The Slumdog Revolution

Exterior, early morning shot of a quiet North Indian village. It is still dark, but there is enough light to establish the silhouette of a man. Cut to a mud path, a pagdandi. We hear the sounds of an ancient chamraundha - charar, charar, charar - and a walking stick – thak, thak, thak. The feet of an old man wearing a pair of weather-beaten and dusty country-made shoes, walk slowly into the frame, followed by the tip of the cane stick. The camera follows, and tilts up slowly to show, a brass lota, looking shiny grey in the dim pre-dawn light. The camera tilts up further, a Dutch angle in Danny Boyle style, and reveals a mustachioed man in dhoti and kurta, and a pagadi, quietly walking into a sugarcane field. Cut to a wider shot, high angle, the man is going deeper into the field, which can be made out from the movement of plants and their rustling sound that stops after a while as the man halts.

We cut to a close-up of the man, who has found a small clearing, good enough to sit down. He puts his lota down, lights up a beedi, takes a few swigs at it, blows up the smoke quickly, looks up at the sky with fading stars (POV shot), pulls the backend of the dhoti out, and lifts his dhoti up and sits down. Suddenly the whole place lights up, with flashlights, cameras clicking incessantly, and lensers creating a ruckus to get the best shot. The man is shocked out of his wits, gets up, the lota tumbles, the water in it wets the earth around it. He is fearful, and looks around at these lensers with cameras aimed at him. They prompt him to carry on with the act, and not to look into the camera as they want a candid shot of him shitting amidst the sugarcane field. They are speaking in French and English and Italian. The man stands there, looking helplessly, stunned, speechless.

Life magazine’s cover. The photograph adorns it. Caption, ‘Poor Indian country dog has no place to shit – no wonder he commits suicide out of shame’. Channel 4 buys the rights of the story for a million pounds. Beaufoy will write the screenplay. And Vikas Swarup will add the much-needed Anglo-Indian perspective and authentic details. Boyle Saab will direct it, obviously.

Heathrow at London, and JFK at New York are buzzing with a lot of activity and an unprecedented rush. All flights to India and Mumbai are running full. You cannot get rooms in Mumbai’s five-star hotels. They are booked and there is a year-long waiting list. They are coming to India, in droves, the paparazzi, the filmmakers, the screenwriters, and the tourists, from all corners of the world.

The Indian media is all over the city of Mumbai, with OB vans, covering the big story. Barkha Dutt is also there, enthused, and overwhelmed by the goings on, as usual. Finally, the Indian slumdogs are getting their due. The Slumdog Revolution is unleashing itself. It is a touching, and sublime experience. She is tearful. She has not put on the mascara this time, but a van full of Johnson and Johnson tissue papers is there, on standby.

There is a huge crowd of firangis along the western railway track next to Behrampada near Bandra, Mumbai, India. People have come from all over, from far-off Colaba to farther off Viraar and Kalyan, and from across seven seas, from London and New York, to watch ‘The Great Shitting Indian Slumdogs Show’.

They are there, the Indian slumdogs, shitting in the open, in tuxedos, happily posing their bums to eager and excited lensers, egged on by their over-excited parents and relatives.  ‘Oye Jamaal, theek se baith. Woh camerawala udhar hi khada hai. Are apani shirt thodi upar utha ke baith. Theek se shot dene ka nahin to khayega ek jhanpad’. Bare bums of slumdogs look good and impressive from a certain angle. There are rows of them, the bums, in various colors and sizes, some shrunken, and others plump in the pink of their health. Rahmaan Mamu always wanted to act in a film that wins an Oscar. He wants to be the first in the row. Young ones are not letting him succeed in his mission. He is not able to take it any more. He stands up right in front of the crowd of paparazzi and starts performing ‘siapa’ in muharram style, with his ‘chaarkhaane’ ki lungi over his head. ‘Le lo, le lo goron, yeh hai asali solid maal.’

Touts surround firangi tourists at Chatrapati Shivaji International Air Terminal. Jai ho sir. Jai ho madam. We organize tours to the colony of slumdogs. We will fix up your meeting with them.  You can even shake hands with them. We will show you the exclusive shit holes as well. Just a thousand dollars for our professional service. Fifty percent of that will go towards the education of your favorite slumdogs. There are all kinds, Hindus and Muslims. Of course you would prefer the Muslim slumdogs, to purge your guilt of hanging Saddam and photographing his twisted neck, and of bombing Afghanistan. You already know about Jamaal. We will introduce you to Kamaal this time, a great fan of Danny Saheb. We will show you how kids are maimed and blinded. Special demonstration for you at a discounted price, just for hundred dollars, with Benjamin Saheb’s photograph. We know Obama, Bush, and Benjamin Saheb. We don’t know who was Gandhi. Hoga koi. Who cares? For limb amputation demonstration another two hundred dollars.

An interview of Azhar’s mother.  ‘Yeh hum longon ki zindagi ki sacchai hai. Hamein commode chahiye. Azhar jab se Oscar jeet ke aaya hai, uska pakhana utarata hi nahin. Pehle khulle mein sarkari zameen par pakhana karne mein bada mazaa aata tha use aur mujhe bhi koi zehmat nahin uthani padti thi saaf safaai ki. Municipalty wale zamadaar sab kaam kar dete the. Kehta hai kursi pe baith ke karega pakhana. Azhar bada aadami ban gaya hai. Danny saheb ko boli hai main. Commode aa raha hai, London se. Mere ko yeh accha nahin lag raha hai. Ab tumhi bolo, idhar jhopadpatti mein nahi rehati to kaun poochta hamein? Zaheer ki ammi, aur Sachin ki aai bahut ghamzada hain. Jaltein hain hum se. Kehtein hain ki hamaare naunihaal bhi to khulle mein pakhana kartein hain, unki photo koi kyon nahin leta? Main boli unse, ‘Ghabarati kyon ho? Danny saheb phir aayenge. Bacchhon ko khila pila ke taiyaar rakhna. Woh nahin aayenge to unki najaayaz Hindustaani aulaadein to ayengi hi, woh bhi jis ne Bomb Blast wali filum banayee thi, Dawood Bhai ko dikhaya tha us mein. Kya entry thi, Dawood Bhai ki. Ekdum jhakaas.’

‘Danny Boyle is not insecure. He taught me how to use the round trolley in my film’, proclaims the genius. ‘I gave him the credit, even bigger than my own, in my avant-garde film, right in the beginning, for this big help. We will find acceptance now. Studio majors are lining up in front of my flat, with big cheques, with figures written in dollars. I am all set to storm Hollywood. They are making enquiries about my films since Danny and Beaufoy mentioned them in their interviews. I taught them how to shoot a marathon amidst a slum. I gave them a glimpse of the Indian reality. Slumdog will make people shoot real Indian shit now. I always knew it. Indian shit is valuable. I worship it. I know how to extract it. I revel in its smell. What are we after all? We are full of shit. We walk, we talk, and we shit shit. We are a shit country? Our shit makes us special. It is our USP, our brand. I like dirty shit pots. All my fellow filmmakers like it too. Asali Hindustaan jhopadpatti mein basta hai jahan generally pakhaane nahin hote, agar hote bhi hain to gande aur badbudaar hotein hain. Pakhanao ki gandh se creativity janm leti hai.

The Government of India releases a full-page advertisement terming the Oscar sweep of Slumdog Millionaire as the most significant achievement of the UPA rule. Sonia Gandhi and her entire brood poses with slumdogs. Rahul and Robbert Vadra have two nangu fangu slumdogs sitting on their shoulders, Priynaka has one in her arms who is poking his fingers in her long nose. Mayavati alleges that the slumdogs were bathed in shampoo, then kesar milk, and then in Paco Robanne Pour Homme before being made to sit on Rahul’s shoulders.  Renuka Chaudhary replaces Aamir Khan with slumdogs in the 500 crore Incredible India campaign. India is incredible, not badaulat Ghajini, but badaulat Slumdog Millionaire. Nafeesa Ali, the ex-swimming beauty, is sad that the slum in front of her palatial bungalow was demolished some time ago. ‘I love slums and slumdogs. I loved doing social work for them. Slums are a must in our neighborhood. They make me feel so good.’


India is no more a country of rope tricks and snake charmers and caparisoned elephants and mustachioed Maharajas. It is a proud nation of bare bum slumdogs, introduced to the world by Vikas Swarup, an Indian diplomat responsible for projecting a positive image of this country. He has done an excellent job. Jai ho Swarup saheb ki. India is back on the world map. It is rediscovered yet again as the country of slumdogs. He has lived in the west and he knows what sells there and what Channel Four may be interested in. It is shit that sells, and Swarup knows how to write shit. He wrote a shitty book and look at what it did. Danny Boyle and Simon Beaufoy got their Oscars thanks to it. Even Rahman and ‘assmaane’ Gulzaar got their Oscars. Swarup has to wait for his Nobel. He will get it, he should. Jai ho pakhana bhagwaan ki. Shit is the greatest art form. Life is all about shit. You live with shit and die in it.

But the real dogs who live in the narrow lanes of Dharavi are going through a serious identity crisis. Their good name has been abused and misused. Why these humans are so proudly wearing the tag of a ‘slumdog’? We are the real barking and shit eating slumdogs. Our name has been usurped by these goras. Let the Prince of Wales visit India this time. We will bark his head off and employ the most rabid among us to bite his stinking bum and hundreds of us will lift our legs at him to show him what he is worth. The British are like that. All goras are like that. They consider themselves the only humans, everyone else is a dog for them. They have always equated Indians with dogs. That is not true. We have more self-respect than Indians. We don’t generally like being called a dog even if we belong to the species. These Indians are celebrating being called slumdogs. They are really enjoying their newfound status. We don’t like a dog’s life. We behave well in this life so that our next one is better. Lekin hamein zaroor dukh hota hai in Hindustniyon ki soch pe, unhe ho ya na ho. Badla lene ka man karta hai. Danny Boyle aur Vikas Swarup mil gaye to unko bhi katenge is baar. Bhaunkate bhaunkate maregein mardood. 


RKS