' "No. Killing him would be too easy. We will burn this motherfucker alive in this bus. Then he and his community will learn never to touch our homes," said the leader, and laughed. Another man opened a can of petrol and started sprinkling it inside the bus. I used to love the smell of petrol, but since that day I associate it with burning flesh.
The man sitting two rows behind me stood up suddenly. "You have not asked for my name. Let me tell you. It is Ahmed Khan. And I want to see the bastard who will touch this boy," he said.
'There was momentary silence from the ruffians, before their leader spoke. "Oh, so you are a Muslim too. Very well then, you will also be torched along with this boy."
'The man was unperturbed. "Before you torch me, have a look at this," he said, and took out a revolver. He pointed it at the ruffians.
'You should have seen the faces of all those rowdies. Their eyes popped out of their sockets.
They left their swords and tridents in the bus and ran helter-skelter for dear life. My life was saved. I had tears of gratitude in my eyes.
'The man saw me crying and asked me, "What is your name?"
' "Salim . . . Salim Ilyasi," I replied, still sobbing.
' "Don't you know how to lie?" he said. "But I value people who speak the truth even when confronted with death."
'He told me he had an import–expor t business and lived alone in a big house in the Byculla locality. He said he needed someone to do the cooking and cleaning, and generally look after the house whenever he had to travel on business. I did wonder why a businessman like him was carrying a gun on the bus, but he promised me double what I was earning as a tiffin carrier, and I instantly agreed to become his live-in servant.
'Ahmed had a large, spacious flat with three bedrooms, a good-sized kitchen and a drawing room with a thirty-six-inch TV. I did the cooking, cleaning and dusting, but I did not forget my ambition of becoming an actor. In a way, working for Ahmed was good, because he would be away from the house most of the day and sometimes even for a week or two. During that time I would do the rounds of the studios. I developed my roll of film and got excellent eight-by-six blow-ups made. I gave them to Mukesh Rawal, who in turn showed them to Pappu Master, the junior-artist supplier. Believe it or not, after just three months I received my first film offer.'
'Really?' I exclaim. 'Which role did you get and in which film?'
'It was as a college student in the Abbas Rizvi film Bad Boys starring Sunil Mehra.'
'Then let's go and see it right away. I would love to watch you on screen and hear your dialogues.'
'Well . . .' Salim hesitates. He looks down at his shoes. 'You see, my role was cut at the last minute. So on screen you see me for just three seconds, sitting at a desk in a classroom with thirty other students. The only dialogues in that scene are between the hero Sunil and the class teacher.'
'What?' I cry in disappointment. 'Just three seconds! What kind of role is that?'
'Junior artists are supposed to do just those kinds of roles. We are not heroes and heroines. We are merely part of the scenery. Remember those big party scenes in films? Junior artists are the extras who stand around sipping their drinks while the hero and heroine waltz on the dance floor.
We are the passers-by on the street when the hero chases the villain. We are the chaps who clap in a disco when the hero and heroine win a dance competition. But I didn't mind working as a junior artist. It allowed me to fulfil my dream of seeing behind the scenes. And it enabled me to meet the producer, Abbas Rizvi. He liked my looks and promised to give me a longer role in his next film.
'Over the course of the next six months, I discovered many things about Ahmed. All in all, he was a rather strange man. He had just two interests in life: eating good food and watching television. On TV he watched just two programmes – cricket and Mumbai Crime Watch. He was fanatical about cricket. Whenever a match was being played, with or without India, he had to watch it. He would get up at three o'clock in the morning if there was a match in the West Indies and at midnight if it was in Australia. He would even watch matches between novice teams like Kenya and Canada.
'He kept a diary in which he recorded every cricket statistic. He knew by heart the batting average of each and every batsman, the bowling figures of each and every bowler, the number of catches taken by a fielder, the stumpings done by a wicket-keeper. He could tell you the highest and lowest-ever scores in a match, the maximum number of runs scored in an over, the biggest victory margins and the narrowest.
'But he stored all this information for a purpose – to bet on cricket matches. I found this out during the India–Englan d series. Ahmed was watching the match on TV and trying to call someone on his mobile. So I asked him, "What are you doing, Ahmed bhai?"
' "I am about to play satta," he replied.
' "Satta? What's that?"
' "It is another name for illegal betting. Satta is organized by powerful underworld syndicates in Mumbai with a daily turnover of millions of rupees. Millions are bet on every cricket match, thousands on every ball. I am one of the biggest punters. This house that you see, this expensive TV, the microwave in the kitchen, the air conditioner in the bedroom, are all due to my winnings from satta. Three years ago, I made a killing in the India–Australi a match. You remember the famous match in Eden Gardens? At a time when India were 232 for 4 and staring at an innings defeat, and the odds were a thousand to one against India, I bet on Laxman and India and cleaned up ten lakh rupees!"
' "Ten lakhs!" My eyes popped out.
' "Yes. Today I am only betting ten thousand on India. I have been trying to ask my bookie for the odds, but his number is continuously engaged." He slapped his mobile a couple of times, looked impatiently at his watch and punched in the number once again. This time he got through.
"Hello, Sharad bhai? AK here. Code 3563. What's the rate on the match?" I heard the bookie's voice over the phone with a lot of static. I could hear the commentary in the background: "India already has a lead of 175 over England. Once the lead crosses 250, the odds will turn heavily in favour of India. With less than a lead of 250 it is fifty–fift y either way, but crossing the 250 mark will change that to three to one in India's favour."
' "And what are the odds on an England victory?" Ahmed asked him.
' "Are you crazy?" the bookie replied. "There is no way England can win; their best bet is to hold out for a draw. But if you ask for the odds, they are eight to one. Do you want to book now?"
' "Yeah. Put me down for ten thousand on India losing," said Ahmed.
I was astounded when I heard Ahmed place this bet, because India was in the lead. But Ahmed obviously knew more than the bookie, because by the end of play England had won the match, English flags were fluttering all over Lord's cricket ground, and Ahmed was punching his fists in the air and exulting, "Yes! Yes! Yes!" He called up his bookie again. "Kyun Sharad bhai, wasn't I right? How much have I cleaned up? Eighty thousand? Ha! Not a bad profit for a few hours' work!"
'Ahmed went out and got a bottle full of frothy liquid, and that evening I had my first sip of champagne.
'Ahmed's second interest in life was watching Mumbai Crime Watch. Have you ever seen it?'
I shake my head. 'No, it wasn't on the TV in Delhi.'
'Well, it is a very boring programme. It is like a news bulletin, except they don't tell you about floods and riots and war and politics. They tell you only about violent crime. Who has been murdered, who has been raped, which bank has been looted, who has escaped from jail, that kind of thing.
'Ahmed would sit in front of the TV with a plate of seekh kebabs and laugh loudly whenever he heard the bulletin on Mumbai Crime Watch. For some reason, he found it very amusing.