Punnoose comes into the room to talk to Masterji. They speak in low voices, then Punnoose takes out his purse and begins counting out some money. He hands over a sheaf of notes to the music teacher, who tucks it gratefully in the front pocket of his kurta. They leave the room together, leaving me alone with Salim and a harmonium.
'I should never have left Delhi,' I tell Salim. 'You have at least become a good singer, but I have gained nothing from this trip.'
It is then that I notice a hundred-rupee note lying on the floor. Punnoose must have dropped it while counting the money. My first impulse is to pocket it, but Salim snatches it from my hand and insists that we must return it. So we go down the corridor to the room Maman uses as his office, where Punnoose and Mustafa hang out.
As we approach the door, we hear voices coming from inside. Maman is talking to Punnoose. 'So what did the Master say after finishing his lessons? He is getting more and more expensive.'
'He said that the older one is useless, but the young kid has a lot of potential. He says he's never trained a more talented boy before.'
'So you think he can bring in at least three hundred?'
'What is three hundred? When he sings it is magic. And his face? Who can resist his face? I would say easily a potential of four to five hundred. We have hit the jackpot, Maman.'
'And the other boy? The tall one?'
'Who cares? The bastard will have to fend for himself. Either he gets us a hundred each night or he remains hungry.'
'OK. Send them out on the trains from next week. We will do them tonight. After dinner.'
* * *
A chill runs down my spine as I hear these words. I catch Salim's hand and rush back to our room. Salim is confused about the conversation we heard, and the reference to numbers. But the jigsaw is piecing itself together in my brain.
'Salim, we have to escape from this place. Now.'
'But why?'
'Because something very bad is going to happen to us tonight, after dinner.'
'I don't understand.'
'I understand everything. Do you know why we were taught the bhajans of Surdas?'
'Because he was a great poet?'
'No. Because he was blind. And that is what we are going to become tonight, so that we can be made to beg on local trains. I am convinced now that all the cripple boys we have met here have been deliberately maimed by Maman and his gang.'
But such cruelty is beyond Salim's comprehension. He wants to stay.
'Why don't you run away alone?' he asks me.
'I can't go without you.'
'Why?'
'Because I am your guardian angel, and you are part of my package deal.'
Salim hugs me. I take out the one-rupee coin from my pocket. 'Look, Salim,' I tell him. 'You believe in destiny, don't you? So let this coin decide our future. Heads we leave, tails we stay, OK?'
Salim nods. I flip the coin. It is heads.
Salim is finally reconciled to escaping from Maman's den, but his mind is full of doubt. 'Where will we go? What will we do? We don't know anyone in this city.'
'I know where we will go. Remember that actress Neelima Kumari that Radhey told us about?
She needs a servant. I have her address and I also know which local train goes there.'
'How about going to the police?'
'Are you out of your mind? Haven't you learnt anything since Delhi? Whatever you do, wherever you go, never go to the police. Ever.'
* * *
We are inside the bathroom in the basement, listening to the steady beat of water dripping from a leaky tap. Salim is on my shoulder with a knife in his hand, trying to work the bolts holding the wire-mesh window in place.
'Hurry,' I whisper through clenched teeth.
Upstairs, Maman's guards trample through our room, opening closets and cupboards. We hear shouts and abuses. A bottle crashes, jangling our frayed nerves even more. Salim is terrified. He is breathing quickly in short gasps. The beating of my heart intensifies till I can almost hear its pounding. Footsteps come closer.
'Only one is left,' says Salim. 'But it is jammed. I don't think I can open it.'
'Please . . . please try again!' I urge him. 'Our lives depend on it.'
Salim tackles the bolt with renewed urgency, twisting the knife into it with all his strength.
Finally, it gives way. He takes out the four bolts and lifts the wire mesh. We can see the palm trees outside swaying gently in the breeze. There is just enough space for us to crawl out.
Maman's men are about to come down the stairs to the basement when Salim manoeuvres himself through the window. Then he grasps my hand and helps me slither out. We clamber on to a mound of gravel and rubble, gasping and panting. The moon is full, the night is calm. We take in deep gulps of fresh air. It smells of coconuts.
* * *
We are sitting in a local train going away from Goregaon towards the centre of this vast metropolis. The train is not crowded at this time of night and there are only a few passengers in our compartment. They read newspapers, play cards, criticize the government, fart. A soft-drinks vendor enters the compartment carrying a plastic cool-box filled with multi-coloured bottles.
