Last Man in Tower (32 page)

30 SEPTEMBER

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.

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.’

1 OCTOBER

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.

Through his tears Masterji saw a mosquito alight on his forearm. He had been weak and distracted; it had seen opportunity. He watched its speckled stomach, its tingling legs, as the proboscis pierced his skin. Not a second wasted in a calculating world. Not his neighbours – he was fighting
this
.

He slapped his forearm: the mosquito became a blotch of someone else’s blood on his skin.

He went up the stairs to his flat and lay in bed, covering his face with his forearm. He tried to think of all the insults that bearded labourer in Crawford Market must have had to put up with.

It was evening before he came out of his room.

He walked down the stairs, trying not to think about the notice-board. He went out of the gate and into the market: and there he received his second shock of the day.

His story was in the newspaper.

Ramesh Ajwani had his back angled to the ocean breeze to shield his copy of the
Mumbai Sun
. He was reading an article on page four.

O
LD
M
AN IN
T
OWER
S
AYS
N
O TO
B
UILDER

Residents of Vishram Society, Vakola, have become trapped in a peculiar ‘situation’ that has pitted one retired teacher against all the other members of his Society, and also against the might…

He closed the newspaper and folded it on his knees.
Such
bad news. But it was a pleasant evening, and Ramesh Ajwani was in the heart of the city of Bombay. He took a deep breath and exhaled Masterji out of his body; then he looked around.

Marine Drive. The commonwealth of Mumbai had come to sit by the water’s edge. Ajwani saw representatives of every race of the city around him:
burqa
-clad Sunni Muslims with their protective men; Bohra women in their Mother Hubbard bonnets chaperoning each other; petite, sari-clad Marathi women, jasmine garlands in their braided hair, nuggets of vertebrae in their fatless backs glistening at each twist of their excited bodies; two thick-shouldered sadhus, saffron robes streaming, chanting Sanskrit to the waves; shrieking clumps of college students from Elphinstone; the baseball-cap-wearing sellers of small fried things and chilled water.

Ajwani smiled.

Sunbaked and sweating, looking like a big pink baby, a foreign man in a singlet and blue shorts was jogging down the pavement, slowly enough for his Indian minder to follow him on foot.

Ajwani saw four young men in polyester shirts gaping at the foreigner. They had been chatting and cackling a moment ago, commenting on every passing car and young girl. Now they watched in silence.

He understood.

Having dreamed all their lives of better food and better clothes, the young men were looking at this rich foreigner’s appalling sweat, his appalling nudity. Is this the end point, they were wondering: a lifetime of hard work, undertaken involuntarily, to end in this – another lifetime of hard work, undertaken voluntarily?

The city of wealth was playing its usual cat-and-mouse games with migrants: gives them a sniff of success and money in one breath, and makes them wonder about the value of success and the point of money in the next.

The broker turned his neck from side to side to relieve a strain.

A man wearing black and white came through the crowd and sat on the ocean wall next to the broker.

‘Nice to see you here,’ Ajwani said. ‘First time we’ve met in the city.’

‘I was in Malabar Hill when your call came. What are you doing here?’ Shanmugham asked, looking at the newspaper on Ajwani’s lap.

The broker grinned. ‘I come to the city every now and then. Business, you know.’ He winked. ‘On Falkland Road. Fun business.
Girls
.’

Shanmugham pointed at the newspaper. ‘You saw the story?’

The broker turned the pages. ‘I opened the paper on the train, and I closed it at once from shame. A man wants to read about other people’s Societies in the
Sun
, not his own.’

He glanced through the article again, and closed the newspaper.

‘The Confidence Group is being mocked in public. If
I
were in your position…’ Ajwani cracked his knuckles. ‘… I kept hoping something would have happened by now to Masterji. Not a thing. Even the phone calls have stopped. What is wrong with your boss?’

Shanmugham twisted round to look at the ocean. Marine Drive is buffered from the waves of the Indian ocean by a row of dark tetrapodal rocks, which look like petrified starfish and run for miles along the shore. A man in rags was hopping from tetrapod to tetrapod, like an egret on a hippo’s teeth. From between them he pulled out discarded bottles of water, which he tossed into a sack.

He spoke as if addressing the scavenger.

‘I asked the boss, the deadline is here, what should the people in Vishram do? And he said, they must help themselves. The way I helped myself. Do you know his life’s story?’

Ajwani did not. So Shanmugham, as the breeze blew in from the ocean, told the story of how Mr Shah came to Bombay on bare feet.

Ajwani closed one eye and looked towards Malabar Hill.

‘So that’s how men become rich. It’s a good story. Have
you
paid attention to it, Shanmugham?’

The Tamilian turned to face the broker. ‘What does that mean?’

Ajwani drew near. ‘I know that in many redevelopment projects, the left-hand man is smarter than his boss. He skims ten, fifteen per cent off each project. And he gives some of the money to those within the redevelopment project who have been his friends.’ Ajwani placed his hand, covered with iron and plastic rings, on top of Shanmugham’s.

‘Why don’t
you
get rid of the problem in Vishram? Show some initiative, do it on your own – do it
tonight
. I can help you in return: I can show you how to skim a bit off the Shanghai. Men like you and me are not going to become rich off mutual funds or fixed deposits in the bank, my friend.’

Shanmugham shook the broker’s hand off his. He stood up; he brushed the dust from his trouser bottoms. ‘Whatever has to happen now to your Masterji, you have to do yourself. Before midnight on 3 October. Don’t call me after this.’

Ajwani cursed. Crushing the newspaper, he threw it at the tetrapods; the startled scavenger looked up.

Masterji realized he had become one of those things, like good cabbage, ripe chikoos, or rosy apples from the United States, that people came to the market looking for.

As he went about his rounds for milk and bread, strangers followed him and waved; three young men introduced themselves. They said they were his old students. Da Costa, Ranade, Savarkar.

‘Yes, of course, I remember you. Good boys, all three of you.’

‘We saw you in the newspapers, Masterji. There was a big article on you this morning.’

‘I have not yet read the article, boys. He didn’t speak to me, that reporter. I don’t know what he’s written. I gather it’s a small article, just three or four inches.’

Yet those three or four inches of newsprint, like a bugle call, had instantly summoned these students whom he had failed to locate for all these months.

‘We are proud you’re not letting that builder push you around, sir. He must give you good money if he wants you to leave.’

‘But I don’t
want
the money, boys. I’ll explain again. India is a republic. If a man wants to stay in his home, then it is his freedom to do so. If he wants to go, then…’

The three listened; at the end, one of them said: ‘You used to quote Romans in class, sir. The one who knew about the sun.’

‘Anaxagoras. A Greek.’

‘You’re as tough as any Roman, sir. You’re like that fellow in the movie… Maximus the Gladiator.’

‘Which movie is this?’

That made them laugh.

‘Maximus Masterji!’ said one, and all three left in a good mood.

Masterji saw his story – the interpretation of his recent actions, which had until now been held securely in his conscience – slipping away from him. He had become part of the market: his story, in newsprint, was used by the vendors to cover their produce. The okra was wrapped in him; fresh bread lent him its aroma.

‘Masterji!’ It was Mary. She had a copy of the
Sun
.

‘You’re in the English papers.’ She grinned and showed him her big front teeth. ‘We’re all so proud of you. We passed it around the
nullah
. When my son comes back from school, I’ll have him read it to us.’

‘I haven’t read it, Mary,’ he said.

‘You haven’t?’ Mary, scandalized, insisted that he take the paper. She turned to the article with the photograph of Vishram Society.

O
LD
M
AN IN
T
OWER
S
AYS
N
O TO
B
UILDER

Masterji skimmed:

… only one man, Yogesh Murthy, retired teacher at the nearby school, has resisted the generous offer of the reputable… ‘it is a question of an an individual’s freedom to say Yes, No, or Go to Hell’…

By describing himself thus as the small man in this situation, Murthy may hope to win the sympathy of some, but how honest is this picture he paints? One of the residents of the Society, not wishing to be identified, said, ‘He is the most selfish man in the world. His own son does not speak to him now…’

…was borne out by many others to whom this reporter spoke. According to one of Mr Murthy’s former students, who did not wish to be named, ‘He had no patience and he was always ready to punish. We used to call him names behind his back. To say that we remember him fondly would be the biggest…’

Mary bent down to pick up the paper; it had fallen from Masterji’s hands.

Looking down, Masterji saw a bird, smaller than the centre of a man’s palm, thrashing about on the ground like a vitalized chunk of brown sugar.
This only makes things worse
, he thought, as he followed the bird’s dizzying movements.
My neighbours will blame me for it.

A little boy with a black string amulet around his neck began circling Masterji in off-balance, chick-like loops, hands flapping by his side. The onion-seller came running behind him: ‘Bad boy!’ He caught the little fellow and pinched him; the chastised boy cried with operatic emotion: ‘Pa-pa-jee!’

Seconds later, he had escaped his father again, had been caught again, and was now bawling: ‘Ma-maa-jee!’

To make the boy stop crying, Masterji offered him a piece of bread. ‘Would you like this?’

A big nod of the little head; the boy nibbled.

Masterji insisted that Mary take the rest of his fresh bread for her son.

For over thirty years he had handed out sweet, soft things to the children of Vishram Society on Gandhi Jayanti.

He stopped at the whitewashed banyan outside Ibrahim Kudwa’s cyber-café. Arjun, Kudwa’s assistant, had placed a photograph of the Mahatma in a niche in the banyan, and he and the Hindu holy man who sometimes stopped there, clapping their hands in unison, were chanting Gandhi’s favourite hymn:

‘
Ishwar Allah Tero Naam

Sabko Sanmati de Bhagavan
.’

‘Ishwar and Allah are both your names

Give everyone this wisdom, Lord.’

The national tricolour had been hoisted above the Speed-Tek Cyber Café; Masterji saw it reflected in the tinted window of a moving car, streaming in reverse like a dark meteor over Vakola.

In the middle of the night, Ashvin Kothari woke up sniffing the air.

‘What is that smell?’

He turned on his bedside lamp. His wife was staring at the ceiling.

‘Go back to sleep.’

‘What is it?’

‘Go back to—’

‘It’s something you women are doing, isn’t it?’

The Secretary followed the smell down the stairs to the third floor.

Something brown, freshly applied by hand, the fingermarks still visible in it, covered Masterji’s door. A fly buzzed about it.

The Secretary closed his eyes. He raced up the stairs to his flat.