We didn't speak much at first, but sat down on a nearby bench. We didn't listen to the squawking of the seagulls circling overhead. We took no notice of the little boys playing football on the road. We didn't see the throng of devotees going to the Haji Ali dargah. We just hugged each other and wept. For the times we had spent together, for the time we had lost. And then we talked about all that had happened in between. Rather, Salim talked and I listened.
* * *
Salim has become taller and more handsome. At sixteen, he looks as good as any Bollywood film star. The hard life of the city has not corrupted him like it corrupted me. He still loves Hindi films and worships the stars of Bollywood (with the obvious exception of Armaan Ali). He still goes to the shrine of Haji Ali every Friday to offer prayers. And, most importantly, the prediction of the palmist is finally about to come true. He no longer works as a dabbawallah, delivering tiffins to Mumbai's middle class, but has enrolled himself in an expensive acting school where he is learning to become an actor.
'Do you know who is paying for my acting classes?' he asks me.
'No.'
'It is Abbas Rizvi.'
'The famous producer who has made all those blockbusters?'
'Yes, the same. He has offered me the role of a hero in his next film, which will be launched in two years' time, when I have turned eighteen. Till then he is getting me trained.'
'But that's wonderful, Salim. How did all this happen?'
'It is a very long story.'
'No story can be long enough for me, Salim. Quick, now, tell me from the beginning.' So this is the story narrated by Salim, in his own words.
* * *
'After you went away so suddenly, I was left all alone in the chawl. I continued with my life as a dabbawallah for four more years, collecting and delivering tiffins, but I also continued to dream of becoming an actor.
'One day, while I was collecting a tiffin from the wife of a customer called Mukesh Rawal, I noticed that the walls of his house were decorated with pictures of himself with famous film stars. I asked Mrs Rawal whether her husband was in the film industry. She said he was just a sales officer in a pharmaceutical company, but worked in films part-time, as a junior artist.
'I was amazed to hear this. I rushed to Mukesh Rawal's office the same afternoon and asked him if I too could become a junior artist like him. Mukesh looked at me and laughed. He said I was too young to become an actor, but that sometimes they had roles for schoolboys and street kids, for which I might be right. He promised to refer me to Pappu Master, the junior-artist supplier for whom he worked, and asked me to provide him with several glossy eight-by-six photographs of myself in a variety of poses. If Pappu liked my photos, he might choose me for a bit role in a film. Mukesh told me that for a junior artist, acting skills were not required, but I had to look smart in a suit, menacing in a ruffian's outfit and charming in a school uniform. He insisted that I get the photos professionally taken at a studio.
'That night I couldn't sleep. I went to a photographer's shop the very next morning and enquired about the cost of the pictures. The photographer quoted me an astronomical sum, almost equal to my full month's earnings. I told him, "Arrey baba, I can't afford so much money." So he advised me to buy one of those cheap, disposable cameras and take my own pictures, which he could then blow up. I did as he told me. I bought a camera and requested passersby to take my picture.
I sat on somebody's motorcycle in front of Churchgate and tried to look as cool as Amitabh Bachchan in the film Muqaddar ka Sikandar. I posed sitting on a horse on Chowpatty Beach, just like Akshay Kumar in Khel. I stood in front of Sun 'n' Sand hotel, posing like Hrithik Roshan in Kaho Na Pyar Hai. I held an empty Johnny Walker bottle in my hands and tried to look as drunk as Shahrukh Khan in Devdas. I grinned in front of Flora Fountain like Govinda does in all his films. I got almost twenty pictures taken of myself, but the roll took thirty-six and I had to finish it before I could get the pictures developed. So I decided to take pictures of interesting buildings and people. I took pictures of Victoria Terminus and the Gateway of India, I clicked a beautiful girl in Marine Drive, snapped an old man in Bandra and even took a close-up of a donkey in Colaba. My final picture was of a swarthy, middle-aged man in Mahim sitting on a bench and smoking. His fingers were adorned with different-coloured rings. Only after I had pressed the shutter button did I realize whose picture I had taken, and I froze.'
'What do you mean?' I ask Salim. 'Was he a famous film star? Was it that swine Armaan Ali?'
'No, Mohammad, it was a man you know equally well. It was Mr Babu Pillai, alias Maman. The man who brought us here from Delhi and almost blinded us.'
'Oh, my God!' I cover my mouth. 'Did he recognize you?'
'Yes, he did. "You are Salim, aren't you? You are the boy who ran away from me. But you won't get away from me this time," he cried and lunged at me.
'I didn't even think. I just turned around and ran towards the main road. A bus was pulling away and I jumped on it just in time, leaving Maman panting behind me on the road.
'I was sitting on the bus, thinking what a lucky escape I'd had, when guess what happened?'
'What?'
'The bus stopped at a traffic light and a group of ruffians wearing head bands and armed with swords, spears and tridents got on.'
'Oh, my God! Don't tell me it was a mob.'
'Yes, it was. I realized then that we had landed in the middle of a communal riot. The wreckage of a smouldering vehicle lay directly in front of us. Shops had been reduced to rubble, splashes of blood could be seen on the pavement, stones, sticks and slippers littered the street. The driver immediately bolted from the bus. My mind went numb with fear. I had thought I would never have to see such a horrifying sight again. I heard sounds which I thought I had forgotten. My mother's shrieks and my brother's cries echoed in my ears. I began shivering. The ruffians told everyone on the bus that a Muslim mob had set fire to Hindu houses and now they were out for revenge. I learnt later that the whole trouble had started over a simple quibble about a water tap in a slum. But people's minds were so full of hate that within hours buses were being burnt, houses were being torched and people were being butchered.
' "Each one of you say your name. All those who are Hindu are allowed to step down from the bus, all those who are Muslim should keep sitting,' the ruffians announced. One by one the trembling passengers said their names. Arvind. Usha. Jatin. Arun. Vasanti. Jagdish. Narmada.
Ganga. Milind. The bus started emptying. The ruffians watched each of the passengers with hawk-like eyes. They checked the vermilion in the partings of the ladies' hair, asked some of the men further questions to establish their religion, and even forced a little boy to open his shorts. I was nauseated by this barbaric display, but was also quivering in my seat. Finally, only two passengers were left on the bus: me and a man sitting two seats behind me.
'You know, Mohammad, in films when such a scene happens, the hero stands up and appeals to the humanity of the mob. He tells them that the blood of both Hindus and Muslims is the same colour. That it doesn't say on our face which religion we belong to. That love is preferable to hate. I knew so many dialogues, any of which I could have recited before those ruffians, but when you actually stand face to face with such savagery, you forget all words. You only think of one thing. Life. I wanted to live, because I had to fulfil my dream of becoming an actor. And now the dream and the dreamer were both going to be set ablaze in a Mumbai bus.
' "What is your name?" the leader asked me.
'I could have said Ram or Krishna, but I became tongue-tied. One of the attackers pointed to the tabeez around my neck. "This bastard is definitely a Muslim, let's kill him," he urged.