Aravind Adiga - Last Man in Tower

He waited for them in the doorway under the golden Ganesha medallion. When the old teacher stepped out of the lift, Shanmugham noticed that he had a slight limp. Arthritic in one leg. A weakness. He namasted the old man with great warmth and ushered him into the living room.

‘Can I get you something to drink, Masterji? We have Coca-Cola, Pepsi-Cola…’

Ajwani came in behind them.

‘Black Label for me,’ he said.

‘Only Mr Shah can open his drinks cabinet. You’ll have to wait.’ Shanmugham turned to his other guest. ‘Are you sure, nothing for you? Not even a Pepsi?’

Masterji sat hunched over on the beige sofa, looking at the floor.

‘I have to go to the toilet,’ he said, getting up.

‘The guest-room toilet is out of order. But if you have no objection’ — Shanmugham paused, and added with a significant smile, ‘you can use Mr Shah’s. That’s his bedroom there.’

Entering a dark room with a double-bed, Masterji located the toilet and closed the door behind him.

Here, at last, he could urinate.

If someone could see me now , he thought, wouldn’t they say, this is exactly what Masterji had planned from the start. To carry on a show so convincing even his son, his neighbours, would be taken in by it: and then allow himself to be driven here, in a chauffeured car, to the builder’s home, drink his water, piss in his piss-pot, and be “persuaded” by him, for a few extra lakhs?

He splashed water on his face. His eyebrows were damp and matted. He changed his pose to see his face from another angle.

Closing the toilet door behind him, he walked on tiptoe. The two of them were whispering on the sofa like old friends.

‘… I’m telling you, no traffic of any kind. What can I…’

‘And did you have to talk of drinks in the old man’s presence?’

‘He drinks. He’s quite modern. I know him, he’s my neighbour.’

‘Why is he taking so long, by the way?’

‘He pissed just before we headed out. He has that disease, which is called D-something. It weakens the lower organs.’

‘Diarrhoea?’

‘No, sir. Another D-word.’

‘Dementia?’

‘Not that.’ Ajwani tapped his forehead. ‘Listen, pour me something, won’t you? I am the man doing all the work here, remember that. And tell your boss’ — he dropped his voice — ‘one lakh is not enough as a sweetener. I want two . In cash.’

The two stopped talking. On a table in the corner of the room Masterji saw a sheaf of papers lying under a golden paperknife. What was the story about Mrs Rego’s Uncle Coelho and the builder who stole his property… didn’t it involve a knife?

‘May I recommend the view from the terrace, Masterji? It is the best view of the city you have ever seen, I guarantee it.’

‘Of course Masterji will appreciate the view,’ Ajwani giggled. ‘Such a sweetened view it is of Bombay.’

Masterji followed the men through glass doors on to a rectangular balustraded terrace, where the sea breeze blew into his hair. An agglomeration of skyscrapers, billboards, and glowing blocks spread before the old teacher’s wondering eyes. He had never seen Bombay like this.

A cloud of electric light enveloped the buildings like incense. Noise: a high keening pitch that was not traffic and not people talking but something else, something Masterji could not identify. A huge sign — ‘LG’ — stood behind the main bulk of towers; beyond it, he recognized the white glow from the Haji Ali shrine. To his left was dark ocean.

‘Breach Candy,’ Masterji reached for it with his finger. ‘This used to be the dividing line between Malabar Hill and Worli island. During high tide the water came in through there. The British called it the Great Breach of Bombay. I’ve seen it in old maps.’

‘Masterji knows everything. About the sun and moon, the history of Bombay, so much useful information.’

Ajwani turned and whispered to Shanmugham, who leaned down towards the short broker and listened.

His hands on the balustrade of the terrace, Masterji looked at the towers under construction in the dark. He thought of the shining knife on the desk. Each building seemed to be illuminated by its price in rupees per square foot, glowing like a halo around it. By its brightness he located the richest building in the vista.

‘Why have you come before us?’ the towers asked. Each glowing thing in the vista before him seemed like the secret of someone’s heart: one of them out there represented his own. An honest man? He had fooled his Society, the Pintos, even himself, but here on the open terrace he was stripped of all his lies. He had come here, frightened by the boycott, not oblivious to the possibilities of money, ready to betray the Pintos. Ready to betray the memories of his dead wife and dead daughter that were in the walls and paint and nails of Vishram Society.

‘Construction,’ Shanmugham said, coming close to Masterji. ‘Do you know how many cranes there are below us right now? The work continues all night. Dozens of buildings are coming up around us. And when all the work is finished… my God. This part of the city is going to be like New York. You must have been there, sir, to New York?’

He shook his head.

‘You can now,’ Ajwani smiled. ‘A holiday.’

‘No.’ Masterji leaned forward. ‘Oh, no, I won’t go. I won’t go anywhere. I won’t leave Vishram Society ever again.’

He saw Shanmugham turning to Ajwani, who rolled his eyes.

‘Masterji…’ the builder’s assistant came close. ‘Masterji. May I talk to you, man to man?’

Masterji smelled something bad from the man’s mouth, and thought of the green-covered cage at the zoo.

‘There’s a term we use in the business. A sweetener. Another thousand rupees per square foot? We don’t reward teachers enough in this country.’

He understood now. It was the smell of his own cowardice, blown back at him from this creature’s mouth.

‘And what was that redevelopment project you were telling me about, Ajwani… where the old couple refused to take the offer, and then one day… did they fall down the stairs? Or were they pushed, or… old people should take care. It’s a dangerous world. Terrorism. Mafia. Criminals in charge.’

‘Oh, yes. That old couple in Sion you were talking about, they were pushed. For sure.’

In the light of the towers Shanmugham’s thoughts seemed to crystallize into giant letters in front of Masterji: ‘This is how I will flatter the old man, and very subtly, bully him. I will show him the kingdoms of the earth and give him a hint of the instruments of torture.’ So they had shown him all the kingdoms of Bombay and told him: ‘Take your pick.’ And he knew now what he wanted.

Nothing .

Masterji could see black water crashing into the ocean wall that was meant to keep it out, rolling back and crashing again.

Once before, when Purnima had been threatened by her brothers, he had been weak. Not wanting trouble at his Society, he had again been weak.

‘And Masterji — the Pintos want you to agree. For their sake you must say yes.’

‘Don’t you speak about the Pintos.’

‘Your friend Mr Pinto is not the man you think he is, Masterji. Until two weeks ago he used to drink Royal Stag whisky. The other morning, a used Blenders Pride quarter-bottle carton turns up in his rubbish. He has started paying fifteen rupees more for a bottle of whisky. Why? Because he loves money more than he loves his wife’s blindness.’

So he is examining our rubbish , Masterji thought. But a man’s rubbish is not the truth about him, is it?

‘You don’t know a thing about Mr Pin… Mr Pint… Mr Pint…’