Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters or ideas from Slumdog Millionaire
He didn't get it. Why did his brother always get what he wanted? An autographed picture of the greatest Bali-wood star ever, an A on a paper, and now a 'one'. Jamal had Latika. Who did he have? No one. As he sat in the bathtub full of money that brought nothing but emptiness, Salim wondered why he never found a 'one'. Wasn't everyone supposed to have a special someone out there?
"There is someone out there for you Salim. There is someone out there for everyone" his mother used to tell him on washing days. He didn't care back then. He didn't need a girlfriend, a wife. He was fine by himself. He was Salim Malik. The bravest, strongest and smartest of the three musketeers. Why would he ever need someone else?
He knew now how naïve he had been. He did need someone. Someone to love, to cherish, to laugh with, to mourn with. Everything Latika would be to Jamal. Not him. He didn't get a Latika.
It was just Salim, the sad, lonely, unloved musketeer.
As he waited for his imminent death, the only thing that crossed his mind was "What if…"
What if he had found a one? What if he hadn't chosen a life of emptiness and transitory happiness? What if like Jamal, he had gone after the girl he loved. Followed her to the ends of the earth and beyond, just for a chance to curl up with her at night, to nuzzle her neck tenderly, to kiss passionately. What if he hadn't been so selfish and short sighted? What if he had loved?
As the door slammed down on the ground, Salim realized it was too late to be asking these questions. He let his feelings--anguish, sadness, fury, and regret--flow through him, pulling the trigger for him. Mausam fell dead on the ground unfeeling, like Salim.
He knew what was coming next. The barrage of bullets would only put an end to the miserable existence he called life. He knew it didn't matter if he lived or died. Jamal wouldn't care—he had Latika. His family wouldn't care—they had disappeared long ago. He had no one else to care for him. No one to mourn his death or kiss his cold lips.
He had no problem with dying. What was the point of living anyway?
Six bullets hit him all at once. One in his arm. One in his gut. One in his head. Three in his heart.