With every pair of eyes trained on him, every ear perked up, every breathe held in, each person listened in languid anticipation as the ringing went on and on. The tension could be felt in the air - electric, as if a single murmur or word could spark fire in the air; and so every voice was hushed, willing silently for the phone to answer. Finally, the ringing stopped, and a female voice was heard. The audience collectively exhaled, and each of them wished - an inevitable action in situations like this - that the chai wallah sitting there in front of them has just landed himself the answer to the question that could bring him 20 million rupees, the answer to who the third musketeer was.
Every soul that peered at Jamal - from the very seats around him, from dusty television sets in dingy rooms, or from simply hearing from a radio - wanted him to win; yearned for it. That a simple chai wallah raised in poverty could win such an amount, that a seemingly insignificant man could rise above known barriers and snag what always seemed an impossibility to acquire, it awakened unrealized ambitions in the hearts of many of his onlookers, people much like him - it filled them with joy, hope, an inspiration to be more than mediocre.
If he won, a statement would be made. And each grazed and wounded heart in India wanted it to be so, it was almost something that needed to be; these hearts raised in hardship and in resilience needed another hero - a hero that touched hearts so subtly that his onlookers were almost unaware. It would simply break their hearts if ever they were to see the look of pure loss on their almost-to-be-hero, if ever Jamal were to get the last answer wrong.
But the audience didn't know that that look of pure loss was now a lifetime away - it was an impossibility now as Jamal felt all his burdens fly away from his shoulders. She's alive. It's her voice he hears, the voice he's longed to hear for such a long time.
Everything was alright again, his chest was again filling with the warmest of feelings he's ever felt. He feels a grin growing on his face; he could hear the happiness in his voice as he recites to her the question, not really expecting an answer. He could hear her, too, her voice laced with a smile as she answers with a simple "I don't know,"
And the line is cut, Latika never gets to finish her words. And she doesn't have to. Almost - Jamal almost hears the promise in her tone; that this wasn't the last time he'll get to hear her voice, that they were to meet again. Jamal didn't know how he knew, he just did - just as he knew he loved her that first time he saw her: he didn't know why, he just did.
Jamal threw all caution to the wind, and answered whichever answer he fancied; he gave a nonchalant shrug as he uttered the foreign name. All he knew was that the real name of the third musketeer was Latika, and that he'd already won the prize he'd been longing for all his life.
Anything else that came along with that was an added benefit, a welcome respite - but so long as he had her, he knew that he could breeze through any toil and trial life put in his way. With her, Jamal could do the impossible - and, he just did.
Author's notes: Hope you liked it!