Aravind Adiga - Last Man in Tower

The courtesy in the lawyer’s office was much improved this time. The peon with the red pencil behind his ear smiled and said: ‘I’ll on the air-conditioner, sir, you’re sweating. The worst time of the year, isn’t it? The rains stop and it’s the middle of summer again.’ He took Masterji’s black umbrella, gave it a shake, and placed it in a green plastic bucket with umbrellas of other colours.

A glass of water arrived on a brown tray; the peon bowed before Masterji.

‘I’ve brought you the coldest glass of water in Mumbai city, sir. Cold-est.’

Is he expecting a tip for this? Other petty workers, going about the office with their files, smiled at Masterji. He remembered the feeling — which he had had once at the Vakola market — of being mistaken for a millionaire. Sipping the ice-cold water, he considered the mystery of his situation, when the peon said: ‘You can go in to see Mr Parekh, sir.’

Head down, Parekh was on his mobile phone, the three silver strands over his bald head shining in the light. The gold medallion was tucked into his shirt, and bulged between the second and third button.

Parekh looked up, and stared through his thick glasses at Masterji, who had decided to sit down.

‘You phoned me, Mr Parekh. You said there was good news and I should come to see you before noon.’

Nodding, as if he remembered now, the lawyer summoned his mucus and discharged it into the spittoon.

‘You are not my only client, Masterji. I am at any given moment fighting a baker’s dozen of slum rats.’

Masterji, appropriately chastened, nodded. A peon came in with tea for the lawyer. Some minutes passed like this, with Parekh reading a typewritten letter and squinting at his mobile phone each time a text message arrived with a loud chime. Feet thumped on the low ceiling. The cracks in the wooden planks expanded.

The door to the office opened, and an assistant — or was it his son? — approached the lawyer. Parekh took a document from him, squinted, and threw it back at him.

‘This is not the right good news. Not relevant to Masterji’s case.’

The assistant left; Masterji waited; feet moved across the ceiling.

‘One thing has to be confessed, Masterji,’ Parekh said. ‘I had doubts: that night when they cut off the power, for instance. Or when your copetitioner, that Mr Pinto, was threatened. But you have stayed true. You have proved yourself sovereign of your plot of earth.’

Masterji nodded. ‘Men of our generation, we have seen much trouble. Wars, emergencies, elections. We can survive.’

‘True,’ Parekh said. ‘Men of a certain generation, you and I are.’

The assistant reappeared in a few minutes with another document; and this time, the old teacher knew it was relevant to his case. Parekh looked at Masterji; his browless eyes sparkled.

‘The good news is a sizeable one.’

Masterji smiled. ‘What is the good news?’

Still flipping through the pages of the document, Parekh said: ‘A settlement. It will be a famous settlement. Shah versus Murthy.’

‘But who has given me this settlement?’

Mr Parekh turned to his assistant or son, as if in appreciation of this joke.

‘Oh, Masterji,’ he said. ‘The builder, of course. And in fact — between us, Masterji — we have fooled Mr Shah.’ He wiped his lips. ‘Because you had a weak case to begin with. We can say it openly now.’

‘A weak case?’

‘Of course.’

Masterji turned from Parekh to the other, and back to Parekh.

‘How can you make a settlement without speaking to me? I have the share certificate: I own my flat.’

Parekh smiled sadly. ‘No, sir. You don’t. Fundamentally speaking, sir, neither you nor any member of any registered co-operative housing society anywhere in this state is the proprietor, strictly speaking, of his or her flat. Your Society is the sovereign of your flat. You own a share certificate in that Society. If the Society decides to sell your flat, you have no right to dissent. Regarding which…’ He turned to clear his throat. The son or assistant recited: ‘Dhiraj T. Kantaria and others versus Municipal Corporation and Co., 2001 (3) Bom. C.R. 664; 2002 (5) Mh. L.J. 779; 2004 (6) LJSOFT 42.’

The lawyer wiped his lips and said: ‘Exactly.’

‘But Mofa…’ Masterji mumbled. ‘Mofa, Mofa?’

The lawyer ran his hand over his three silver strands. ‘The name of Mofa Act is not to be taken lightly.’ He shook his head. ‘For thirty years you have taught your students in accordance with Dharma. Now let us be two teachers to you, Masterji. Even some lawyers who have been twenty, thirty years in this honourable profession don’t understand what Mofa Act is, frankly speaking. Common man cannot understand subtleties of Mofa Act. Because you have to think of how Mofa behaves with MMRDA and BMC.’

‘MHADA,’ the other reminded him. ‘MHADA.’

‘Very true. In this city, MHADA is always there. Somewhere in background. Sometimes in foreground. We must not forget that the government is about to repeal ULCRA any day. Urban Land Ceiling Regulation Act? All this we have to think before we bring up the name of Mofa Act. Understand? Don’t worry. We understand on your behalf.’

Masterji saw before him not just two bullying lawyers, but the primal presence of authority. Is this how my students saw me all those years? Beneath that low ceiling, an old teacher sat crushed under understanding.

This lawyer with the hidden gold medallion, and this young man, son or assistant, were crooks changing coins in the temple of the law. That was why Parekh had asked for the phone number of the Secretary; all this time the two of them had been in contact.

Masterji looked at the photograph of Angkor Wat, and asked: ‘You spoke to Mr Shah? Behind my back?’

‘Mr Shah contacted me . His man came here — nice Tamilian fellow, what was his name? Shatpati? Shodaraja?’ The lawyer tapped a tooth. ‘No business card, but he gave his number. I can renegotiate. Squeeze an even better settlement for you.’

‘I don’t want a better settlement.’

‘We’ll get you the best settlement.’

‘I want no settlement. I will find another lawyer.’

‘Now, Masterji.’ Mr Parekh leaned in to him. ‘The others will ask for a retainer and waste your time and tell you the same. Frankly, sir: I don’t understand what it is you want.’

‘I keep telling you: nothing .’

At once the A/C seemed to stop working: Mr Parekh wiped the back of his neck with a handkerchief.

‘Sir: these real-estate men pick on us senior citizens. Politicians and police are in their pay, you must know that. They shot an elected member of the city corporation dead the other day. In broad daylight. Didn’t you see it in the papers? Old men must stick together in this new world.’

‘ You are threatening me now?’ Masterji asked.

‘My own lawyer?’ Mr Parekh sneezed into a handkerchief, and then said,

‘I am threatening you, sir, with the facts of human nature.’

Instead of an Angkor Wat behind the lawyer’s head, Masterji now saw an image of the High Court of Bombay: a Gothic structure with a soaring roof, ancient and massive, sitting like a paperweight on the city, and symbolizing, for its residents, the authority of law. Now this High Court and its high roof shuddered and its solid Gothic arches became shredded paper fluttering down on Masterji’s shoulders. Mofa. MHADA. ULCRA. MSCA. ULFA. Mohamaulfacramrdama-ma-ma-abracadabra, soft, soft, it fell on him, the futile law of India.

Just then he heard Mr Parekh’s young colleague say, ‘You didn’t even charge him for your basic expenses, Father. All the photocopying we had to do. You have a conscience, that is why. All senior citizens are your family.’