Slumdog Millionaire

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

 

* * *

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

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

'It is me, Father.'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'To meet my dad.'

'What does your father do?'

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

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

'Because I am studying in York.'

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

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

'Do you love your dad?'

'Yes, very much.'

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

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

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

 

* * *

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

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

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

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

 

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

* * *

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

So what happened to Ian, finally?'

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

'And you?'

'I got sent to a Juvenile Home.'

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

 

* * *

We are still in the commercial break.

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

'No.' I shake my head.

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

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