'Ahmed had a large, spacious flat with three bedrooms, a good-sized kitchen and a drawing room with a thirty-six-inch TV. I did the cooking, cleaning and dusting, but I did not forget my ambition of becoming an actor. In a way, working for Ahmed was good, because he would be away from the house most of the day and sometimes even for a week or two. During that time I would do the rounds of the studios. I developed my roll of film and got excellent eight-by-six blow-ups made. I gave them to Mukesh Rawal, who in turn showed them to Pappu Master, the junior-artist supplier. Believe it or not, after just three months I received my first film offer.'
'Really?' I exclaim. 'Which role did you get and in which film?'
'It was as a college student in the Abbas Rizvi film Bad Boys starring Sunil Mehra.'
'Then let's go and see it right away. I would love to watch you on screen and hear your dialogues.'
'Well . . .' Salim hesitates. He looks down at his shoes. 'You see, my role was cut at the last minute. So on screen you see me for just three seconds, sitting at a desk in a classroom with thirty other students. The only dialogues in that scene are between the hero Sunil and the class teacher.'
'What?' I cry in disappointment. 'Just three seconds! What kind of role is that?'
'Junior artists are supposed to do just those kinds of roles. We are not heroes and heroines. We are merely part of the scenery. Remember those big party scenes in films? Junior artists are the extras who stand around sipping their drinks while the hero and heroine waltz on the dance floor.
We are the passers-by on the street when the hero chases the villain. We are the chaps who clap in a disco when the hero and heroine win a dance competition. But I didn't mind working as a junior artist. It allowed me to fulfil my dream of seeing behind the scenes. And it enabled me to meet the producer, Abbas Rizvi. He liked my looks and promised to give me a longer role in his next film.
'Over the course of the next six months, I discovered many things about Ahmed. All in all, he was a rather strange man. He had just two interests in life: eating good food and watching television. On TV he watched just two programmes – cricket and Mumbai Crime Watch. He was fanatical about cricket. Whenever a match was being played, with or without India, he had to watch it. He would get up at three o'clock in the morning if there was a match in the West Indies and at midnight if it was in Australia. He would even watch matches between novice teams like Kenya and Canada.
'He kept a diary in which he recorded every cricket statistic. He knew by heart the batting average of each and every batsman, the bowling figures of each and every bowler, the number of catches taken by a fielder, the stumpings done by a wicket-keeper. He could tell you the highest and lowest-ever scores in a match, the maximum number of runs scored in an over, the biggest victory margins and the narrowest.
'But he stored all this information for a purpose – to bet on cricket matches. I found this out during the India–Englan d series. Ahmed was watching the match on TV and trying to call someone on his mobile. So I asked him, "What are you doing, Ahmed bhai?"
' "I am about to play satta," he replied.
' "Satta? What's that?"
' "It is another name for illegal betting. Satta is organized by powerful underworld syndicates in Mumbai with a daily turnover of millions of rupees. Millions are bet on every cricket match, thousands on every ball. I am one of the biggest punters. This house that you see, this expensive TV, the microwave in the kitchen, the air conditioner in the bedroom, are all due to my winnings from satta. Three years ago, I made a killing in the India–Australi a match. You remember the famous match in Eden Gardens? At a time when India were 232 for 4 and staring at an innings defeat, and the odds were a thousand to one against India, I bet on Laxman and India and cleaned up ten lakh rupees!"
' "Ten lakhs!" My eyes popped out.
' "Yes. Today I am only betting ten thousand on India. I have been trying to ask my bookie for the odds, but his number is continuously engaged." He slapped his mobile a couple of times, looked impatiently at his watch and punched in the number once again. This time he got through.
"Hello, Sharad bhai? AK here. Code 3563. What's the rate on the match?" I heard the bookie's voice over the phone with a lot of static. I could hear the commentary in the background: "India already has a lead of 175 over England. Once the lead crosses 250, the odds will turn heavily in favour of India. With less than a lead of 250 it is fifty–fift y either way, but crossing the 250 mark will change that to three to one in India's favour."
' "And what are the odds on an England victory?" Ahmed asked him.
' "Are you crazy?" the bookie replied. "There is no way England can win; their best bet is to hold out for a draw. But if you ask for the odds, they are eight to one. Do you want to book now?"
