Slumdog Millionaire: A Novel (2 page)

Godbole is not very old, perhaps in his mid forties. He has a balding head and a round face dominated by a handlebar moustache. He walks with heavy steps and his overfed stomach

droops over his khaki trousers. 'Bloody flies,' he swears and tries to swat one circling in front of his face. He misses.

Inspector Godbole is not in a good mood today. He is bothered by these flies. He is bothered by the heat. Rivulets of sweat run down his forehead. He smears them off with his shirt sleeve. Most of all, he is bothered by my name. 'Ram Mohammad Thomas – what kind of a nonsense name is that, mixing up all the religions? Couldn't your mother decide who your father was?' he says, not for the first time.

I let the insult pass. It is something I have become inured to.

Outside the interrogation room two constables stand stiffly to attention, a sign that someone important is inside. In the morning they had been chewing
paan
and exchanging dirty jokes.

Godbole literally pushes me into the room, where two men are standing in front of a wall chart listing the total number of kidnappings and murders in the year. I recognize one of them. He is the same man, with long hair like a woman – or a rock star – who had been present during the recording of the quiz show, relaying instructions through a headset to the presenter. I don't know the other man, who is white and completely bald. He wears a mauvecoloured suit and a bright-orange tie. Only a white man would wear a suit and tie in this stifling heat. It reminds me of Colonel Taylor.

The ceiling fan is running at full speed, yet the room feels airless in the absence of a window.

Heat rises from the bleached white walls and is trapped by the low wooden ceiling. A long, thin beam bisects the room into two equal parts. The room is bare except for a rusty table in the centre with three chairs around it. A metal lampshade hangs directly over the table from the wooden beam.

Godbole presents me to the white man like a ringmaster introducing his pet lion. 'This is Ram Mohammad Thomas, Sir.'

The white man dabs his forehead with a handkerchief and looks at me as though I am a new

species of monkey. 'So this is our famous winner! I must say he looks older than I thought.' I try to place his accent. He speaks with the same nasal twang as the prosperous tourists I'd seen thronging Agra from far-off places like Baltimore and Boston.

The American eases himself into a chair. He has deep-blue eyes and a pink nose. The green veins on his forehead look like little branches. 'Hello,' he addresses me. 'My name is Neil Johnson. I represent NewAge Telemedia, the company that licenses the quiz. This is Billy Nanda, the

producer.'

I remain quiet. Monkeys do not speak. Especially not in English. He turns to Nanda. 'He

understands English, doesn't he?'

'Are you out of your mind, Neil?' Nanda admonishes him. 'How can you expect him to speak

English? He's just a dumb waiter in some godforsaken restaurant, for Chrissake!'

The sound of an approaching siren pierces the air. A constable comes running into the room and whispers something to Godbole. The Inspector rushes out and returns with a short, corpulent man dressed in the uniform of a top-level police officer. Godbole beams at Johnson, displaying his yellow teeth. 'Mr Johnson, Commissioner Sahib has arrived.'

Johnson rises to his feet. 'Thank you for coming, Mr Commissioner. I think you already know Billy here.'

The Commissioner nods. 'I came as soon as I got the message from the Home Minister.'

'Ah yes . . . He is an old friend of Mr Mikhailov's.'

'Well, what can I do for you?'

'Commissioner, I need your help on
W3B.'

'W3B?'

'Short for
Who Will Win A Billion?'

'And what's that?'

'It's a quiz show that has just been launched – in thirty-five countries – by our company. You may have seen our advertisements all over Mumbai.'

'I must have missed them. But why a billion?'

'Why not? Did you watch
Who Wants To Be A Millionaire?'

'Kaun Banega Crorepati?
That show was a national obsession. It was mandatory viewing in my family.'

'Why did you watch it?'

'Well . . . because it was so interesting.'

'Would it have been half as interesting if the top prize had been ten thousand instead of a million?'

'Well . . . I suppose not.'

'Exactly. You see, the biggest tease in the world is not sex. It's money. And the greater the sum of money,

the bigger the tease.'

'I see. So who's the quiz master on your show?'

'We have Prem Kumar fronting it.'

'Prem Kumar? That B-grade actor? But he's not half as famous as Amitabh Bachchan, who

presented
Crorepati.'

'Don't worry, he will be. Of course, we were partly obliged to choose him because he has a 29

per cent stake in the Indian subsidiary of New Age Telemedia.'

'OK. I get the picture. Now how does this guy, what's his name, Ram Mohammad Thomas, fit

into all this? 'He was a participant in our fifteenth episode last week.'

'And?'

'And answered all twelve questions correctly to win a billion rupees.'

'What? You must be joking!'

'No, it's no joke. We were as amazed as you are. This boy is the winner of the biggest jackpot in history. The episode has not been aired yet, so not many people know about it.'

'OK. If you say he won a billion, he won a billion. So what's the problem?'

Johnson pauses. 'Can Billy and I talk to you in private?'

The Commissioner motions Godbole to leave. The Inspector glowers at me and exits. I remain in the room, but no one takes any notice. I am just a waiter. And waiters don't understand English.

'OK. Now tell me,' says the Commissioner.

'You see, Commissioner, Mr Mikhailov is not in a position to pay a billion rupees right now,'

says Johnson.

'Then why did he offer it in the first place?'

'Well . . . it was a commercial gimmick.'

'Look, I still don't understand. Even if it was a gimmick, won't your show do even better now that someone has won the top prize? I remember that whenever a contestant won a million on

Who Wants To Be A Millionaire?,
viewing figures doubled.'

'It's the timing, Commissioner, the timing. Shows like
W3B
cannot be dictated by chance, by a roll of the dice. They have to follow a script. And according to our script, a winner was not due for at least eight months, by which time we would have recouped most of our investment through ad revenues. But now this fellow Thomas has wrecked all our plans.'

The Commissioner nods. 'OK, so what do you want me to do?'

'I want your help to prove that Thomas cheated on the show. That he couldn't have known the answers to all twelve questions without an accomplice. Just think. He's never been to school.

He's never even read a newspaper. There's no way he could have won the top prize.'

'Well . . . I'm not so sure.' The Commissioner scratches his head. 'There have been cases of boys from poor backgrounds turning out to be geniuses in later life. Wasn't Einstein himself a high-school drop-out?'

'Look, Mr Commissioner, we can prove right now that this guy is no Einstein,' says Johnson. He gestures to Nanda.

Nanda approaches me, running his fingers through his luxuriant hair. He addresses me in Hindi.

'Mr Ram Mohammad Thomas, if you were indeed brilliant enough to win on our show, we

would like you to prove it by taking part in another quiz for us, now.

These will be very simple questions. Almost anyone of average intelligence will know the

answers.' He sits me down on a chair. 'Are you ready? Here comes question number one. What is the currency of France? The choices are a) Dollar, b) Pound, c) Euro, or d) Franc.'

I keep silent. Suddenly, the Commissioner's open palm swoops down and hits me tightly across my cheek. 'Bastard, are you deaf? Answer or I'll break your jaw,' he threatens.

Nanda starts hopping around like a madman – or a rock star. 'Pleeeeze, can we do this the civilized way?' he asks the Commissioner. Then he looks at me. 'Yes? What's your answer?'

'Franc,' I reply sullenly.

'Wrong. The correct answer is Euro. OK, question number two. Who was the first man to set foot on the moon? Was it a) Edwin Aldrin, b) Neil Armstrong, c) Yuri Gagarin, or d) Jimmy Carter?'

'I don't know.'

'It was Neil Armstrong. Question number three. The Pyramids are situated in a) New York, b) Rome, c) Cairo, or d) Paris?'

'I don't know.'

'In Cairo. Question number four. Who is the President of America? Is it a) Bill Clinton, b) Colin Powell, c) John Kerry, or d) George Bush?'

'I don't know.'

'It's George Bush. I am sorry to say, Mr Thomas, that you didn't get a single answer right.' Nanda turns to the Commissioner, and reverts to English. 'See, I told you this guy's a moron. The only way he could have answered those questions last week was by cheating.'

'Any idea how he could have cheated?' asks the Commissioner.

'That's what beats me. I have got you two copies of the DVD footage. Our experts have gone over it with a microscope, but so far we have got zilch. Something will turn up eventually.'

The hunger in my belly has now risen to my throat, making me dizzy. I double up, coughing.

Johnson, the baldy American, looks at me sharply. 'Do you remember, Mr Commissioner, that case of the Army Major who won a million pounds on
Who Wants To Be A Millionaire?
It occurred in England, a few years ago. The company refused to pay. The police launched an

investigation and succeeded in convicting the Major. It turned out he had a professor as an accomplice in the audience who signalled the correct answers through coded coughs. It's a cert something similar has happened here.'

'So do we need to look out for a cougher in the audience?'

'No. There's no evidence of coughing. He must have used some other signal.'

'What about being buzzed by a pager or mobile?'

'No. We are pretty sure he had no gadgets on him. And neither pager nor cellphone would have worked in the studio.'

The Commissioner is struck by an idea. 'Do you think he might have a memory chip implanted in the brain?'

Johnson sighs. 'Mr Commissioner, I think you have been watching too many science-fiction

films. Look, whatever it is, you have to help us find it. We don't know who the accomplice was.

We don't know what signalling system was used. But I am one hundred per cent sure this boy is a con. You have to help us prove it.'

'Have you considered buying him off?' the Commissioner suggests hopefully. 'I mean he

probably doesn't even know the number of zeros in a billion. I imagine he would be quite happy if you threw him just a couple of thousand rupees.'

I feel like punching the Commissioner's lights out. Admittedly, before the quiz show I didn't know the value of a billion. But that's history. Now I know. And I am determined to get my prize. With all nine zeros.

Johnson's answer reassures me. 'We can't do that,' he says. 'It would make us vulnerable to a law suit. You see, he is either a bona fide winner or a crook. Therefore either he gets a billion or he goes to jail. There's no halfway house here. You have to help me ensure he goes to jail. Mr Mikhailov would have a coronary if he had to shell out a billion now.'

The Commissioner looks Johnson directly in the eye. 'I understand your point,' he drawls. 'But what's in it for me?'

As if on cue, Johnson takes him by the arm into a corner. They speak in hushed tones. I catch just three words: 'ten per cent'. The Commissioner is clearly excited by what he is told. 'OK, OK, Mr Johnson, consider your job done. Now let me call in Godbole.'

The Inspector is summoned. 'Godbole, what have you got out of him so far?' the Commissioner asks.

Godbole gazes at me balefully. 'Nothing, Commissioner Sahib. The bastard keeps on repeating the same story that he just "knew" the answers. Says he got lucky.'

'Lucky, eh?' sneers Johnson.

'Yes, Sir. I have so far not used third degree, otherwise he would be singing like a canary by now. Once you permit me, Sir, I can get the names of all his accomplices out in no time.'

The Commissioner looks quizzically at Johnson and Nanda. 'Are you comfortable with that?'

Nanda shakes his head vigorously, sending his long hair flying. 'No way. No torture. The papers have already got wind of the arrest. If they find out he has been mistreated, we will be finished.

I've enough problems on my plate already without having to worry about being sued by a bloody civil rights NGO.'

The Commissioner pats him on the back. 'Billy, you have become just like the Americans. Don't worry. Godbole is a professional. There won't be a single mark on the boy's body.'

Bile rises in my stomach like a balloon. I feel like retching.

The Commissioner prepares to depart. 'Godbole, by tomorrow morning I want the name of the collaborator and full details of the MO. Use any means necessary to extract the information. But be careful. Remember, your promotion depends on this.'

'Thank you, Sir. Thank you.' Godbole puts on a plastic smile. 'And don't worry, Sir. By the time I am through with this boy, he will be ready to confess the murder of Mahatma Gandhi.'

I try to recall who murdered Mahatma Gandhi, who is known to have said 'Hey Ram!' just before dying. I remember this because I had exclaimed, 'That's my name!' And Father Timothy had

gently explained that it was the name of Lord Ram, the Hindu god who had been banished into the jungle for fourteen years.

Godbole, meanwhile, has returned after seeing off the Commissioner and the two men. He

wheezes into the interrogation room and slams the door shut. Then he snaps his fingers at me.

'OK, motherfucker, strip!'

* * *