Slumdog Millionaire

Smita is sitting with me on the edge of the bed holding a disc case in her fingers. 'Look, I've managed to get a copy of your show's DVD footage. Now we can go over it with a toothcomb. I want you to explain to me exactly how you came to answer all those questions. And I want you to tell me the truth.'

'The truth?'

'Even if you did cheat, I am here to protect you. What you tell me cannot be used against you in a court of law.'

The first doubts start creeping into my mind. Is this woman too good to be true? Has she been planted by that baldy Johnson to ferret out incriminating truths from me? Can I trust her?

Time to take a decision. I take out my trusted one-rupee coin. Heads I cooperate with her. Tails I tell her ta-ta. I flip the coin. It is heads.

'Do you know Albert Fernandes?' I ask her.

'No. Who is he?'

'He has an illegal factory in Dharavi which makes watch-strap buckles.'

'And?'

'He plays matka.'

'Matka?'

'Illegal gambling with cards.'

'I see.'

'So Albert Fernandes plays matka and last Tuesday he had an amazing game.'

'What happened?'

'He came up with fifteen winning hands in a row. Can you believe it? Fifteen hands in a row. He cleaned out fifty thousand rupees that evening.'

'So? I still don't see the connection.'

'Don't you see? He got lucky in cards. I got lucky on the show.'

'You mean you just guessed the answers and by pure luck got twelve out of twelve correct?'

'No. I didn't guess those answers. I knew them.'

'You knew the answers?'

'Yes. To all the questions.'

'Then where does luck come into the picture?'

'Well, wasn't I lucky that they only asked those questions to which I knew the answers?'

The look of utter disbelief on Smita's face says it all. I can take it no longer. I erupt in sadness and anger. 'I know what you are thinking. Like Godbole, you wonder what I was doing on that quiz show. Like Godbole, you believe I am only good for serving chicken fry and whisky in a restaurant. That I am meant to live life like a dog, and die like an insect. Don't you?'

'No, Ram.' She grasps my hand. 'I will never believe that. But you must understand. If I am to help you, I have to know how you won that billion. And I confess, I find it difficult to comprehend. Heavens, even I couldn't answer half those questions.'

'Well, Madam, we poor can also ask questions and demand answers. And I bet you, if the poor conducted a quiz, the rich wouldn't be able to answer a single question. I don't know the currency of France, but I can tell you how much money Shalini Tai owes our neighbourhood moneylender. I don't know who was the first man on the moon, but I can tell you who was the first man to produce illegal DVDs in Dharavi. Could you answer these questions in my quiz?'

'Look, Ram, don't get agitated. I meant no offence. I really want to help you. But if you didn't cheat, I must know how you knew.'

'I cannot explain.'

'Why?'

'Do you notice when you breathe? No. You simply know that you are breathing. I did not go to school. I did not read books. But, I tell you, I knew those answers.'

'So do I need to know about your entire life to understand the genesis of your answers?'

'Perhaps.'

Smita nods her head. 'I think that is the key. After all, a quiz is not so much a test of knowledge as a test of memory.' She adjusts her blue dupatta and looks me in the eye. 'I want to listen to your memories. Can you begin at the beginning?'

'You mean the year I was born? Year number one?'

'No. From question number one. But before we start, promise me, Ram Mohammad Thomas, that you will tell me the truth.'

'You mean like they say in the movies, "The truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth"?'

'Exactly.'

I take a deep breath. 'Yes, I promise. But where is your Book of Oaths? The Gita, the Koran or the Bible, any one will do.'

'I don't need a book. I am your witness. Just as you are mine.' Smita takes the shiny disc from its cover and slips it into the DVD player.

 

THE DEATH OF A HERO

The third bell has sounded. The purple velvet curtain is about to be raised. The lights are progressively dimming, till only the red signs showing EXIT remain, glowing like embers in the darkened hall. Popcorn sellers and cold-drink vendors begin to leave. Salim and I settle down in our seats.

The first thing you must know about Salim is that he is my best friend. The second is that he is crazy about Hindi films. But not all Hindi films. Just the ones featuring Armaan Ali.

They say that first there was Amitabh Bachchan. Then there was Shahrukh Khan. Now there is Armaan Ali. The ultimate action hero. The Indian Greek God. The heart-throb of millions.

Salim loves Armaan. Or, more accurately, he worships Armaan. His tiny room in the chawl is a shrine. It is lined with posters of all kinds depicting the hero in various poses. Armaan in a leather jacket. Armaan on a motorbike. Armaan with his shirt off, baring his hairy chest. Armaan with a gun. Armaan on a horse. Armaan in a pool surrounded by a bevy of beauties.