Slumdog Millionaire: A Novel Read Online Free PDF

the story till the interval.
    Priya Kapoor's entry in the film is greeted with catcalls from the stalls. She is a tall, good-looking actress who won the Miss World title a few years ago. Her body is sculpted like that of a classical beauty, with heavy breasts and a slim waist. She is my favourite actress these days. She pouts a lot in the film, and keeps on saying 'Shut up' to the comedian. We laugh.
    'Your ambition is to shake Armaan's hand,' I say to Salim. 'But what do you think is Armaan's ambition in life? He seems to have it all – face, fame and fortune.'
    'You are wrong,' Salim replies solemnly. 'He does not have Urvashi.'

    * * *
The papers are full of the Armaan–Urvash i break-up, after a whirlwind romance lasting nine
    months. There is speculation that Armaan is completely heartbroken. That he has stopped eating and drinking. That he might be suicidal. Urvashi Randhawa has returned to her modelling career.
    I see Salim crying. His eyes are red and wet with tears. He has not eaten all day. The heart-shaped glass frame containing a picture of Armaan and Urvashi, on which he had spent almost half his meagre salary, lies on the ground, shattered into a hundred pieces.
    'Look, Salim, you are being childish. There is nothing you can do about it,' I tell him.
    'If only I could meet Armaan. I want to comfort him. To hold his hand and let him cry on my shoulder. They say crying makes the heart lighter.'
    'And what good will that do? Urvashi will not come back to Armaan.'
    Suddenly Salim looks up. 'Do you think I could speak to her? Maybe I could persuade her to come back to Armaan. Tell her that it was all a mistake. Tell her how sad and contrite he is.'
    I shake my head. I don't want Salim tramping all over Mumbai looking for Urvashi Randhawa.
    'It's not a good idea to poke your nose into other people's affairs, or make other people's troubles your own, Salim. Armaan Ali is a mature man. He will deal with his troubles in his own way.'
    'At least I will send him a gift,' says Salim.
    He goes and buys a large bottle of Fevicol glue and sets about sticking the shattered pieces of the heart-shaped frame back together again. It takes him a week, but finally the heart is whole, a grid of criss-crossing black streaks the only reminder of the fault lines on which it broke.
    'I will now send it to Armaan,' he says. 'It is a symbol that even a broken heart can be put together again.'
    'With Fevicol?' I ask.
    'No. With love and care.'
    Salim wraps it up in cloth and sends it to Armaan Ali's home address. I don't know whether it reached Armaan or not. Whether it was broken by the postal department, smashed by the security guards or trashed by Armaan's secretary. The important thing is that Salim believes it reached his hero and helped to heal his wound. It made Armaan whole again, and enabled him to resume
    giving blockbusters, such as this one. Which I am seeing for the first time and Salim for the ninth.

    * * *
A devotional song is playing on the screen. Armaan and his mother are climbing towards the
    shrine of Vaishno Devi.
    'They say if you ask Mata Vaishno Devi sincerely for anything, she grants your wish. Tell me, what would you ask?' I say to Salim.
    'What would you ask?' he counters.
    'I guess I would ask for money,' I say.
    'I would ask for Armaan to be reunited with Urvashi,' he says without thinking even for a second.
    The screen says INTERVAL in bold red letters.
    * * *
    Salim and I stand up and stretch our arms and legs. We buy two soggy samosas from the food vendor. The boy selling soft drinks looks at the empty seats mournfully. He will not make a good profit today. We decide to go to the toilet. It has nice white tiles, banks of urinals and clean washbasins. We both have our designated stalls. Salim always goes to the one on the extreme right, and I always take the sole urinal on the left side wall. I empty my bladder and read the graffiti on the Wall. FUCK ME . . . TINU PISSED HERE . . . SHEENA IS A WHORE . . .