Aravind Adiga - Last Man in Tower

‘We had to take him to Doctor Gerard D’Souza’s clinic on the main road,’ Mrs Puri said. ‘Thank God, it’s just a sprain. Doctor D’Souza said at his age he could have broken his foot. Or something else.’

Mrs Pinto, unable to hear more, sank her face into Mrs Puri’s blouse.

Masterji stood up.

‘Don’t worry, Mr Pinto. I’ll go to the police at once. I’ll tell them to arrest Mr Shah. I taught the sons of some of the constables. You don’t worry.’

‘No,’ said Mr Pinto. ‘Don’t go again.’

‘No?’

The old accountant shook his head. ‘It’s all over, Masterji.’

‘What is all over?’

‘We can’t go on like this. Today my foot is hurt, tomorrow…’

Leaving the papaya on the ground, Masterji stood up.

‘You must be brave, Mr Pinto. This Shah cannot threaten us in daylight.’

Mrs Pinto pleaded with her face and fingers. ‘Please, Masterji, let’s forget about this. Let’s just sign Mr Shah’s document and leave this building. I began all this by saying I didn’t want to go. Now I tell you, it’s over. Let’s go. You come and have dinner with us this evening. We’ll eat together.’

‘I won’t eat with cowards.’

Masterji kicked the papaya; shedding its newspaper wrapping, it scudded along and smacked the wall of Mrs Saldanha’s kitchen.

‘I’m going to the police station, with or without you,’ he said. ‘This builder thinks he can frighten me ? In my own home?’

Mrs Puri got up.

‘The police? You want to make things even worse?’ She put a finger on Masterji’s chest and pressed. ‘Why don’t we take you to the police?’

From another side, another finger poked him: Ajwani.

‘You have turned this Society into a house of violence. In forty-eight years nothing like this has happened in Vishram.’

Mrs Puri said: ‘A man who fights with his own son — and such a lovely son at that — what kind of a man is he?’

Ibrahim Kudwa stood behind her: ‘Sign Mr Shah’s agreement now, Masterji. Sign it now .’

‘I will not be made to change my mind like this,’ Masterji said. ‘So shut up, Ibrahim.’ Kudwa tried to respond, then sagged, and stepped back.

Moving him aside, Ajwani stepped forward. The Secretary came from the other direction. Shouts — people poked Masterji — someone pushed. ‘Sign it now!’

Ajwani turned and cursed. Mrs Saldanha’s waste water pipe was discharging right on to his foot. ‘Turn the tap off, Sal-dan-ha!’ he shouted.

‘Have!’ she shouted back, but the water still flowed, like a statement on the violence in parliament. The dirty water separated the crowd; from the stairwell, there came a barking — the old stray dog rushed out — the Secretary had to move, and Masterji ran up the stairs.

As he bolted the door behind him, he could hear Mrs Pinto’s voice: ‘No, please don’t go up. Please, be civilized!’

*

He barricaded the door with the teakwood table. When he went to the window, he saw them all gathered below, looking up at him. He stepped back at once.

So I’m the last man in the building now , he thought.

He sniffed the air, grateful for the tannic smell that lingered from the brewing of ginger tea.

Pouring out what was left in the porcelain pot, he drank bitter cold tea.

He called the number on the business card he had brought with him.

‘Just lock yourself in,’ Mr Parekh said. ‘Tomorrow, come see me again: if I am not here, my son will see you.’

‘Thank you. I am all alone here.’

‘You are not alone. Parekh is with you. All four Parekhs are with you. If they threaten you I will send a legal notice: they’ll know they’re dealing with an armed man. Remember Dolly Q. C. Mehta versus Bandookwala. The Mofa Act is with you.’

‘How can they threaten good people in daylight? When did things change so much in this city, Mr Parekh?’

‘They have not changed, Masterji. It is still a good city. Say to yourself, Mofa, Mofa , and close your eyes. You sleep with the law by your side.’

But Ram Khare’s black snake was in his room now. Right in his bed, moving up his thigh. The snake’s tongue of violence flickered before him. You’re next, Masterji . A young man with a gold necklace and thick, veined arms comes to him one evening and says: I just want to have a word with you, old man. Just a quick …

He had been too scared to protect Purnima from her brothers: he would not be scared this time.

‘Go away,’ he said.

Slithering down his legs, the black snake left.

As the lawyer’s card rose and fell on his chest, Masterji looked at the sagging, scaly skin that covered his hands. Mofa , he recited as instructed. Mofa, Mofa . He gave his fingers a shake, and old age flew away: he saw young strong hands now.

To,

All Whom It May Concern

Within my Society and outside it

From,

Yogesh A. Murthy

3A, Vishram Society

Vakola, Mumbai 55

This is to state that intimidation in a free country will not be tolerated. I have been to the police station and received every assurance from the Senior Inspector that this is not a neighbourhood where a teacher can be threatened. I am not alone. The famous legal team of Bandra, Parekh and Sons, with whom I am in constant touch, will initiate action against any person or persons threatening me via phone or mail. In addition, I have students in high places such as the Times of India office. Vishram Society Tower A is my home, and it

Will not be sold

Will not be leased or rented

Will not be redeveloped

Signed (And this is the real signature of the man)

Yogesh Murthy.

*

The inspector at the Vakola police station meant what he said about his neighbourhood being safe for senior citizens.

A fat constable named Karlekar came to Vishram Society within half an hour of Masterji’s phone call in the morning.

After taking a statement from Masterji (who, it turned out, had not actually seen a thing, as he had been away in Bandra consulting a famous lawyer) Karlekar sat down at the Pintos’ dining table, wiping his sweaty forehead and looking at Mr Pinto’s bandaged right foot.

Mr Pinto said: ‘No one threatened me. I slipped outside the compound and twisted my foot. Serves me right, walking so fast at my age, doesn’t it, Shelley?’

Mrs Pinto, being all but blind, had nothing to say on the matter.

The constable jotted things in his notepad. The Secretary came up to the Pintos’ flat to say that the so-called ‘disturbance’ was, essentially, an exaggeration.

‘We are an argumentative people, no doubt about it,’ the con stable agreed, with a smile. ‘The station receives imaginary complaints all the time. Burglars, fires, arson. Pakistani terrorists.’

‘A melodramatic people,’ the Secretary said. ‘It is all the films we watch. Thank you for not making a sensation of this matter.’

Constable Karlekar’s mouth had opened. ‘Look at that… oh, no… no…’ He pointed at a moth circling about the rotating ceiling fan in the Pintos’ living room; sucked in by the whirlpool of air, it drew closer and closer to the blades until two dark wings fluttered down to the floor. The constable picked up each wing.

‘I don’t like it when a moth is hurt in my neighbourhood,’ he said, handing over the severed wings to the Secretary. ‘Imagine what I feel like when an old man is threatened.’

The wings slipped through the Secretary’s fingers.

An hour later, the constable had dropped by Vishram Society again. He lit a cigarette by the gate and chatted to Ram Khare. The Secretary saw him getting down on his knees and peering at the dedicatory marble block outside Vishram, as if examining the 48-year-old certificate of good character issued to the building.