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 octaves.' Then he looks at me. 'OK. Now why don't you sing the same notes.'
'Sa re ga ma pa dha . . .' I try to sing, but my voice cracks and the notes shatter and fragment like a fistful of marbles dropped on the floor.
The teacher inserts a finger in his ear. 'Hare Ram . . . Hare Ram . . . You sing like a buffalo. I will have to work really hard on you.'
Salim comes to my rescue. 'No, Masterji, Mohammad has a good voice too. He screams really well.'
* * *
Over the next two weeks, Masterji teaches us several devotional songs by famous saints and how to play the harmonium. We learn the dohas of Kabir and the bhajans of Tulsidas and Mirabai.
Masterji is a good teacher. Not only does he teach us the songs, he also explains the complex spiritual truths portrayed through these songs in the simple language of common people. I particularly like Kabir, who says in one of his verses:
Maala pherat jug bhaya,
mita na man ka pher,
kar ka manka chhod de,
man ka manka pher.
You have been counting rosary beads for an era,
But the wandering of your mind does not halt,
Forsake the beads in your hand,
And start moving the beads of your heart.
The fact that Salim is Muslim is of little consequence to Masterji as he teaches him Hindu bhajans. Salim himself is hardly bothered. If Amitabh Bachchan can play the role of a Muslim coolie and if Salman Khan can act as a Hindu emperor, Salim Ilyasi can sing Thumaki Chalat Ram Chandra Baajat Painjaniya with as much gusto as a temple priest.
* * *
During this period, Salim and I come to know some of the other boys in the cripple school, despite subtle attempts by Mustafa and Punnoose to prevent us from mixing too much with those they mispronounce as 'handclapped' kids. We learn the sad histories of these boys and discover that when it comes to cruel relatives and policemen, Mumbai is no different from Delhi. But as we learn more and more about these kids, the truth about Maman also starts to unravel.
* * *
We befriend Ashok, a thirteen-year-old with a deformed arm, and receive our first shock.
'We are not schoolchildren,' he tells us. 'We are beggars. We beg in local trains. Some of us are pickpockets as well.'
'And what happens to the money you earn?'
'We are required to give it to Maman's men, in return for food and shelter.'
'You mean Maman is a gangster?'
'What did you think? He is no angel, but at least he gives us two square meals a day.'
My belief in Maman is shattered, but Salim continues to lay faith in the innate goodness of man.
* * *
We have an encounter with Raju, a blind ten-year-old.
'How come you were punished today?'
'I didn't earn enough.'
'How much are you required to give each day?'
'All that we earn. But if you give less than one hundred rupees, you are punished.'
'And what happens then?'
'You don't get food. You sleep hungry. Rats eat your belly.'
'Here, take this chapatti. We saved it for you.'
* * *
We speak to Radhey, an eleven-year-old with a leg missing. 'How come you never get punished?
You always make enough money.'
'Shhh . . . It's a secret.'
'Don't worry. It's safe with us.'
'OK. But don't let any of the other boys know. You see, there is this actress living in Juhu Vile Parle. Whenever I am a little short, I go to her. She not only gives me food, she also gives me money to cover the shortfall.'
'What is her name?'
'Neelima Kumari. They say she was quite famous at one time.' 'What does she look like?' 'She must have been very beautiful in her youth, but now she is getting old. She told me she is in need of domestic help. If I didn't have a leg missing, I would have run away from here and taken up a servant's job in her house.'
I dream that night of going to a house in Juhu Vile Parle. I ring the bell and wait. A tall woman opens the door. She wears a white sari. A strong wind begins howling, making her long black hair fly across her face, obscuring it. I open my mouth to say something, and then discover that she is looking down at me. I look down and discover with a shock that I have no legs.
I wake up, drenched in sweat.
* * *
We get introduced to Moolay, a thirteen-year-old with an amputated arm.
'I hate my life,' he says.
'Why don't you run away?'
'Where to? This is Mumbai, not my village. There is no space to hide your head in this vast city.
You need to have connections even to sleep in a sewage pipe. And you need protection from the other gangs.'
'Other gangs?'
