Last Man in Tower - Aravind Adiga [110]
“We are an argumentative people, no doubt about it,” the constable agreed, with a smile. “The station receives imaginary complaints all the time. Burglars, fires, arson. Pakistani terrorists.”
“A melodramatic people,” the Secretary said. “It is all the films we watch. Thank you for not making a sensation of this matter.”
Constable Karlekar’s mouth had opened. “Look at that … oh, no … no ….” He pointed at a moth circling about the rotating ceiling fan in the Pintos’ living room; sucked in by the whirlpool of air, it drew closer and closer to the blades until two dark wings fluttered down to the floor. The constable picked up each wing.
“I don’t like it when a moth is hurt in my neighbourhood,” he said, handing over the severed wings to the Secretary. “Imagine what I feel like when an old man is threatened.”
The wings slipped through the Secretary’s fingers.
An hour later, the constable had dropped by Vishram Society again. He lit a cigarette by the gate and chatted to Ram Khare. The Secretary saw him getting down on his knees and peering at the dedicatory marble block outside Vishram, as if examining the forty-eight-year-old certificate of good character issued to the building.
“People will soon be talking all over Vakola. A policeman came to Vishram Society? The famous, respectable, honourable Vishram?”
“Quiet, Shelley.”
Mr. Pinto was at the window. A Burmese mahogany walking stick, a family heirloom, leaned on the wall next to him.
He and his wife were now in a new relationship to their Society. Neither of one camp nor of the other. Masterji no longer came to their table for food, nor did they go down to parliament, in which there was usually only one topic of discussion: the character of the resident of 3A.
This evening, the parliamentarians had begun by talking about Masterji and ended up fighting.
“You got a secret deal. A small sweetener”—Mrs. Puri to Ajwani.
“Don’t talk about things you don’t understand, Mrs. Puri.”
“A-ha!” she shouted. “You confess. You did get one.”
“Of course not.”
“I’ve heard things,” Mrs. Puri said. “One thing I tell all of you here—even you, Mrs. Saldanha in your kitchen: even you listen. No one is getting a secret deal unless my Ramu and I get one too.”
“No secret deal has been given to anyone,” the Secretary protested.
“You must have been offered the very first one, Kothari.”
“What an accusation. Didn’t you vote for me at the Annual General Meeting? I kept maintenance fees fixed at 1.55 rupees per square foot per unit, payable in two instalments. Don’t accuse me now of dishonesty.”
“Why was the building never repaired all these years, Kothari? Is that how you kept the costs flat?”
“I have often wondered the same thing.”
“You’re every bit as bad as Masterji, Mrs. Puri. And you too, Ajwani. No wonder Masterji turned evil, living among people like you.”
Using the Burmese walking stick, Mr. Pinto limped to the bedroom, and lay down next to his wife.
“Did Masterji have breakfast, Mr. Pinto? He must be hungry.”
“A man won’t die if he eats less for a few days, Shelley. When he gets hungry he’ll come back.”
“I don’t think so. He is such a proud man.”
“Whether I’ll let him back here is another thing, Shelley. Don’t you remember he called me a coward? He borrowed one hundred rupees from me to take an auto to Bandra West to see that lawyer. I’ve entered that in the No-Argument book. He’ll have to apologize, and pay my hundred rupees back, before he can eat at my dinner table again.”
“Oh, Mr. Pinto, really … not you, too. They abuse him so much in parliament these days.”
“Quiet, Shelley. Listen,” Mr. Pinto whispered. “He’s walking to the window. He always does that when they start up about him, Shelley. Why? Have you thought about it?”
“No. And I don’t want to.”
“He wants to listen when they say bad things about him. That’s the only explanation.”
“That can’t be right. Why would any man want to listen when such things are said about him? The other day Sangeeta said he used to beat Purnima.