Aravind Adiga - Last Man in Tower

He walked into the building with the coriander.

Retreating to the mirror in her bedroom, Mrs Puri brushed her long black hair to soothe herself.

Her husband had yelled at her in the morning as he left. The first time he had yelled at her in Ramu’s presence. He had never trusted that old man. She was the one who described Masterji as ‘an English gentleman’. She was the one who had called him a ‘big jackfruit’.

Ramu, sensing his mother was upset, sat by her side, and imitated her with a phantom brush. She saw this, and in gratitude, sobbed a little.

Wiping her mobile phone clean on her forearm, she re-dialled a number.

‘Gaurav, it’s me again,’ she said. ‘Why don’t you come here, Gaurav. Speak to him. Bring Ronak. He will change his mind: he is your father. Don’t be obstinate like him, Gaurav. You must come to see him. Do it for your Sangeeta Aunty, won’t you?’

Wiping the mobile phone on her forearm, she put it down on the table and turned to her son.

‘Can you believe it, Ramu? All those mangoes, all those years. I cut them into long thin slices and put them in his fridge. You remember, don’t you?’

She could hear Masterji opening the fridge to pour himself a glass of cold water.

‘What a selfish, greedy old man he has become, Ramu. He wants to take our wooden cupboards away from us. The Evil Eye must have found out about my good luck. This time too.’

Ramu had put his fingers in his ears. His face began to shake; his teeth chattered. Mrs Puri knew what was coming, but he beat her to it, ran into the toilet, and slammed the door. No: he wouldn’t open the door for Mummy.

‘Ramu, I won’t say anything bad about Masterji again. I promise.’

The door opened at last, but Ramu wouldn’t get up from the toilet bowl. Breathing as normally as she could, to show that she was not angry with him, that he had not made a stinky mess in the toilet, Mummy washed his behind clean with a mug of water, changed his trousers, and put him into bed with Spiderman and the Friendly Duck.

She struggled down to her knees and scrubbed the toilet floor clean. When he was frightened, he missed the bowl.

When she opened the door of his bedroom, Ramu was sitting up, angling the book in which his father had drawn lizards and spiders so that the Friendly Duck could see the pictures too.

Just outside the bedroom, a bird began to trill, its notes long and sharp like a needled thread, as if it were darning some torn corner of the world. Mother and son listened together.

When Mrs Puri came down the stairs, she found three women on the first landing, talking in whispers.

‘He plays with his Rubik’s Cube all day long. But does he have a solution?’ Mrs Kothari, the Secretary’s wife, asked. ‘He’s just a block of darkness.’

‘Won’t even do it for his son. Or his grandson,’ Mrs Ganguly said.

‘It’s that girl next door. She made him crazy,’ Mrs Nagpal, of the first floor, said.

They went silent as Mrs Puri passed. She knew they suspected her of sympathy with Masterji.

She took a left at the gate and walked past the slums. Soon she was at the site of the two new Confidence buildings. Under the blue tarpaulin covers, the work of laying slabs of granite and marble continued despite the rains. A drizzle began. She waited under an umbrella and hoped Ramu had not woken up.

A tall man came running up to her from one of the buildings. He got under her umbrella; she spoke to him and he listened.

‘Mrs Puri,’ Shanmugham smiled. ‘You are a person of initiative. Just last year, in a redevelopment project in Sion, we encountered a problem like this Masterji of yours. There are many things we can do, and we will try them one by one. But you must trust me and Mr Shah.’

The lift at Vishram Society moved like a coffin on wheels. When a button was pressed, a loud click followed: ropes, levers, and chains went into action. Through the lattice of the metal shutter guarding the open elevator shaft, you could see a dark wooden rectangle — a counterweight — sliding down the wall, and a circular light on the top of the lift rising, as the large dark box scraped past to the floor above, carrying with it a sign: ‘ITS YOUR SOCIETY. KEEP IT CLEAN’.

Masterji saw the lift pass him before slamming its dark mass into the fourth floor. A latch clicked and the door opened, but he heard no one come out.

It was one of those phantom trips that the Otis sometimes took on its own — compensating for weeks of inertia with these spectral bursts of activity.

No children yet. He went back to his room, leaving the front door open.

It was seven o’clock on a Monday. Time for the first science top-up of the week. The ceiling lights were turned off in anticipation, and the lamp light projected on to the far wall.

Ten minutes later, Masterji ran down the stairs and found the boys playing cricket in the compound. Mohammad Kudwa was bowling; Anand Ganguly held a bat high. Sunil Rego was fielding at cover point.

‘Masterji, don’t stand there,’ Mohammad called out, ‘the ball might hit you.’

‘It’s time for class, Mohammad.’

The boy turned and grinned.

‘ Boycott , Masterji.’

He released the ball towards Anand Ganguly, who leaned back and smacked it high and hard; it bounced off a grille at a fourth-floor window and returned to the ground.

‘Boycott?’ Masterji asked, stepping back to avoid the bouncing ball. ‘Is this a new excuse not to come to the top-up?’

He walked towards parliament, where he found Mrs Saldanha talking to Mrs Kudwa, who was tickling Mariam on her lap.

‘Your son is refusing to attend the top-up class, Mrs Kudwa. Are you aware of this?’

The two women at once got up from their chairs, went into the building, and stood by the noticeboard. There they continued to talk.

‘They are not speaking to us either,’ Mr Pinto said.

Masterji went up the stairs to 3C. Mrs Puri opened the door with her left hand, the fingers of her right bunched together and stained with the curd and rice she had been feeding Ramu. He was seated at the table in his apron; he gave his Masterji a big smile.

‘Sangeeta, what is going on?’

‘Ramu…’ She turned to her son and said (forcing a big smile on her face so he would not suspect the content of her words), ‘… tell your Masterji that the boycott is going on.’

‘Boycott?’ Masterji said. ‘What does that mean?’

‘Ramu…’ Mrs Puri smiled again. ‘… Masterji, being a famous teacher, must know all about Gandhi and Nehru and what they did to the British. So tell him not to ask us what a boycott is.’

‘Gandhi and Nehru and… Mrs Puri, this is madness.’

‘ Madness? ’ Mrs Puri chuckled. Ramu, at the table, joined in the fun.

‘And refusing an offer of 250 per cent the market value of his flat is not madness, Ramu? Some people should not speak of madness, Ramu.’

‘I haven’t said no. I’m still thinking about Mr Shah’s proposal.’

Mrs Puri looked at her neighbour.

‘ Still thinking? You’ve always been happy to share your deep thoughts with us, haven’t you, Masterji? Have we ever asked you to be Secretary of this Society? What does that tell you about how we felt about your deep thinking?’

‘I haven’t said no. But I won’t be forced into—’

Mrs Puri shut the door in his face. Returning to his flat, Masterji sat by the teakwood table and tapped the arms of his chair, as if he did not really believe that the boys would not come.

Masterji opened the door. His rubbish bin had been overturned.