Last Man in Tower - Aravind Adiga [111]
Mr. Pinto did not understand why the man did it, but each time parliament met down there to gossip about him, Masterji stood by the window, and sent down aerial roots to suck up slander and abuse. That must be his new diet, Mr. Pinto thought. He is chewing their thorns for lunch and nails for supper. From mockery he is making his protein.
As he looked at the chandelier, it seemed to be mutating into something stranger and brighter.
6 AUGUST
In the wild, rain-wet grass outside the Speed-Tek Cyber-Café, a white cat, rearing up, slashed at a russet butterfly just beyond its reach.
There was only one customer inside the café: hunched over terminal number six, emitting chuckles. Ibrahim Kudwa, sitting with little Mariam at the proprietor’s desk, wondered if it was time to make a surprise inspection of the chuckling customer’s terminal.
“Ibby. Pay attention.”
Ajwani and Mrs. Puri had been in the café for several minutes now.
Mrs. Puri put her forearms on the table and pushed the piece of paper towards him.
“All the others have agreed, except for you.”
To free Ibrahim’s arms, she asked for Mariam, who was wearing her usual striped green nightie.
“My wife says I have a high ratio of nerves to flesh,” Kudwa said, as he handed Mariam over to Mrs. Puri. “I should never be asked to make decisions.”
“A simple thing, this is,” Ajwani said. “In extreme cases, a Housing Society may expel a member and purchase his share certificate in the Society. It’s perfectly legal.”
Ibrahim Kudwa’s arms were free: yet he would not touch the piece of paper lying before him.
“How do you know? Are you a lawyer?”
Ajwani moved his neck from side to side and then he said: “Shanmugham told me.”
With Mariam in her hands, Mrs. Puri glared at Ajwani. But it was too late.
“And he’s an expert?” Kudwa’s upper lip twitched. “I don’t like that man, I don’t like his face. I wish we had never been picked by that builder. We are not good enough to say no to his money, and not bad enough to say yes to what he wants us to do for it.”
“Money is not the issue here, Ibby. It is the principle. We cannot let one man bully us.”
“True, Sangeeta-ji, true,” Kudwa said, looking at the ventilator of the cyber-café. “I teach both my children that. Hold your head up high in life.”
Putting a finger to his lips, he got up from his chair, and tiptoed over to his customer at terminal six.
Pulling the customer from his seat, Kudwa dragged him to the door of the café, and shoved him out; the white cat meowed.
“I don’t want your money, fine. Get out!” he shouted. “This is not a dirty shop.”
“Typical.” He wiped his forehead and sat down. “Leave them alone for five minutes, and there’s no saying what they download. And if the police come here, who will they arrest for pornography? Not him.”
“Listen, Ibrahim,” the broker said. “I have always fought oppression. In 1965, when Prime Minister Shastri asked us to sacrifice a meal a day to defeat the Pakistanis—I did so. I was eight years old and gave up my food for my country.”
Kudwa said: “I was only seven years old. I gave up dinner when my father asked. All of us sacrificed that meal in 1965, Ramesh, not just you.” He ran his fingers through his beard while shaking his head: “You want to throw an old man out of his home.”
Ajwani took Mariam from Mrs. Puri; he gave the girl a good shake.
“Ibrahim.”
“Yes?”
“You have seen how a cow turns its eyes to the side when it shits, and pretends not to know what it’s doing? Masterji knows exactly what he’s doing to us, and he’s enjoying it. Repressed, depressed, and dangerous: that’s your beloved Masterji in a nutshell.”
Mrs. Puri slid the paper across the table, closer to Kudwa.
“Ibby. Please listen to me. Masterji knows the builder can’t touch him now. The police are watching Vishram. This is the only way out.”
Kudwa put on his reading glasses. He picked up the paper and read:
… as per the Maharashtra Co-operative Societies Act, 1960, Section 35, Expulsion of Members, and also points 51 through 56 of the Model Bylaws, a member may be expelled from his Society