Slumdog Millionaire

'I took the doll to a function where my brother was to receive an award for best entrepreneur.

Arvind was giving his acceptance speech with the gleaming crystal trophy in his hands. "Friends, I feel really very honoured to be holding this beautiful trophy. All my life I have believed in the motto that hard work and owwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww!" The glass trophy slipped from his hands and broke into a million pieces.

'Arvind went to a doctor, who did an MRI scan and found nothing physically wrong with his head. The doctor advised him to consult a psychiatrist.

'Finally, I took the doll to the annual shareholders' meeting, and sat in the very last row. Arvind was giving the MD's report. "And my dear shareholders, I am happy to report that our company's performance in the last quarter represented a significant increase in our gross owwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww!" There was utter pandemonium thereafter, with the agitated shareholders demanding an immediate resignation from the mad MD. He was forced to resign within a week. I became the new MD and my brother was locked up in a mental institution.

'My brother remained in the mental asylum for two years. During this time I became wealthy beyond my imagination. Julie finally had everything she had ever wanted. She summoned her mother and brother from Port-au-Prince to come and live with us in Mumbai. But as I acquired all the trappings of a rich man, I also started contemplating my life, the means I had adopted to gain all this wealth. And then I met Jyotsna.'

'Who's she?'

'Officially she's just my new secretary, but actually she is much more than that. She is my soul-mate. I have so much in common with her that I will never have in common with a foreigner like Julie. She's the exact antithesis of Julie. It is Jyotsna who made me realize the terrible injustice I had done to my elder brother. I resolved to get Arvind out of the mental asylum.'

'So were you able to get him out?'

'No. It was too late. They tortured my brother in the asylum, gave him electric shocks. Two weeks ago, he died.'

'What?'

'Yes. My poor brother is dead,' he wails. 'My dear brother is dead.' He holds his head in his hands. 'And I killed him.'

I snap out of my stupor. Mr Rao is rapidly degenerating from an ass into a dog.

'That bitch Julie, I will now expose her. I will throw her fat mother out of the house and get rid of her goodfor-nothing brother. I will kill her mean cat and I will kick Julie out of Mumbai. Let her rot in hell in Haiti. Ha!'

'But how do you plan to do this?'

There is a sly glint in his eye. 'You are my friend, and I am drunk. A drunken man always tells the truth. So I should tell you that I have already met a lawyer and drawn up the divorce papers.

If Julie accepts it, well and good, otherwise I have something else as well. See.' He takes out an object from his trouser pocket. It is a small, snub-nosed revolver, very compact, no bigger than my fist. The metal is smooth and shiny with no markings at all. 'Look at this beauty. I am going to use this to blow her head off. Then I will marry Jyotsna. You are my friend. I am drunk. And a drunken man always speaks the owwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww!!!' He suddenly screams in agony, clutches at his heart and crashes face-down on the table, upturning the bottle of single malt and scattering cashew nuts all over the floor.

Looks like I have missed out on my tip once again.

 

* * *

The police jeep with the flashing red light arrives after half an hour. An ambulance comes with a doctor in a white coat, who pronounces Prakash Rao dead owing to a massive heart attack. They go through his pockets. They discover a wallet full of banknotes, a picture of a beautiful Indian girl, a sheaf of papers saying 'Divorce'. They do not find any gun. In any case, dead men don't need guns.

* * *

Smita is looking at me with an amused expression on her face. 'You don't expect me to believe this mumbo-jumbo nonsense, do you?'

'I make no judgement. I merely related to you what was told me by Prakash Rao. What I heard, what I saw.'

'Surely there can be no truth in such things?'

'Well, all I can say is that at times truth is stranger than fiction.'

'I cannot believe that Rao was killed by someone pricking a voodoo doll. I think you made up this story.'

'Fine, don't believe in the story, but then how do you explain my answer to the next question?'

Smita presses 'Play'.

 

* * *

Prem Kumar taps his desk. 'Ladies and gentlemen, we now move on to our next question, question number six for one lakh rupees. This is the perennial favourite in all quiz shows. Yes. I am talking about countries and capitals. Mr Thomas, how familiar are you with capital cities?

For example, do you know the capital of India?'

The audience titters. They are prepared to believe that a waiter might not even know the capital of his country.

'New Delhi.'

'Very good. And what is the capital of the United States of America?'

'New York.'

Prem Kumar laughs. 'No. That is not correct. OK, what is the capital of France?'

'I don't know.'

'And the capital of Japan?'

'I don't know.'

'How about the capital of Italy. Do you know that?'

'No.'

'Well, then I don't see how you can answer the next question without making use of one of your Lifeboats. So here comes question number six for a hundred thousand rupees. What is the capital of Papua New Guinea? Is it a) Port Louis, b) Port-au-Prince, c) Port Moresby or d) Port Adelaide?'

The suspenseful music commences.

'Do you have any clue at all, Mr Thomas, about this question?'

'Yes, I know which are the incorrect answers.'

'You do?' Prem Kumar says incredulously. The members of the audience begin whispering amongst themselves.

'Yes. I know it is not Port-au-Prince, which is the capital of Haiti, or Port Louis, which is in Mauritius. And it is also not Port Adelaide, because Adelaide is in Australia. So it has to be C. Port Moresby.'

'This is amazing. Are you absolutely, one hundred per cent sure?'

'Yes, I am.'

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

'Absolutely, one hundred per cent correct! It is Port Moresby. You have just won a hundred thousand rupees, you are now a lakhpati!' declares Prem Kumar. The audience stand up and cheer. Prem Kumar wipes more sweat from his brow. 'I swear the way you are giving these answers, it's almost like magic'

 

* * *

Smita laughs. 'It's not magic, you idiot,' she tells Prem Kumar on the screen. 'It's voodoo!'

Suddenly her eyes dart down to something lying on the bedroom carpet. She bends to pick it up.

It is a small button with four slits. The type used on shirts. She looks at my shirt. The third button is indeed missing. She hands it to me. 'Here. Better hold on to your buttons.'

 

MURDER ON THE WESTERN EXPRESS

New Delhi's Paharganj railway station is humming with sound and crawling with people. The grey platforms are bathed in white light. Train engines belch smoke and whistle like impatient bulls.

If you were to search for me in this crowded maze, where would you look? You would probably try to find me among the dozens of street children stretched out on the smooth concrete floor in various stages of rest and slumber. You might even imagine me as an adolescent hawker, peddling plastic bottles containing tap water from the station's toilet as pure Himalayan aqua minerale. You could visualize me as one of the sweepers in dirty shirt and torn pants shuffling across the platform, with a long swishing broom transferring dirt from the pavement on to the track. Or you could look for me among the regiments of red-uniformed porters bustling about with heavy loads on their heads.

Well, think again, because I am neither hawker, nor porter, nor sweeper. Today I am a bona fide passenger, travelling to Mumbai, in the sleeper class, no less, and with a proper reservation. I am wearing a starched white bush shirt made of one hundred per cent cotton and Levi jeans – yes, Levi jeans, bought from the Tibetan Market. I am walking purposefully towards platform number five to board the Paschim Express for Mumbai. There is a porter trudging along by my side carrying a light-brown suitcase on his head. The porter has been hired by me and the suitcase on his head belongs to me. It contains a few clothes, some old toys, a bunch of Australian Geographic magazines and an electronic game for Salim. The suitcase does not contain any money. I have heard too many stories about robbers on trains who drug you at night and make off with your belongings to take the chance of keeping the most precious cargo of my life in the suitcase – my salary from the Taylors. The manila envelope full of crisp thousand-rupee notes – fifty of them – is therefore with me, hidden in a place where no one can see it.