Slumdog Millionaire: A Novel (14 page)

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.

The conversation at the garden party falls into two categories. The Indians talk about politics and cricket. The diplomats and expatriates exchange gossip about their servants and colleagues and crib about the heat. 'It's so bloody hot, I wish they'd declare a holiday.' 'My maid ran away the other day with the gardener, and after I had given both of them a raise.' 'It's so difficult to get good help these days. Most of these bloody servants are thieves.'

The arrival of the HC with a smartly attired man, who, I am told, is the general, creates a buzz.

Mrs Taylor almost falls over herself in her rush to greet the HC. There is a lot of kissing and pressing of hands. Colonel Taylor looks pleased. The party is going well.

By eleven o'clock, all the guests have gone. Only the two Indian journalists and one official from the Defence Ministry called Jeevan Kumar are still sitting, nursing their tenth peg of Johnny Walker. Mrs Taylor looks at them with disdain. 'Charles,' she tells her husband, 'why do you have to invite these bloody journos? They are always the last to leave.'

Colonel Taylor makes sympathetic noises. The Ministry of Defence official, a dark, heavy-set man, lurches into the house. 'Can I have a word with you, Mr Taylor?' he calls out. Colonel Taylor hurries after him.

* * *

It is past midnight and Ramu is still not asleep. I hear him tossing and turning in his bunk bed.

'What's the matter, Ramu? Can't you get to sleep tonight?' I ask him.

'How can I sleep, Thomas? My darling is tormenting me.'

'You are stupid. How often have I told you not to entertain this fanciful idea? If Colonel Taylor finds out he will have you slaughtered.'

'Lovers have to be prepared to sacrifice themselves for their love. But at least now I have a piece of my love with me.'

'What? What have you got?' I climb down from my bed. 'Shhh . . . I can only show it to you if you swear not to reveal it to anyone.'

'OK, OK, I swear. Now show me what you have got.'

Ramu pushes his hand underneath his pillow and brings out a piece of red fabric. He holds it close to his nostrils and inhales deeply. Even I can smell a faint perfume.

'What is it? You have to show it.' Ramu unfurls it like a flag. It is a red bra. I jump up in shock and hit my head against the wooden rail. 'Oh, my God! Where the hell did you get this from?

Don't tell me it is hers.'

'Here, see for yourself.' Ramu hands the bra to me.

I turn the bra up and down. It seems like a very expensive piece, full of lace embroidery. It has a small white label near the hooks which says 'Victoria's Secret'.

'Who is Victoria?' I ask him.

'Victoria? I don't know any Victoria.'

'This bra belongs to Victoria. It even has her name. Where did you get it from?' Ramu is

confused. 'But . . . but I stole it from Maggie's room.'

'Oh my God, Ramu! You know you are not allowed to go to the children's bedrooms. Now you

will get into real trouble.'

'Look, Thomas, you promised not to tell anyone. Please, I beg you, don't reveal this secret.'

I cross my heart as I climb back into my bed. Soon Ramu begins snoring. I know he is dreaming about a girl with blue eyes and golden hair. But I am dreaming about a jeep with a flashing red light. I am convinced that Ramu is heading for trouble. Because Colonel Taylor is The Man Who Knows.

Sure enough, two days later a jeep with a flashing red light comes screeching to the house. A Police Inspector wearing goggles swaggers into the drawing room. He is the same Inspector Tyagi who took away Ajay. He asks for Ramu, and the constables drag the cook out of the

kitchen and take him to his room. I scamper behind them. It is my room too. They rummage

through Ramu's bed. They find the money he keeps inside his mattress. They also discover a diamond necklace nestling under his pillow. How it got there I have no idea, but I know Ramu is no thief. Then the constables start rummaging through my things. They find my
Australian
Geographic
magazines, neatly stacked in one corner. They find my keyrings and my T-shirts.

And then they find a crumpled red bra underneath my mattress. How it got there I have no idea, but I know it is the same bra Ramu stole from Maggie's room.

I am brought before the Taylors like a notorious convict. 'Taylor Sahib, you were only talking about one crook in the house, and we did find the diamond necklace and a lot of stolen cash in his bed. But look at what we found in this little bastard's bed. We found these magazines, which he must have stolen from the children – ' he drops the stack of
Australian Geographic
on the floor, 'and we found this.' The Inspector unfurls the red bra like a flag.

Maggie begins crying. Ramu looks as if he is about to faint. Colonel Taylor has a murderous glint in his eyes.

'Strewth! You too, Thomas?' says Mrs Taylor, in complete shock. Then she goes into a rage and slaps me four or five times. 'You bloody Indians,' she rants. 'All of you are just the same.

Nothing but ungrateful bludgers. We feed you and clothe you and this is what you give us in return, trying to flog our stuff?'

Colonel Taylor comes to my rescue. 'No, Rebecca,' he tells his wife. 'Fair crack of the whip.

Thomas is a good bloke. That bastard Ramu hid this in his bed. Trust me, I know.'

Colonel Taylor proves yet again that he is The Man Who Knows. His omniscience saves me that day, and I get back my collection of
Australian Geographic.
But the beaches of Queensland and the wildlife of Tasmania do not entice me any longer. Ramu weeps and confesses to pocketing the bra, but continues to maintain that he did not steal the necklace. He points an accusing finger at Shanti. But it is all to no avail. The Inspector takes him away in his jeep. He also takes away a bottle of Black Label whisky from Colonel Taylor, smiling toothily. 'Thank you very much, Taylor Sahib. Any time you need my services, just give me a ring. It will be a pleasure to serve you. Here's my card.'

Colonel Taylor takes the card abstractedly and leaves it on the side table in the drawing room.

* * *

There is a lot of excitement in the house. The Taylors have got a pet dog for Maggie. The

Colonel brings him in on a leash. He is small and furry, with a tiny wet nose and a long tail. He looks like a doll and yelps rather than barks. Maggie says he is an Apso. She decides to call him Rover.

* * *

There is excitement in the house again. A new cook has arrived. His name is Jai. He does not know half the things that Ramu knew. Never mind cooking French cuisine, he cannot even

pronounce
au gratin.
But he gets the job because he is a mature, married man, with a wife and two girls who live in some nearby village. I am not very happy to share my room again. I was enjoying sleeping alone in the bunk beds. On some nights I would sleep in the top bed and on others in the bottom.

I take an instant dislike to Jai. He has shifty eyes. He smokes secretly in the room (smoking in the Taylors' residence is prohibited). And he treats me like a servant. 'What is your ambition in life?' he asks me like the teacher in the Juvenile Home.

'To own a red Ferrari,' I lie. 'What is yours?'

He lights up another cigarette and sends smoke rings spinning out of his mouth. 'I want to open a garage, but it will cost money. I have a very rich friend, Amar, who has promised that if I can arrange a hundred and fifty thousand, he will put together the rest. How much money do you think these
firangs
have in the house?'

I keep my mouth shut. So from the very first week, Mr Jai has begun plotting a robbery. Good that he doesn't know about The Man Who Knows. He will find out soon enough.

* * *

Colonel Taylor starts going on early-morning walks with Rover to Lodhi Garden, which is close to the house. Till the Delhi Government brings out a new law under which people with pet dogs have to scoop up the dog litter or face hefty fines. From then on I am instructed to accompany master and dog and act as sweeper to Rover. I hate this chore. Imagine having to get up from bed at five-thirty and go running with scoop and pan after a dirty, stupid dog which shits every two minutes. Lodhi Garden, though, is a nice place for a morning walk. It has a lot of greenery and a crumbling ancient monument called Bara Gumbad in the centre. In the morning the park is full of joggers. I see fat old ladies doing yoga and thin anorexic girls doing aerobics. I also begin to notice that sometimes Colonel Taylor disappears from my view for long periods when I am busy scooping Rover's poop. This intrigues me, so one morning I leave Rover to his own devices and decide to follow Colonel Taylor. I see him go past the Bara Gumbad and move towards a little thicket. I peer from behind a dense bush and see him greet the same Indian from the Ministry of Defence who had come to the garden party.

'Do you know, Mr Kumar, that I followed you last night from your house in South Ex all the way to the sweet shop, and you didn't have a clue?' says Colonel Taylor.

Jeevan Kumar is sweating profusely and is clearly fidgety. He seems very contrite. 'Oh, I am really sorry, Colonel Sahib. I will be more careful in the future. I know people should not see us together.'

'Of course, Mr Kumar, that goes without saying. But if you continue to be lax about your

security I am afraid we will have to terminate these face-to-face meetings. Just remember a simple rule: CYTLYT.'

'CYTLYT?'

'Yes. Confuse Your Trail, Lose Your Tail. It's actually quite simple. What it means is that you must never take a direct route to your destination. Change roads, change cars, duck into one shop, come out of another, anything to confuse your trail. Once you do that, you make it