Last Man in Tower - Aravind Adiga [106]
Along a dim corridor, a bright metal sign on an open door announced:
PAREKH AND SONS
ADVOCATE
“LEGAL HAWK WITH SOUL & CONSCIENCE”
A small man in a grey uniform sat on a wooden stool between the metal sign and a glass door. A red pencil behind his ear.
“You are here to see ….” he asked, taking out the pencil.
“I am a man in need of legal help. A connection of mine told me about Mr. Parekh.”
The man wrote in the air with the pencil. “What is the name of your connection?”
“Actually, it was a connection of a connection. He had used Mr. Parekh’s services.”
“So you want to see ….”
“Mr. Parekh.”
“Which Parekh?”
“Legal hawk with a conscience. How many of them are here?”
The peon held up four fingers.
With the red pencil behind his ear, he went into the office; Masterji sat on his chair, raising his feet as an old servant woman mopped the floor with a wet rag.
Having apparently figured out which Parekh he was after, the peon opened the glass door and beckoned with the red pencil.
Masterji stepped into fluorescent light and air-conditioning breeze.
With its low dark wooden ceiling, the office had the look of a ship’s cabin; a man wearing thick glasses sat beneath a giant framed photograph of Angkor Wat with the legend: “World’s Biggest Hindu Temple.”
The air smelled of disinfectant.
Mr. Parekh (so Masterji assumed) was drinking tea. He stopped to blow his nose into a handkerchief and turned to use a spittoon before returning to his tea; he was like some non-stop hydrostatic system able to function only while accepting and discharging liquids. As with liquids, so with information; he was simultaneously talking on a mobile phone propped on his shoulder, and signing documents that an assistant held out for him, while somehow finding himself able to whisper to Masterji: “Tea? Any tea for you, sir? Sit. Sit.”
Putting down his mobile phone, he sipped the last of his tea, turned to one side to spit, and said: “State the problem in your own words.”
The lawyer had a bald, baby-pink scalp, but three immortal silver strands went from his forehead to the base of his neck. An ailment, possibly related to the pinkness of scalp, had eaten away his eyebrows, so that his eyes looked at Masterji with startling directness. A neck-chain with a gold medallion dangled over his white shirt. The size of the gold medallion, contrasting with the palsied state of eyebrows and scalp, suggested that though Mr. Parekh had endured much in life, he had survived and prospered.
Sipping tea, he listened to Masterji’s story with fast-blinking eyes (Masterji wondered if the lack of eyebrows affected the beating of the eyelashes), and then turned to a younger man, who was quietly sitting in a corner chair.
“I know of Vishram Society. It is a famous building in Vakola.”
The younger man said: “It used to be a jungle there. Now it’s an up-and-coming area.”
“These builders—all criminals. Engaged in nothing but number two activities. Who is this Confidence Shah? Must be some slum rat.”
The younger man said: “I think I’ve heard of him. Did redevelopment work in Mira Road. Or maybe Chembur.”
Old Parekh ran his hand over his three long silver hairs.
“A slum rat.” He smiled at Masterji. “You’ve come to the right place, sir. You’re looking at a man who deals with a baker’s dozen of slum rats every single day. But first, we must know, what is your position in the eyes of the law. And the law has very specific eyes: are you the sovereign of the place, or a representative of the said sovereign?”
“I’ve lived there for over thirty years. Since I came to Vakola to teach at the school.”
“A teacher?” Mr. Parekh’s jaw dropped. He blew into his handkerchief. “It is against Hindu Dharma to threaten a teacher. I have studied Western law and Indian Dharma alike, sir. I have even been to see the world’s biggest temple—” He tapped the glass-faced photograph behind him. “Name of Angkor Wat. Let us