Over time, Salim and I become very good friends. We have many things in common. We are both orphans, with no hope of being 'restored'. We both love playing marbles. And we both love watching films. I use my influence to get him a bed next to mine when we move back to the dormitory.
Late one night, Salim is summoned to Gupta's room. Gupta is a widower and lives alone on the compound. Salim is worried. 'Why is he calling me?' he asks me.
'I don't know,' I reply. 'I've never been to his room. But we can find out today.' So Salim walks down to Gupta's room and I tiptoe behind him.
Gupta is sitting in his room wearing crumpled kurta pyjamas when Salim knocks on the door.
'Come . . . come, Salim,' he says in a slurred voice. He has a glassful of golden liquid in his hand.
He gulps it down and wipes his mouth. His eyes look like big buttons. I watch from the little space between the two curtains in the doorway. He strokes Salim's face, tracing his fingers over his bony nose and thin lips. Then abruptly he orders, 'Take off your shorts.'
Salim is confused by this request. 'Just do as I say, bastard, or I will give you a tight slap,' Gupta snarls. Salim complies. He pushes down his shorts hesitatingly. I avert my eyes.
Gupta approaches Salim from behind, his gold chains jangling. 'Good,' he mutters. I see him unfasten the cord of his pyjamas and lower them. I can see his hairy backside. Salim has still not understood what is happening, but a fog is lifting from my brain. With startling clarity I suddenly comprehend what had happened in Father John's room that night. And what had followed the next day.
I let out a piercing scream that shatters the silence of the night like a bullet. It wakes up the boys sleeping peacefully in the dormitories; it wakes up the cook, snoring in the kitchen; it wakes up the warden in his bedroom; it even wakes up the stray dogs, which begin to bark madly.
Gupta doesn't know what has hit him. He hastily pulls up his pyjamas and tries to shoo Salim away. But the cook, the warden and the guards are already on their way to Gupta's room. They discover his dirty secret that night (though they do nothing about it). But Gupta also discovers me lurking behind the curtains. From then on he becomes my mortal enemy. Salim is shaken, but unhurt. He had given up his animus against Hindus a long time ago. But a fear of abuse is embedded in him for the rest of his life.
* * *
It is a beautiful spring day. And it appears even more beautiful because we are outside the confines of the Juvenile Home. We have all been taken on a day trip by an international NGO.
We travel by air-conditioned bus all over Delhi. We have lunch in the zoo and see the animals.
For the first time we see a hippopotamus and kangaroos and giraffes and the giant sloth. We see pelicans and flamingos and the duck-billed platypus. Then we are taken to the Qutub Minar, the highest tower in India. Laughing and jostling, we climb the stairs and peer out from the first-floor balcony. The men and women on the ground seem like ants. We shout 'Hooooo' and listen for the sound to peter out before it reaches the ground. Finally, we are taken to India Gate to see a big carnival. We are each given ten rupees to spend on any attraction we choose. I want to ride on the giant wheel, but Salim tugs at my sleeve and pulls me to another booth. 'Pandit Ramashankar Shastri,' it says. 'World-famous Palmist. Only Rs.10 per reading.' An old man is sitting inside the booth, wearing a dhoti kurta. He has a white moustache, a vermilion tilak on his forehead, and thick lenses. A black choti juts out from the back of his head.
'I want to show my hand,' Salim says. 'It is only ten rupees.'
'Don't be foolish,' I tell him. 'These chaps are conmen. They cannot know your future. And, in any case, there's not much in our future worth knowing.'
'I want to show my hand just the same.' Salim is adamant.
'Fine.' I give in. 'You go ahead, but I'm not spending my ten rupees on this crap.'
Salim pays the money and eagerly extends his left hand. The pandit shakes his head. 'No, not the left hand. That is for girls. Boys have to show their right hand.'
Salim quickly extends his right palm. The palmist peers at it with a magnifying glass, and analyses the scrabbly lines as if they were a map of buried treasure. Finally he puts down the magnifying glass and lets out a satisfied sigh. 'You have a remarkable hand, my boy. I have never seen a better fate line. I see a very bright future for you.'
'Really?' Salim is delighted. 'What will I become?'
Mr Shastri has obviously not thought about that. He closes his eyes for ten seconds, then opens them. 'You have a beautiful face. You will be a very famous actor,' he declares.
'Like Armaan Ali?' squeals Salim.
'Even more famous,' says the pandit. He turns to me. 'Do you also want to show your hand? It is only ten rupees.'
'No, thank you,' I say and begin to move away, but Salim bars my way.
'No, Mohammad, you have to show your hand. For my sake, please.'
