Then the inquisition starts. 'Did you fight in any war yourself?' Kulkarni asks the army man, a retired Colonel.
'Yes, of course. I saw action in two great wars, '65 and '71.'
'And where did you serve during the 1971 war?'
'In Chhamb, which perhaps saw the greatest battles.'
'And which was your regiment?'
'I am from Infantry. The great Sikh Regiment.'
'Did you get any medals during the 1971 war?'
'Well, as a matter of fact, I got a Vir Chakra. It was a great honour.'
'What did you get this great honour for?'
'For the great battle of Mandiala Crossing, in which 35 Sikh did a great job.'
'What kind of person are you? You take medals yourself and deny others, without whose support you would never have regained that bridge.'
'I am sorry, I don't understand. Who are you referring to?'
'We are talking about our own soldier, who was a hero during the 1971 war at Chhamb, who lost a limb. Who should have got a Param Vir Chakra, but only got tears. Look, Colonel Sahib, we are civilians. We don't know about your army rules and regulations, but a grave injustice has been done here. Can you see whether something can be done even now? It is never too late to honour brave soldiers.'
'Where is this great soul?'
'He is right here in our chawl.'
'Really? That's great. I would love to pay my respects to him.'
So we escort him to Balwant Singh's room. We point out his door and watch as the Colonel goes in. We loiter around, unable to resist prying.
We hear loud voices, like an argument. Then a banging sound. After ten minutes or so, the Colonel comes rushing out, seething with anger. 'Is this the man you were complaining didn't get a PVC? He is the greatest scoundrel I have ever seen. I wish I could wring the swine's neck here and now.'
'How dare you talk about our war hero like this!' admonishes Mrs Damle.
'He, a war hero? That's the greatest joke in the world. He is a bloody deserter. Ran away at the first sight of trouble in the Chhamb sector. I tell you, he is a bloody blot on Sikh Regiment. He should have had fourteen years' Rigorous Imprisonment. Unfortunately, desertion cases are closed after five years, otherwise I would have reported him even now.'
We are astounded. 'What are you saying, Colonel? He recounted to us in great detail his exploits at Chhamb. He even lost a leg in combat.'
'That's a complete lie. Let me tell you his true story, which is actually quite pathetic.' The Colonel adjusts his belt. 'Balwant Singh was not in a good frame of mind when war broke out, because his wife had just given birth to his first child in Pathankot. He was desperate to be with his family. So great was his longing that at the first sign of trouble in Jaurian, when Pakistan attacked with artillery in full strength, he deserted his post and ran away. He managed to reach Pathankot and hid in his ancestral house. He must have thought he had left the war far behind, but the war did not leave him. Two days after his arrival, the Pakistani Air Force strafed Pathankot air base. They didn't hit any of our planes, but two thousand-pound bombs fell on a house close to the airfield. Turned out that the house was Balwant's. His wife and infant son perished instantly in the attack and he lost a leg to shrapnel.'
'But . . . how could he re-create the scene of battle in such great detail?'
The Colonel grimaces. 'I don't know what stories he told you, but twenty-six years is a long time to read up on great battles. The bastard crawled out of the woodwork after all these years just to fool you people and earn some cheap thrills through his fake tales of valour. Meeting him has spoiled my mood completely. It has not been a great day. Goodbye.'
The Colonel shakes his head and walks away from the chawl, flanked by the tall man and the fat man. We return to the bunker. It has not been a great day for us, either. We wonder what
Balwant Singh is doing. He does not come out that evening.
* * *
They find him the next morning, in his one-room lodging in the chawl. A can of milk and a newspaper lie untouched on his doorstep. His crutches are stacked neatly against the wall. The wooden bed has been pushed into a corner. There is an empty cup on the nightstand containing a residue of brown tea leaves. The only chair in the room lies upturned in the centre. He hangs from the ceiling fan with a pink piece of cloth tied to his neck, wearing the same olive-green uniform, his head bowed over his chest. As his limp body swings gently from side to side, the ceiling fan makes a faint creaking noise.
A police jeep arrives, its red light flashing. Constables rummage through his belongings. They chatter and gesticulate and question the neighbours rudely. A photographer takes pictures with a flashgun. A doctor in a white coat arrives with an ambulance. A big crowd gathers in front of Balwant's room.
They wheel out his body on a stretcher, covered in a crisp white sheet. The residents of the chawl stand in hushed silence. Putul and Dhyanesh and Salim and I peer diffidently from behind their backs. We stare opaquely at the dead man's body and nod, in fear and sorrow and guilt, as a liquid understanding spreads slowly through our numbed minds. Those of us for whom this was our first war, we knew then. That war was a very serious business. It took lives.
* * *
Smita is looking grim and serious.
'Where were you during the war?' I ask.
'Right here, in Mumbai,' she replies and hurriedly changes the topic. 'Let's see the next question.'
* * *
Prem Kumar swivels on his chair and addresses me. 'Mr Thomas, you have answered seven questions correctly to win two lakh rupees. Now let us see whether you can answer the eighth question, for five hundred thousand rupees. Are you ready?'
'Ready,' I reply.
'OK. Question number eight. Which is the highest award for gallantry given to the Indian armed forces? I repeat, which is the highest award for gallantry given to the Indian armed forces? Is it a) Maha Vir Chakra, b) Param Vir Chakra, c) Shaurya Chakra or d) Ashok Chakra?'
The suspenseful music commences. The time bomb starts ticking louder.
There is a buzz in the audience. They look at me with sympathy, preparing to bid goodbye to the friendly neighbourhood waiter.
'B. Param Vir Chakra,' I reply.
Prem Kumar raises his eyebrows. 'Do you know the answer, or are you just guessing?'
'I know the answer.'
'Are you absolutely, one hundred per cent sure?'
'Yes.'
The drumming reaches a crescendo. The correct answer flashes.
'Absolutely, one hundred per cent correct!' shouts Prem Kumar. The audience is exultant. There is sustained clapping and cries of 'Bravo!'
I smile. Prem Kumar doesn't.
Smita nods her head in understanding.
LICENCE TO KILL
There are many hazards of walking in an absentminded manner on the roads of Mumbai. You can inadvertently slip on a banana peel and go skidding. You can find that without warning your foot has sunk into a pile of soft dog shit. You can be rudely jolted by a wayward cow coming from behind and butting into your backside. Or a long-lost friend you had been avoiding meeting can emerge miraculously from the chaotic traffic and suddenly hug you.
That is what happened to me on Saturday 17 June, in front of Mahalaxmi Racecourse, when I bumped into Salim Ilyasi. After five years.
* * *
When I first arrived in Mumbai from Agra three months ago, I had resolved not to contact Salim.
It was a difficult decision. I had missed him during my years with the Taylors in Delhi and my travails in Agra, and to be in the same city as him and not see him was indeed a heavy burden to carry. But I was determined not to involve him in my plan of getting on to the quiz show.
'Mohammad!' Salim exclaimed the moment he saw me. 'What are you doing in Mumbai? When did you come? Where have you been all these years?'
Meeting a long-lost friend is similar, I suppose, to eating a favourite dish after a long time. You don't know how your taste buds will react after all this while, whether the dish will still taste as good as it used to. I met Salim after five long years with mixed emotions. Would our reunion be as warm as our friendship used to be? Would we still be as honest with each other?