Aravind Adiga - Last Man in Tower

He went back to the toilet to flush the ants away. But no water flowed from the tap here, either.

He flicked the light switch: the lamp above the toilet basin did not respond.

Opening his door, he found that the doorbell to 3B rang clearly; below him, he could hear Nina, the Pintos’ maid, running water from their taps.

The mystery was solved when he went down the stairs to the noticeboard.

NOTICE

Vishram Co-operative Hsg Society Ltd, ‘A’ Building Minutes of the general body meeting of ‘a’ building held on 16 august

Theme: Expulsion of a member from Society

As the quorum was sufficient, the meeting commenced as per schedule at approximately 7.30 p.m.

Mr Ramesh Ajwani (2C) took the chair and brought the members’ concerns to the fore.

ITEM NO. 1 OF THE AGENDA:

As noted in Section 35 Expulsion of Members, Maharashtra Co-operative Societies Act, 1960, and in conjunction with Byelaws 51 through 56 of the Model Bye-laws, it being noted that a society may, by resolution passed by a majority of not less than three-fourths of the members entitled to vote…

… or has used his flat for immoral purposes or misused it for illegal purposes habitually.

On these grounds, it was proposed by Mr Ajwani that Yogesh Murthy, of 3A (formerly known as ‘Masterji’) be expelled from the Society; as he has not paid his dues with regularity, and has engaged on questionable, and immoral, activities within his premises.

Ibrahim Kudwa (4C) seconded the proposal.

Despite repeated requests — and his door being knocked on, several times — Mr Murthy did not agree to defend himself in front of the Society.

It was unanimously agreed to approve of the resolution, expelling Mr Murthy from the Society, and asking him to vacate his premises within thirty days…

… the meeting concluded at about 8.30 p.m. with a vote of thanks to the chair.

The full list of members’ signatures is attached. Fourteen of the sixteen shareholders in the Society have signed the form.

Copy (1) To Members of ‘A’ Building, Vishram Co-op Hsg Society Ltd

Copy (2) To Mr Ashvin Kothari, the Secretary, Vishram Co-op Hsg Society Ltd

Copy (3) To the Registrar of Housing Societies, Mumbai

*

He lay in the dark; feeling the weight of two floors of people above and three below who had expelled him from his home of thirty-two years; who do not even consider him a human any longer — one that needs light and water.

He had called Parekh at once.

‘This is utterly number two ,’ the lawyer said. ‘Point one. Expulsion from a Society is a grave matter — the taking away of a fundamental right to housing — and enforceable only on criminals and pornographers. The Registrar of Housing will not permit it in the case of a distinguished teacher. Point two.’ The lawyer cleared his throat. ‘Point two. Under Essential Commodities Act 1955, cutting off water or electricity without court order is a criminal offence. The Secretary of your building can be sent to jail. I will dictate a note, which you should give to the said Secretary.’

‘Let me find a pen, Mr Parekh.’

‘Give me this number two Secretary’s number,’ the lawyer said, ‘and I will call him myself. I deal with a baker’s dozen of corrupt Secretaries every day.’

At the start of summer, there had been talk of power cuts in Mumbai, and in anticipation, he had bought candles. One of them sat burning on the teakwood table. The wax dripped; the blackened wick was exposed. He thought of Purnima’s body blackening on her funeral pyre. He thought of Galileo’s framed picture over his mirror.

He held up his fist; in the weak light of the candle it cast a shadow on the wall. The earth, in infinite space. A point on it was the city of Mumbai. A point on that was Vishram Society. And that point was his .

His arm began to tremble, but he did not unclench his fist.

Suddenly the lights came back on. The water was running in the basin. He flushed the toilet clean of the black ants and washed his hands, saying, as he did so, the magic mantra, Mofa, Mofa .

Mr Parekh had done it again.

Shanmugham loved, more than any other part of the city he lived in, this drive over the Bandra bridge. At night, with the water in the Mahim creek glossy black, the glowing signs of the Lilavati Hospital ahead, the square lights of the slums puncturing the darkness below him, it was like gliding over a film set.

Now, in the late afternoon, he saw the hazy blue piers of the half-built Worli SeaLink, standing in the distant water like a bridge from this world to the next. Sweat dripped from his helmet into his eyes and burned them.

He dreamed of orange juice served on crushed ice with lots of sugar and a sprinkling of red masala powder on top. He hoped he would find a fresh-juice stand close to the lawyer’s office.

Parking his bike near the train station, he removed his helmet and gave his hair a good shake, scattering sweatdrops around him like a dog that has taken a bath.

Among the ramshackle buildings by the train station he searched for the lawyer’s office. The glint of an open razor in a barber’s shop caught his eye. Famous Hair Cutting Palace. This was the landmark near the office.

He waited on the other side of the road.

Next to him, a man stood in a wooden booth surrounded by tomatoes, cucumbers, and boiled potatoes in buckets of water. With stacks of white bread and a bowl of butter on his table, he sliced the vegetables fine. A series of cardboard signs in English hung by thread from the ceiling of the little booth:

DO NOT ASK FOR CREDIT

DO NOT DISCUSS OUR COMPETITORS RATE

DO NOT ASK FOR FREE PLASTIC BAG

DO NOT ASK FOR EXTRA TOMATO SAUCE

DO NOT STAY FOR LONG TIME AFTER EATING

Shanmugham looked with envy at all those interdictions. The sandwich-maker might be a poor man, but he could lay down his own law.

But me, I have to do what the boss says. He throws the stick, I have to catch .

He wondered if he should get a quick toast sandwich.

An old man with an umbrella and a slight limp in his left leg went past the Famous Hair Cutting Palace, and turned into the building next door. Shanmugham stopped thinking about food.

A milky lunette let grey light into the stairwell of the Loyola Trust Building; a pigeon was thrashing its wings on the other side.

Masterji stopped on his way up to his lawyer’s office to kick the pain out of his left leg. He looked at the restless silhouette of the bird. He thought: Where did the rains go?

Taking out his handkerchief, he patted his moustache, which was soaking wet, and put the damp cloth back in his pocket.

The anaemic Ganesha sat in its dim niche on the landing. The small votive oil lamp added burnt fuel to the smell of meat curry. The four khaki-clad security guards were once again playing cards beneath the idol of the Ganesha. Their chappals, shoes, and socks napped together in a heap by the wall.

Within the Milky Way of the city, you can sometimes recognize an autonomous solar system: like these men playing their card games in near silence on this dim landing, breaking only to eat lunch or replace the wick of the oil lamp. Rich they would never be, but they had this eternal card-and-companionship afternoon. Masterji wondered, as he walked around the guards’ hands and feet, which looked like another set of cards placed on the ground, if they maintained a No-Argument book here.

PAREKH AND SONS ADVOCATE ‘LEGAL HAWK WITH SOUL & CONSCIENCE’