Last Man in Tower - Aravind Adiga [117]
Masterji saw before him not just two bullying lawyers, but the primal presence of authority. Is this how my students saw me all those years? Beneath that low ceiling, an old teacher sat crushed under understanding.
This lawyer with the hidden gold medallion, and this young man, son or assistant, were crooks changing coins in the temple of the law. That was why Parekh had asked for the phone number of the Secretary; all this time the two of them had been in contact.
Masterji looked at the photograph of Angkor Wat, and asked: “You spoke to Mr. Shah? Behind my back?”
“Mr. Shah contacted me. His man came here—nice Tamilian fellow, what was his name? Shatpati? Shodaraja?” The lawyer tapped a tooth. “No business card, but he gave his number. I can renegotiate. Squeeze an even better settlement for you.”
“I don’t want a better settlement.”
“We’ll get you the best settlement.”
“I want no settlement. I will find another lawyer.”
“Now, Masterji.” Mr. Parekh leaned in to him. “The others will ask for a retainer and waste your time and tell you the same. Frankly, sir: I don’t understand what it is you want.”
“I keep telling you: nothing.”
At once the A/C seemed to stop working: Mr. Parekh wiped the back of his neck with a handkerchief.
“Sir: these real-estate men pick on us senior citizens. Politicians and police are in their pay, you must know that. They shot an elected member of the city corporation dead the other day. In broad daylight. Didn’t you see it in the papers? Old men must stick together in this new world.”
“You are threatening me now?” Masterji asked. “My own lawyer?”
Mr. Parekh sneezed into a handkerchief, and then said,
“I am threatening you, sir, with the facts of human nature.”
Instead of an Angkor Wat behind the lawyer’s head, Masterji now saw an image of the High Court of Bombay: a Gothic structure with a soaring roof, ancient and massive, sitting like a paperweight on the city, and symbolizing, for its residents, the authority of law. Now this High Court and its high roof shuddered and its solid Gothic arches became shredded paper fluttering down on Masterji’s shoulders. MOFA. MHADA. ULCRA. MSCA. ULFA. Mohamaulfacramrdama-ma-ma-abracadabra, soft, soft, it fell on him, the futile law of India.
Just then he heard Mr. Parekh’s young colleague say, “You didn’t even charge him for your basic expenses, Father. All the photocopying we had to do. You have a conscience, that is why. All senior citizens are your family.”
So he is the son, Masterji thought. The possession of this fact—trivial, and irrelevant to his troubles—mysteriously filled him with strength. He put his hands on the arms of his chair and stood up.
“Now wait here,” the younger Parekh said, realizing that the bird was about to fly. “If you’re going to leave like this, what about our dues? What about all the photocopying we did for you?”
From behind him, Masterji heard the young man’s voice protesting: “Let’s stop him, Father—at once. Father, let’s run after him.”
The green bucket fell over as Masterji pulled his umbrella from it, and splattered his ankles with water.
Past the guards and their blind deity he walked, down the old stairs—past the pigeon, thrashing behind the blind lunette.
Purnima, he prayed, swoop down and lift me from the land of the living.
His wife answered him, as he ran out of the Loyola Trust Building, in an aroma of freshly fried potatoes.
He stopped at a fried-snacks shop.
In seconds a ball of batter-fried vada pav, bought for four rupees, was dissolving in Masterji’s gut. Oil, potato, cholesterol, trans-fats slowed the whirlpool in his stomach.
Wiping away the humiliating slick of grease on his lips, he found a grocery store where he could make calls from a yellow payphone wrapped in plastic. Gaurav would be at work now. The one place where