Aravind Adiga - Last Man in Tower

Yet none of his neighbours would say that he was an unhappy man. He was a bear that could find honey at any level of a tree. He lavished his considerable free time on his two jolly children, ten-year-old Mohammad, who lost stout-heartedly to the little Ajwanis in tae kwon-do competitions, and two-year-old Mariam, who staggered elliptically about her father’s cyber-café in a nightie, inviting herself on to the laps of customers to strike at the old keyboards with glee. Mumtaz, his wife, saved up discount coupons and credit card points, so they could take holidays to Mahabaleshwar each summer. In August the previous year they had even accomplished the miracle, subsidized by the credit card points, of a family holiday to Ladakh, where they had visited Tibetan monasteries and returned with holy beads and T-shirts for their Hindu neighbours.

‘Why are you in the Opposition Party, Ibrahim?’

Ajwani had just lowered himself into the visitor’s chair in the café.

‘Opposition Party?’ Kudwa asked. Little Mariam was on his lap, and he was stroking her hair.

‘You are saying no to the offer. Why?’

Kudwa stared. ‘ Who told you I had said no?’

He let Mariam crawl about the floor. ‘Do you think I want to stay in this internet café business all my life? Do I want my children to grow up poor?’

‘So you are going to support us, Ibrahim.’ Ajwani grinned. ‘Why didn’t you take your sweet-box, then?’

‘No, it’s not that simple.’ Kudwa gestured for patience by patting the air.

On the other hand, there was the thing Mrs Puri had called Masterji: ‘An English gentleman’. Even though she wanted to accept the offer, she admired his gesture. How would his neighbours interpret his character if he rushed to take Mr Shah’s money?

‘I want to be well thought of. People in the Society think of me as a fair-minded man.’

Kudwa scratched his beard with both hands.

‘Of course we do,’ Ajwani said. ‘By the way, that was a lovely joke the other day. What you wrote on that sign outside the Society. What was it, “Inconvenience is regretted, but work…”’

‘Inconvenience in progress, work regretted.’ Kudwa beamed. Mariam was venturing under one of the computers; he picked her up and brought her back to the chair.

‘You are liked by everyone, Ibrahim. But will people still like you if you don’t say yes — that I don’t know.’

Kudwa winced.

‘It upsets my stomach, Ramesh. Just thinking about this decision. My wife says I have a high ratio of nerves to flesh. A man with a bad stomach should never be asked to make decisions.’

Ajwani saw a strip of heart-shaped antacid tablets in Kudwa’s shirt pocket, like multiple testimonials to his claim. He reached over and snapped his fingers against the strip of antacids.

‘Come with me, Ibrahim. I’ll solve your problem in a second.’

Picking little Mariam up from the floor — and shouting to Arjun, who was sweeping the courtyard behind the café, to mind things and make sure the customers did not surf on to ‘dirty’ sites while he was away — Kudwa followed his neighbour into Vishram Society.

As they passed their building, Kudwa glanced at the Secretary’s office.

Kothari had told him his Africa story that morning, as he had told it to every other member of Vishram Society. It made sense to Kudwa at last — the Secretary’s strange, secretive, and yet somehow sociable personality. All these years his African-returned father’s shame — the shame of the expatriate who had returned empty-handed — had crushed his natural gregariousness. If not for his shame, Kothari would have been a different kind of man. All of them could have been different men.

‘How strange that the Secretary should have a passion for flamingoes,’ he said.

Ajwani turned. ‘How strange that the Secretary should have a passion for anything .’

‘Perhaps we will stay here, in the building, and know each other better. Maybe that is what this Shah’s proposal is really meant to do.’

‘No.’ Ajwani minted invisible currency with his fingers. ‘It’s meant to make us rich.’

He cut across the compound in the direction of Tower B. In the parking area in front of the building, he pointed to a vehicle with a gold ‘V’ ribbon on its bonnet.

Fresh from the showroom, a Toyota Innova. It had been bought two days ago; the order, however, must have been placed weeks before Mr Shah’s offer.

Ajwani, who hoarded information on all the middle-class residents of Vakola, had quickly discovered the name of the owner: Mr Ashish, a software engineer, one of the residents of Tower B.

‘What do you see?’ Ajwani asked.

‘A car. A new car.’

‘No. You see ten years of slogging, skimping, and sacrificing, before you can buy something like this. There is a new way to look at new things, Ibrahim. Touch it.’

‘Touch it?’

Ajwani brushed a few spots of dandruff from Kudwa’s shoulder, and gestured for Mariam.

‘Don’t worry about the owner. He wants you to touch it. You know what people in Tower B are like, don’t you?’

Ibrahim Kudwa handed his daughter over to his neighbour. He ran his hands through his beard, then took a step towards the gold-ribboned car. His index finger reached for its shining metal skin: and at once the shell surrounding the Innova that said ‘Ten years from now’ broke and fell to pieces. He spread all his fingers on its skin, and could not repress a grin.

On the way back, Kudwa asked for his red sweet-box at the guard’s booth.

Tapping his fingers behind his back, Ajwani went down to the fruit and vegetable market.

He did all his best thinking in the market. At least once a week he came here with his two boys to teach them how to bargain. An essential part of their education. If a man could not be cheated on his food, he could not be cheated on anything else.

Africa , Ajwani said to himself, as he went among carts full of ripe watermelons. He had never been to Africa. Nor America, Europe, Canada, Australia. Had never crossed the ocean.

Women had been his Africa. They come into a real-estate broker’s office all the time — air hostesses, models, sales girls, single girls, divorced women — looking for rooms in a hurry, sometimes in a desperate hurry. A broker can seem a fatherly figure to them — benevolent, decisive. In his younger days, Ajwani, while never resorting to coercion or blackmail, had slept with plenty of his clients. Plenty. At first there was a hotel by the train station, the Wood-Lands, that rented rooms by the hour. Later he built an inner room in his office. A coconut to sip on, as they lay side by side in bed. The women were happy; he was happier than they were. That was how he liked his deals to be.

Money — money had been his India. He had not made a rupee on the stock market; even in real estate, his own field, his investments had flopped. Someone or other had always tricked him. He had bought the Toyota Qualis from a cousin so he could feel rich, but it was killing him. Drank too much diesel. Needed repairs month after month. Once again he had been cheated. In the movie of his own life, he had to admit, he was just a comedian.

But not this time.

Small dark apples sat in a pyramid on a blue cart like medieval munitions; pointy-tipped papayas, modern artillery shells, surrounded them on all sides. Ajwani picked up a papaya and smelled its base for ripeness. He would do the same with Masterji, the Pintos, and Mrs Rego; sniff and tap, sniff and tap, find their weak spots, break them open. Kudwa he had done for free, but Mr Shah would have to pay for the next three.

The talk in the market, as it was every year at this time, was that the rains would be late, and that the water shortage would soon become terrible.