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kids, helping them rebuild their lives. Maman believes that disabled children are closer to God.
He rescues children from juvenile homes, which he believes are nothing but jails under another
name. If Maman had not saved us, we would have ended up cleaning car windscreens at traffic
lights or sweeping floors in private houses. Now we would be taught useful skills and groomed
for success. Mustafa and Punnoose are excellent salesmen. By the end of the trip, even I am
convinced that being picked by Maman is the best thing that has ever happened to me and that
my life will now be transformed.
From time to time, the train passes through slum colonies, lining the edges of the railway tracks
like a ribbon of dirt. We see half-naked children with distended bellies waving at us, while their
mothers wash utensils in sewer water. We wave back.
* * *
The sights and sounds of Mumbai overwhelm us. Churchgate station looks exactly as it did in
Love in Bombay. Salim half expects to bump into Govinda singing a song near the church.
Mustafa points out the beach at Marine Drive. I am fascinated by my first sight of the ocean,
where giant waves crash and roll against the rocks. Salim doesn't see the majestic ocean. He
looks at the stalls selling soft drinks and snacks. 'That is where Govinda and Raveena had bhel
puri,' he points out excitedly. We pass through Haji Ali's dargah. Salim raises his hands to Allah
when he sees the shrine, exactly like he saw Amitabh Bachchan do in the film Coolie. We pass
through the districts of Worli, Dadar and Mahim, Mustafa and Punnoose pointing out major
landmarks to us. At Mahim Fort, Salim gestures the taxi driver to stop.
'What's the matter?' Mustafa asks.
'Nothing. I just wanted to see the place where the smugglers offload their consignment in the
film Mafia!'
As we approach Bandra, Juhu and Andheri, dotted with the sparkling residences of film stars,
with their high boundary walls and platoons of uniformed guards, Salim becomes maudlin.
Through the taxi's tinted windows, we gape at the sprawling bungalows and high-rise apartment
blocks like villagers on a first trip to the city. It is as if we are seeing Mumbai through a
chromatic lens. The sun seems brighter, the air feels cooler, the people appear more prosperous,
the city throbs with the happiness of sharing space with the megastars of Bollywood.
* * *
We reach our destination in Goregaon. Maman's house is not the palatial bungalow we had come
to expect. It is a large decrepit building set in a courtyard with a small garden and two palm
trees. It is ringed by a high boundary wall topped with barbed wire. Two dark, well-built men sit
in the porch smoking beedis and wearing thin, coloured lungis. They are holding thick bamboo
sticks in their hands. They cross their legs and we catch a glimpse of their striped underwear. A
strong smell of arrack radiates from them. Punnoose speaks to them in quick-fire Malayalam.
The only word I can catch is 'Maman'. They are obviously guards employed by Mr Babu Pillai.
As we enter the house, Mustafa points out a set of corrugated-iron structures beyond the
courtyard, like huge sheds. 'That is the school Maman runs for crippled children. The children
live there as well.'
'How come I don't see any children?' I ask.
'They have all gone out for vocational training. Don't worry, you will meet them in the evening.
Come, let me show you to your room.'
Our room is small and compact, with two bunk beds and a long mirror built into the wall. Salim
takes the top bed. There is a bathroom in the basement which we can use. It has a tub and a
shower curtain. It is not as luxurious as the houses of film stars, but it will do. It looks as though
we are the only children living in the house.
Maman comes to meet us in the evening. Salim tells him how excited he is to be in Mumbai and
how he wants to become a famous film star. Maman smiles when he hears this. 'The first and
foremost requirement for becoming a film star is the ability to sing and dance. Can you sing?' he
asks Salim.
'No,' says Salim.
'Well, don't worry. I will arrange for a top music teacher to give you lessons. In no time at all you
will be like Kishore Kumar.'
Salim looks as if he might hug Maman, but restrains himself.
At night we go to the school for dinner. It has a mess hall similar to the one in our Juvenile
Home, with cheap linoleum flooring, long wooden tables, and a head cook who is a carbon copy
of ours back at the Home. Salim and I are told to sit at a small round table with Mustafa. We are
served before the other kids come in. The food is hot and tasty, a definite improvement on the
insipid fare we got in Delhi.
One by one the children start trickling in, and instantly challenge our definition of hell. I see
boys with no eyes, feeling their way forward with the help of sticks; boys with bent and
misshapen limbs, dragging themselves to the table; boys with two gnarled stumps for legs,
walking on crutches; boys with grotesque mouths and twisted fingers, eating bread held between
their elbows. Some of them are like clowns. Except they make us cry instead of laugh. It is good
Salim and I have almost finished our meal.
We see three boys standing in one corner, watching the others eat, but not being served
themselves. One of them licks his lips. 'Who are these boys?' I ask Mustafa. 'And why aren't they
eating?'
'They are being punished,' Mustafa says. 'For not doing enough work. Don't worry, they'll eat
later.'
* * *
The music teacher comes the next day. He is a youngish man, with an oval, clean-shaven face,
large ears and thin, bony fingers. He carries a harmonium with him. 'Call me Masterji,' he
instructs us. 'Now listen to what I sing.' We sit on the floor in rapt attention as he sings, 'Sa re ga
ma pa dha ni sa.' Then he explains, 'These are the seven basic notes which are present in each
and every composition. Now open your mouth and sing these notes loudly. Let the sound come
not from your lips, not from your nose, but from the base of your throat.'
Salim clears his throat and begins. 'Sa re ga ma pa dha ni sa.' He sings full-throated, with
abandon. The room resonates with the sound of his clear notes. His voice floats over the room,
the notes ringing pure and unsullied.
'Very good.' The teacher claps. 'You have a natural, God-given voice. I have no doubt that with
constant practice, you will very soon be able to negotiate the entire range of three and a half [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]