The host, a slick man with a smile that didn't reach his eyes, leaned forward. "Jamal, my friend. The last question. For twenty million. Are you ready?"

"Final answer," Jamal whispered.

(THE END... or just the beginning?)

But Jamal closed his eyes. He wasn't in the studio anymore. He was back in the rain. Back in the slum. He was a boy again, running with his brother Salim. They were barefoot, shivering, and a tourist guide—the one they called the "Three Monkeys" man—had shown them a crumpled photograph.

He was just one question away. Twenty million rupees. A fortune that could buy back every piece of his childhood that the city of Mumbai had stolen.