Last Man in Tower - Aravind Adiga [102]
They still believe in Independence Day, Masterji thought, looking at the excited little schoolchildren.
“We live in a republic, Mr. Pinto.” He placed his hand on his friend’s shoulder. “A man has his resources here. Now watch my hand.”
Mr. Pinto watched his friend’s fingers as they emerged one by one from his fists:
Police.
Media.
Law and order.
Social workers.
Family.
Students and old boys.
Masterji was doing what he did best: teaching. What is there in the world of which a man can say: “This is on my side?” All of these. Mr. Pinto’s resources, as a citizen of the Republic of India, were more than adequate to any and all threats at hand. The sun and the moon were in their right orbits.
They would start with the law. The police had been friendly, true, but you could not just say to them: “Fight evil”; the law was a code, a kind of white magic. A lawyer would bring his magic lamp, and only then would the Genie of the Law do their bidding.
Over lunch, Mr. Pinto said that he knew of a lawyer. A connection had used him in a property dispute.
“Not a rupee is charged unless there is a settlement in the matter. This is guaranteed. His address is somewhere here.”
Nina served them a speciality from her native South Canara, jackfruit seeds boiled to succulence and served in a red curry with coriander. Masterji wanted to praise Nina, but repressed the impulse lest she ask for a pay rise from the Pintos.
Raised to good spirits by the jackfruit seeds, Masterji sat down at Mr. Pinto’s writing table, and took out his Sheaffer pen, a gift from his daughter-in-law two years ago.
Mr. Pinto prepared the envelopes; Masterji wrote three letters to English-language newspapers and two to Hindi newspapers.
Dear Editor,
It being said that we live in a republic, the question arises whether a man in his own home can be threatened, and that too on the eve of Independence Day …
Nina made them ginger tea; Mr. Pinto stuck stamps on the envelopes and sealed them, and Masterji, after drinking the tea, began another letter, this one to his most famous ex-pupil.
My dear Avinash Noronha,
Remembering well your fine character in your schooling days, I know you cannot have forgotten your alma mater, St. Catherine’s High School in Vakola, nor your old teacher of physics, Yogesh A. Murthy. It is with such pride that I read your weekly columns in the Times of India, and your timely warnings against the spread of corruption and apathy. Little will it surprise you, hence, to know that this tide of decay has now reached your old neighbourhood and threatens your old …
“Nina will post them on her way home,” Mr. Pinto said.
“And this is just the start,” Masterji added. They had not been able to find any of his ex-students at home when they had telephoned, but he planned to write letters of appeal to all those old boys who had signed the photograph of his farewell party.
Mr. Pinto approved of this plan; he would go to the school library and get their mailing addresses from old Vittal. But he wanted Masterji to go and see the lawyer first.
“What do we have to lose? It’s a free consultation. And his office is right here, near Bandra train station.”
Masterji agreed. “You stay with Shelley,” he said. “I’ll go on my own.”
“Don’t take the train to Bandra, take an auto,” Mr. Pinto said.
He put a hundred-rupee note into Masterji’s shirt pocket.
“Okay,” Masterji said, patting his pocket, “we’ll enter it in the No-Argument when I get back. Fifty rupees: what I owe you.”
“No.” Mr. Pinto looked at the thing in his friend’s pocket. “We won’t enter that in the book. You owe me nothing.”
Masterji understood: this must be Mr. Pinto’s way of apologizing.
As his rickshaw fought its way to Bandra through the Khar subway, Masterji thought: I wonder how Ramu is doing, poor boy.
For maximum chance of winning favour from the red elephant-god, the temple of SiddhiVinayak must be visited, the devout