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.'
