To visit Queensland and Tasmania and the Great Barrier Reef before I die.
My life with the Taylors is comfortable, too, because I do not have much work to do. Unlike in the actress's house, where I was the only servant, there are three others here sharing the work.
Ramu is the cook and the kitchen is completely under him. Shanti makes the beds and does the washing. I have only to do the vacuuming and the cleaning. From time to time, I also polish the silver cutlery, stack up books in Colonel Taylor's library and help Bhagwati trim the hedges. All of us live in the servants' quarters attached to the main house. We have one large and two small rooms to ourselves. Bhagwati lives in the large one with his wife and son. Shanti lives alone in the second. And I share the third with Ramu. The room has bunk beds. I sleep in the one on top.
Ramu is a nice bloke. He joined the Taylors four months ago and is an excellent cook. His main claim to fame is that he knows French cooking, having previously worked for a French family.
He can make gateau de saumon and crepes suzette and cervettes au gratin, which is my favourite dish. Ramu is well built and his face, if you ignore the pockmarks, is quite good looking. He loves to see Hindi movies. His favourite films are those in which the rich heroine runs off with the poor hero. I have a suspicion that Shanti fancies Ramu. The way she looks at him, winking occasionally, makes me think she is trying to give Ramu a signal. But Ramu does not care for Shanti. He is in love with someone else. He has made me swear not to mention this to anyone, so I cannot reveal the name. But I suppose I can mention that she is a beautiful girl with blue eyes and golden hair.
Although I live in the servants' quarters, the Taylors treat me almost as part of the family.
Whenever they go for an outing to McDonald's, they remember to buy me a kids' meal. When Roy and Maggie play Scrabble, they always include me. When Roy watches cricket in the TV room, he always invites me to join him (though he gets nasty whenever Australia is losing).
Every time the Taylors travel to Australia on holiday, they make a point of getting me a small gift – a keyring saying I LOVE SYDNEY or a T-shirt with a funny message. Sometimes all this kindness makes me cry. When I am eating a slice of Edam cheese or drinking a can of root beer, I find it difficult to believe that I am the same orphan boy who was eating thick blackened chapattis and indigestible stew in a filthy juvenile home not far from here just five years ago. At times I actually start imagining myself as part of this Australian family. Ram Mohammad Taylor.
But when one of the servants is scolded or dismissed or when Colonel Taylor wags a finger and says 'You bloody Indians,' my dream world comes crashing down and I begin to think of myself as a mongrel peeping through a barred window into an exotic world which does not belong to me.
But there is one thing that does belong to me, and that is the money piling up from my salary, though I have yet either to see or touch it. After bad experiences with a string of servants, Colonel Taylor decided not to give me a monthly salary on the grounds that I am a minor. He gives me only fifty rupees per month as pocket money. I am supposed to receive the rest of my salary as accumulated savings only on termination of employment. And only then if I have
behaved well. Otherwise, like Raju and Ajay, it is bye bye without pay. Unlike me, Ramu gets his salary every month. A full two thousand rupees. He has already accumulated a kitty of eight thousand rupees which he keeps safely hidden inside a hollow space in the mattress of his bed. I have only a hundred rupees in my pocket, but I have a little red diary in which I keep adding up my salary every month. As of today, the Taylors owe me 22,500 rupees. Just the thought of owning all this money makes me giddy. Every night I dream of visiting the places I see in Australian Geographic. Ramu has bigger ambitions. He dreams of marrying a beautiful white girl and honeymooning in Sydney, and starting a chain of French restaurants where he will serve venison and crème brûlée.
* * *
The neighbourhood junk-dealer, or kabariwalla, is here. Mrs Taylor is selling him all the newspapers and magazines we have hoarded over the past six months. They must have cost at least ten thousand rupees to purchase. But we are selling them at fifteen rupees per kilo. Ramu and I bring out heavy bundles of the Times of India, Indian Express, the Pioneer and the Hindu.
We pull out the stacked copies of India Today, Femina, Cosmopolitan and The Australian. The kabariwalla weighs them on his dusty scales. Suddenly Roy appears on the scene. 'What's happening?' he asks his mother.
'Nothing. We are just getting rid of all the junk newsprint in the house,' she replies.
'Oh, is that right?' he says and disappears into the house. He comes out after five minutes armed with thirty copies of Australian Geographic. My jaw drops in shock. How can Roy even think of selling off these magazines?
But before I can say anything, the kabariwalla has weighed the glossy magazines. 'These come to six kilos. I will give you ninety rupees for them,' he tells Roy. The boy nods. The transaction is completed. I race back to my room.
As soon as the kabariwalla leaves the house, I accost him on the road. 'I am sorry, but Memsahib wants those magazines back,' I tell him.
'Too bad,' he shrugs. 'I have bought them now. They have excellent quality paper which will fetch a good price.' Eventually I have to give him my hundred rupees, but I get back the issues of Australian Geographic. They are now mine. That evening, I spread all of them out in my tiny room and watch the images of mountains and beaches, jellyfish and lobsters, kookaburras and kangaroos float up before my eyes. Somehow, these exotic places seem a little more accessible today. Perhaps the fact that I now own the magazines means that I also own a tiny part of their contents in my heart.
Another notable thing that happens this month is the debut of Spycatcher on Star TV. This serial has taken Australia by storm. Set in the 1980s, it is about the life of an Australian police officer called Steve Nolan who catches spies. Colonel Taylor becomes completely addicted to it. Almost every evening he disappears into his Den to come out only for dinner. But come Wednesday night, he sits in the TV room with his stubby of Foster's beer and watches Steve Nolan catch dirty foreigners (called Commies) selling secrets to some Russian organization called the KGB. I like the serial because of the car chases, death-defying stunts and cool gadgets, such as a pen which doubles up as a miniature camera, and a tape recorder which becomes a gun. And I am fascinated by Steve Nolan's car – a bright red Ferrari which hurtles through the streets like a rocket.
* * *
The Taylors' garden party is a regular fixture during the summer season, but today's party is something special. It is in honour of a visiting general from Australia and even the HC – High Commissioner – will be attending. Ramu and I and, for once, even Bhagwati are 'laired up' – clad in spotless white uniforms with round golden buttons. We wear white gloves and black shoes.
Big white turbans with little tails sit uncomfortably on our small heads. They are of the type worn by grooms at weddings. Except we don't look like grooms on horseback. We look like fancy waiters at a fancy garden party.
The guests have begun to arrive. Colonel Taylor welcomes them on the well-manicured rear lawn. He is dressed in a light-blue suit. Ramu is busy grilling skewers of chicken, pork, fish and mutton over the barbecue pit. Bhagwati is serving cocktails to the guests on a silver tray. I am manning the bar. Only I can understand the guests when they ask for a Campari with Soda or a Bloody Mary. Shanti is busy helping out in the kitchen. Even she is wearing a smart skirt instead of her usual sari.
The guests are mostly white and from other embassies. There is a sprinkling of Indians as well – a couple of journalists and officials from the Defence Ministry. The whites drink Kingfisher beer and cocktails. The Indians, as usual, ask only for Black Label whisky.