Feeling the Vibes (14 page)

”
Very
thoroughly,” Rhada said, laughing. “Don’t worry, I had the same thought!”

“And it’s working! People in the west LOVE these bags,” said Shusheela.

“Recycling is extremely hot now in the west, isn’t it?” Samir said.

“The bad news is Razak wants a piece of the action for himself,” Shusheela said, her eyes clouding. “And what Razak wants Razak almost always gets.”

In Deva Katchi all conversations seemed to come back to Razak.

Before we left the angel girls took me to their room and handed me two exquisite sets of
salwar kamiz
.

“We thought you’d be desperate for fresh clothes,” Rhada said sympathetically.

These sweet angel girls also gave me a pair of pretty Indian-style sandals and a cosy cashmere wrap in case I got chilly at night.

I put on one of the outfits feeling slightly self-conscious. When I was properly dressed, Shusheela tied protective amulets first on me, then on a very awed Obi.

“The slum has many Dark
asuras
- demons,” she explained. “I think you call them PODS? These amulets will help keep you and the little bodhisattva safe.”

“Hey, look at you, Melanie!” Rhada giggled, stepping back to admire me. “You look like a real Deva Katchi angel!”

Chapter Seventeen

I
‘d never lived in a slum before, and during my first few days in Deva Katchi, there were times when I felt totally overwhelmed. I couldn’t believe the difficulties families like Parvati’s had to face every day.

I’m not talking slumlords and drug dealers. I’m talking about the absolute basics which humans in my country take for granted - like water. Well,
I
definitely took it for granted.

The slum’s water supply usually went off at about 8 a.m. (I know. WHY?) So every morning, at least an hour before daybreak, Ravi and Asha took plastic containers and went to join the long queue at the communal taps. Later everyone in the family washed in the same plastic bowl, careful not to waste a drop.

Breakfast was usually cold chapattis saved from the night before. Parvati double checked the older kids had clean ears, made sure they’d done their homework and packed them off to school smelling so strongly of soap it made you catch your breath.

At weekends the kids helped Parvati scavenge for waste plastic.

Kids in Deva Katchi expected to earn their keep. Far too many of them didn’t go to school; they went begging for Razak instead. Little barefoot kids out all day in blistering sun and traffic fumes, and at the end of each day they handed over all their money in return for a tiny percentage of their earnings. Other kids sold flower garlands, or cleaned the car windscreens of privileged Mumbaikers, as Mumbai people call themselves, and you can bet Razak got a slice of their profits too.

This is like one of those slum documentaries, right? Everything ugly and hopeless? But once you know the actual people it’s not like that. It’s just - life.

We got to know everyone’s little quirks, like Karisma’s crazy giggle fits that reduced her to helpless jelly. Just watching her made us crack up. We learned that Asha hated
dhal
and adored something called
kachori
with yoghurt, and that she secretly wanted to be a dancer.

Most of all, if you’d lived as close to Ravi as we did, you’d have quickly sussed that something huge was driving him. Love and loyalty for his family - yes. The need to get out of the slums - yes. But there was something else, a deep, deep hunger, but not for
dhal
or
kachori
. Ravi’s hunger was for Bollywood.

So what? You’re thinking. Almost every kid in Deva Katchi was obsessed with Bollywood. The slum vibrated with the shrill treble of Bollywood love songs day and night, and every available centimetre of wall space was plastered with movie posters. New posters just got slapped on top of old torn ones, so you’d get this surreal collage effect: a villain from one movie peeking out from behind a hero and heroine from a totally different
filmi
, as Mumbaikers call Bollywood musicals.

Unlike his schoolfriends, though, Ravi wasn’t remotely interested in gossip about Bollywood celebs. He wasn’t interested in celebs full stop. He wasn’t that interested in the actual movies. It was the Bollywood soundtracks he adored. He couldn’t get enough.

When he was home, he made his mum keep the radio permanently tuned to the Bollywood stations. He was constantly after Mohit to teach him songs from the old-style fifties movies.

I’m a keen Bollywood fan, as you know, but thanks to Ravi, I rapidly became a Bollywood soundtrack geek! I could actually tell you that Ravi’s fave modern Bollywood composers were A.R. Rahman, and Mahendra Kalkarni!

Being music obsessed himself, Reuben had a lot of time for Ravi. “That kid has tunes in his head all the time,” he told me. “That’s why he can’t concentrate in school. We need to get him a proper instrument. He can’t just drum on jars and cans.”

One morning Reubs and I sneaked into the school to raise the vibes. While we were there we also had a quiet word with Mr Malik, Ravi’s teacher. If I say so myself, we surpassed ourselves this time.

The next day (No truly. The next DAY!) Mr Malik brought in a second-hand keyboard! This is the kind of thing which makes our job SO cool.

Now during lunch breaks Ravi tinkered around trying to turn the huge sounds in his head into real hummable music.

Hearing these rippling, complicated melodies, Mr Malik was impressed. “Who taught you to play like that?”

“Nobody,” said Ravi in surprise.

“Then you must have been a musician in a past life!” Mr Malik half joked, visibly baffled.

Such tiny changes - a bad dream here, a second-hand keyboard there - but gradually the family’s life started to improve.

Hearing that Parvati owned a sewing machine, someone asked if she’d make a special
salwar kamiz
for a wedding. This quickly led to more orders.

Now her kids went to sleep lulled by the whirring sound of the old-fashioned treadle machine as Parvati worked late into the night by the light of the hurricane lamps. Like Deva Katchi’s water supply, the slum’s electricity was off more often than not.

One evening, to celebrate their improving fortunes, Parvati took her family to the movies. Brice is really not into Bollywood, but I told him Lola would never forgive him if he passed up the chance, so he gloomily agreed to come along.

Until now I’d only seen Bollywood movies on DVD. The real-life experience, though, is a zillion times more extreme.

In Indian cinemas the sexes are modestly segregated. Men and boys sit in one half of the movie theatre and the girls and women sit in the other half. Parvati firmly insisted they all sat in the same row, though, where she could keep her eye on everyone.

There was no air-conditioning in the picture house, just old-fashioned ceiling fans whirring fit to bust. Soon I was so gripped by the story I didn’t even notice.

But if I was gripped, that was nothing to the Mumbaikers. They sang and danced in the aisles. When the heroine appeared in a wet clinging sari, the men all whistled and cat-called. The entire audience booed the villain. They wept out loud at the sad bits and fell about laughing at the jokes. I hadn’t seen people so caught up in a performance since we went to the theatre in Shakespeare’s time!

The movie’s soundtrack was composed by Ravi’s fave composer, Mahendra Kalkarni. By the time the movie finished I was in heartfelt agreement with Ravi. This guy was a god!

Bollywood movies go on for HOURS. After two hours Obi fell asleep on my knee. I had to wake him to leave.

On the way back Parvati and the kids stopped at a stall to buy
tikki
, a kind of local street food.

“Ravi looks very happy, doesn’t he?” Obi was riding on Reuben’s shoulders, bug-eyed with tiredness.

“They’re all happy! They’re having such a great night out,” I beamed.

“Lucky them,” said Brice darkly. “What do people see in those films? The guys are total posers - and they cry like girls!”

“I’m writing a soundtrack,” Ravi told his mum. “It’s the story of Rama and Sita, only it is set in the slums and the demon Ravana is the evil slumlord.”

“Ssh,” she said, half laughing. “Someone will hear you.”

We were only halfway down the narrow lane leading to the family’s home when everyone, humans and angels, started to run. Even from a distance we could all see something was wrong.

The door to their house hung off its hinges. Parvati’s sewing machine had been dumped out in the dirt, along with all their possessions. The family’s two hurricane lamps had been smashed. There was a raw stink of petrol.

“My dolly, where’s my dolly!” screamed Karisma.

Parvati was lucky. Her friend
Zooni’s
husband had surprised the goondas. He and Hari’s dad had armed themselves with sticks, driving off Razak’s thugs before they were able to burn down her house.

Mohit looked on, shaking his wild locks sorrowfully as Parvati stared at the wreckage in shock. “Be careful, save yourself, my dear,” he sang softly.

“Remind me what we’re meant to be doing again?” Brice said bitterly. “Saving the world one family at a time, wasn’t it? Except we rock up and their lives just get a whole lot worse.”

“That’s not true, man.” Reuben’s voice was sad yet calm. “This is a regular event around here.”

“Yeah?” said Brice savagely. “Well, that makes me feel
much
better.”

The family’s radio was beyond repair. Ravi silently set it to one side and went back to searching through the wreckage until he found what he was looking for.

He held it up. “Karisma, here’s Barbie! Razak’s
goondas
didn’t get her! “

His little sister clutched her hideous dolly to her ribby little chest. “It’s all right,
bet
i’, I’ve got you now,” she crooned. “The bad men have gone now.”

Obi was wide-eyed, clearly taking in all this suffering, yet somehow he wasn’t letting it blow him away.

He’s growing up
, I thought with a pang.

Zooni’s husband, who was turning into a bit of a hero, brought his tools and quickly fixed fresh plastic over the damaged roof.

Laxmi came with a spare hurricane lamp to tide the family over. She and Zooni helped Parvati and her kids clean up the mess, then stayed on to keep Parvati company when the children were in bed.

Obi had taken to curling up beside Ravi at night, like a loyal little puppy. I heard him crooning softly, “Oh,
poor
Amir.”

You’d think Amir would be the furthest thing from his mind after tonight. Yet that night in Lahore obviously still haunted him.

When I said this out loud Brice looked at me as if I was mad. “Are you surprised, considering what he saw?”

Suddenly my heart started beating so hard I felt like I might choke. I had understood something so mind-blowing that I couldn’t get the words out.

“I know why Obi was so upset!” I managed finally. “The little brother! Amir had a little brother!”

Brice looked blank. “Did he?”

“Amir didn’t want to take him to the fort,” Reubs reminded him.

I waited for the penny to drop.

“No
way
!” Brice rubbed his hand across his face. “You think that was
Obi
‘?”

“That actually makes sense,” said Reuben. “You could see Obi totally hero-worshipped Amir.”

“Jeez,” said Brice huskily. “Some way to lose your big brother.”

I shook my head. “He lost a lot more than that. When Miss Dove told me about Obi being a potential buddha, she gave me like, a summary of all his other lives and she said one time his parents died in religious riots.”

Brice looked dubious.

“No, listen,” I told him. “The night before we left Obi asked me to find him if he got lost. He said he got lost in India once before at a crowded station where there were lots of bad men and he never saw either of his parents again.”

His face twisted. “Oh, man!”

“His mum and dad must have guessed Amir had gone to visit Vikram in Amritsar and they would have heard about the massacre,” I said. “When Amir didn’t come home, they’d have rushed straight to the station to search for their son’s body among the dead.”

“They never would have let him go off to Amritsar by himself,” Reubs objected. “Not those parents. Not how things were with Partition.”

“Amir wasn’t going to ask them, remember? He wanted to be part - part of India’s—”

I couldn’t even get through the sentence. The horror wiped me out all over again. Amir had got his wish to be part of history in the most hideous way imaginable. I morphed out of the house so I could have a private cry.

When I came back in, Zooni was saying, “You know they had landlord troubles in Dharavi? A Bollywood star helped them. It’s all over the papers.”

Laxmi gave a scornful snort. “What d’you bet, after all the photographers left, the
goondas
went back with bicycle chains and beat everyone to a pulp?”

But Zooni’s words had sent sudden tingles down my spine.