Aravind Adiga - Last Man in Tower

It was a film that had excited much speculation in the papers. The case was an unusual one: the film was a ‘comeback’ vehicle for the 1980s film star Praveena Kumari. Ms Kumari, at the height of her fame, had quit Bollywood to settle in America; now, visibly ageing and heavy, she had been cast in a big-budget film — a certain flop. The film’s producer was a walnut-headed Punjabi, noted for cunning and parsimony. That he would waste such money (for the production was lavish, and the marketing too) was the subject for discussion in Bombay that month, trumping such other questions as a possible change in the government in Delhi, the deteriorating situation in Afghanistan, or new national figures on child malnutrition.

Oh, yes. Rosie had the inside ‘scoop’. Leaning forward, she whispered into the builder’s ear: ‘Her blowjobs sing across the decades.’

Shah grinned. It made sense. Old walnut-head, who had cast Kumari in her first film, had never forgotten her, and the moment she phoned him long-distance — ‘I want to be big in films again, Uncle’ — he had laid a project worth millions at her thick feet.

He laughed so much he had to cough.

‘Here’s your Shanghai,’ Rosie said, handing him the folder with the X-ray.

She had just entertained him; he was vulnerable.

‘I want to be taken into your home,’ she said. ‘I want to see where you eat and sleep.’

At once Parvez turned the car towards Malabar Hill.

A quarter of an hour later, a blue cleaning-rag on his shoulder, Giri stood at the dining table, his hand on the breadknife, and watched the girl in the short skirt.

Shah was out on the open terrace; Rosie, in the living room, was looking over the model of the Shanghai that was sitting near the dancing Nataraja.

Next she peeked into the bedrooms. Giri followed, making sure she did not steal anything. He knew about the theft at the Oshiwara gym. When she went into the kitchen, he stood in the doorway and folded his arms.

To-re-a-dor — emitting little contralto bursts the girl opened the wooden cupboards in the kitchen wall. To-re-a-dor . Giri watched with his mouth open.

He made way; the boss had come into the kitchen. From the look on his face Giri knew he had been talking to Shanmugham about the mess in Vakola.

Shah exhaled, and said: ‘All right, Rosie. You’ve seen the house. Now let’s go.’

She turned around with twinkling eyes.

‘Why? What’s the hurry?’

‘My son will be home soon. Isn’t it time for Satish, Giri?’

‘So why should I leave? I want to meet him. Heard so much about him.’

‘We’re going to the Versova flat, Rosie. Right away.’

‘Oh, you want to fuck me, but you don’t want your son to meet me, is that it?’

She opened and shut another kitchen cupboard.

He pulled her hands back from the shelves; they wriggled out of his and opened another panel.

‘Enough of this, Rosie. I’ve just been to the hospital and I’m tired.’

To-re-a-dor — she put her hands inside, and tapped on the pots and pans. To-re-a-dor!

Shah watched her sniffing inside his wife’s cabinets, playing with his wife’s utensils and vessels.

Louder and louder she sang in the foreign language, until Shah reached over her head with his thick arms and — as if he were closing a trap on an animal — slammed the panel doors shut on her nose.

She was too surprised even to cry; bending over, she began sobbing and spitting. A drop of blood fell from her nose.

‘Spit into the sink,’ Shah said. ‘The car is leaving for Versova in five minutes.’

As she washed her nose, Giri handed her the blue rag from his shoulder: ‘Take this, Miss. Take it. And don’t cry, please. It makes Giri want to cry too.’

Rosie winced; Shah had taken her white arm in his right hand. With his other, he dialled Shanmugham’s number.

‘I’ve made up my mind,’ he said when the phone was answered.

His fingers pressed up and down Rosie’s arm; he heard his left-hand man’s voice quiver with excitement.

‘I’ve got the man from Andheri, Boss. He’s the one who helped me deliver the Sion project for you. The boy we used to scare that other old man — Mr Pinto — won’t be good for anything more than threatening words. But this Andheri fellow will be perfect. No police record.’

‘Shanmugham: shut up and listen to me.’

And then, still holding on to Rosie’s arm, he told his left-hand man what he wanted done at Vishram Society.

A pause. Then the voice on the phone said: ‘Boss: are you sure ? We’re paying them? Why? ’

‘Shanmugham,’ Shah said, ‘I found you in a slum in Chembur. Correct?’

‘Yes, Boss.’

‘And if you ask one more question like that, I’ll send you back there.’

He hung up and turned to Rosie. A pink plaster sat on her nose: Giri had brought out the Band-Aids kept for Satish’s football wounds. She was looking at the kitchen floor.

‘See what you made me do to your pretty face, Rosie? Come, let’s go to Versova. I’m hungry. Come.’

She turned: her eyes were livid, and the fingers of her right hand trembled. Shah braced himself. Was it coming — the slap? But a need greater than retribution — the promised hair salon, her future in dependence — relaxed her fingers.

‘All right,’ she said. ‘Let’s go.’

Shah grinned. Texting his driver to get the car ready, he led Rosie out of the flat: towards toast, beach, and bed.

Giri stayed in the kitchen and wiped away the stains of water and blood.

Humming a favourite film song (… geet amar kar do ) and walking up to his flat with a packet of fresh milk, Masterji found Ms Meenakshi waiting at his door. The girl showed him a set of keys.

‘I’m leaving today.’

Masterji nodded. ‘In that case you must come in, Ms Meenakshi. Tea? Biscuits?’

She wore a white T-shirt, and a denim skirt that left most of her knees uncovered; she sat on the sofa while he put milk on the gas stove and chopped a piece of ginger in the kitchen.

‘Masterji, your life could be in danger and you’re talking about tea and biscuits?’

He ignited the burner of the stove with a match.

‘What will that man Shah do, Ms Meenakshi? We have gone through things in our generation that I can’t explain to you. Do you know about PL 480? During the 1965 war the Americans stopped our food supply to help Pakistan. PL 480 was their wheat programme, and they cut it off. Prime Minister Lal Bahadur Shastri asked each Indian to give up a meal to help the nation win the war. This trouble is nothing .’

The living room filled with the smell of burned milk. Masterji came out of the kitchen with two cups of steaming ginger tea.

Ms Meenakshi sipped her tea. ‘You’re all alone here, Masterji. Do you really understand this? A man with a gun could come to your door and shoot you. It’s been done before.’

Masterji put his cup down on the teakwood table.

‘No. I am not alone, Ms Meenakshi.’

He wanted to throw shadows on the wall to explain to her.

‘There are more parties involved in this dispute than just Mr Shah, my neighbours, and me. Millions are involved. Even after you leave Vishram, you will still be involved.’

She waited for him to explain. He smiled and stirred the sediment in the teacup.

Wiping her hands on her skirt, the girl said: ‘You asked what Public Relations is, Masterji. Go to the papers. Tell them your story.’

‘I wrote to a student of mine at the Times … and it came to nothing.’

‘Not the pucca papers. A tabloid. My boyfriend works for the Sun , Masterji — the one you…’ She smiled. ‘I told him what is happening here, and he said at once: “It’s a story!” He’ll interview you. The paper will run your photo. You’ll become famous. People will follow you on FaceBook.’