Aravind Adiga - Last Man in Tower

‘The Secretary said he’d join us here, sir. He’ll give us a call when he reaches the highway.’

‘Let’s get out of the car, Shanmugham. I hate sitting still.’

A tall building stood at the end of the wasteland, bearing the letters ‘YATT’ in white, and a red arc below, like the finishing touch to a signature. Beyond it was the weak glow of Vakola. A few curious faces. Men crossing the wilderness to a row of huts in the distance.

‘See where they’ve set up a few tents—’ Shah pointed to a spot near the bushes. ‘In five days that will become an entire slum. No property deeds, no titles, legal rights. What a hunger for land.’ He rubbed his palms together, scraping his rings against one another. ‘I’ve got it too. Your boss — as you know — is a villager. He has no college degree, Shanmugham: he chews gutka , like a villager. But hunger is an excellence. Look’ — he pointed to the hotel — ‘they’ve lost the “H”. How careless posh people are. If it were my hotel I would have had the manager shot.’

Shah now pointed his finger northward, two or three times, to emphasize some place far, far away in that direction.

‘In 1978, when I was still learning this business, a friend, a broker, offered me a whole floor in a new project in Cuffe Parade. Name of Maker Towers. Three fifty rupees a square foot was the rate. It would be a new kind of construction, a small city, built on reclaimed land. I went to see the building and the area. I phoned my friend, and said: “No.” Why? That building was coming up where there had been sea just five years ago — and I thought, the land is the land and the water is the water. One day the water will swallow this land back. A square foot in Maker Towers would be worth today, what, 2,000 or 3,000 times my initial investment. That land is now worth more than land in London, more than land in New York. One day, ten years later, I came by Maker Towers, and I saw that building, how solid it looked, how many people had bought flats in it, and I thought: “I was beaten. Someone was dreaming bigger than me.” And there and then, I promised Lord SiddhiVinayak: “I am never going to underestimate this city again.” Mumbai’s future is here in the east, Shanmugham. This is where the space is, and once the new roads and new metro lines come up, the east will grow. We’ll get 25,000, maybe 30,000 a square foot for the Shanghai. Even more for the next thing we build. Vishram is an old Society. But it is the most famous building in the area. We’ll take it and we’ll break it — and everyone will know. Vakola is ours.’

He smiled at his assistant. ‘For six years we’ve been together. You’re like a son to me, Shanmugham. A son. Will you do this new job for me?’

For six years, at the start of each new project, Shah had asked him the same question, and for six years Shanmugham had answered this question in the same way. He extended his arm, showing a locked fist to his boss, and then opened it.

‘I’ve got this Society in my palm, sir. I know these people inside out.’

A homeless man, one of those sleeping under the concrete bridge that went over the highway, had been watching the two of them from beneath the protection of a blanket. Seeing the tall one in the white shirt walking towards him, he ducked under it.

Shanmugham signalled to a slow-moving autorickshaw.

A few seconds later, Kothari, the Secretary, came back with him to where the builder waited.

‘Sorry. Couldn’t bring my scooter. Had to take an auto. And what traffic.’

Shah swept the apology away.

‘If I were to leave every time a man got stuck in traffic, I would never meet anyone in this city. You didn’t tell anyone you were coming here?’

‘I was told not to tell anyone.’ The Secretary looked at Shanmugham. ‘Even my wife doesn’t know. Even I don’t know why I’m here.’

‘Nothing secret going on. My son’s birthday is next week, but we’re having the celebration tonight. I just wanted you to join me for some food. Some drinks if you like.’

Kothari breathed out. ‘Of course. How nice of you. Will we be waiting for Mr Ravi — the Secretary of Tower B?’

‘No. He isn’t invited.’

The car doors slammed, and then they were on their way into the city. Kothari sat slumped, hands between his knees.

‘Have you been to Malabar Hill before?’ the builder asked.

‘To the Hanging Gardens once or twice. No other reason.’

‘I’ve lived in Malabar Hill twelve years. And I’ve never been to the Hanging Gardens.’

Both of them laughed. The Secretary straightened his back and breathed out.

The barbecued mutton melted under his tongue like hot chocolate.

The Secretary opened his eyes, dried them with an index finger, and looked for the chicken kebabs. On a silver tray, floating about the far side of Mr Shah’s terrace. All the other guests were there: in suits, silk shirts, sleeveless saris and sherwanis, sitting at ebony tables lit by fat candles.

Kothari waved, so that the waiter would make an excursion to where he stood, alone, against the balcony. He felt the bald head beneath his comb-over becoming damp — spicy , that mutton. Rubbing his hands, he turned around to suck in cool air from the city: a panorama of glowing towers that stretched all the way to the distant dome of Haji Ali.

‘Paneer, sir?’

A waiter brought a silver tray full of those paneer cubes that seemed to have little cucumber-bits inside. Clutching three cubes in his hand, Kothari said, ‘Son, won’t you call that mutton man back here?’

With each deposit of rich food in his stomach, Kothari became less conscious of his 70 per cent polyester 30 per cent cotton shirt, bought near Andheri train station for 210 rupees, and of his banian , bought for thirty-five rupees a pack of six, that glowed underneath like in an X-ray.

Oh, that gorgeous buffet table, which launched satellites of silver trays filled with kebabs.

In the centre of the table he saw a vision of a Johnnie Walker Black Label, five or six times the size of a normal bottle, suspended upside-down from a metal rack and ending in a little plastic tap on which a bow-tied attendant had a finger permanently placed.

‘Mr Kothari! There you are!’ The builder waved at him from the table.

Soon the Secretary found himself one of the charms auxiliary to the Johnnie Walker; Shah introduced him to each person who came up for a drink, saying, ‘This is Mr Kothari.’

Each one of the guests appeared to run a construction company. One of them, after shaking his hand, asked: ‘Which Group do you represent?’

‘Vishram,’ the Secretary replied.

The man nodded knowingly, as if recognizing the name. ‘A good Group. Good work you fellows are doing.’

Now the Secretary found himself led to one of the tables, where he sat next to a chubby unhappy teenager in a golden jacket, whom he took for the birthday boy.

The host was speaking into a cordless mike.

‘I want to thank all of you for coming here to attend my son’s birthday. The community to which we belong, the builders’ community, is known to be a close-knit one, and your presence here demonstrates this continuing closeness.’ (Scattered applause.) ‘I will come to your tables to thank each of you personally. But first, as a surprise treat, I am honoured to present a man who brings back lots of memories for all of us: the original dream-merchant himself.’

Music blared on the loudspeakers. To the rhythm of the audience’s clapping, a man in a grey suit got up from one of the tables, and came to the buffet table. A once-famous actor, now in his forties, a professional guest at birthday parties and weddings. With a forced smile, he turned a few steps with his right hand up in the air. A young girl in a red dress joined him in the dancing, and guests whistled. A mobile phone flashed its camera.