Slumdog Millionaire

'One day in the year 1607, Prince Khurram of the royal Mughal household was strolling down Delhi's Meena Bazaar when he caught a glimpse of a girl selling silk and glass beads in a small booth. He was so entranced by her beauty that he fell in love with her then and there. But it took five years before he was finally able to marry this girl. Her real name was Arjuman Banu, but he gave her the new name of Mumtaz Mahal. She was nineteen at the time and he was twenty.

Mumtaz Begum was the niece of Noorjahan or Mehrunnisa, the wife of Jahangir, who in turn was a niece of Akbar's Persian queen, Bilgis Begum. Mumtaz and Khurram were married in the year 1612, and over the next eighteen years had fourteen children together. Mumtaz was her husband's inseparable companion on all his journeys and military expeditions. She was his comrade, his counsellor, and inspired him to acts of charity and benevolence towards the weak and the needy. She died in childbirth on the seventh of June 1630 in Burhanpur, only three years after Khurram ascended the Mughal throne as Emperor Shahjahan. It was when Mumtaz Mahal lay dying that she extracted four promises from the Emperor: first, that he erect a monument to match her beauty; second, that he should not marry again; third, that he be kind to their children; and fourth, that he visit the tomb on the anniversary of her death. Mumtaz's death left the Emperor so heartbroken that his hair is said to have turned grey overnight. But so great was the Emperor's love for his wife that he ordered the building of the most beautiful mausoleum on earth for her. Work started in 1631. It took twenty-two years and the combined effort of over twenty thousand artisans and master craftsmen from Persia, the Ottoman Empire, and even Europe, and the result is what you see before you, the Taj Mahal, described by Rabindranath Tagore as "a teardrop on the cheek of time".'

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

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

'William who?'

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

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

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

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

'Yes,' I reply.

'Please, can you tell little bit about Taj Mahal. We are tourists. From Japan. We new to your city.

We come just today.'

I feel like telling him that I am also new to this city, that I also came just today, but his curious face appeals to me. Mimicking the serious tone of the guide,begin to tell him what I remember.

'The Taj Mahal was built by Emperor Khurram for his wife Noorjahan, also known as Mumtaz Begum, in 1531. He met her while she was selling bangles in a garden and fell in love with her, but married her only after nineteen years. She then fought with him in all his battles and gave him eighteen kids in fourteen years.'

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

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

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

I scowl at him. 'Haven't I told you that the real tombs are underground? Therefore all the area above the ground must have been the guest house. Now inside the mausoleum you will see the tombs of Mumtaz and the Emperor. Don't forget to see the pen with ninety-nine gemstones on it, and every three centimetres you will see fifty names of God engraved on the walls. The verses on the walls all mean the same, regardless of the different lettering. Isn't that wonderful? Remember that the dome is 160 metres high and the minarets are seventeen metres tall. Also, if you view the Taj Mahal from different angles you will see different veils of a woman on her wedding night.

Go and try it. Before I forget, I must also tell you that Tagore, our famous poet, won the Nobel prize for his poetry on the Taj Mahal, called "The Slap on the Cheek of William Wordsworth."'

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

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

* * *

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

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

'Excuse me?' I say.

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

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

'Ejop Bkggks Hz,' he insists and takes my arm. He begins pulling me in the direction of the market. I think of breaking free, but his face is so friendly that I allow myself to be led. He walks in a peculiar fashion, almost on tiptoe. He takes me through narrow labyrinthine by-lanes and twisted alleys, and after fifteen minutes we emerge in front of a large mansion. 'Swapna Palace'

says the brass nameplate next to a huge iron door. He opens the door and we step inside. The mansion has a curved driveway, a massive lawn with a painted Gujarati swing and a fountain in it. I see two gardeners toiling on the grass. An old Contessa car stands in the driveway, being polished by a uniformed chauffeur. My friend is obviously known to the occupants of the mansion, because no one tries to stop him as he takes me up the driveway to the ornate wooden entrance of the house and presses the doorbell. A dark, young, good-looking maid opens the door. She looks at my friend and says, 'Oh, it is you, Shankar. Why do you come here again and again? You know Madam does not like it when you come this side.'

Shankar points at me. 'Dz Izzao X Nkkh.'

The maid looks me up and down. 'Oh, so Shankar has brought you here as a new tenant? I don't think there are any rooms left in the outhouse, but I will call Madam.' She disappears into the house.

Presently a middle-aged woman appears at the entrance. She is wearing an expensive silk sari and tons of gold jewellery. Her face is covered in make-up. She might have been beautiful in her youth, but, unlike Neelima Kumari, her face has lost its glow. Plus she has pinched lips which make her look rather severe. I take an instinctive dislike to her.

Shankar gets extremely excited on seeing the woman. 'Q Gkrz Ukj Hjhhu,' he says with a wide grin, but the woman doesn't even register his presence. 'Who are you?' she asks me, looking closely at my clothes. 'And why have you come with Shankar?'

I begin to wilt under her scrutiny.

'My name is Raju Sharma,' I say. There is no way I am going to use any of my real names in this city. Not after killing an unknown man in a train.

'Oh, so you are a Brahmin?' she asks, her eyes turning even more suspicious. I should have realized that a dark-skinned Brahmin would be something of a novelty.

'Yes. I am new to Agra. I have come to ask if there is anywhere I can stay.'

'We have an outhouse where we keep tenants.' I notice she uses the royal 'we'. 'Right now no room is available, but if you can wait a week, we can arrange for a room. It will cost you four hundred rupees per month, with the rent to be paid in advance in full at the beginning of the month. If this is acceptable, Lajwanti can show you the outhouse. But you will have to manage somewhere else for a week.'

'Thank you, Madam,' I reply in English. 'I will take the room and I will pay you four hundred rupees next week.'

The lady looks at me sharply as soon as I speak in English. Her severe features soften somewhat.

'Perhaps you can stay with Shankar for a week. Lajwanti, show him the outhouse.'

That is the end of the interview, conducted at the door.

Lajwanti escorts me to the outhouse, which is immediately behind the mansion and which I discover to be the North Indian equivalent of the chawl. It has a huge cobbled courtyard, with interconnected rooms constructed all round the periphery. There must have been at least thirty rooms in the tenement. Shankar's room is almost in the middle of the eastern corridor. He unlocks the door and we step inside. There is just one bed and a built-in almirah in the room, and, attached to it, a tiny kitchen, just like in our Ghatkopar chawl. The toilets are communal and located at the end of the western corridor. Bathing can only be done in the centre of the courtyard, under a municipal tap, in full view of the residents of the tenement. Lajwanti points out her own room. It is eight rooms before Shankar's. And the room I will get in a week's time is four rooms after Shankar's.

Before Lajwanti returns to the mansion, I ask her a quick question. 'Excuse me, but who is this boy Shankar? I've just met him in front of the Taj Mahal.'

She sighs. 'He is an orphan boy who lives here. We are all very fond of him. The poor fellow has some problem in his brain and cannot talk sense, just utters nonsense words. He roams around the city aimlessly all day. It is Madam's kindness that she has allotted him a room free of charge and also gives him some money to buy food. Otherwise the mental-asylum people would have picked him up a long time ago.'

I am shocked. Shankar appeared to me to be an intelligent boy, with only a speech defect.

Perhaps my assessment of Madam is also off the mark. Given her benefaction to Shankar, she cannot be as stern as she looks. 'And Madam. Tell me more about her,' I ask Lajwanti.

Like a court historian recounting the genealogy of an empress, Lajwanti explains the impressive lineage of her employer. 'Her real name is Queen Swapna Devi. But we all call her Madam or Rani Sahiba. Her father was the King of the Princely State of Jamgarh, Raja Shivnath Singh, of the Rathore dynasty. On the maternal side, her grandfather was the King of Dharela, near Agra, Raja Ravi Pratap Singh, who is the original owner of this haveli. When she was just twenty, Swapna Devi was married to the son of the King of Bhadohi, Kunwar Pratap Singh, belonging to the Gautam dynasty, and shifted to Benares, where the family had a mansion. Unfortunately, her husband, the young prince, died within just two years of the marriage, but she did not remarry.

She continued to live in Benares for another twelve years. In the meantime, her grandfather Raja Ravi Pratap Singh died, bequeathing this haveli to her. So she moved to Agra and has lived here for the last ten years.'

'What about children?' I ask her.

Lajwanti shakes her head. 'No. She does not have any offspring, so she keeps herself busy with charitable activities and social occasions. She is probably the richest woman in Agra and very well connected. The police commissioner and the district magistrate eat at her house every week, so you'd better not entertain any ideas about staying here and not paying the rent. If you don't pay her rent on the first, you are out on the second. Better get this straight.'

That evening, Shankar cooks food for me and insists that I sleep in his bed. He sleeps on the hard stone floor. This kindness brings tears to my eyes. The fact that he is also an orphan like me gives rise to a deep bond between us. A bond beyond friendship. Beyond companionship.

Beyond words.

That night it rains in Agra.

* * *

I had to pay four hundred rupees to Madam within seven days so I wasted no time in acquiring the knowledge relevant to my chosen vocation. The fifty rupees I had with me got me admission to the Taj for two days, and Shankar lent me ten rupees for a third day as well. I would hang around groups of Western tourists, listening to English-speaking guides and trying to memorize as many of the facts and figures mentioned as possible. It was not very difficult, partly because I took to the Taj Mahal like a pickpocket to a crowded bus. Perhaps it was in my blood. Mumtaz Mahal could have been one of my mother's ancestors. Or my father might have been of Mughal descent. Anyway, by the fourth day I had picked up enough knowledge about the Taj Mahal to aspire to join the ranks of the hundreds of unlicensed guides in Agra. I hung around the red-sandstone entrance and offered my services to the foreign tourists who came to see the Taj even in the stifling June heat. My first 'clients' were a bunch of young college girls from England with freckles, sun tan, travellers' cheques and very few clothes. They listened attentively to me, didn't ask any difficult questions, took a lot of photographs, and gave me a ten-pound note as a tip. It was only when I converted the note at the forex bureau that I realized I had got seven hundred and fifty rupees, even after deducting the three per cent commission the shop charged me.

Almost enough to pay rent for the next two months!

I shifted to my own room in the outhouse after a week, but in the seven days I spent in Shankar's room I learnt many things about him. I discovered that his language was not just meaningless gibberish. Although the words sounded nonsensical to us, for him they held a peculiar internal coherence. I also learnt that Shankar's favourite food was chapattis and lentils. That he hated aubergine and cabbage. That he had no interest in toys. That he had superb artistic skills and could draw a person down to the tiniest detail, simply from memory. And that, like me, he dreamt of his mother. On two nights I heard him cry out, 'Mummy, Mummy' in his sleep. And I knew that deep within him he did possess the ability to speak more than nonsense syllables.

Living with him must have had a psychological impact on me, because I recall dreaming about a tall young woman clad in a white sari with a baby in her arms. The wind howls behind her, making her jet-black hair fly across her face, obscuring it. The baby looks into her eyes and gurgles sweetly, 'Mama . . . Mama.' The mother opens her mouth to reply to the baby, but the only sound that comes out of her lips is 'Q Gkrz Ukj Hu Wxwu.' The baby shrieks and tumbles from her lap. I wake up, and check whether I still have a tongue.

* * *

During the next year in Agra, I acquired a wealth of information about the Taj Mahal. I learnt intimate details about the life of Mumtaz Mahal, such as the fact that her fourteenth child, during whose birth she died, was called Gauharar. I memorized detailed accounts of the construction of the Taj, such as that the State Treasury supplied 466.55 kilograms of pure gold, valued at six lakh rupees in 1631, and the total cost of construction came to 41,848,826 rupees, 7 annas and 6 pies. I delved into the controversy of who really built the Taj and the spurious claim of Geronimo Veroneo, an Italian goldsmith. I found out about the legend of a second Taj and the mystery of the basement chambers and a probable third grave. I could hold forth on the art of pietra dura, used in the floral patterns on the walls of the Taj, and the gardens modelled on the Persian Char Bagh style. The fact that I spoke fluent English immediately gave me a headstart. Foreign tourists flocked to me and pretty soon the fame of Raju Guide had spread far and wide. But this did not mean that I became an authority on the Taj Mahal. I had information, but no knowledge.

Raju Guide was no better than a parrot who faithfully recited what he heard, without really understanding a word.

* * *

Over time, I learnt to say 'Konichiwa' to Japanese tourists and 'Dasvedanya' to Russians, 'Muchas gracias' to Hispanic tippers and 'Howdy' to American rednecks. But, to my everlasting regret, I never had an Australian client whom I could slap on the back and say, 'G'day mate, I'm gonna give you the good oil about this rip-snorter of a tomb!'

I also started earning good money from the tourists. Not a fortune, but certainly enough to pay my rent, eat in McDonald's or Pizza Hut once in a while, and still manage to save up for a rainy day. Except that a rainy day ceases to have meaning for a person who has lived in the open under a monsoon cloud most of his life. I had experienced too many misfortunes, and with the constant fear at the back of my mind that a jeep with a flashing red light could come any day to arrest me for the murder of a nameless dacoit or Shantaram or even Neelima Kumari, it felt pointless to make long-term plans for the future. I treated money, therefore, like I treated my life – as an expendable commodity. Easy come, easy go. Not surprisingly, very soon I became famous in the outhouse as a soft touch.

* * *

The residents of the outhouse were a motley collection: poor college students from far-off villages, government clerks who were illegally renting out their official accommodation at exorbitant rates, train drivers, laundry workers, gardeners, cooks, cleaners, plumbers, carpenters, and even a poet with the mandatory beard. Many of them became my friends. Living in their midst, I came to realize that Emperor Shahjahan and Mumtaz Mahal's story was not the only one in this sleepy little town.

Lajwanti was the official 'news supplier' of the outhouse. She had an ear to the ground and knew exactly what was going on in the neighbourhood. She knew the wife-beaters and the adulterers, the drunkards and the misers, the rent-evaders and the bribe-takers. Despite her obvious loyalty to her employer, she was also not averse to sharing some titbits about the palace. It was from her that I heard the gossip about Swapna Devi's colourful past. It was rumoured that she had had a torrid affair with her late husband's brother, Kunwar Mahendra Singh, but eventually fell out with him and poisoned him to death. It was also said that her liaison had resulted in an illegitimate daughter in Benares. What happened to the daughter nobody knew, and nobody seemed to care.

* * *

Shakil, one of the poor students living in the outhouse, approaches me one evening.

'Raju bhai, if you don't mind, can I ask you a favour?' he asks diffidently.

'Yes, Shakil, what is it?' I reply, sensing the purpose of his visit.

'Actually, my father has been unable to send me the money order this month because of the drought in the village, and unless I pay the university fees by Monday I will be rusticated. Can you please lend me one hundred and fifty rupees? I promise to repay you as soon as I receive the money order next month.'

'Of course, Shakil. I have already lent fifty to our great poet Najmi and a hundred to Gopal, and I had been keeping a hundred to buy a new shirt. But your requirement is greater than mine, so take it all.'

* * *

Shankar and I have been invited by Lajwanti to her room for dinner. She is unmarried and lives alone in the outhouse, but has a younger sister who lives in a village approximately thirty kilometres from Agra. The first thing I notice about Lajwanti's room is its obsessive tidiness. It is the cleanest room I have ever seen. The stone floor has been polished to a sparkle. There is not a speck of dust. The bed is very neatly made, with not even a crease on the cotton bedspread.

There are little decorative objects displayed on a mantel with geometric precision. Everything is painfully neat. Even the kitchen looks so sanitized that I can almost imagine the soot from her chulha being white rather than black. Shankar and I sit on chairs; Lajwanti sits on the bed, wearing a pink sari. She seems very excited and tells us that she has started searching for a suitable bridegroom for her sister, Lakshmi, who is now nineteen years old.

'But what about you?' I ask her. 'Shouldn't the elder sister get married first?'

'Yes, she should,' she replies. 'But I am not just a sister to Lakshmi, I have been her father and mother ever since our parents died five years ago. That is why I cannot act selfishly and think only about myself. Once I have married off my sister, my responsibilities will be over and I can then look for my own prince.'

'So how are you going about searching for suitable grooms?'

'I placed an ad in Dainik Ujala, the Hindi newspaper, two months ago, and due to the blessings of Goddess Durga the response has been very good. See how many letters have come.' She holds out a bundle of letters and envelopes. From these she extracts six photographs and shows them to us. 'Tell me, which one of these boys will be suitable for Lakshmi?'

Shankar and I examine the prospective grooms. We find fault with almost all of them. This one looks too old. This one has a wicked smile. This one is ugly. This one has a scar. This one picture looks like a prisoner's mugshot. That leaves only one photo. It shows the face of a handsome young man with stylish hair and a thick moustache. 'Yes, this boy looks to be the best of the lot,' I tell Lajwanti. Shankar also nods his head in fervent approval. 'Q Gqfz Pdz Wku,' he says.

Lajwanti is delighted with our selection. 'He is my choice too. Apart from being the best looking, he is also the most qualified and comes from a very respectable family. Do you know that he is a very high-ranking government officer?'

'Really? What does he do?'

'He is the Assistant Sugarcane Officer in the District. Lakshmi will live like a queen with him. So should I commence negotiations with his family? Take Goddess Durga's blessings to move the process forward?'

'Of course, without any delay.'

Lajwanti serves us an excellent meal that evening, of puris, kachoris, potatoes, lentils and muttar paneer, on steel plates so clean they could double up as mirrors. I feel almost guilty eating off her spotless crockery, worried that it might get scratched. I cannot resist asking her, 'Lajwanti, how come your house is so neat and clean? Do you keep a maid?'

She appreciates my noticing. 'Don't joke with me. How can a maid employ a maid? I am the one who keeps this house in tip-top order. This has been my habit since childhood. I cannot live in an unclean house. My fingers start itching the moment I see a speck of dirt on the floor, a piece of food sticking to the dining table or a crease on the bed cover. My mother used to say, "Lajwanti cannot tolerate even a leaf sticking out wrongly from a tree." That is why Rani Sahiba is so happy with me. I overheard her telling Commissioner Sahib's wife the other day that Lajwanti is the best maid she has ever had and she will never let me go.' She beams with pride.

'Yes, I agree, you must be the most efficient maid in the whole world. But you'd better not visit my room, otherwise you will get sick.'

Shankar also agrees that Lajwanti is the greatest. 'Q Gkrz Gxesxipq,' he says with a wide happy grin.

* * *

My last patrons today are a group of four rich college students from Delhi. They are a young, boisterous lot in designer jeans and imported sunglasses who make flippant remarks about the Taj Mahal, rib each other incessantly and crack vulgar jokes. At the end of the guided tour they not only give me my fee but a fat tip as well. They then invite me to join them on a night out in their chauffeur-driven minivan. 'Raju Guide, come with us, we will give you the time of your life,' they implore. I decline at first, but they are insistent and I am so beholden to them for their generous baksheesh that I cannot say no. I hop into the vehicle.

First we go to the Palace Hotel. This is my first-ever visit to a five-star hotel. I sit in its air-conditioned restaurant and take in the gleaming, softly lit chandeliers, the liveried waiters, the light instrumental music and the well-dressed clientele exuding wealth and influence. The men speak in confidential low tones, the women are like delicate dolls. The food is mouth-watering.

One of the boys passes me the menu. 'Here, Raju. Order whatever you fancy.' I take a look at the menu and almost choke on seeing the prices. A plate of butter chicken costs six hundred rupees!

At the roadside stall near the outhouse I can buy the same thing for a mere fifty-five rupees. But I realize that here you do not pay simply for the food, you pay for the ambience as well. The boys order practically everything on the menu and two bottles of Scotch whisky.

The sight of all this opulence makes me uneasy. In Mumbai, Salim and I would gatecrash the weddings of the rich for free food, but we never grudged them their wealth. But seeing these rich college boys spending money like paper, I am gripped by a totally new sense of inadequacy. The contrast with my own imperfect life pinches me with the force of a physical hurt. Not surprisingly, my hunger just shrivels up and dies, despite the mounds of tempting dishes lying on my table. I realize then that I have changed. And I wonder what it feels like to have no desires left because you have satisfied them all, smothered them with money even before they are born.

Is an existence without desire very desirable? And is the poverty of desire better than rank poverty itself? I think about these questions, but do not arrive at any satisfactory answers.

After they have eaten enough food and drunk enough whisky, the boys ask me to hop in the minivan once again.

'Where are we going now?' I ask.

'You'll see,' they say and laugh.

The driver takes us through narrow streets and teeming bazaars towards the outskirts of Agra. He finally enters a strange-looking settlement close to the National Highway called Basai Mohalla.

There is a billboard at its entry which says: 'Enter the Red Light Area at your own risk. Always remember to use a condom. Prevent AIDS, Save Lives.' I do not understand the reference to red light on the billboard. There are no red lights on any of the houses, as far as I can see. There are at least a dozen trucks parked along the road. Some barefoot children loiter in the streets – there is no sign of their mothers. The faint sound of music and dancers' ankle bells floats into the night air. In the distance, I can see the dome and minarets of the Taj Mahal shimmering under the golden moonlight. The halo of the moon and the sight of the marble monument imbue even this dusty and dirty enclave of single- and double-storey shacks with a bit of gold dust.

The college students alight from their vehicle and move towards a cluster of small buildings. I hesitate, but they pull me along. I now see that the area is bustling with people. Vile-looking men in kurta pyjamas loaf in front of the houses, chewing betel leaf. I see girls of various ages sitting on the steps wearing just petticoats and blouses, with heavy make-up and jewellery. Some of them give us come-hither looks and make obscene and suggestive gestures with their fingers. I now understand what a red-light area is. It is a place where prostitutes work. I had heard about the existence of Falkland Road in Mumbai and G B Road in Delhi, but had never actually visited a red-light area. And I didn't even know there was one in Agra. This was indeed turning out to be a night of new experiences for me.

The boys step inside a large, two-storey house, which looks less seedy than the others, making sure that I am with them. We enter a foyer, from which narrow corridors lead off to sets of small rooms.

A man meets us. He is young, with a scarred face and shifty eyes. 'Welcome, gentlemen, you have come to the right place. We have the youngest and best girls in Agra,' he says.

The boys go into a huddle with him, negotiating the price. A sheaf of notes exchanges hands.

'We are paying for you as well, Raju. Go, enjoy at our expense,' they say, before each one of them disappears into a room with a girl. I am left alone in the foyer. Presently an old woman chewing paan comes along and takes me with her. I follow her up a flight of stairs. She stops in front of a green wooden door and tells me to enter. Then, with tired steps, she troops back down the stairs.

I cannot decide whether to enter the room or go back to the minivan. One part of my brain tells me to leave immediately. But the other impels me to stay, driven by an almost manic curiosity.

In the Hindi films I have seen, the prostitute heroine is inevitably a good-hearted girl who has been forced into the profession against her will. At the end of the film the prostitute almost always commits suicide by consuming poison. I wonder whether I have been brought to this whorehouse with a purpose. Whether there is a heroine waiting for me behind this door. Whether I am her hero, who is supposed to rescue her. And whether I can change the ending and prevent her death.

I push open the door and enter the chamber.

It is a small room, with a bed in the centre. Somehow the surroundings do not register on me at all. My eyes are drawn only to the girl sitting on the bed in a shocking-pink sari. She is dark and beautiful, with lovely kohl-lined eyes, luscious painted lips and long black hair plaited with fragrant white flowers. She wears excessive make-up and her arms and neck are bedecked with jewellery.

'Hello,' she says. 'Come and sit here with me on the bed.' The words come out of her mouth like musical notes from a piano.

I approach her reluctantly. She senses my hesitation and smiles. 'Don't worry. I won't bite you.'

I sit down near her on the bed. I notice that the bed sheet is rather dirty, with strange splotches and stains on it.

'You are new,' she says. 'What is your name?'

'Ram Mohammad Thorn – no, no . . . Raju Sharma,' I reply, catching myself just in time.

'Looks like you forgot your name for a second.'

'No – not at all. What is your name?'

'Nita.'

'Nita what?'

'Meaning?'

'I meant what is your full name? Don't you have a surname?'

She chuckles. 'You have come to a brothel, Sahib, not a marriage bureau. Prostitutes don't have surnames. Like pet cats and dogs, we are called only by our first names. Nita, Rita, Asha, Champa, Meena, Leena, take your pick.' She says this in a matter-of-fact tone, without any rancour or regret.

'Oh, so you are a prostitute?'

She laughs again. 'You are a strange one. Arrey baba, when you come to Basai Mohalla you only meet prostitutes. You will definitely not meet your mother and sisters in this part of Agra!'

'How old are you?'

'Now that is a more relevant question. I am seventeen. Don't tell me that you wanted someone even younger. You yourself don't look a tad over sixteen to me.'

'I am also seventeen. Tell me, how long have you been doing this work for?'

'What difference does it make? All you need to know is whether I'm a virgin or not. Well, I'm not. You would have had to pay four times what you paid for me if you wanted a virgin. But try me, I am even better than a virgin. You won't be disappointed.'

'Aren't you worried that you might catch some disease? There is even a billboard at the entrance warning against AIDS.'

She laughs again, a hollow, empty laugh. 'Look, this is a profession for me, not a hobby. It gives me enough to feed me and my entire family. If I was not doing this, my family would have died from hunger long ago. We prostitutes know about AIDS. But it is better to die of disease tomorrow than hunger today, don't you agree? Now are you just going to ask questions or are you going to do something? Don't blame me later if your time runs out and Shyam sends in the next customer. I am much in demand.'

'Who is Shyam?'

'He is my pimp. You gave money to him. Now come, I am taking off my sari.'

'No. Wait. I want to ask you some more questions.'

'Arrey, have you come here to fuck or to talk? You are like that firang reporter who came here with his tape recorder and camera. Said he was not interested in me and was only doing some research. But the moment I opened my choli he forgot all about his research. The only sounds on his tape recorder will be his own moaning and groaning. Let me see now whether you're the same.'

She snaps opens her blouse in one motion. She isn't wearing a bra. Two pert breasts pop out like domes of a brown Taj Mahal. They are perfectly round and smooth and the nipples stand out like exquisite pinnacles. My mouth goes dry. My breathing becomes shallow. My heart starts hammering against my ribs. Her hand slithers down my chest and finds my hardness. She laughs.

'You men are all the same. One look at a woman's tits and all your morals go out of the window.

Come.' She pulls me into her and I experience a moment of pure, unadulterated rapture. An electric current darts through my body which thrills rather than shocks. I shiver with pleasure.

Afterwards, when we are lying side by side under the rickety ceiling fan and I have also contributed a stain to the dirty bed sheet, I inhale the fragrance of the flowers in her jet-black hair and kiss her clumsily.

'Why didn't you tell me it was your first time?' she says. 'I would have been more gentle. But go now, your time is over.' She gets up from the bed abruptly and begins gathering her clothes.

Her sudden brusqueness upsets me. Five minutes ago I was her lover, but now I am just a customer whose time has expired. I realize then that the moment has indeed passed. The magic has gone, and now that I am no longer blinded by my desire, I see the room in its true colours. I see an antiquated cassette player on a side table, connected to the mains by an ugly black cord. I see the mouldy walls with peeling paint. I see the torn and faded red curtain at the window. I see the stains on the sheet and the tears on the mattress. I feel a slight itching sensation, probably from the mites infesting the bed. I sniff the decaying, musty smell of the room. Everything now seems sordid and sleazy. Lying in the soiled bed, I feel polluted and unclean. I, too, get up and hastily gather my clothes.

'What about my tip?' she asks, pulling her blouse back on.

I take out a fifty-rupee note from my wallet and hand it to her. She tucks it gratefully inside her blouse.

'Did you enjoy that? Will you come again?' she asks.

I don't reply and leave hastily.

Later, sitting in the minivan going back to the city, I reflect on her questions. Did I enjoy that?

Yes. Will I come again? Yes. A strange new sensation tugs at my heart and makes me giddy. Is it love? I ask myself. I don't know the answer, but I know this – I entered the red-light district at my own risk. I met a hooker, had sex for the first time. And now I was hooked.

* * *

There is a rabies scare in the city. Many children have died after being bitten by infected dogs.

The health department is advising citizens to be extra vigilant and take preventive steps. I warn Shankar, 'Be careful when you go outside. Don't go near any dogs. Understood?'

Shankar nods his head.

* * *

It's the turn of Bihari the cobbler today. He is the only one who has not asked me for any money till now. 'Raju, my child Nanhey is very sick and has been admitted to Dr Aggarwal's private clinic. The doctor says I have to buy medicines urgently, which cost a lot of money. I have managed to scrape together four hundred so far. Can you please lend me something? I beg you.'

I give two hundred rupees to Bihari, knowing that I will never get them back. But he is still unable to buy all the medicines. Two days later, six-year-old Nanhey dies in the clinic.

That evening, Bihari comes back to the outhouse with the body of his son covered in a white shroud. He is obviously drunk and walks with unsteady steps. He places his son's dead body in the middle of the cobbled courtyard, near the municipal tap, and calls everyone out of their rooms. Then he launches into a monologue full of slurred invective. He abuses no one in particular and yet everyone. He abuses the rich, who live in their palatial homes and do not care for the poor who serve them. He abuses the fat-cat doctors who fleece their patients. He abuses the government which makes promises only on paper. He abuses all of us for being mute spectators. He abuses his children for being born. He abuses himself for still being alive. He abuses God for creating an unjust world. He abuses the world, the Taj Mahal, Emperor Shahjahan. Not even the electric bulb hanging outside his house, that once gave a shock to Nanhey, or the municipal tap escape his ire. 'You rotten piece of junk, when we need it, you don't give us two drops of water, but when it came to my son, you allowed him to frolic for two hours and gave him pneumonia. May you soon be uprooted, may you rust in hell,' he curses and kicks the tap. Then, after half an hour of non-stop ranting and raving, he collapses on the ground and begins to sob. He holds his dead son in his arms and wails till his tears run dry, till his voice fails.

In my own room, I lie on the bed and think about the iniquities of life. Images of little Nanhey frolicking in the outhouse flit through my mind. I want to cry, but tears refuse to flow from my eyes. I have seen too many dead bodies. So I pull the crisp white sheet up over my head and go off to sleep. And dream of a Taj Mahal in a special shade of brown. With two exquisitely shaped domes.

* * *

I visit Nita again after a week. This time I have to pay the full fee to Shyam, her pimp. Three hundred rupees. I lie in her soiled bed, make love to her and listen to her dirty talk.

'So do you like being a prostitute?' I ask her after our lovemaking.

'Why? What's wrong with it? It is a profession, like any other.'

'But do you like it?'

'Yes. I love sleeping with strangers. Like you, for instance. It gives me enough money to provide for my family. And I get to see a brand-new film at the theatre every Friday. What more could a girl possibly want?'

I look into her doe-like eyes and I know she is lying. She is an actress playing a role. Except she wouldn't win any awards, like Neelima Kumari.

The more Nita seems a mystery, the more desperate I become to know her. She arouses a hunger in me unlike anything I have ever experienced before. I may have entered her body, but now I want to enter her mind. So I begin visiting her on Mondays, when the Taj Mahal is closed. After four or five visits I finally succeed in breaking down her defences.

She tells me that she is a Bedia tribal girl from the Bhind district in Madhya Pradesh. Both her parents are still alive and she has a brother, and a sister who is happily married. In her community, it is the tradition for one girl from each family to serve as a communal prostitute, called the Bedni. This girl earns money for her family, while the males spend their time drinking alcohol and playing cards. 'That is why the birth of a girl is an occasion to celebrate in our community, not a cause for gloom. A boy is, in fact, a liability. You can find Bednis from my village in brothels, truck stops, hotels and roadside restaurants, all selling their bodies for money.'

'But why did your mother choose you? She could have chosen your sister.'

Nita gives a hollow laugh. 'Because my beauty became a bane. My mother had the right to decide which of her two daughters would marry and which one would become a prostitute. She chose me to become the Bedni. Perhaps if I had been plain looking, like my sister, I would not have been sent here. I might have gone to school, married and had children. Now I am in this brothel. This is the price I have to pay for beauty. So don't call me beautiful.'

'And how long have you been doing this?'

'Ever since puberty. Once the nathni utherna ceremony for the removal of the nose ring and the sar dhakwana ritual for covering the head are over, you are deemed to have become a woman.

So at the age of twelve, my virginity was auctioned to the highest bidder and I was put on sale inside this brothel.'

'But surely if you want to you can quit this profession and get married, can't you?'

She spreads her hands. 'Who will marry a prostitute? We are supposed to work till our bodies start to sag or till we die of disease, whichever is sooner.'

'I know you will find your prince one day,' I declare, with tears in my eyes. She doesn't accept any tip from me that day.

* * *

I reflect later on my conversation with Nita and wonder why I had lied to her. I didn't really want her to find any other prince. Without even realizing it, I had fallen in love with her.

Till now, my conception of love has been based entirely on what I have seen in Hindi films, where the hero and the heroine make eye contact and whoosh, some strange chemistry sets their hearts beating and their vocal chords tingling, and the next you see of them they are off singing songs in Swiss villages and American shopping malls. I thought I had experienced that blinding flash of love when I met the girl in the blue salwar kameez in that train compartment. But real love visited me only that winter in Agra. And I realized again that real life is very different from reel life. Love doesn't happen in an instant. It creeps up on you and then it turns your life upside-down. It colours your waking moments and fills your dreams. You begin to walk on air and see life in brilliant new shades. But it also brings with it a sweet agony, a delicious torture. My life was reduced to feverish meetings with Nita and pining for her in between. She visited me in the oddest places and at the oddest moments. I visualized her beautiful face even when lecturing a haggard, eighty-year-old day-tripper. I smelt the fragrance of her hair even when sitting on my toilet seat. I got goose bumps thinking of our lovemaking even when buying potatoes and tomatoes from the vegetable market. And I knew in my heart of hearts that she was my princess.

The burning ambition of my life was to marry her one day. The consuming worry of my life was whether she would agree.

* * *

A jeep with a flashing red light has come to the outhouse. An inspector and two constables alight from it. My heart lurches. A cold knot of fear forms in the pit of my stomach. My crimes have finally caught up with me. This is the pattern of my life. Just when I begin to feel on top of things, fate yanks the rug from under my feet. So it is to be expected that just when I have discovered true love, I should be taken away to a jail where, like Emperor Shahjahan, I will sit in solitary confinement and pine for Nita, my own Mumtaz Mahal.

The Inspector takes out a megaphone from the jeep to make an announcement. I expect him to say, 'Will Ram Mohammad Thomas, alias Raju Sharma, come out with his hands in the air?' But he says instead, 'Will all the residents of the outhouse come out? There has been a robbery in the Bank of Agra and we have reason to believe that the thief is here. I have to conduct a search of the premises.' When I hear this, I feel a heavy weight lift from my heart. I am so happy, I want to go out and hug the Inspector.

The constables enter each room in turn and conduct a thorough search. They come to my room and ask me for my name, my age, my occupation, whether I have seen any suspicious characters lurking about in the area. I don't tell them that I am an unauthorized guide. I say I am a student at the University and am new to the outhouse. This satisfies them.

They look under my bed. They peer into the kitchen, tap the pots and pans, overturn the mattress and then move on to the next room. The Inspector joins the constables.

They are now in Shankar's room. 'Yes, what is your name?' the Inspector asks Shankar gruffly.

'Hu Ixhz Qo Odxifxn,' Shankar replies, slightly confused.

'What? Can you repeat that?'

'Odxifxn.'

'Bloody bastard, you are making fun of me?' the Inspector says angrily, and raises his baton to hit Shankar. I quickly intervene. 'Inspector Sahib, Shankar has a mental problem. He cannot speak.'

'Then why didn't you say so before?' He turns to his constables. 'Let's go to the next room. We won't get anything out of a lunatic.'

They search all thirty rooms during the next three hours, and eventually unearth a cache of currency in the room belonging to Najmi, the bearded poet, who claimed to be a Bollywood songwriter. We are all astonished to discover that our young poet is a part-time bank robber as well. Just goes to show that appearances can be deceptive. Well, I can hardly complain. The outhouse wallahs would be just as scandalized if they found out about my own chequered past!

* * *

Lajwanti has come to my room to offer some crumbly fresh laddoos from the nearby Durga Temple. She is very excited.

'Arrey, Lajwanti, what are the sweets in aid of? Have you got a raise?' I ask her.

'This is the happiest day of my life. With Goddess Durga's blessings, the Sugarcane Officer has finally agreed to marry Lakshmi. My sister will now live like a queen. I am preparing for a wedding to beat all weddings.'

'But what about dowry? Hasn't the groom's family made any demands?'

'No, not at all. They are a very decent family. They do not want any cash. They have only requested some very small things.'

'Like what?'

'Like a Bajaj scooter, a Sumeet Mixer, five Raymond suits and some gold jewellery. I was, in any case, going to give all this to Lakshmi.'

I am scandalized. 'But Lajwanti, this will cost you a packet – at least a lakh rupees. Where will you get this money from?'

'I have been saving up for Lakshmi's wedding. I have accumulated nearly fifty thousand rupees.

And will borrow another fifty thousand from Rani Sahiba.'

'Are you sure she will give you such a large sum of money?'

'Of course. I am the best maid she has ever had.'

'Well, good luck then.'

* * *

I continue to meet Nita, but the atmosphere inside the brothel stifles me. And I hate dealing with that shifty-eyed pimp Shyam. So on Nita's suggestion we start meeting outside. She goes alone to see films every Friday. I join her. She loves popcorn. I buy her a big packet and we sit in the back row of the dark and dingy Akash Talkies. She eats popcorn and giggles when I slip my hand through her thin muslin dress to feel her soft breasts. At the end of the film, I come out of the hall hot and flushed, not knowing whether I've seen a family drama, a comedy or a thriller.

Because I have eyes only for Nita, and I hope that our own story will turn slowly but surely into an epic romance.

* * *

Shankar enters my room crying.

'What's the matter?' I ask.

He points to his knee. It is cut and bruised. I immediately become concerned. 'How did you get hurt, Shankar? Did you fall down?'

Shankar shakes his head. 'X Akc Wqp Hz,' he says.

For once, I wish he could speak sense. 'I am sorry, I don't understand. Why don't you come outside and show me how you got hurt?'

Shankar takes me out and points to where the cobbled courtyard joins the main road. There is a little parapet in the corner, from which the kids in the outhouse are always jumping up and down.

'Yxi Ukj Ozz Pdxp Akc? Dq Wqp Hz Dznz,' Shankar says and indicates his knee.

I trace the direction of his finger and nod in understanding. I reckon that he must have jumped down from the parapet and grazed himself. 'Come, Lajwanti has a medical kit in her room. I will get her to put a dressing on your wound.'

I fail to see the mangy little street dog with black spots huffing on the cobbled pavement just below the parapet, spit dribbling from its sharp white teeth.

* * *

A new year has dawned, bringing with it new hopes and new dreams. Nita and I have both turned eighteen – the legal age for marriage. For the first time, I begin to think about the future and to believe I might even have one. With Nita by my side. I stop lending money to people in the outhouse. I need every penny now.

Today is a Friday, and also a night of the full moon, a very rare combination indeed. I persuade Nita not to go to the movies, but instead to come with me to the Taj Mahal. We sit on the marble pedestal late in the evening and wait for the moon to appear beyond the jets of fountains and the rows of dark-green cypresses. First comes a glimmer of silver through the tall trees on our right, as the moon struggles to break free of the cluster of low buildings and foliage, and then, suddenly, it rises majestically in the sky. The curtain of the night is pushed aside and the Taj Mahal stands revealed in all its glory. Nita and I are awestruck. The Taj appears like a vision of paradise, a silvery apparition risen from the Yamuna river. We clasp hands, oblivious to the hordes of foreign tourists who have paid fifty dollars each for the privilege of seeing the Taj by the light of the full moon.

I gaze at the Taj and then I gaze at Nita. The sterile perfection of the Taj begins to pale in comparison with the flawless beauty of her face. And tears start falling from my eyes as all the love I have bottled up in my heart for eighteen long years comes out in a tumultuous rush. I sense an emotional release like the bursting of a dam, and experience for the first time what Emperor Shahjahan must have felt for Mumtaz Mahal.

This is the moment I have been waiting for all my life and I have practised for it well. Najmi, the bearded poet, left a book of Urdu poetry for me before going to jail, and I have memorized several romantic verses. In a burst of inspiration, Najmi had even composed an original ghazal in praise of Nita, for my use. It went something like this:

Your beauty is an elixir,

Which has given an orphan life,

Lovesick I will die, from the grave I will cry,

Should you decline to become my wife.

I also recall many immortal dialogues from famous celluloid love stories. But sitting with Nita under the moonlit Taj Mahal, I forsake the world of poetry and films. I look into her eyes and ask her simply, 'Do you love me?' And she replies with just one word, 'Yes.' That one word holds more meaning for me than all the books on poetry and all the guidebooks on Agra. And when I hear it, my heart takes a joyous leap. My mighty love breaks free of the earth, takes wing and soars into the sky, like a kite. And then, for the first time, the Taj Mahal feels like a living house instead of an impersonal tomb; the full moon over our heads becomes a personal satellite, shining a private light, and we feel blessed to be bathed in its celestial glow, in our own exclusive heaven.

* * *

Shankar comes running to my room. 'Ykhz Mjqyfgu. Gxesqipq qo ynuqic,' he announces and directs me to Lajwanti's room.

Lajwanti is crying on the bed. The drops falling from her eyes like little pearls and darkening the fabric of her creaseless bed cover seem out of place in the spartan neatness of her room. 'What's wrong, Lajwanti? Why are you weeping?' I ask her.

'Because of that bitch Swapna Devi. She has refused to give me a loan. Now how will I pay for my sister's wedding?' she says and wails again.

'Look, nobody in the outhouse has that kind of money. Can't you get a loan from a bank?'

'Huh, which bank will lend to a poor maid like me? No, now I have only one alternative.'

'What? To cancel your sister's wedding?'

Anger flashes in her eyes. 'No. I will never do that. Perhaps I will have to do what our poet Najmi did. Steal the money.'

I jump up from my chair. 'Are you out of your mind, Lajwanti? Don't even think about it.

Didn't you see how the police took Najmi away?'

'That is because Najmi was a fool. I have a foolproof plan, which I am going to share with you because you are like my younger brother. Don't mention this to anyone, not even to Shankar.

You see, I have seen the location of the safe where Swapna stashes all her precious things. In her bedroom there is a huge framed painting on the left wall. Behind the painting is a hole where a steel safe is embedded. She keeps the keys to the safe underneath her mattress, in the left-hand corner. I secretly observed her opening the safe once. It is full of money and jewellery. I am not going to steal money, because that will be detected immediately, but I am thinking of making off with a necklace. She has so many in that safe, she wouldn't even notice. What do you think?'

'Lajwanti, Lajwanti, listen to me. If you consider me to be your brother, then follow my advice.

Don't even think about this idea. Trust me, I have had many brushes with the law and I know your crime will eventually catch up with you. And then, instead of participating in your sister's wedding, you will be grinding a mill in some jail.'

'Oh, you men are all sissies,' she says in disgust. 'I don't care what you say. I will do what I have to do.'

In desperation, I turn to my trusted old coin. 'Look, Lajwanti, if you don't believe me, that's fine.

But believe in the power of this magic coin. It never sends you the wrong way. So let us see what it says. I am going to toss it. Heads, you don't carry out your plan, tails, you do what you want.

OK?'

'OK.'

I flip the coin. It is heads. Lajwanti sighs. 'It looks like even luck is against me. OK, I will go to my village and try to raise funds from the headman, who knows me. Forget that we spoke.'

Three days later, Lajwanti locks up her room, takes a week's leave and departs for her village.

* * *

'I want you to stop working as a prostitute,' I tell Nita.

Nita agrees. 'I don't want to die before I am twenty like Radha. Take me away from here, Raju.'

'I will. Should I have a chat with Shyam about this?'

'Yes, we must get his agreement.'

I speak to the pimp the same evening. 'Look, Shyam, I am in love with Nita and I want to marry her. She will no longer work in the brothel.'

Shyam looks me up and down as if I am an insect. 'I see, so you have been giving her all these stupid ideas. Listen, you bastard, nobody tells Nita to stop working. Only I can tell her that. And I don't want her to stop working. She is the goose which lays the golden eggs. And I want those eggs to keep coming for a long, long time.'

'That means you will never allow her to marry?'

'I can allow her to marry, but only on one condition. That the man who marries her agrees to compensate me for my loss of earnings.'

'And how much is your estimated loss of earnings?'

'Let's say . . . four lakh rupees. Can you get me that sum of money?' He laughs and dismisses me.

I check my savings that night. I have a total of 480 rupees. Leaving a shortfall of only Rs. 399,520.

I feel so angry I want to strangle the pimp. 'Shyam will never agree to you marrying me,' I tell Nita the next day. 'The only option for us is to run away.'

'No,' Nita says fearfully. 'The brothel people are bound to find us. Champa tried to run away last year with a man. They found her, broke the man's legs and starved her for ten days.'

'In that case I will just have to kill Shyam,' I say with a malevolent glint in my eyes.

'No,' Nita says vehemently. 'Promise me you will never do that.'

I am taken by surprise. 'But why?'

'Because Shyam is my brother.'

* * *

A jeep with a flashing red light has come to the outhouse. Constables pour out. This time there is a new Inspector. We are all called out again. 'Listen, all you good-for-nothings, something very serious has happened. Someone has stolen a very precious emerald necklace from Swapna Devi's house. I have a strong suspicion that the thief is one of you bastards. So I am giving you an opportunity to make a clean breast of it, otherwise when I catch the thief I am going to give him a hiding.'

I am immediately concerned about Lajwanti, but when I see the lock on her room and remember that she is in her village, I heave a sigh of relief. It is good she dropped that ridiculous idea of stealing a necklace. She thought Swapna Devi wouldn't notice the loss, and now the police are on to it in a flash.

One by one all of us are questioned. When Shankar's turn comes, the same scene is re-enacted.

'Name?' asks the Inspector.

'Odxifxn,' replies Shankar.

'What did you say?'

'Q Oxqa Hu Ixhz Qo Odxifxn.'

'Bastard, trying to act smart with me . . .' the Inspector says through gritted teeth. I explain again and the Inspector relents. He waves Shankar away. This time the policemen go away empty handed. Without any necklace and without any suspect.

The same evening a mangy little street dog with black spots dies near the Taj Mahal. No one takes any notice of this fact.

* * *

Lajwanti returns from her village the next day and is immediately arrested. A sweaty constable drags her from her room to the jeep with the flashing red light. She wails inconsolably.

Helplessly I watch the spectacle unfold. I am with Abdul, who works as a gardener in Swapna Palace.

'Abdul, why are the police taking Lajwanti away? Why doesn't Rani Sahiba do something? After all, Lajwanti is the best maid she has ever had.'

Abdul grins. 'Madam has herself called the police to arrest Lajwanti.'

'But why?'

'Because Lajwanti stole the necklace from her safe. The police searched her house in the village and found it today.'

'But how did Swapna Devi know it was Lajwanti who stole the necklace? She wasn't even here when the robbery took place.'

'Because she left behind a tell-tale sign. You see, she did not go to her village straight away. She stayed in Agra and waited for an opportunity to break into the house unnoticed. When she finally entered the bedroom to steal the necklace, Madam was at a party. But just before leaving for the party, Madam had combed her hair on the bed and there were a few of her pins and clips lying on the satin bedspread. When Madam returned late at night, she discovered all her pins and clips neatly arranged on her dressing table. This immediately alerted her. She checked her safe and found a necklace was missing. So she knew instantly that it could have been none other than Lajwanti.'

I thump my forehead. Lajwanti couldn't resist being the perfect maid, even when on a mission to steal!

I try to intercede with Swapna Devi on Lajwanti's behalf, but she rebuffs me with icy disdain. 'I run a household, not a charity. Why did she have to arrange such a lavish wedding for her sister?

You people who are poor should never try to overreach yourselves. Stay within your limits and you will not get into trouble.'

I feel genuine hatred towards her that day. But perhaps she is right. Lajwanti made the cardinal mistake of trying to cross the dividing line which separates the existence of the rich from that of the poor. She made the fatal error of dreaming beyond her means. The bigger the dream, the bigger the disappointment. That is why I have small, manageable dreams. Like marrying a prostitute after paying off her crooked pimp brother the minor sum of four hundred thousand rupees. Only.

* * *

I have barely recovered from Lajwanti's arrest when another tragedy strikes me.

Shankar comes coughing to my room and flops down on the bed. He looks tired and complains of pain in his arms and knees. 'Q Xh Oqyf,' he says, flapping his hands.

I check his forehead and find he has a slight fever. 'You have caught a chill, Shankar,' I tell him.

'Go to your room and rest. I will come round soon to give you some medicine.' He gets up from the bed and tiptoes to his room. He seems restless and irritable.

Later that night, I give Shankar some painkillers, but his condition continues to deteriorate. By the second day, he is becoming violent. He is unable to move his arm and shrieks when the light is switched on. With great difficulty I manage to take his temperature and am shocked to discover that it has shot up to 103 degrees. I immediately go out to call a doctor. The physician working in the government dispensary flatly refuses to come with me, so I am forced to go to a private doctor. He charges me eighty rupees to come to the outhouse. He examines Shankar and asks me whether I have noticed any recent cuts or bruises on him. I tell him about the grazed knee. The doctor nods his head and pronounces his diagnosis. Shankar has got rabies – probably from a mad dog. He should have had a series of injections of human diploid cell vaccine and human rabies immune globulin as soon as he was infected, but now it is too late. His condition is very serious. He will soon develop an aversion to water. He might show signs of agitation and confusion and even have hallucinations. He could have muscle spasms and seizures. And he may stop speaking completely as the vocal cords become paralysed. Finally, he will slip into a coma and stop breathing. In simple language, he will die. And all within forty-eight hours.

The doctor explains this catalogue of horrors in his normal bedside manner. I am utterly devastated. Even thinking about Shankar's death brings tears to my eyes. 'Doctor, is there absolutely nothing that can be done to save Shankar?' I implore him.

'Well,' the doctor hesitates. 'There was nothing till a month ago, but I am told a brand-new experimental vaccine from America has just been imported to India. It is called RabCure and is only available at the Gupta Pharmacy.'

'The one in Rakab Ganj?'

'Yes. But I don't think you can afford it.'

'How much does it cost?' I ask with a sinking heart.

'Approximately four lakh rupees.'

I reflect on the irony of the situation. Shankar's treatment requires four lakh rupees and Nita's pimp has also demanded exactly this amount. And I have the princely sum of four hundred rupees in my pocket.

I do not know where I will get money from for Shankar's treatment, but I know that he cannot be left alone, so I decide to take him to my room. I pick him up in my arms. Even though he is almost my age, his body seems weightless. His hands and legs droop limply by his side, and it feels as if I am not carrying a living person but a sack of potatoes. I deposit Shankar on my bed and lie down on the ground, in an exact reversal of what he did for me almost two years ago, although it now seems like twenty.

Shankar tosses and turns and sleeps fitfully. I too have a difficult night, my sleep interspersed with nightmares about mad dogs and babies who speak only in nonsense syllables. And then, suddenly, in the middle of the night, I seem to hear the words 'Mummy, Mummy' shouted loudly.

I wake up, and find Shankar sleeping peacefully. I rub my eyes and wonder whether Shankar's dream had unexpectedly intersected with mine.

The whole of the next day, Shankar stays in bed, getting weaker and weaker. I know that he is under sentence of death, but I pretend he has got nothing more than a mild case of flu. It breaks my heart to see his gentle face and to imagine that I will never see it again. Even his nonsense syllables today seem like profound statements which should be memorized.

Night comes and Shankar begins having spasms in his arms. He has difficulty taking in fluid and eats just one chapatti with lentils, his favourite dish. His forehead burns. I take his temperature and find it has shot up to 105 degrees. 'Q Akip Sxip Pk Aqe, Nxej,' he says and begins crying. I try to comfort him as best I can, but it is difficult to give strength to another when you yourself feel completely hollow inside.

I sleep fitfully again, tormented by the demons of my past. Late that night, when it is almost two o'clock, I hear a sound coming from Shankar's bed, like someone moaning. I get up slowly, still quite disoriented. I look at Shankar's face.

His eyes are closed, but his lips are moving. I strain to hear what he is mumbling and almost jump out of my skin. Because I swear Shankar says, 'Please don't beat me, Mummy.'

'Shankar! Shankar!' I scramble to his bed. 'You just said something, didn't you?'

But Shankar is completely oblivious to me, lost in his own private world. His eyes are lolling upwards and he is clearly delirious. His chest convulses as if in a spasm and phlegm drips from his mouth. 'Why did you throw me out, Mummy?' he mumbles. 'I am sorry, I should have knocked. How could I know Uncle was inside with you? I love you, Mummy. I draw pictures of you. My blue diary is full of pictures. Your pictures. I love you, Mummy. I love you very much.

Don't hit me, Mummy. I promise I won't tell anyone, Mummy, Mummy, Mummy .'

Shankar speaks in the voice of a six-year-old. He has regressed to a long-lost time. To a time when he had a mother. To a time when his life, and his words, had a meaning. I do not know how he can suddenly speak so sensibly and lucidly when the doctor said he would stop speaking completely. But I have no desire to find out the reason. One doesn't question a miracle.

That is all I hear from Shankar that night, and when he wakes up the next morning, he becomes the same sixteen-year-old who speaks in nonsense syllables. But I remember his reference to a blue diary. I search his room and find it hidden underneath his bed.

It contains loose sheets of drawing paper, all with beautiful pencil drawings of a woman. The drawings are very accurate, down to the last detail. But I stand transfixed not by the excellence of the drawings, but by the identity of their subject. Because the woman in the pictures is Swapna Devi.

* * *

'I know what you have been hiding from me all this while, Shankar. I know that Swapna Devi is your mother,' I tell Shankar, holding aloft the blue diary.

His eyes dilate with fear and he tries to grab the diary from my hands. 'Cqrz Hz Wxyf Hu

Aqynu,' he shrieks.

'I know it is true, Shankar. I think you discovered her dirty secret and that is why she threw you out of the house. And that is when you lost the ability to speak like a normal boy. I think your mother has lived with this guilt all her life. Perhaps for this reason she pays your rent and gives you money. But I am going to your mummy right now, to ask her to pay for your treatment.'

'Ik, Ik, Ik, Lgzxoz Akip Ck Pk Hu Hjhhu,' he cries. But I have already set off for Swapna Palace for a heart-to-heart chat with Rani Sahiba.

Rani Sahiba refuses to meet me at first, claiming that she meets people only by appointment. I camp on her doorstep for two hours, until finally she relents.

'Yes, why have you come to bother me?' she asks insolently.

'I know your secret, Swapna Devi,' I tell her to her face. 'I have discovered that Shankar is your son.'

Her regal mask slips for an instant and her face turns pale, but she regains her composure equally swiftly and her haughty manner returns to freeze me with contempt. 'You worthless boy, how dare you make such a scurrilous allegation? I have no relationship with Shankar. Just because I showed a little bit of sympathy for that boy, you made him my son? Get out of here right now, or I will have you thrown out.'

'I will go,' I tell her. 'But only after collecting four lakh rupees from you. I need the money for Shankar's treatment. He has contracted rabies.'

'Are you out of your mind? You think I will give you four lakhs?' she shrills.

'But if I don't get the money, Shankar will die of hydrophobia within twenty-four hours.'

'I don't care what you do, but don't bother me.' And then she says the most spiteful thing I have ever heard a mother say. 'Perhaps it is for the best that he dies. The poor boy will be put out of his misery. And don't you dare repeat that lie to anyone about him being my son.' She closes the door.

I stand on her doorstep with tears in my eyes. I was at least lucky enough to have been discarded by my mother at birth, but poor Shankar was cast off by his mother midway through life, and now she was refusing to lift a finger even to prevent his imminent death.

I return to Shankar's room with a heavy heart. Swapna Devi's words resonate in my ears with the force of a hammer blow. She wants Shankar to die like a rabid dog. At no other time has my poverty riled me as much as it does now. I wish I could explain to the dog that bit Shankar that before biting he should have checked whether the person he was attacking could afford the antidote.

The next day, I do something which I have not done for a decade. I pray. I go to the Durga temple and offer flowers for Shankar's recovery. I go to the Church of St John and light a candle for Shankar. I go to the Kali Masjid and bow my head before Allah, asking him to have mercy upon Shankar. But even the power of prayer proves to be insufficient. All day Shankar remains in agony, with pain in virtually all parts of his body. His breathing becomes more irregular.

Night falls. It is moonless, but it does not appear so in the outhouse because of the reflected glow of the thousand lights which have lit up Swapna Palace like a giant candle. There is a party in the palace. The Police Commissioner has come, as well as the District Magistrate, and a whole host of businessmen, socialites, journalists and writers. The sound of soft music and laughter drifts down to the outhouse. We hear the clink of wine glasses, the buzz of conversation, the jingle of money. In my room there is an eerie silence, broken only by Shankar's laboured breathing. Every half-hour or so his body is racked by convulsions. But he is most bothered by the constriction in his throat, where a viscous, stringy spittle has formed, causing him great discomfort. Now he goes into a spasm even at the sight of a glass of water. The slightest gust of air produces the same result.

Of the many ailments a person can die from, perhaps the cruellest is hydrophobia, where water, which is supposed to give life, becomes the cause of death. Even a cancer patient is able to entertain some hope, but a rabies patient has none.

Watching Shankar's slow death, I can only imagine how utterly heartless Swapna Devi must be, to allow her son to die in this horrible fashion while she was having a party in her house. It is lucky that I threw that Colt revolver into the river, otherwise I would definitely be committing another murder tonight.

As the night progresses, Shankar's spasms become more frequent, he shrieks in agony and begins foaming at the mouth. I know that the end is near.

Shankar finally dies at twelve forty-seven am. Just before dying, he has another lucid moment.

He holds my hand and utters a single word, 'Raju.' Then he clutches his blue notebook and cries, 'Mummy, Mummy,' and then he closes his eyes for ever.

* * *

Agra has become the city of death. I have a dead body in my room and a blue notebook in my hands. I flip through the pages aimlessly, staring at pencil sketches of a woman who was a heartless mother. No, I will not call her 'mother', because to say that would be an insult to all mothers.

I do not know how to react to Shankar's death. I could scream and shout like Bihari. I could abuse all the gods in heaven and all the powers on earth. I could batter down a door, throw some furniture, kick a lamppost. And then I would break down and cry. But today, the tears refuse to come. A slow, molten rage builds up in my guts. I tear the pages from the notebook and shred them into tiny little pieces. Then, all of a sudden, I pick up Shankar in my arms and proceed towards the lighted palace.

The uniformed guards bar my way, but as soon as they see the dead body in my hands they hastily open the gate. I pass along the curved driveway, where the expensive imported cars of the guests are lined up one after the other. I reach the ornate entrance and find it open in welcome. I pass through the marbled foyer into the dining room, where the guests are about to be served dessert. All conversation ceases the moment they see me.

I climb on to the table, and place Shankar's body gently in the middle, in between a creamy vanilla cake and a bowl of rasagullas. The waiters stand as still as statues. The smartly attired businessmen cough and shift uncomfortably in their seats. The ladies take hold of their necklaces. The District Magistrate and the Police Commissioner watch me with worried eyes.

Swapna Devi, sitting at the head of the table, clad in a heavy silk sari and loaded with jewellery, looks as if she is going to choke. She tries to open her mouth, but finds her vocal chords paralysed. I look directly at her with as much contempt as I can muster and speak.

'Mrs Swapna Devi, if this is your palace, and you are its queen, then acknowledge the prince. I have come to deliver the dead body of your son Kunwar Shankar Singh Gautam to you. He died half an hour ago, in the outhouse where you have kept him hidden all these years. You did not pay for his treatment. You did not fulfil the duty of a mother. Now honour your obligation as a landlady. Please pay for the funeral of your penniless tenant.'

I say my piece, nod at the guests who watch in frozen silence, and walk out of the stuffy palace into the cool night. I am told that no one had dessert.

* * *

Shankar's death affects me deeply. I sleep, cry and sleep again. I stop going to the Taj Mahal. I stop meeting Nita. I stop seeing films. I press the 'Pause' button on my life. For a fortnight or so after Shankar's death, I roam around Agra like a crazed animal. Shakil, the university student, finds me standing outside Shankar's room one evening, staring at the lock on the door like a drunkard looks at a bottle of whisky. Bihari, the cobbler, discovers me sitting next to the municipal tap, with water dripping from my eyes instead of from the tap. Abdul, the gardener at Swapna Palace, catches me tiptoeing around the outhouse like Shankar used to. In the peak of winter, the city becomes a hot and lonely desert for me. I try to lose myself in its anarchic existence. I try to become a nonsense syllable in its ceaseless chatter, and I almost succeed in sending myself into a stupor.

By the time I wake up, it is too late. There is a phone call at the local public call office and Shakil comes running to tell me. 'Raju, Raju, someone called Nita phoned. She wants you in the Emergency Ward of Singhania Hospital right now.'

My heart leaps to my mouth when I hear this and I run the entire three miles to Singhania Hospital. I narrowly avoid crashing into a doctor, almost overturn a trolley and charge into the Emergency Ward like an Inspector bursting in on an armed robbery.

'Where is Nita?' I demand of a bewildered nurse.

'I am here, Raju.' Nita's voice sounds weak. She is behind a curtained partition, lying on a trolley.

One look at her and I almost faint from shock. She has livid bruises all over her face and her lips are peculiarly twisted, as if her jaw has been dislocated. There is blood on two of her teeth, and her left eye is blackened.

'Who . . . who has done this to you?' I ask, barely recognizing my own voice.

She has difficulty speaking. 'It was a man from Mumbai. Shyam sent me to his room at the

Palace Hotel. He tied me up and did all this to me. What you see on my face is nothing. See what he did to my body.'

Nita turns on her side and I see deep red welt marks on her slim back, as if someone has used a horsewhip. Then she pushes up her blouse and I almost die. There are cigarette burn marks all over her chest, looking like ugly pockmarks on the smooth brown flesh of her breasts. I have seen this before.

My blood begins to boil. 'I know who has done this to you. Did he say his name? I will kill him.'

'I don't know his name, but he was tall and—'

Shyam enters the room at this point, clutching a packet of medicine. He takes one look at me, and goes berserk. 'You bastard,' he yells and catches me by the collar. 'How dare you come here?

It is only because of you this has happened to Nita.'

'Are you out of your mind, Shyam?' I cry.

'No, it is you who is mad. You think Nita is your personal property, and you have been telling her to quit the profession and not oblige customers any longer. Do you know how much this party from Mumbai paid for her? Five thousand rupees. But my sister believed you; she must have resisted him and look what happened. Now let me tell you something. If you want to see Nita again, then come to me with four lakh rupees. If you cannot produce this sum, then forget about Nita. If I see you even lurking about the hospital, I will have you killed, understand? Now get out.'

I could have killed Shyam that very instant, throttled him and choked the breath out of his lungs, or gouged out his eyes with my fingernails. But I remembered the promise I had made to Nita and somehow kept my simmering anger in check. I could not bear to see Nita's face any longer, and left the Emergency Ward. I knew only one thing. Somehow I had to get hold of four lakh rupees. But from where?

* * *

I make my plans and wait for an occasion when Swapna Devi is not at home. Two nights later, I see Rani Sahiba being driven away in her Contessa car to yet another party in town, and I break into the grounds of Swapna Palace through a hole in the boundary wall. Lajwanti had explained to me the detailed topography of the house and I have no difficulty in locating the window which opens into Swapna Devi's bedroom. I jimmy open the window and step inside her lavish bedroom. I have no time to admire her massive carved walnut bed or the teak dressing table. I look only for a large framed painting and discover it on the left wall. It is a brightly coloured picture of horses and is signed by someone called Husain. I hastily remove the painting from its hook and discover a square hole in the wall where a steel safe is embedded. I look underneath the left-hand corner of the mattress and find that there is no key there. I am momentarily put off balance, but relieved to discover the key in the right-hand corner. The key fits perfectly into the lock and the heavy door swings opens slowly. I look inside the safe and get another shock. It is practically empty. There are no emerald necklaces and gold bangles. There are just four thin stacks of currency, some legal documents and a black and white photo of a toddler. I don't have to look very closely to know that it is Shankar's picture. I feel no qualms about stealing from the safe. I stuff the four bundles into my pockets, close the safe, return the painting and the key to their original locations and exit the way I came.

I rush to my room in the outhouse, lock the door behind me and sit down to count the loot. The four bundles total 399,844 rupees. I rummage through all my pockets and find 156 rupees.

Together they make exactly four lakh rupees. Looks like even Goddess Durga has given me her blessings.

I put the money in a brown paper bag, hold it tightly in my right hand and rush to the hospital.

As I am entering the Emergency Ward, a bespectacled, middle-aged man with an unshaven face and unkempt hair barges into me. I fall down on the tiled floor and the brown packet slips from my grasp. The currency notes tumble out of the bag. The man sees the notes and a maniacal glint enters his eyes. He starts picking up the notes like an excited little child. For a second I freeze, wondering whether I am seeing a repeat of the train robbery. But after collecting all the notes, the man returns them to me and folds his hands. 'This money is yours, but I beg you, brother, please lend it to me. Save the life of my son. He is only sixteen. I cannot bear to see him die,' he implores like a beggar.

I hastily stuff the notes back into the brown paper bag and try to get rid of him.

'What is the matter with your son?'

'He was bitten by a mad dog. Now he has got hydrophobia. The doctor says he will die tonight unless I can buy a vaccine called RabCure which is only available at the Gupta Pharmacy. But it costs four lakh rupees and there is no way a schoolteacher like me can raise such a huge sum of money. I know you have that money, brother. I beg you, save my only son's life and I will become your slave for life,' he says and starts crying like a baby.

'This money is required for the treatment of someone very dear to me. I am sorry I cannot help you,' I say and enter through the glass door.

The man runs after me and catches hold of my feet. 'Please wait a minute, brother. Just see this picture. This is my son. Tell me how can I live if he dies tonight?' He holds out a colour photo of a young, good-looking boy. He has expressive black eyes and a warm smile on his lips. He reminds me of Shankar, and I hastily look away. 'I told you, I am sorry. Please don't trouble me,'

I say and extricate my legs from his arms.

I don't look back to see whether he is still following me, but hurry over to Nita's bed. Shyam and another man from the brothel are sitting on chairs like guards in front of Nita. They are eating samosas from a soggy newspaper. Nita appears to be sleeping. Her face is heavily bandaged.

'Yes?' says Shyam, chomping on a samosa. 'Why have you come, bastard?' 'I have got the money you asked for. Exactly four lakh rupees. Look.' I show him the bundles of notes. Shyam whistles.

'Where did you steal all this money from?'

'That is none of your business. I have come to take Nita away with me.'

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

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

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

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

Go and save your son's life.'

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

I laugh. 'If I were God, we wouldn't need hospitals. No, I was just a small tourist guide with big dreams,' I say and try to move forward, but he bars my way again. He takes out a worn leather wallet from his pocket and extracts a card. 'The money you have given me is a debt I owe you.

This is my card. I will repay it as soon as I can, but from this moment I am your servant.'

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

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

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

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

'Ztyjoz Hz?' I reply, my lips twisting in a deformed way. 'What did you just say? I didn't get it,'

says the Inspector, a little baffled.

'Q Oxqa Ukj Xnz Xi Qaqkp.'

'What is this nonsense?' the Inspector says angrily. 'Are you trying to make fun of me, bastard?

I'll teach you a lesson.' He raises his baton to strike me, but Abdul intervenes. 'Please don't hit him, Inspector Sahib. Raju has become mentally unbalanced since his friend Shankar's death.

Shankar also used to speak like this.'

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

'Pdxif Ukj,' I say. 'Pdxif Ukj Rznu Hjyd.'

* * *

I am sitting on Smita's bed with tears falling from my eyes. Smita takes my hand in hers and gently squeezes it. I notice that her eyes too are misting with tears. 'Poor Shankar,' she says.

'From what you've told me, he seems to have been an autistic child. What a horrible death he endured. You have really gone through hell, Thomas. You didn't deserve all that pain.'

'But my hell is still preferable to Nita's. Just imagine what she has had to undergo since the age of twelve.' Smita nods her head. 'Yes, I can imagine. Is she still in Agra?'

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

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

* * *

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

Prem Kumar addresses the camera. 'We now move on to question number eleven for ten crores.

Believe me, I am getting goosebumps just thinking about it. So, Mr Thomas, are you nervous?'

'No.'

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

The studio sign changes to 'Applause'.

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

'Well, I can recite "Baa, Baa, Black Sheep", if that is what you mean by English poetry.'

The audience laugh loudly.

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

'Sheikh who?'

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

The music commences. I stare blankly at Prem Kumar. 'Tell me, Mr Thomas, do you have any clue at all as to what we are talking about here?'

'No.'

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

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

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

I am confused again. Who can I turn to for an answer to this question? Salim will be as clueless as me. The owner of Jimmy's Bar would have as much awareness of Shakespeare as a drunk has of direction. And literature is as far from the minds of the residents of Dharavi as honesty is from the police. Only Father Timothy could have helped me out on this question, and he is dead.

Should I ask for Half and Half? I insert my fingers into my shirt pocket to take out my trusted old coin and am surprised to brush against the edge of a card. I pull it out. It is a visiting card which says, 'Utpal Chatterjee, English Teacher, St John's School, Agra' and then it gives a phone number. I don't understand at first. I have no recollection of anyone by this name or even how this card got into my shirt pocket. And then, all of a sudden, I remember the scene at the hospital: the bespectacled, unkempt man with a sixteen-year-old son who was dying of hydrophobia. An involuntary cry escapes my lips.

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

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

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

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

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

Just when I am about to hang up, someone picks up the phone. I have just over a minute left now. 'Hello?' 'Hello. Can I speak to Mr Utpal Chatterjee?' I say hurriedly. 'Speaking.'

'Mr Chatterjee, I am Ram Mohammad Thomas.'

'Ram Mohammad . . . what?'

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

'Oh, my God.' Suddenly the tone changes completely. 'I have been desperately seeking you for the last four months. Thank God you have called. You saved my son's life, you have no idea how much I have tried to—' I cut him short. 'Mr Chatterjee, I do not have much time. I am a participant in a quiz show and I need you quickly to answer a question for me.'

'A question? Yes, of course, I am ready to do whatever you want.' Less than thirty seconds are left now. All eyes are on the wall clock, busily ticking away the seconds.

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

The seconds tick away and there is silence from Chatterjee.

'Mr Chatterjee, can you tell me the answer?'

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

I am dumbfounded. 'What?'

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

'But I can only give one answer.'

'Then go for Love's Labour's Lost. But as I said, I am not very sure. Sorry, I cannot be more helpf—' Prem Kumar cuts him off. 'Sorry, Mr Thomas. Your two minutes are up. I need your reply now.'

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

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

'I have met him just once.'

'And how good an English teacher is he?'

'I have no idea.'

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

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

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

'My final answer is still C

'Are you absolutely, one hundred per cent sure?'

'Yes.'

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

'Yes.'

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

'Oh, my God, it is C. You are absolutely, one hundred per cent correct!' Prem Kumar stands up.

'Ram Mohammad Thomas, you are the first person on this show to have won a hundred million rupees. Ladies and gentlemen, history has been made! And now we simply have to take a break!'

The audience goes wild. Everyone stands up and claps for more than a minute. Prem Kumar's face is flushed. He is perspiring profusely.

'So how do you feel?' he asks me. '

Q Bzzg Cnzxp!' I say.

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

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

THE THIRTEENTH QUESTION

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

Prem Kumar ends his consultation and walks up to me. He has a sinister grin on his face.

'Thomas, we don't know how you have managed to answer eleven questions so far, but there is no way you will be able to answer the final question.'

'We'll see.'

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

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

Prem Kumar looks at the camera. 'Ladies and gentlemen, we are standing at the brink of a historic moment, not just for this show but perhaps for posterity. Ram Mohammad Thomas, an eighteen-yearold waiter from Mumbai, has gone further than any other contestant on this show.

He is now about to create another milestone. If he answers this last question correctly, he will win the biggest jackpot in history – one billion rupees. If he fails to give me the correct answer, he will lose the single largest sum of money ever to be lost by an individual in sixty seconds – one hundred million rupees. Either way, history will be made. So please clear your minds, fill your hearts and join me in saluting once again our contestant tonight, Mr Ram Mohammad Thomas!'

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

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

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

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

The studio sign changes to 'Applause'. The signature tune plays again.

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

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

'What? You must be joking, surely?'

'I am not joking. The answer is Asaf Jah.'

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

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

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

Eventually, Prem Kumar comes back to his seat. His expression is neutral, but I am sure he is squirming inside.

The studio sign changes to 'Applause' and the signature music commences.

'Ladies and gentlemen, before we went into the break I asked the question, what was the name of the father of Mumtaz Mahal? I am sure all of you thought that that was the final question, but it was not.'

The audience is astounded. I am stunned. Are they introducing another question? The air becomes thick with tension.

Prem Kumar continues. 'Not only was that not the last question, it was not a question at all. We were simply recording a commercial for Mumtaz Tea, which is one of the sponsors on this show.

For this reason, we had to introduce a dummy question.'

The audience members start whispering among themselves. There is suppressed laughter.

Someone shouts, 'You really fooled us, Mr Kumar!' The tension dissipates. The studio sign changes to 'Applause' again.

I am the only one not smiling. I know now that this is really a show run by crooks.

The studio sign changes to 'Silence' and the signature music commences. Prem Kumar speaks into the camera. 'Ladies and gentlemen, I am now about to reveal question number twelve, the final question, for one billion rupees, the biggest prize ever offered in the history of the planet.

And remember, we are still in Play or Pay mode, so it is win all or lose all. OK, without any further ado, here is the last question for you, Mr Thomas, and this is from the world of . . . Western classical music! Beethoven's Piano Sonata No. 29, Opus 106, also known as the 'Hammerklavier Sonata', is in which key? Is it in a) B flat major, b) G minor, c) E flat major, or d) C minor?

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

The studio sign changes to 'Applause'. Prem Kumar looks at me with a sly grin. The audience start chattering amongst themselves.

Prem Kumar stands up. 'I am just going round the corner. I will be right back.'

I stand up as well. 'I need to go to the toilet.'

'Then you'd better come with me,' he says. 'The rules stipulate the contestant must be accompanied everywhere.'

* * *

I am in the fluorescent-lit washroom of the studio. It is extremely clean. The tiles are gleaming white. There are huge mirrors. And no graffiti on the walls.

Prem Kumar and I are the only people in the washroom. He whistles as he urinates. Then he notices me looking at him. 'How come you are simply standing? Don't tell me that the last question is so tough that you have even forgotten how to empty your bladder.' He throws his head back and laughs. 'Too bad it had to end this way. But without my help you would have been out a long time ago, on the second question itself. Which means you would have gone home with just one thousand rupees. So how about we make a deal? Tomorrow, when I come to your restaurant, I promise to give you a thousand-rupee tip. And, believe me, this is a promise I will keep.' He smiles patronizingly at me.

'You didn't do me any favour by telling me the answer to question number two, you did yourself a favour,' I say.

Prem Kumar looks at me sharply. 'What do you mean?'

'What I mean, Mr Prem Kumar, is that I did not come on your show to win money. No, far from it.' I shake my head exaggeratedly. 'No, I came on your quiz show to take revenge.'

Prem Kumar's peeing is cut short midstream. He zips up his trousers hastily and looks at me sidelong. 'Revenge? What do you mean? Revenge on whom?'

'On you,' I say defiantly. I step backwards and pull a gun from the waistband of my trousers. It is a small, snub-nosed revolver, very compact, no bigger than my fist. I grip it tightly in my hand and point it at him.

The blood drains from Prem Kumar's face. 'You . . . you have made a mistake, Mr Thomas. We have never met before,' he says, his voice barely a whisper.

'No, you have made a mistake. We did meet once, outside Neelima Kumari's flat. It was early in the morning. You swaggered out in blue jeans and a white shirt, with bloodshot eyes and unwashed hair. You were carrying a sheaf of currency notes which you had forced Neelima to part with, and you were twirling a car key in your fingers. You ruined her. But that was not enough for you. You did the same to my beloved Nita.'

'Nita?' Prem Kumar raises his eyebrows. 'That name means nothing to me.'

'She is the girl who almost died in Agra thanks to you, and now,' I grip the gun tighter, 'it is your turn.'

Prem Kumar looks anxiously at my hand. He stalls for time. 'Did you say Agra? But I haven't been to Agra for months.'

'Let me refresh your memory. Four months ago you stayed at the Palace Hotel. You called a girl to your room. You tied her up. And then you brutally beat her and burned her with a lighted cigarette, just as you did to Neelima.'

I see his lip begins to quiver. Then it begins to curl.

'She was a prostitute, for God's sake. I paid her pimp five thousand rupees. I didn't even know her name.'

'Her name is Nita.' I raise my gun.

Prem holds his palms towards me. 'No . . . No . . .' he cries and steps back. His right foot plunges into the open drain behind him. 'Don't shoot – drop that thing now, please.' He pauses to step out of the drain.

I point the gun directly at his heart. I can see he is trembling. 'I swore I would avenge the person responsible for hurting Nita. But I didn't know how to find you. And then I saw an advertisement in a newspaper in Agra. It showed your face, grinning like a monkey, inviting people to participate in a quiz show in Mumbai. That is why I am here. I would have shot you at the first question I couldn't answer, but miraculously I have been able to answer every single one. So when you helped me on question number two you didn't do me a favour at all, you merely prolonged your life a little bit longer. But now there is no escape.'

'Listen to me,' pleads Prem Kumar. He is cracking now. 'I did treat Neelima badly and I did get rough with that prostitute in Agra. But what will you gain by shooting me? You will not get your money. Drop that gun now, and I promise you I will allow you to win the top prize. Just think, you will have wealth beyond the wildest dreams of a waiter like you.'

I laugh bitterly. 'What would I do with all that wealth? Eventually a man needs just six feet of cloth for his shroud.'

He is turning paler and holding out his hand defensively. 'Please, don't pull the trigger. Look, the moment you kill me you will be arrested. And then you will be hanged. You will die, too.'

'So what? The only thing I live for is revenge.'

'Please reconsider the situation, Thomas. I swear to you, spare my life and I will tell you the answer to the last question. You will be our biggest winner.'

'I am not returning to the quiz show, and neither are you,' I say and remove the safety catch.

Prem Kumar's bravado is shattering. I see him for the coward that he is. He grips the wall behind him and closes his eyes tightly. The moment I have been waiting for for the last four months has finally arrived. I have Prem Kumar before me and a loaded gun in my hand. The gun is really good. I have fired a test bullet and found the recoil minimal. In any case, at point-blank range I can hardly miss.

I increase the pressure on the trigger, but the more I try to squeeze it the more resistance I encounter. It is almost as if my finger is turning to stone.

In films they show you that killing a man is as easy as popping a balloon. Bam, bam, bam . . . people in films fire guns as though bullets are going out of circulation. They kill people like we squish ants. Even a novice hero, who has never even seen a gun in his life, is able to shoot and kill ten baddies in the villain's den from five hundred feet away. But real life is very different. It is easy to pick up a loaded gun and point it in someone's face. But when you know that a real bullet will strike a real heart and that the scarlet liquid will be blood and not tomato ketchup, you are forced to think twice. It is not easy to kill a man. You need to first switch off from your brain.

Drinking can do that. And so can anger.

So I try to summon up as much anger as I can. I call to mind all that has brought me to this pass in life. Images of Neelima Kumari and Nita float through my mind. I see the black cigarette-burn marks on Neelima's body, the red welts on Nita's back, the bruises all over her face, her blackened eye, her dislocated jaw. But instead of a rising anger, I feel a spreading sadness, and instead of a bullet coming out of my gun, I find tears coming out of my eyes.

I try to drum up support from other quarters. I think of all the indignities I have suffered, all the hurt and humiliation I have endured. I see the bloody corpse of Father Timothy, the kindest man I have known, and the limp body of Shankar, the gentlest boy I have met. I recall all the merchants of suffering who have passed through my life. Images of Swapna Devi, Shantaram and Maman buzz through my brain, and I try to compress all these emotions into that split-second in which the bullet will be fired. Despite my effort, I find I cannot pin the blame for all my misfortunes on the man in front of me. I do not have enough anger in me to justify his death.

And I realize then that, try as I might, I cannot kill in cold blood, not even a vermin like Prem Kumar.

I lower the gun.

All this happens within a space of half a minute. Prem Kumar endures it with eyes tightly closed.

When he hears no sound of gunshot, he opens one eye. He is sweating like a dog. He stares blankly at me, a gun in my hand and indecision writ large on my face.

Finally, he opens both his eyes. 'Thank you for sparing my life, Thomas,' he says with his chest heaving. 'In return for your mercy, I will tell you the answer to the last question. You have already won fair and square. The question on Mumtaz Mahal was indeed the last question, and you knew the answer. So now I will tell you the answer to the new question.'

'And how do I know that you won't change it again at the last minute?'

'Hold on to your gun. But believe me, you won't have to use it, because now I sincerely want you to win the top prize. A billion rupees is a billion rupees. And you will get it all in cash.'

For the first time, I am tempted by the prospect of all this money. With a billion I can achieve many things. I can buy Nita's freedom. I can fulfil Salim's dream of becoming a star. I can light up the lives of thousands of fellow orphans and street kids like me. I can get my hands on a beautiful red Ferrari. I make up my mind. It is 'yes' to a billion and 'no' to murder.

'OK, so what's the answer?' I ask.

'I will tell you,' says Prem Kumar. He looks down at his feet and pauses.

'What's the problem?' I ask.

'I have realized that if I tell you the answer, I will be in violation of my contract and also the rules of the show. Your prize could be invalidated.' He shakes his head slowly. 'No, I will not tell you the answer.'

I am confused.

A hint of a smile begins to cross Prem's face. 'I said I can't tell you the answer, but there's nothing in my contract which prevents me from dropping a hint. Now listen carefully. I am going to the railway station immediately after this show and I am going to board a train. I have been invited to visit four friends in Allahabad, Baroda, Cochin and Delhi, but I can only visit one of them. So I have decided to go to Allahabad, to wash off all my sins by taking a dip in the Sangam. OK?'

'OK,' I nod.

We leave the washroom and return to our seats. Prem Kumar gives me an anxious look. I wonder if he will keep his word. Everyone claps when I sit down. My gun is sitting uncomfortably in my side pocket. I lay my hand over it.

The studio sign changes to 'Silence'.

Prem Kumar turns to me. 'Mr Ram Mohammad Thomas, before we took our last break I asked you the final question, question number twelve, for one billion rupees. I will repeat that question again. Beethoven's Piano Sonata No. 29, Opus 106, also known as the 'Hammerklavier Sonata', is in which key? Is it in a) B flat major, b) G minor, c) E flat major, or d) C Minor? Are you ready with a reply?'

'No.'

'No?'

'I mean I do not know the answer to this question.'

The camera zooms in on my face. There are audible gasps from the audience.

'Well, Mr Thomas, as I told you, you are standing at a historic crossroads. One path leads to unimaginable wealth and fortune, but the other three simply take you back to your starting point.

So even if you take a wild guess, guess carefully. You can win all or lose all. This is the most important decision of your life.'

'I would like to use a Lifeboat.'

'OK, you still have one Lifeboat left, and that is Half and Half. So we will take away two incorrect answers, leaving one correct answer and one wrong answer. You then have a fifty–fifty chance of getting the right answer.'

The word 'Lifeboat' flashes on the screen. We see an animated boat chugging along on the sea, a swimmer shouting for help and being tossed a red lifebuoy. The screen changes to display the full question once again. Then two answers disappear and only choices A and C flash on the screen.

'There you have it,' says Prem Kumar. 'It is either A or C. Give me the right answer and you will become the first man in history to win a billion rupees. Give me the wrong answer and you will become the first man in history to lose a hundred million in less than a minute. What is your decision?'

I take out my lucky one-rupee coin. 'Heads my answer will be A, tails my answer will be C.

OK?' The audience gasps at my audacity. Prem Kumar nods his head. The glint in his eye has returned.

I toss the coin.

All eyes are riveted as it goes up, almost in slow motion. This must be the only one-rupee coin in history on which a billion is riding. It comes down on my desk, and spins for a while before becoming still. Prem Kumar bends to look at it and announces, 'It is heads!'

'In that case my answer is A.'

'Are you absolutely sure, Mr Thomas? You can still choose C if you want.'

'The toss of the coin has decided my answer. It is A.'

'Are you absolutely, one hundred per cent sure?'

'Yes. I am absolutely, one hundred per cent sure.'

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

'It is A! Absolutely, one hundred per cent correct! Mr Ram Mohammad Thomas, you have made history by winning the world's biggest jackpot. One billion rupees, yes, one billion rupees are yours, and will be paid to you very shortly. Ladies and gentlemen, please give a very warm round of applause to the greatest winner of all time!'

Confetti starts to fall from the ceiling. Red, green, blue and yellow spotlights bathe the entire stage. For almost two minutes, everyone stands up and claps. There are whistles and catcalls.

Prem Kumar bows like a magician. Then he winks at me slyly. I don't wink back.

Suddenly the producer comes up to the dais and takes Prem Kumar away with him. They

exchange heated words.

Houston, I think we have a problem.

* * *

Smita looks at her watch and gets up from the bed. 'Phew! What a show, what a story, what a night! So now I know how you won a billion rupees. The coin toss at the end was just for show, wasn't it? You already knew that the answer was A.'

'Yes. But you decide whether I deserve the top prize or not. I have not kept anything from you. I have told you all my secrets.'

'And I think it is only fair that you should know mine. You must be wondering who I am and why I suddenly appeared in the police station.'

'Well, yes, but I decided not to question a miracle.'

'I am Gudiya. I am the girl you helped in the chawl. And don't feel remorse that you pushed my father to his death. He merely broke a leg, and that one act set his brain right. He did not bother me after that. I owe everything to you. For years I tried to find you, but you had disappeared.

Then yesterday I saw your name in the newspaper. It said a boy named Ram Mohammad Thomas had been arrested by the police. I knew that there could only be one Ram Mohammad

Thomas and came running to the police station. So just think of this as a very small repayment of the debt I owe you.'

I am overcome with emotion. I grasp Smita's hand, feel its flesh and bone, and my tears start falling. I hug her. 'I am so glad you found me. I have got a lawyer, a friend and a sister in one go.'

'All your troubles are now mine, Ram Mohammad Thomas,' Smita says, with fierce determination in her eyes. 'I will fight for you, just as you fought for me.'

EPILOGUE

Six months have passed since the longest night of my life.

Smita remained true to her word. She fought for me like a mother fights for her children. First she dealt with the police. She proved to them that they had no basis on which to arrest me. She also found out that nobody had even heard about the dead dacoit on the train and there was no pending investigation. So the nameless dacoit remained nameless, even in death.

Then she dealt with the quiz company. They threatened me with allegations of cheating and fraud, but Smita proved that the DVD footage clearly established me as a legitimate winner on the show. After four months of dilly-dallying, the company was forced to concede that they had no grounds on which to withhold payment of the top prize to me.

I did not get a full billion rupees. I got a little less. The government took some. They called it 'gameshow tax'. The company producing W3B folded after the massive payout. So I became the first and last winner on the show.

Prem Kumar died two months ago. According to the police, he committed suicide by gassing himself to death in his car. But there are press reports of foul play. My own hunch is that the thugs financing the show probably took their revenge on him.

I realized a long time ago that dreams have power only over your own mind; but with money you can have power over the minds of others. What I discovered after receiving the payout was that with money I had power even over the police. So, accompanied by a sizeable police contingent, I paid a visit to Goregaon last month, to a large decrepit building set in a courtyard with a small garden and two palm trees. The police arrested five people and freed thirty-five crippled children. They are all now in the care of a well-known international child-welfare agency.

Lajwanti's release from jail was also secured last month and she is now staying with me in Mumbai. In fact, she returned just last week from her sister Lakshmi's wedding in Delhi to a top-level officer in the Indian Administrative Service. The groom's family made no demand for dowry, but Lajwanti still gave her sister a Toyota Corolla car, a thirty-two-inch Sony TV, twenty Raymond suits and one kilo of gold jewellery.

Salim has landed the role of a seventeen-year-old college hero in a comedy film directed by Chimpu Dhawan, and these days is busy shooting in Mehboob Studios. He thinks the producer is a man named Mohammad Bhatt, but it is actually me.

The love of my life has joined me in Mumbai. She is now my lawfully wedded wife, with a proper surname. Nita Mohammad Thomas.

* * *

Smita and I are walking along Marine Drive. A pleasant wind is blowing, occasionally sending a misty spray from the ocean where giant waves crash and roll against the rocks. The uniformed driver is following us at a snail's pace in a Mercedes Benz, maintaining a respectful distance. The rear bumper of the Benz carries a sticker. It says 'My other car is a Ferrari'.

'I have been wanting to ask you something,' I tell Smita.

'Shoot.'

'That evening, when you saved me from the police station, why didn't you tell me straight away that you were Gudiya?'

'Because I wanted to hear your stories and find out the truth. Only when you narrated my own story, without realizing that I was in front of you, did I know for sure that you were telling me the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. That is why I told you at the very beginning that I didn't need you to swear on any book. I was your witness, just as you were mine.'

I nod my head in understanding.

'Can I also ask you a question?' Smita asks me.

'Sure.'

'That same evening, when I first brought you home, before you told me your stories, you flipped a coin. Why?'

'I was not sure whether to trust you. The coin toss was my decision-making mechanism. Heads I would have told you everything. Tails it would have been goodbye. As it turned out, it was heads.'

'So if it had turned up tails instead of heads, you wouldn't have told me your story?'

'It wouldn't have come up tails.'

'You believe in luck so much?'

'What's luck got to do with it? Here, take a look at the coin.' I take out the one-rupee coin from my jacket and hand it to her.

She looks at it, and flips it over. Then flips it again. 'It . . . it's heads on both sides!'

'Exactly. It's my lucky coin. But as I said, luck has got nothing to do with it.'

I take the coin from her and toss it high into the air. It goes up, up and up, glints briefly against the turquoise sky, and then drops swiftly into the ocean and sinks into its cavernous depths.

'Why did you throw away your lucky coin?'

'I don't need it any more. Because luck comes from within.'

THE END