Slumdog Millionaire: A Novel by Vikas Swarup Read Free Book Online Page A

ransack your church tomorrow. That is why we have come to help you. To cool things down.'
    'What do you suggest I do?'
    'I suggest you change the boy's name.'
    'To what?'
    'Well . . . giving him a Hindu name might do the trick. Why not name him Ram, after one of our favourite gods?' said Mr Sharma.
    Mr Hidayatullah coughed gently. 'Excuse me, Mr Sharma, but aren't we replacing one evil with another? I mean, what is the proof that the boy was a Hindu at birth? He might have been
    Muslim, you know. Why can't he be called Mohammad?'
    Mr Sharma and Mr Hidayatullah debated the respective merits of Ram and Mohammad for the
    next thirty minutes. Finally, Father Timothy gave up. 'Look, if it takes a name change to get the mob off my back, I will do it. How about if I accept both your suggestions and change the boy's name to Ram Mohammad Thomas? That should satisfy everyone.'
    Luckily for me that Mr Singh did not come that day.

    * * *
Father Timothy was tall, white and comfortably middle aged. He had a huge house in the church compound with a sprawling garden full of fruit trees. For the next six years, he became my father, mother, master, teacher and priest, all rolled into one. If there has been anything approximating happiness in my life, it was in the time I spent with him.
    Father Timothy was from the north of England, a place called York, but had been settled in India for very many years. It was thanks to him that I learnt to read and speak the Queen's English. He taught me Mother Goose Tales and nursery rhymes. I would sing 'Twinkle Twinkle Little Star'
    and 'Baa Baa Black Sheep' in my horribly off-key voice, providing, I suppose, an amusing
    diversion for Father Timothy from his priestly duties.
    Living in the church compound, I felt part of a much larger family. Apart from Father Timothy, his faithful manservant Joseph stayed in the house and Mrs Gonzalves, the maid, also lived close by. And then there was a whole bunch of street kids belonging to the plumbers, cobblers,
    sweepers and washermen, who lived practically next door and did not hesitate to use the church grounds for their cricket and football games. Father Timothy taught me about the life of Jesus, and Adam and Eve, and this extended family instructed me on the rudiments of other religions. I came to know about the Mahabharata and the Holy Koran. I learnt about the Prophet's flight from Mecca to Medina and of the burning down of Lanka. Bethlehem and Ayodhya, St Peter and the Hajj all became part of my growing-up.
    This is not to suggest, though, that I was a particularly religious child. I was like any other child, with three main preoccupations: eating, sleeping and playing. I spent many an afternoon with the neighbourhood kids of my age, catching butterflies and frightening birds in Father Timothy's garden. While Joseph, the old retainer, dusted curios in the drawing room, I would sneak out and try to pluck ripe mangoes, under the watchful eye of the gardener. If caught, I would give him generous abuse in Hindi. I would dance with abandon in the monsoon rain, try to catch little fish in the small muddy pools of rain water and end up coughing and sneezing, much to the
    consternation of Father Timothy. I would play football with the street kids, come back battered and bruised, and then cry the entire night.
    Father Timothy lived an active life. He would go for a walk every morning, play golf, volleyball and tennis, read voraciously and take vacations three times a year to meet his aged mother in England. He was also an expert violinist. Most evenings he would sit out in the moonlit garden and play the most soulful melodies you can imagine. And when it rained at night during the monsoon season, I would think of the sky as weeping from hearing his sad tunes.
    I enjoyed going into the church. It was an old building built in 1878, with stained-glass windows and a spectacular roof made of timber. The altar was beautifully carved. Above it was a large crucifix of Christ