yes. You were all telling me what you want to become when you grow up. Who wants to go next?'

Salim puts up his hand. The first time he has ever done this.

'Yes, Salim, what do you want to become?'

'I will become a famous actor, Masterji. An astrologer has told me,' he says triumphantly.

The class squeals with laughter.

* * *

There are two versions of who the big man is. Some say that he is a very rich diamond merchant with no offspring of his own. So from time to time he comes to the Juvenile Home to adopt children, who are then taken to his palatial home in Mumbai. Others say that he actually owns a school in Mumbai, where he takes children he finds promising for proper training. Either way, one thing is clear. If you are selected by Sethji, your life is made.

Salim doesn't care whether Sethji is a diamond merchant or a school owner. He is mainly concerned with the fact that the big man is from Mumbai – the centre of the film industry. He is convinced that Sethji has come to pluck him from here and take him to the glittering world of Bollywood. It is his destiny. The palmist's prediction is going to come true.

We are all lined up in the mess hall for an inspection by Sethji. Salim has taken a bath. Actually, he has taken three baths, scrubbing himself again and again to remove every trace of dirt. He has put on his best clothes. His hair is nicely combed. He is the most presentable boy in the Home.

But I fret at his desperation. If he is not selected, he will be shattered.

Sethji finally arrives, accompanied by two other men. He doesn't look like a diamond merchant.

He looks more like a gangster. But then, we've never seen a diamond merchant. Perhaps they look like gangsters. He is very swarthy and has a thick black moustache, like the dacoit Veerappan's. He wears a white bandgala suit. A long, thick gold chain dangles down from his neck to his second button. His fingers are loaded with rings with different coloured gems. Some red, some green, some blue. The two henchmen with him look exactly like henchmen. I learn later that they are called Mustafa and Punnoose. Gupta is also with them, leading the way. His two gold chains look modest in comparison with Sethji's.

'Sethji, you seem to have forgotten us, coming after such a long time. Many new boys have arrived since your last visit. I am sure you will find many to your liking,' Gupta tells him.

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.

I wake up, drenched in sweat.

* * *

We get introduced to Moolay, a thirteen-year-old with an amputated arm.

'I hate my life,' he says.

'Why don't you run away?'

'Where to? This is Mumbai, not my village. There is no space to hide your head in this vast city.

You need to have connections even to sleep in a sewage pipe. And you need protection from the other gangs.'

'Other gangs?'

'Yes. Two boys ran away last month. They came back within three days. They couldn't find any work. Bhiku's gang wouldn't allow them to operate in their area. Here, at least we get food and shelter, and when we are working for Maman none of the other gangs bother us.'

'We don't want to get involved with any gangs,' I tell him and recite a doha. 'Kabira Khara Bazaar Mein, Mange Sabki Khair, Na Kahu Se Dosti, Na Kahu Se Bair. Kabir is in the market place, wishing the welfare of all; He wants neither friendship nor enmity with anyone at all.'

* * *

We meet Sikandar, the import from Pakistan.

A ripple of excitement goes round the mess hall. A new kid has arrived. Mustafa brings in the new inmate and we all crowd around him. Mustafa is the most excited. 'We got him this morning from Shakeel Rana's consignment,' he says and slaps his thighs in delight.

The boy is no more than twelve years old. We touch him as though he is a caged animal. But he doesn't look like an animal. He looks more like the alien we saw in a Britannia biscuits commercial on TV, with an oval, tapering head, Chinese eyes, a thick nose and thin lips. Mustafa tells Punnoose, 'He is from the Shrine of Shah Dola in Pakistani Punjab. These boys are called "Rat Children".'

'How do they get a head like that?'

'I have heard that they put iron rings on the baby's head to stop it growing. That is how you get this unique head design.'

'I think he has a lot of potential. Maman will be pleased,' says Punnoose.

'Yes,' Mustafa concurs. 'A real high-value item.'

For some reason, the rat boy reminds me of a bear I saw once with Father Timothy in Connaught Place. He had a tight collar round his neck and a black mask covering his mouth. His owner would poke him hard with a pointed stick and he would stand on both his hind legs, saluting the people gathered round him. They would throw coins at him. The owner would pick up the money and pull him away for another performance. I was struck by the eyes of the bear, which seemed so sad that I had asked Father Timothy, 'Do bears cry?'

* * *

I discover Jitu, hiding in a closet.

He holds a plastic bag in his hand with a yellowish-white substance inside. He opens the end over his nose and mouth and inhales deeply, pressing the bottom of the bag towards his face. His clothes smell of paint and solvent. There is a rash around his nose. His mouth is sweaty and sticky. After he inhales, his half-closed eyes turn glassy and his hand begins to tremble.

'Jitu! . . . Jitu!' I shake him. 'What are you doing?'

'Don't disturb me,' he says in a drowsy voice. 'I am floating on air. I am sleeping on the clouds.' I slap him. He coughs up black phlegm. 'I am addicted to glue,' he tells me later. 'I buy it from the cobbler. Glue takes the hunger away, and the pain. I see bright colours, and occasionally my mother.'

I ask him for some glue and try it. After I inhale, I start to feel a little dizzy, the floor beneath me appears to shift and I begin to see images. I see a tall woman, clad in a white sari, holding a baby in her arms. The wind howls, making her hair fly across her face, obscuring it. But the baby reaches out his tiny hand, and with gentle fingers smooths away her tresses, prises open her face.

He sees two haggard, cavernous eyes, a crooked nose, sharp pointy teeth glistening with fresh blood, and maggots crawling out of the folds of her lined and wrinkled skin which sags over her jaw. He shrieks in terror and tumbles from her lap.

I never try glue again.

* * *

Meanwhile, our musical training is coming to an end. Masterji is extremely pleased with Salim's progress. 'You have now mastered the art of singing. Only one lesson is left.'

'And what is that?'

'The bhajans of Surdas.'

'Who is Surdas?'

'He is the most famous of all bhakti singers, who composed thousands of songs in praise of Lord Krishna. One day he fell into an abandoned well. He could not get out. He remained there for six days. He went on praying and on the seventh day he heard a child's voice asking him to hold his hands so that he could pull him out. With the boy's aid, Surdas got out of the well, but the boy disappeared. The boy was none other than Lord Krishna. After that Surdas devoted his life to composing songs in praise of Krishna. With the single-stringed ektara in his hand, he began singing songs depicting Krishna's childhood.' Masterji begins singing, 'Akhiyan hari darshan Ki Pyasi – My eyes are hungry for your presence, Lord Krishna.'

'Why are his eyes hungry?' I ask.

'Didn't I tell you? Surdas was completely blind.'

* * *

On the last day of our musical training, Masterji showers accolades on Salim for singing one of Surdas's bhajans perfectly. I am testy and distracted. My encounters with Maman's boys have left me distraught. Though in a sense we are all children of a lesser god, Maman's boys seem to me to be a particularly disadvantaged lot.

Punnoose comes into the room to talk to Masterji. They speak in low voices, then Punnoose takes out his purse and begins counting out some money. He hands over a sheaf of notes to the music teacher, who tucks it gratefully in the front pocket of his kurta. They leave the room together, leaving me alone with Salim and a harmonium.

'I should never have left Delhi,' I tell Salim. 'You have at least become a good singer, but I have gained nothing from this trip.'

It is then that I notice a hundred-rupee note lying on the floor. Punnoose must have dropped it while counting the money. My first impulse is to pocket it, but Salim snatches it from my hand and insists that we must return it. So we go down the corridor to the room Maman uses as his office, where Punnoose and Mustafa hang out.

As we approach the door, we hear voices coming from inside. Maman is talking to Punnoose. 'So what did the Master say after finishing his lessons? He is getting more and more expensive.'

'He said that the older one is useless, but the young kid has a lot of potential. He says he's never trained a more talented boy before.'

'So you think he can bring in at least three hundred?'

'What is three hundred? When he sings it is magic. And his face? Who can resist his face? I would say easily a potential of four to five hundred. We have hit the jackpot, Maman.'

'And the other boy? The tall one?'

'Who cares? The bastard will have to fend for himself. Either he gets us a hundred each night or he remains hungry.'

'OK. Send them out on the trains from next week. We will do them tonight. After dinner.'

* * *

A chill runs down my spine as I hear these words. I catch Salim's hand and rush back to our room. Salim is confused about the conversation we heard, and the reference to numbers. But the jigsaw is piecing itself together in my brain.

'Salim, we have to escape from this place. Now.'

'But why?'

'Because something very bad is going to happen to us tonight, after dinner.'

'I don't understand.'

'I understand everything. Do you know why we were taught the bhajans of Surdas?'

'Because he was a great poet?'

'No. Because he was blind. And that is what we are going to become tonight, so that we can be made to beg on local trains. I am convinced now that all the cripple boys we have met here have been deliberately maimed by Maman and his gang.'

But such cruelty is beyond Salim's comprehension. He wants to stay.

'Why don't you run away alone?' he asks me.

'I can't go without you.'

'Why?'

'Because I am your guardian angel, and you are part of my package deal.'

Salim hugs me. I take out the one-rupee coin from my pocket. 'Look, Salim,' I tell him. 'You believe in destiny, don't you? So let this coin decide our future. Heads we leave, tails we stay, OK?'

Salim nods. I flip the coin. It is heads.

Salim is finally reconciled to escaping from Maman's den, but his mind is full of doubt. 'Where will we go? What will we do? We don't know anyone in this city.'

'I know where we will go. Remember that actress Neelima Kumari that Radhey told us about?

She needs a servant. I have her address and I also know which local train goes there.'

'How about going to the police?'

'Are you out of your mind? Haven't you learnt anything since Delhi? Whatever you do, wherever you go, never go to the police. Ever.'

* * *

We are inside the bathroom in the basement, listening to the steady beat of water dripping from a leaky tap. Salim is on my shoulder with a knife in his hand, trying to work the bolts holding the wire-mesh window in place.

'Hurry,' I whisper through clenched teeth.

Upstairs, Maman's guards trample through our room, opening closets and cupboards. We hear shouts and abuses. A bottle crashes, jangling our frayed nerves even more. Salim is terrified. He is breathing quickly in short gasps. The beating of my heart intensifies till I can almost hear its pounding. Footsteps come closer.

'Only one is left,' says Salim. 'But it is jammed. I don't think I can open it.'

'Please . . . please try again!' I urge him. 'Our lives depend on it.'

Salim tackles the bolt with renewed urgency, twisting the knife into it with all his strength.

Finally, it gives way. He takes out the four bolts and lifts the wire mesh. We can see the palm trees outside swaying gently in the breeze. There is just enough space for us to crawl out.

Maman's men are about to come down the stairs to the basement when Salim manoeuvres himself through the window. Then he grasps my hand and helps me slither out. We clamber on to a mound of gravel and rubble, gasping and panting. The moon is full, the night is calm. We take in deep gulps of fresh air. It smells of coconuts.

* * *

We are sitting in a local train going away from Goregaon towards the centre of this vast metropolis. The train is not crowded at this time of night and there are only a few passengers in our compartment. They read newspapers, play cards, criticize the government, fart. A soft-drinks vendor enters the compartment carrying a plastic cool-box filled with multi-coloured bottles.

'Coke, Fanta, Thums Up, Limca, 7 Up,' he shouts in a high-pitched voice. The bottles are chilled, we can see tiny droplets of moisture beading their surface. Salim looks at the soft drinks and passes his tongue over his parched lips. He feels his front pocket and pats it reassuringly. The vendor looks at him hopefully. Salim shakes his head and the man moves on.

Soon another pedlar enters the compartment, a bearded old man wearing round glasses. There is a large tray hanging from his neck, filled with a plethora of rusty tins, cloudy glass bottles and small plastic packets containing an assortment of gnarled roots, dry leaves, powders and seeds.

'Yusuf Fahim, Travelling Hakim,' he announces. 'I have a treatment for every ailment. From cancer to constipation, just name your condition.' Unfortunately for him, there are no sick persons in the compartment, and he departs shortly, leaving behind a pungent smell of turmeric and ginger.

We watch the flickering lights of the city as the train rushes past housing colonies and sports stadiums. We catch fleeting glimpses of people sitting in their drawing rooms, watching TV, eating dinner, making beds. When our destination is only two stops away, we hear shuffling footsteps from the far side of the compartment.

A small, undernourished boy of about seven or eight appears. He is wearing a blue top and dusty shorts. He walks with the help of a stick and holds an ektara in his hands. We do not recognize him: he is not one of Maman's boys.

He stops no more than fifteen feet from us and breaks into a full-throated rendition of 'Sunire Maine Nirbal Ke Balaram – I have heard that Krishna comes to the aid of the weak', one of Surdas's most famous poems.

We cringe as the singer's melodious voice cascades over the compartment. Images of Maman's boys come flooding back to us. Raju and Radhey and Ashok and Moolay. Salim squeezes up to me and I shift deeper into the corner of my seat. But like a radar the singer's head tracks us. He seems to look at us accusingly through unseeing eyes. For five tortuous minutes we listen to him complete his song. Then he takes out a begging bowl and asks for alms. Only a handful of passengers are left in the compartment and nobody even bothers to hunt for change.

As the empty-handed singer is about to pass our side, Salim takes something from his front pocket. He holds it in a clenched fist and looks guiltily at me. I nod silently. With a pained expression, Salim opens his fist over the singer's outstretched hand. A crumpled, hundred-rupee note drifts into the beggar's bowl.

* * *

Smita shivers involuntarily. 'I cannot imagine there are still people in this day and age who can inflict such cruelty on innocent children.'

'It is sad, but true. If Salim and I had not escaped that night, perhaps we would still be singing songs on local trains, like that blind singer,' I reply.

'So did you finally land that job with Neelima Kumari?'

'Yes, I did.'

'And what happened to Salim?'

'Neelima Kumari arranged a room for him in a chawl in Ghatkopar.'

'But in the last story, weren't you working in a foundry and living in the chawl?'

'That was after I had left Neelima Kumari – or rather, after she had left me.'

'Meaning?'

'You will soon find out.'

Smita shakes her head, and presses 'Play' on the DVD remote.

* * *

Prem Kumar faces the camera. 'We now move on to question number four for ten thousand rupees. This one is also straightforward, but only if you know your devotional singers. Mr Thomas has told us he believes in all the religions. Let's hope he knows his bhajans.' He turns to me. 'Are you ready?'

'Ready,' I reply.

'OK. Question number four. Surdas, the blind poet, was a devotee of which god: a) Ram, b) Krishna, c) Shiva or d) Brahma?'

The music commences.

'B. Krishna.'

'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 ten thousand rupees!' declares Prem Kumar. The audience claps. Prem Kumar grins. I don't.

HOW TO SPEAK AUSTRALIAN

'Name, sex and age, please, Sir,' says the timid-looking census man standing in the porch wearing thick, black-rimmed glasses. He carries a sheaf of forms with him and fiddles with a blue felt pen.

Colonel Taylor has an irritated expression on his face as he begins the introductions. He is dressed in a cream-coloured linen suit. He wears suits all the time, in summer and in winter.

They suit his tall frame. He has an oval face with a thick pepper-coloured moustache, thin lips and ruddy cheeks. His sandy hair is swept back. The entire Taylor family and all the servants are gathered on the front porch as if for a group photograph. 'I am Colonel Charles Taylor, male, forty-six. This is my wife Rebecca Taylor, female, forty-four.' He points out Mrs Taylor, thin, blonde and dressed in a long skirt. 'This is our son Roy, male, fifteen.' Roy is fidgeting with his mobile phone. He is tall and lanky and wears his trademark faded jeans, T-shirt and sneakers.

'This is our daughter Maggie, female, seventeen.' Maggie is not so tall, but quite good looking with a round face, blue eyes and golden hair. She wears a really short skirt.

Colonel Taylor draws himself to his full height and puts more force into his voice. 'I am the Australian Defence Attache. We are diplomats, so I don't think you need to enumerate us in your census. The only people from this house who should go into your report are our servants. That is Bhagwati, standing near the gate. He is our driver-cum-gardener, male, fifty-two. We have a maid, Shanti, female, eighteen I think, who is not in the house at the moment. That is Ramu, our cook, male, twenty-five, and this is Thomas, male, fourteen. Will that be all?'

'No, Sir, I will need to ask your servants some questions, Sir. For the latest census they have introduced a long questionnaire. All kinds of weird things, such as which TV programmes you watch, which foods you eat, which cities you have visited, and even,' he sniggers, 'how often you have sex.'

Mrs Taylor whispers to her husband, 'Oh Charles, we don't want Ramu and Thomas wasting their time on this silly exercise. Can't you get rid of this drongo?'

Colonel Taylor pulls out a packet of cigarettes from his pocket. 'Look, Mister whatever your name is, my servants really don't have the time to go through your full questionnaire. So why don't you accept this packet of Marlboros and move on to the next house? I am sure you can afford to exclude four people from your survey.'

The census man eyes the packet, then licks his lips. 'Well . . . Sir, you are very kind. But you see, I don't smoke, Sir. However, if you have some Black Label . . . or even Red Label whisky, I would be happy to oblige, Sir. After all, what difference does it make if we take out four drops from an ocean? No one will miss four people out of a billion!' He laughs nervously.

Colonel Taylor gives the census man a dirty look. Then he stomps off into the drawing room and returns with a bottle of Johnny Walker Red Label. 'Here, take this and rack off. Don't ever bother us again.'

The census man salutes Colonel Taylor. 'Don't worry, Sir. I won't bother you for the next ten years.' He walks off happily.

Mrs Taylor is also happy. 'These bloody Indians,' she smiles. 'Give them a bottle of whisky and they'll do anything.'

Bhagwati grins from the gate. He has no clue what is happening. But he smiles whenever Sahib and Memsahib smile. Ramu is also grinning. He smiles whenever he gets to see Maggie in her short skirts.

I am the only one not smiling. Granted, we servants are invisible people, not to be heard during parties and family occasions, but to be left out even from our country's head count is a bit too galling. And I do wish the Taylors would stop their snobbish references to 'bloody Indians'. This must be the fiftieth time I have heard them use this expression since I have been with them.

Every time I hear it, my blood boils. OK, so the postman and the electrician and the telephone repair man and the constable, and now even the census man, have a weakness for whisky. But it doesn't mean that all Indians are drunkards. I wish I could explain this to Mrs Taylor some day.

But I know I won't. When you live in a posh locality of Delhi in a nice house, get three hot meals a day and a salary of one thousand five hundred, yes, one thousand five hundred rupees a month, you learn to swallow your pride. And smile whenever Sahib and Memsahib smile.

To be fair to the Taylors, though, they have been very kind to me. Not many people would employ you if you turned up on their doorstep suddenly one day from Mumbai. Moreover, I gave all the wrong references. Colonel Waugh was Colonel Taylor's predecessor, twice removed. And the Taylors, being Anglicans, had nothing to do with Father Timothy's Roman Catholic Church.

It was pure luck that they needed a servant urgently, having just kicked out the previous domestic help.

In the fifteen months I have been with the family, five more servants have been dismissed. All because of Colonel Taylor. He is The Man Who Knows. Just as there is an omniscient God above, there is Colonel Taylor below. Jagdish, the gardener, stole fertilizer from the shed and Colonel Taylor knew. Result: dismissed the next day. Sheela, the maid, picked up a bracelet from Mrs Taylor's room and Colonel Taylor knew. Result: dismissed the next day. Raju, the cook, opened the liquor cabinet and drank some whisky at night. Result: beaten up and dismissed the next day. Ajay, the new cook, hatched a plan to steal some money and mentioned this to a friend on the phone. Result: dismissed the next day and both he and his friend arrested by the police. Basanti, the new maid, tried on one of Maggie's dresses. Result: yes, dismissed the next day. How Colonel Taylor gets to know these things that take place behind closed doors, in the dead of night, or on the telephone, with no one around, is a real mystery.

I am the only one who has survived. I admit, occasionally I am also tempted to pocket the loose change lying around on Mrs Taylor's dressing table or grab one of the delicious Swiss chocolates from the fridge, but I keep such urges in check. Because I know that Colonel Taylor is The Man Who Knows. And the family trusts me. The fact that I have a Christian name and speak English helps, too. Apart from Shanti, who was employed just two months ago, I am the only one to have exclusive access to the family's private quarters. I can enter all the bedrooms and I am the only one allowed to watch TV and occasionally to play Nintendo with Roy in the living room. But even I am not allowed to enter Colonel Taylor's office, known as the Den. It is the small room adjacent to the master bedroom. It has a sturdy brown wooden door, protected by a thick iron grille. The iron grille has three locks: two small ones and one huge golden padlock that says, 'Yale. Armoured. Boron Shackle.' On the wall next to the padlock is a small white electronic panel with a picture of a skull and two bones and numbers 0– 9 like on a telephone keypad. You can open the padlock only after punching in a code. If you try to open it forcibly you get a 440-volt current and you die. A little light on the panel burns red when the room is closed. Whenever Colonel Taylor enters the room, the light changes to green. No member of the household is allowed to enter this room. Not even Mrs Taylor, Maggie or Roy.

* * *

The time I have spent with the Taylors has helped me forget the traumatic events in Mumbai.

Shantaram and Neelima Kumari have become painful but distant memories. For the first few months I lived in constant dread, cringing whenever a police jeep with a flashing red light passed the compound. Over time, the feeling of being hunted began to dissipate. I often thought about Gudiya, too, and wondered what had happened to her, but it is difficult to sustain a memory if you don't have a face to associate with the name. Gradually, she disappeared into the dustbin of my past. But Salim I couldn't forget. I was often racked with guilt for having left him behind. I wondered how he was coping, whether he was still working as a dabbawallah, but I refrained from contacting him, worried that this might reveal my whereabouts to the police.

* * *

Living with the Taylors, I have learnt to do barbies and make fondue. I have become an expert at mixing drinks and measuring whisky by the peg. I have tasted kangaroo steaks and crocodile dumplings imported directly from Canberra. I have become a fan of rugby, tennis, and something called Aussie Rules, which I watch with Roy. But even after all this time, I still struggle with the Australian accent. Every evening I sit in my room and practise speaking like an Australian.

'G'day Maite, see you at aight at India Gaite,' I say, and burst out laughing.

I especially enjoy going shopping with Mrs Taylor. She gets most of her provisions from Australia. But from time to time she buys imported products from Super Bazaar and Khan Market. We purchase Spanish chorizo and Roquefort cheese and gherkins in brine and red chillies in olive oil. The best days are when she takes Maggie and Roy with her to Kids Mart, the biggest kids' store in the whole world. It has clothes and toys and bikes and cassettes. Maggie and Roy buy sweatshirts and jeans and I get to go on the free merry-go-round.

Roy and Maggie get a magazine every month. It is called Australian Geographic. I think it is the best magazine on earth. It is crammed with page upon page of photos of the most gorgeous places in the world, all of which are in Australia. There are beaches with miles of golden sand.

Islands fringed with lovely palm trees. Oceans full of whales and sharks. Cities teeming with skyscrapers. Volcanoes spewing out deadly lava. Snow-covered mountains nestling against tranquil green valleys. At the age of fourteen, my only ambition is to see these beautiful places.

To visit Queensland and Tasmania and the Great Barrier Reef before I die.

My life with the Taylors is comfortable, too, because I do not have much work to do. Unlike in the actress's house, where I was the only servant, there are three others here sharing the work.

Ramu is the cook and the kitchen is completely under him. Shanti makes the beds and does the washing. I have only to do the vacuuming and the cleaning. From time to time, I also polish the silver cutlery, stack up books in Colonel Taylor's library and help Bhagwati trim the hedges. All of us live in the servants' quarters attached to the main house. We have one large and two small rooms to ourselves. Bhagwati lives in the large one with his wife and son. Shanti lives alone in the second. And I share the third with Ramu. The room has bunk beds. I sleep in the one on top.

Ramu is a nice bloke. He joined the Taylors four months ago and is an excellent cook. His main claim to fame is that he knows French cooking, having previously worked for a French family.

He can make gateau de saumon and crepes suzette and cervettes au gratin, which is my favourite dish. Ramu is well built and his face, if you ignore the pockmarks, is quite good looking. He loves to see Hindi movies. His favourite films are those in which the rich heroine runs off with the poor hero. I have a suspicion that Shanti fancies Ramu. The way she looks at him, winking occasionally, makes me think she is trying to give Ramu a signal. But Ramu does not care for Shanti. He is in love with someone else. He has made me swear not to mention this to anyone, so I cannot reveal the name. But I suppose I can mention that she is a beautiful girl with blue eyes and golden hair.

Although I live in the servants' quarters, the Taylors treat me almost as part of the family.

Whenever they go for an outing to McDonald's, they remember to buy me a kids' meal. When Roy and Maggie play Scrabble, they always include me. When Roy watches cricket in the TV room, he always invites me to join him (though he gets nasty whenever Australia is losing).

Every time the Taylors travel to Australia on holiday, they make a point of getting me a small gift – a keyring saying I LOVE SYDNEY or a T-shirt with a funny message. Sometimes all this kindness makes me cry. When I am eating a slice of Edam cheese or drinking a can of root beer, I find it difficult to believe that I am the same orphan boy who was eating thick blackened chapattis and indigestible stew in a filthy juvenile home not far from here just five years ago. At times I actually start imagining myself as part of this Australian family. Ram Mohammad Taylor.

But when one of the servants is scolded or dismissed or when Colonel Taylor wags a finger and says 'You bloody Indians,' my dream world comes crashing down and I begin to think of myself as a mongrel peeping through a barred window into an exotic world which does not belong to me.

But there is one thing that does belong to me, and that is the money piling up from my salary, though I have yet either to see or touch it. After bad experiences with a string of servants, Colonel Taylor decided not to give me a monthly salary on the grounds that I am a minor. He gives me only fifty rupees per month as pocket money. I am supposed to receive the rest of my salary as accumulated savings only on termination of employment. And only then if I have

behaved well. Otherwise, like Raju and Ajay, it is bye bye without pay. Unlike me, Ramu gets his salary every month. A full two thousand rupees. He has already accumulated a kitty of eight thousand rupees which he keeps safely hidden inside a hollow space in the mattress of his bed. I have only a hundred rupees in my pocket, but I have a little red diary in which I keep adding up my salary every month. As of today, the Taylors owe me 22,500 rupees. Just the thought of owning all this money makes me giddy. Every night I dream of visiting the places I see in Australian Geographic. Ramu has bigger ambitions. He dreams of marrying a beautiful white girl and honeymooning in Sydney, and starting a chain of French restaurants where he will serve venison and crème brûlée.

* * *

The neighbourhood junk-dealer, or kabariwalla, is here. Mrs Taylor is selling him all the newspapers and magazines we have hoarded over the past six months. They must have cost at least ten thousand rupees to purchase. But we are selling them at fifteen rupees per kilo. Ramu and I bring out heavy bundles of the Times of India, Indian Express, the Pioneer and the Hindu.

We pull out the stacked copies of India Today, Femina, Cosmopolitan and The Australian. The kabariwalla weighs them on his dusty scales. Suddenly Roy appears on the scene. 'What's happening?' he asks his mother.

'Nothing. We are just getting rid of all the junk newsprint in the house,' she replies.

'Oh, is that right?' he says and disappears into the house. He comes out after five minutes armed with thirty copies of Australian Geographic. My jaw drops in shock. How can Roy even think of selling off these magazines?

But before I can say anything, the kabariwalla has weighed the glossy magazines. 'These come to six kilos. I will give you ninety rupees for them,' he tells Roy. The boy nods. The transaction is completed. I race back to my room.

As soon as the kabariwalla leaves the house, I accost him on the road. 'I am sorry, but Memsahib wants those magazines back,' I tell him.

'Too bad,' he shrugs. 'I have bought them now. They have excellent quality paper which will fetch a good price.' Eventually I have to give him my hundred rupees, but I get back the issues of Australian Geographic. They are now mine. That evening, I spread all of them out in my tiny room and watch the images of mountains and beaches, jellyfish and lobsters, kookaburras and kangaroos float up before my eyes. Somehow, these exotic places seem a little more accessible today. Perhaps the fact that I now own the magazines means that I also own a tiny part of their contents in my heart.

Another notable thing that happens this month is the debut of Spycatcher on Star TV. This serial has taken Australia by storm. Set in the 1980s, it is about the life of an Australian police officer called Steve Nolan who catches spies. Colonel Taylor becomes completely addicted to it. Almost every evening he disappears into his Den to come out only for dinner. But come Wednesday night, he sits in the TV room with his stubby of Foster's beer and watches Steve Nolan catch dirty foreigners (called Commies) selling secrets to some Russian organization called the KGB. I like the serial because of the car chases, death-defying stunts and cool gadgets, such as a pen which doubles up as a miniature camera, and a tape recorder which becomes a gun. And I am fascinated by Steve Nolan's car – a bright red Ferrari which hurtles through the streets like a rocket.

* * *

The Taylors' garden party is a regular fixture during the summer season, but today's party is something special. It is in honour of a visiting general from Australia and even the HC – High Commissioner – will be attending. Ramu and I and, for once, even Bhagwati are 'laired up' – clad in spotless white uniforms with round golden buttons. We wear white gloves and black shoes.

Big white turbans with little tails sit uncomfortably on our small heads. They are of the type worn by grooms at weddings. Except we don't look like grooms on horseback. We look like fancy waiters at a fancy garden party.

The guests have begun to arrive. Colonel Taylor welcomes them on the well-manicured rear lawn. He is dressed in a light-blue suit. Ramu is busy grilling skewers of chicken, pork, fish and mutton over the barbecue pit. Bhagwati is serving cocktails to the guests on a silver tray. I am manning the bar. Only I can understand the guests when they ask for a Campari with Soda or a Bloody Mary. Shanti is busy helping out in the kitchen. Even she is wearing a smart skirt instead of her usual sari.

The guests are mostly white and from other embassies. There is a sprinkling of Indians as well – a couple of journalists and officials from the Defence Ministry. The whites drink Kingfisher beer and cocktails. The Indians, as usual, ask only for Black Label whisky.

The conversation at the garden party falls into two categories. The Indians talk about politics and cricket. The diplomats and expatriates exchange gossip about their servants and colleagues and crib about the heat. 'It's so bloody hot, I wish they'd declare a holiday.' 'My maid ran away the other day with the gardener, and after I had given both of them a raise.' 'It's so difficult to get good help these days. Most of these bloody servants are thieves.'

The arrival of the HC with a smartly attired man, who, I am told, is the general, creates a buzz.

Mrs Taylor almost falls over herself in her rush to greet the HC. There is a lot of kissing and pressing of hands. Colonel Taylor looks pleased. The party is going well.

By eleven o'clock, all the guests have gone. Only the two Indian journalists and one official from the Defence Ministry called Jeevan Kumar are still sitting, nursing their tenth peg of Johnny Walker. Mrs Taylor looks at them with disdain. 'Charles,' she tells her husband, 'why do you have to invite these bloody journos? They are always the last to leave.'

Colonel Taylor makes sympathetic noises. The Ministry of Defence official, a dark, heavy-set man, lurches into the house. 'Can I have a word with you, Mr Taylor?' he calls out. Colonel Taylor hurries after him.

* * *

It is past midnight and Ramu is still not asleep. I hear him tossing and turning in his bunk bed.

'What's the matter, Ramu? Can't you get to sleep tonight?' I ask him.

'How can I sleep, Thomas? My darling is tormenting me.'

'You are stupid. How often have I told you not to entertain this fanciful idea? If Colonel Taylor finds out he will have you slaughtered.'

'Lovers have to be prepared to sacrifice themselves for their love. But at least now I have a piece of my love with me.'

'What? What have you got?' I climb down from my bed. 'Shhh . . . I can only show it to you if you swear not to reveal it to anyone.'

'OK, OK, I swear. Now show me what you have got.'

Ramu pushes his hand underneath his pillow and brings out a piece of red fabric. He holds it close to his nostrils and inhales deeply. Even I can smell a faint perfume.

'What is it? You have to show it.' Ramu unfurls it like a flag. It is a red bra. I jump up in shock and hit my head against the wooden rail. 'Oh, my God! Where the hell did you get this from?

Don't tell me it is hers.'

'Here, see for yourself.' Ramu hands the bra to me.

I turn the bra up and down. It seems like a very expensive piece, full of lace embroidery. It has a small white label near the hooks which says 'Victoria's Secret'.

'Who is Victoria?' I ask him.

'Victoria? I don't know any Victoria.'

'This bra belongs to Victoria. It even has her name. Where did you get it from?' Ramu is confused. 'But . . . but I stole it from Maggie's room.'

'Oh my God, Ramu! You know you are not allowed to go to the children's bedrooms. Now you will get into real trouble.'

'Look, Thomas, you promised not to tell anyone. Please, I beg you, don't reveal this secret.'

I cross my heart as I climb back into my bed. Soon Ramu begins snoring. I know he is dreaming about a girl with blue eyes and golden hair. But I am dreaming about a jeep with a flashing red light. I am convinced that Ramu is heading for trouble. Because Colonel Taylor is The Man Who Knows.

Sure enough, two days later a jeep with a flashing red light comes screeching to the house. A Police Inspector wearing goggles swaggers into the drawing room. He is the same Inspector Tyagi who took away Ajay. He asks for Ramu, and the constables drag the cook out of the kitchen and take him to his room. I scamper behind them. It is my room too. They rummage through Ramu's bed. They find the money he keeps inside his mattress. They also discover a diamond necklace nestling under his pillow. How it got there I have no idea, but I know Ramu is no thief. Then the constables start rummaging through my things. They find my Australian Geographic magazines, neatly stacked in one corner. They find my keyrings and my T-shirts.

And then they find a crumpled red bra underneath my mattress. How it got there I have no idea, but I know it is the same bra Ramu stole from Maggie's room.

I am brought before the Taylors like a notorious convict. 'Taylor Sahib, you were only talking about one crook in the house, and we did find the diamond necklace and a lot of stolen cash in his bed. But look at what we found in this little bastard's bed. We found these magazines, which he must have stolen from the children – ' he drops the stack of Australian Geographic on the floor, 'and we found this.' The Inspector unfurls the red bra like a flag.

Maggie begins crying. Ramu looks as if he is about to faint. Colonel Taylor has a murderous glint in his eyes.

'Strewth! You too, Thomas?' says Mrs Taylor, in complete shock. Then she goes into a rage and slaps me four or five times. 'You bloody Indians,' she rants. 'All of you are just the same.

Nothing but ungrateful bludgers. We feed you and clothe you and this is what you give us in return, trying to flog our stuff?'

Colonel Taylor comes to my rescue. 'No, Rebecca,' he tells his wife. 'Fair crack of the whip.

Thomas is a good bloke. That bastard Ramu hid this in his bed. Trust me, I know.'

Colonel Taylor proves yet again that he is The Man Who Knows. His omniscience saves me that day, and I get back my collection of Australian Geographic. But the beaches of Queensland and the wildlife of Tasmania do not entice me any longer. Ramu weeps and confesses to pocketing the bra, but continues to maintain that he did not steal the necklace. He points an accusing finger at Shanti. But it is all to no avail. The Inspector takes him away in his jeep. He also takes away a bottle of Black Label whisky from Colonel Taylor, smiling toothily. 'Thank you very much, Taylor Sahib. Any time you need my services, just give me a ring. It will be a pleasure to serve you. Here's my card.'

Colonel Taylor takes the card abstractedly and leaves it on the side table in the drawing room.

* * *

There is a lot of excitement in the house. The Taylors have got a pet dog for Maggie. The Colonel brings him in on a leash. He is small and furry, with a tiny wet nose and a long tail. He looks like a doll and yelps rather than barks. Maggie says he is an Apso. She decides to call him Rover.

* * *

There is excitement in the house again. A new cook has arrived. His name is Jai. He does not know half the things that Ramu knew. Never mind cooking French cuisine, he cannot even pronounce au gratin. But he gets the job because he is a mature, married man, with a wife and two girls who live in some nearby village. I am not very happy to share my room again. I was enjoying sleeping alone in the bunk beds. On some nights I would sleep in the top bed and on others in the bottom.

I take an instant dislike to Jai. He has shifty eyes. He smokes secretly in the room (smoking in the Taylors' residence is prohibited). And he treats me like a servant. 'What is your ambition in life?' he asks me like the teacher in the Juvenile Home.

'To own a red Ferrari,' I lie. 'What is yours?'

He lights up another cigarette and sends smoke rings spinning out of his mouth. 'I want to open a garage, but it will cost money. I have a very rich friend, Amar, who has promised that if I can arrange a hundred and fifty thousand, he will put together the rest. How much money do you think these firangs have in the house?'

I keep my mouth shut. So from the very first week, Mr Jai has begun plotting a robbery. Good that he doesn't know about The Man Who Knows. He will find out soon enough.

* * *

Colonel Taylor starts going on early-morning walks with Rover to Lodhi Garden, which is close to the house. Till the Delhi Government brings out a new law under which people with pet dogs have to scoop up the dog litter or face hefty fines. From then on I am instructed to accompany master and dog and act as sweeper to Rover. I hate this chore. Imagine having to get up from bed at five-thirty and go running with scoop and pan after a dirty, stupid dog which shits every two minutes. Lodhi Garden, though, is a nice place for a morning walk. It has a lot of greenery and a crumbling ancient monument called Bara Gumbad in the centre. In the morning the park is full of joggers. I see fat old ladies doing yoga and thin anorexic girls doing aerobics. I also begin to notice that sometimes Colonel Taylor disappears from my view for long periods when I am busy scooping Rover's poop. This intrigues me, so one morning I leave Rover to his own devices and decide to follow Colonel Taylor. I see him go past the Bara Gumbad and move towards a little thicket. I peer from behind a dense bush and see him greet the same Indian from the Ministry of Defence who had come to the garden party.

'Do you know, Mr Kumar, that I followed you last night from your house in South Ex all the way to the sweet shop, and you didn't have a clue?' says Colonel Taylor.

Jeevan Kumar is sweating profusely and is clearly fidgety. He seems very contrite. 'Oh, I am really sorry, Colonel Sahib. I will be more careful in the future. I know people should not see us together.'

'Of course, Mr Kumar, that goes without saying. But if you continue to be lax about your security I am afraid we will have to terminate these face-to-face meetings. Just remember a simple rule: CYTLYT.'

'CYTLYT?'

'Yes. Confuse Your Trail, Lose Your Tail. It's actually quite simple. What it means is that you must never take a direct route to your destination. Change roads, change cars, duck into one shop, come out of another, anything to confuse your trail. Once you do that, you make it extremely difficult to be followed. Whoever is tailing you will give up.'

'OK, Colonel Sahib, I will remember that. But let me tell you the good news. I think I will be able to give you what you have been wanting from me all this while. Meet me on Friday the fourteenth in the car park behind Balsons in South Ex. It is generally quite deserted. At eight pm.

OK?'

'OK.'

The meeting ends. I hurry back to Rover before Colonel Taylor returns.

* * *

My eyes are wide open on Friday the fourteenth and my ears extra sensitive. Colonel Taylor discloses his plans early in the morning to his wife. 'McGill, the new Commercial Attache, wants me to show him a couple of places in the city after work. So I'll be a bit late, Rebecca. Don't wait for me at dinner.'

'That's fine. The HC's wife has asked me to a bridge party, so I'll be out too,' says Mrs Taylor.

I can put two and two together. Why did Colonel Taylor lie to his wife about his meeting? He falls in my estimation that day. I feel a terrible sadness for Mrs Taylor.

* * *

After Ramu, it is Roy's turn. Colonel Taylor has caught him kissing Shanti in his bedroom.

Shanti swears on her dead mother that there is nothing going on between her and Roy baba and that this is the very first time Roy kissed her – and that, too, by mistake. But all her pleading is to no avail. The result is all too predictable: immediate dismissal. But at least she gets her wages.

Roy will probably get a thrashing for getting too close to the 'bloody Indians', and all his shopping in Kids Mart will be stopped. I decide not to do any cleaning in Maggie's bedroom for the next ten days as a precautionary measure.

If I had, I could probably have saved her. Because barely two weeks after Roy, his sister is in the dock. The Man Who Knows has obtained irrefutable proof that she has been smoking in her room, despite strict instructions. Maggie tries to deny the charge, but Colonel Taylor produces the carton of cigarettes she has hidden inside her almirah and even the stubs she has forgotten to dispose of. That is the end of Maggie's shopping trips to Kids Mart as well.

Believe it or not, two months later Colonel Taylor catches someone else cheating. His own wife.

Mrs Rebecca Taylor. Turns out she was having an affair with someone in the Embassy. 'You bloody bitch!' he screams at her in their bedroom. 'I am going to fix you and that half-arsed lover of yours.' I hear the sound of a slap and of something being broken, like a vase. Mrs Taylor doesn't come down for dinner that evening.

Maggie and Roy also maintain a respectful distance from their father. I cannot help commiserating with Mrs Taylor. Her husband has discovered her little affair but she doesn't have an inkling of his own dirty secret. I want to spill the beans on Colonel Taylor. How he meets up with old Jeevan Kumar in deserted car parks. But those who live in glass houses cannot throw stones and the constant fear nagging me is that The Man Who Knows might find out how I pushed Shantaram through the railing. And that he might know things about me that even I don't know.

* * *

While all these crazy things are happening in the Taylor family, Jai is getting on my nerves. His cooking has gone from bad to worse. His clear soups are clear of all taste, his curries make me worry, and even Rover will not eat his steaks. He bores me to death by talking about his stupid garage and getting the hundred and fifty thousand. I have almost made up my mind to complain about him to Colonel Taylor when tragedy strikes the family. Colonel Taylor's mother dies in Adelaide. Everyone is very sad. For the first time we see the softer side of the military officer.

'We are all going to be away for a week,' he tells Jai in a subdued tone. 'The house will be locked. You and Thomas can eat outside.' Maggie and Roy are weeping. Mrs Taylor's eyes are red. Naturally, Bhagwati is also crying. Even my eyes are misting with tears. There is only one person smiling slyly behind the kitchen wall. It is Jai.

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.'