Aravind Adiga - Last Man in Tower

Masterji got up.

Everyone wants something from me , he thought. Shah wants to steal my home, and she wants to take my story.

He went to the window and opened it. A potted creeper from the Secretary’s flat had grown down to his window; its lush green tendrils were blocking a part of his view. He began to snap its tendrils.

Ms Meenakshi realized that this was a sign for her to leave.

‘I ask you once again, Masterji,’ she said from the door. ‘Will you tell your story? Every day, the danger to your life grows.’

He stood at the window until she closed the door behind him. So now she was gone: soon she would be moving out of the building, this girl who had once disturbed him so much. He could not locate within himself the man who — just a few feet from where he now stood — had shoved Ms Meenakshi’s boyfriend with more-than-human strength. Maybe that was why she had been sent to this building: to discompose him at the time Shah made his offer.

An autorickshaw entered the compound. He saw the girl get into it with her suitcases and bags.

She was right. The deadline was coming close: and Mr Shah was going to send someone round soon.

With a smile, he continued to break the creeper, which now smelled of raw, invigorating sap.

Despite the runny noses, high temperatures, and inflamed conjunctiva that accompanied the change in the weather, Ram Khare still conceded that it was the ideal time of the year to enjoy life.

October was almost here. The sun was now bothering other people in other cities. Evenings were becoming pleasant. So he did what he did once a year, and invited security guards from around the neighbourhood for a round of chai.

They gathered around his booth in grey or khaki uniforms, smoking beedis or twirling keychains; Khare, perhaps more conscientious as a host than as a guard, made sure each one had a full glass of tea, before he took one for himself from the tray that the chai-wallah had left.

‘Well, Ram Khare, what is happening at Vishram Society these days? Has it been hockey sticks or knives recently?’

The other guards had heard the news about old Mr Pinto and the boy with the hockey stick. Looking around, Ram Khare confronted an impromptu tribunal of his colleagues. He put down his tea glass and stood before them.

‘Look: was Mr Pinto threatened inside the wall — or outside the wall?’

‘Fair enough,’ one of the guards said. ‘He can’t watch over every bit of the earth, can he?’

‘But is this Masterji of yours a good man or a bad one?’ another guard asked. ‘Does he give good baksheesh?’

Khare snorted. ‘In sixteen years, eight months, and twenty-nine days of knowing him, not a single tip.’

General outrage. Let him be thrown from his window, kicked senseless, shot to death — anything!

Since the holy digest was sitting right in the window of his booth, Ram Khare had to point out, in fairness: ‘But he did include my Lalitha in his lessons. The residents were not happy that a guard’s daughter was being taught with their children, but he said, nothing doing. She is a student like everyone else.’

A piercing whistle came from the gate in front of Tower B: the guards turned.

A truck began to move in reverse gear into the compound, directed by the whistle-blowing guard of that tower.

‘My friends, things have been bad in Vishram Society,’ Ram Khare said, raising his tea in a toast, ‘but from today, they become worse .’

Mrs Puri and Ibrahim Kudwa watched from her window.

Wooden beds and Godrej cupboards, carried down the stairwell of Tower B, were loaded on to the back of the truck. Then came writing tables covered in old newspaper and personal luggage wrapped in plastic.

Having received their second instalment of money from the Confidence Group (paid by Mr Shah, in a surprise move, ahead of schedule), the families of Tower B were leaving for their new homes, one by one.

Mrs Puri had heard the news from Ritika, her friend in Tower B, a couple of weeks ago.

‘One morning the money just comes into our Punjab National Bank account,’ Ritika had said. ‘More than a month early. The first instalment he paid as soon as we signed the vacating forms. We’ve got two-thirds of the money now — all those zeroes in our bank statements, Sangeeta. Everyone has run out and put down a deposit on a brand-new place. No one wants to stay in Vishram Society one day longer than they have to.’

The schedule of departures had been posted for the residents of Tower A to see on Ram Khare’s booth. The last family would leave Tower B by 5 p.m. on Gandhi Jayanti, 2 October.

‘Isn’t the builder supposed to give eight weeks’ rent while they search for a new home?’ Kudwa asked.

‘That’s in the bank too. Some of them are moving into a rental home first. I wouldn’t do that . Why rent when you can move into your own home right away?’ Mrs Puri smiled sadly. ‘You see, Ibby, I always told you Shah would pay. All the new builders are like this, they say. Honest men.’

Ibrahim Kudwa put both hands in his beard and scratched.

‘It is very strange, Mrs Puri. Paying people ahead of schedule. There is some kind of plan here.’

‘ Plan , Ibby? What kind of plan can the builder have?’

‘I don’t know exactly…’ Ibrahim Kudwa scratched his beard faster. ‘… but something is going on here.’ He picked up an India Today magazine that was lying on the floor and brushed it clean; then he picked up a Femina magazine and did the same.

Telling Ibby to let the magazines stay on the floor, Mrs Puri offered him a glass of milk with rose-syrup stirred into it; as he drank she checked on Ramu, who was sleeping under his blue aeroplane quilt.

In the evening, she went down to see Ritika, who was leaving. The two women stood by the gate of Tower B, watching over the workmen who were loading the bags on to the truck. Ritika held a big red box of sweets, which the Secretary of Tower B was handing out to each departing family as a farewell gift from the builder. Mrs Puri saw that this red box was twice the size of the earlier ones.

‘Do you want an almirah for free, Sangeeta?’ Ritika asked. ‘We can’t take that old one with us.’

‘Can’t take it to Goregaon? Why not?’

‘We’re not going to Goregaon,’ Ritika said. She tapped on her red box. ‘We’re first going to Bandra, to stay with my in-laws. Next year, we’ll be moving to Kolkata. What is one and a half crores in this city, Sangeeta? Nothing. Ramesh asked for a transfer. We can have a nice big place near Minto Park for the same money. He grew up in Bengal, you know.’

Mrs Puri felt better at once: how lucky could anyone be, if they were going to live in Calcutta?

‘What do we need an almirah for, Ritika? We too will be moving soon.’

‘Oh, I do hope so, Sangeeta. I do hope so.’

The two old college friends embraced; and then Ritika left Vishram Society for good.

On her way back into the building, Ram Khare came up to Mrs Puri and said: ‘That man wants to speak to you. The one from Confidence.’

Shanmugham, on his red bike, was right outside the gate.

She wished she had had time to put her make-up on. At least a bit of blusher.

She sat on the back of his Hero Honda; they drove down towards the highway, where they stopped at the red light.

At last. Her one-on-one with Mr Shah.

Mrs Rego had been to some restaurant in Juhu; Masterji had been asked to his palace in Malabar Hill; she thought the minimum for her would be a five-star. Probably the Hyatt, right here in Vakola. Over Italian coffee and cakes, Mr Shah would offer her a little sweetener. For the work she had done with Mrs Rego. And a little more, if she could persuade Masterji.