Slumdog Millionaire

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

As we enter the house, Mustafa points out a set of corrugated-iron structures beyond the courtyard, like huge sheds. 'That is the school Maman runs for crippled children. The children live there as well.'

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

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

Come, let me show you to your room.'

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

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

'No,' says Salim.

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

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

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

One by one the children start trickling in, and instantly challenge our definition of hell. I see boys with no eyes, feeling their way forward with the help of sticks; boys with bent and misshapen limbs, dragging themselves to the table; boys with two gnarled stumps for legs, walking on crutches; boys with grotesque mouths and twisted fingers, eating bread held between their elbows. Some of them are like clowns. Except they make us cry instead of laugh. It is good Salim and I have almost finished our meal.

We see three boys standing in one corner, watching the others eat, but not being served themselves. One of them licks his lips. 'Who are these boys?' I ask Mustafa. 'And why aren't they eating?'

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

 

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

* * *

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

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

Maala pherat jug bhaya,

mita na man ka pher,

kar ka manka chhod de,

man ka manka pher.

You have been counting rosary beads for an era,

But the wandering of your mind does not halt,

Forsake the beads in your hand,

And start moving the beads of your heart.

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

 

* * *

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

 

* * *

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

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

'And what happens to the money you earn?'

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

'You mean Maman is a gangster?'

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

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

 

* * *

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

'How come you were punished today?'

'I didn't earn enough.'

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

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

'And what happens then?'

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

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

 

* * *

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

You always make enough money.'

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

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

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

'What is her name?'

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

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

I wake up, drenched in sweat.

 

* * *

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