Aravind Adiga - Last Man in Tower

Of course, Masterji and Mrs Rego had been brought to see him in the Mercedes. Not like this. She would have to mention this to the builder. Her disappointment .

To her surprise, Shanmugham did not turn either left or right at the signal, but went straight down to the train station.

The bike stopped in front of Vihar. She knew the place: a dingy south Indian restaurant where she had tea when she took the train home from the city. She brushed her hair as she got off the bike.

Ceremonial strings of fresh moosambi and oranges, tied high up, welcomed visitors to the outdoor eating area. Mr Shah sat at one table, talking to the man in khaki whom she recognized as the constable, Karlekar, who had come once to Vishram.

The constable smiled at her, and left with a red box in his hand.

Shah sat next to a plastic bag full of sweet-boxes; he was sipping tea from a glass. He glanced at her as she sat down.

‘The deadline is almost over, Mrs Puri.’

‘Don’t I know it, Mr Shah? I’ve been telling people from day one to sign your agreement. Maybe if we could have another day or two added to the deadline. I will do my best to help…’

Shah finished his tea. She assumed that a waiter had been told to bring her something.

The builder put his glass down; he licked his teeth and spat into the glass.

‘The same thing that is wrong in this city is wrong in your Society: no will power. One after the other, you have come to me and offered your help. First the Secretary. Then your Mr Ajwani. Now you offer. And one after the other you have let me down. That teacher has still not signed. I don’t want to see you people suffer, Mrs Puri. Good, solid, hard-working people. I began in life like you. When I came to Mumbai I had not even the shoes on my feet. I was a beggar like you. No, I don’t wish hardship on you or your neighbours. But principles are principles. I gave you my word when I came to your Society that I would not extend the deadline by one minute. I own Tower B. I will put a wall down the middle of your compound and build my Shanghai on that side. Half a Shanghai, but it will come up. And then I’ll build another, bigger tower somewhere else in Vakola.’

Shanmugham, sitting down next to them, had taken out his black book, as if he planned to record the conversation. Shah snatched the book and turned one of the pages, with its neat small handwriting, towards Mrs Puri.

He knocked on the page. ‘This is Vishram, Towers A and B.’

He folded it, ripped the page down the middle, and held up one half.

‘This is Tower A.’

He shoved the piece of paper into the dregs of his tea-glass. Sangeeta Puri’s mouth opened; tears came into her eyes. Shah smiled at her.

‘Why are you sobbing? Is it the thought of staying on in Vishram for ever? Is that old building like hell for you?’

Mrs Puri nodded.

‘Yes. I have to clean my son’s bottom every day. That is what the future means for me without your money.’

‘Good,’ Shah said. ‘Good. That old teacher makes you clean your son’s bottom. I know this. Does he know it? Have you made him understand what it is, to clean a child’s bottom day in and day out for the rest of your life?’

She shook her head.

‘Another thing. He has a son in Marine Lines who is fighting with him. I am told you are close to this boy.’

‘He is like a child to me,’ she said.

‘Then use him. Don’t you know how much a son can hurt his father?’

On the way back, Mrs Puri declined Shanmugham’s offer of a ‘drop-off’. She caught an auto to Vishram. Making sure Ramu was asleep, she went up to Ibrahim Kudwa’s door and rang the bell.

‘Gaurav,’ Mrs Puri fought her sobs. ‘I want to speak to Gaurav. This is his Sangeeta Aunty from Vishram Society calling. Thank you, Sonal.’

She was using her mobile phone in Ibrahim Kudwa’s living room. She could not call from her own home; it might upset her Ramu.

The table lamp had been turned on, and excavated half of Ibrahim Kudwa’s face from the evening gloom. Sitting on the sofa with his feet crossed, he watched Mrs Puri. Mumtaz was in the bedroom, with the door closed, feeding Mariam.

‘Wait,’ Kudwa said. ‘Don’t speak to Gaurav, Sangeeta-ji. Don’t do it.’

‘Why not, Ibby?’ she asked, holding the phone an inch away from her ear. ‘I told you what Mr Shah said, didn’t I? The deadline is almost over. We have to do this.’

‘Mr Shah is tricking us. Don’t you see? It’s obvious.’

Kudwa got off the sofa and came up to Mrs Puri. He could hear the ringing from her phone: Gaurav’s number had already been dialled. With a glance in the direction of the closed bedroom door, he dropped his voice to a whisper.

‘You know what his reputation is, Sangeeta-ji.’

Mrs Puri saw flakes of dandruff on her neighbour’s shoulders, and smelled cologne. She nodded.

‘We’ve discussed it in parliament,’ Kudwa said. ‘He pays, but he always delays his payments as long as possible. So why is he paying Tower B on time? Why is he paying them ahead of time? I was thinking about this all of today in my cyber-café. Now I see it. It’s so obvious. But some traps work like that: you have to see them to fall into them. When those people who are left behind see their neighbours getting the money, it will turn them mad with envy. I’m talking about us . He is turning good people into bad people. Changing our nature. Because he wants us to do it to Masterji ourselves,’ Kudwa said. ‘What other builders do to men like him in situations like this.’

Mrs Puri frowned, as if she were going to think about this. But it was too late.

There was a clicking noise from her phone, and then a voice said: ‘Yes? Sangeeta Aunty, is this you calling?’

‘Gaurav,’ she said, ‘the builder just spoke to me. Yes, that Mr Shah. We are about to lose everything.’ As she looked at Ibrahim Kudwa, her eyes began to fill with tears.

‘I’ve been like a mother to you, haven’t I, Gaurav? For so many years. Now you must help me, Gaurav, you are my other son, you are my only help in this building where no one loves me and no one cares…’

Standing by her side, Ibrahim Kudwa shook his head and sucked his teeth, before murmuring: ‘Oy, oy, oy.’

When Masterji came down the stairs in the morning, he saw the Secretary hammering something into the central panel of the noticeboard. Without a word to Masterji, Kothari closed the glass door, tapped it shut, and went into his office with his hammer.

Masterji stood before the noticeboard. He read the new notice, and then closed his eyes and read it, his lips moving, a second time:

To: the Residents of Vishram Society Tower A

I, GAURAV MURTHY, SON OF Y. A. MURTHY, AM PUTTING THIS NOTICE UP TO SAY I HAVE NO FATHER. I am shamed by the actions of the present occupant of flat 3A, Vishram. After promising my wife and me that he would sign the proposal, he has not signed. This is not the first time he has lied to us. Many jewels in my mother’s possession, and also bank certificates in her name meant for me and my son Ronak, have never been transferred to us. My son Ronak, my wife and I will perform the one-year Samskara rites of my mother on our own. We request all of you not to associate us with the actions of the present occupant of 3A, Vishram Society.

Signed,

Gaurav Murthy

Joydeep Society 5A, Marine Lines

Mumbai

He sat down below the noticeboard. Through the open door of the Secretary’s office, he saw Kothari at his desk, behind his Remington, eating a sandwich. Up on the landing, he could smell the stray dog; he could hear its laboured breathing.

I am no longer fighting Mr Shah , he thought. I am fighting my own neighbours.