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As Armaan takes his last few breaths, the man increases his pressure on Salim's crotch, till he is almost gripping it.
    Salim erupts. 'You bloody motherfucker! You filthy pervert! I am going to kill you!' he screams and slaps the man's face. Hard.
    The man hastily removes his hand from Salim's lap and tries to get up from his seat. But before he can lift himself completely, Salim makes a grab for him. He fails to catch the man's collar, but gets hold of his beard. As Salim tugs, it comes off in his hand. The man leaps out of his seat with a strangled cry and dashes towards the exit, which is hardly twenty feet away.
    At that very instant the electrical power in the theatre fails and the generator kicks in. The screen goes blank and the dark hall is dazzled as the emergency lights flick on. The man is caught unawares, like a deer in a car's headlamps. He whirls around, unsure of himself.
    Just as suddenly, the power comes back. It was only a momentary interruption. The film resumes on the screen, the emergency lights are extinguished. The man rushes past the black curtains to the red EXIT sign, slams open the door and disappears.
    But in that split second Salim and I have seen a flash of hazel-green eyes. A chiselled nose. A cleft chin.
    As the credits begin to roll over the screen, Salim is left holding in his hand a mass of tangled grey hair smelling vaguely of cologne and spirit gum. This time he does not see the name of the publicity designer and the PRO, the light men and the spot boys, the fight director and the cameraman. He is weeping.
    Armaan Ali, his hero, has died.

    * * *
Smita is staring at me with sceptical eyes. 'When exactly did this incident happen?'
    'About six years ago. When Salim and I lived in a chawl in Ghatkopar.'
    'And do you realize the significance of what you have just recounted to me?'
    'What?'
    'That if this incident was made public, it could destroy Armaan Ali, end his film career. Of course, that will happen only if what you just told me is true.'
    'So you still don't believe me?'
    'I didn't say that.'
    'I can see the doubt in your eyes. If you still don't believe me, you do so at your own peril. But you cannot disregard the evidence on this DVD. Should we see the first question?'
    Smita nods her head and presses 'Play' on the remote.

    * * *
The studio lights have been dimmed. I can hardly see the audience sitting around me in a circle.
    The hall is illuminated by one spotlight in the centre, where I sit in a leather revolving chair opposite Prem Kumar. We are separated by a semicircular table. There is a large screen in front of me on which the questions will be projected. The studio sign is lit up. It says 'Silence'.
    'Cameras rolling, three, two, one, you're on.'
    The signature tune comes on and Prem Kumar's booming voice fills the hall. 'Here we are once again, ready to find out who will make history today by winning the biggest prize ever offered on earth. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, we are ready to find out Who Will Win A Billion!'
    The studio sign changes to 'Applause'. The audience begins clapping. There are some cheers and whistles, too.
    The signature tune fades out. Prem Kumar says, 'We have three lucky contestants with us
    tonight, who have been selected at random by our computer. Contestant number three is Kapil Chowdhary from Malda in West Bengal. Contestant number two is Professor Hari Parikh from
    Ahmedabad, but our first contestant tonight is eighteen-year-old Ram Mohammad Thomas from our very own Mumbai. Ladies and gentlemen, please give him a big round of applause.'
    Everyone claps. After the applause dies down, Prem Kumar turns to me. 'Ram Mohammad
    Thomas, now that's a very interesting name. It expresses the richness and diversity of India.
    What do you do, Mr Thomas?'
    'I am a waiter in Jimmy's Bar and Restaurant in Colaba.'
    'A waiter! Now isn't that interesting! Tell me, how much do you make every month?'
    'Around nine hundred rupees.'
    'That's all? And what will you do if