Last Man in Tower - Aravind Adiga [129]
She was right. The deadline was coming close: and Mr. Shah was going to send someone round soon.
With a smile, he continued to break the creeper, which now smelled of raw, invigorating sap.
30 SEPTEMBER
Despite the runny noses, high temperatures, and inflamed conjunctiva that accompanied the change in the weather, Ram Khare still conceded that it was the ideal time of the year to enjoy life.
October was almost here. The sun was now bothering other people in other cities. Evenings were becoming pleasant. So he did what he did once a year, and invited security guards from around the neighbourhood for a round of chai.
They gathered around his booth in grey or khaki uniforms, smoking beedis or twirling keychains; Khare, perhaps more conscientious as a host than as a guard, made sure each one had a full glass of tea, before he took one for himself from the tray that the chai-wallah had left.
“Well, Ram Khare, what is happening at Vishram Society these days? Has it been hockey sticks or knives recently?”
The other guards had heard the news about old Mr. Pinto and the boy with the hockey stick. Looking around, Ram Khare confronted an impromptu tribunal of his colleagues. He put down his tea glass and stood before them.
“Look: was Mr. Pinto threatened inside the wall—or outside the wall?”
“Fair enough,” one of the guards said. “He can’t watch over every bit of the earth, can he?”
“But is this Masterji of yours a good man or a bad one?” another guard asked. “Does he give good baksheesh?”
Khare snorted. “In sixteen years, eight months, and twenty-nine days of knowing him, not a single tip.”
General outrage. Let him be thrown from his window, kicked senseless, shot to death—anything!
Since the holy digest was sitting right in the window of his booth, Ram Khare had to point out, in fairness: “But he did include my Lalitha in his lessons. The residents were not happy that a guard’s daughter was being taught with their children, but he said, nothing doing. She is a student like everyone else.”
A piercing whistle came from the gate in front of Tower B: the guards turned.
A truck began to move in reverse gear into the compound, directed by the whistle-blowing guard of that tower.
“My friends, things have been bad in Vishram Society,” Ram Khare said, raising his tea in a toast, “but from today, they become worse.”
Mrs. Puri and Ibrahim Kudwa watched from her window.
Wooden beds and Godrej cupboards, carried down the stairwell of Tower B, were loaded onto the back of the truck. Then came writing tables covered in old newspaper and personal luggage wrapped in plastic.
Having received their second instalment of money from the Confidence Group (paid by Mr. Shah, in a surprise move, ahead of schedule), the families of Tower B were leaving for their new homes, one by one.
Mrs. Puri had heard the news from Ritika, her friend in Tower B, a couple of weeks ago.
“One morning the money just comes into our Punjab National Bank account,” Ritika had said. “More than a month early. The first instalment he paid as soon as we signed the vacating forms. We’ve got two-thirds of the money now—all those zeroes in our bank statements, Sangeeta. Everyone has run out and put down a deposit on a brand-new place. No one wants to stay in Vishram Society one day longer than they have to.”
The schedule of departures had been posted for the residents of Tower A to see on Ram Khare’s booth. The last family would leave Tower B by 5 p.m. on Gandhi Jayanti, 2 October.
“Isn’t the builder supposed to give eight weeks’ rent while they search for a new home?” Kudwa asked.
“That’s in the bank too. Some of them are moving into a rental home first. I wouldn’t do that. Why rent when you can move into your own home right away?” Mrs. Puri smiled sadly. “You see, Ibby, I always told you Shah would pay. All the new builders are like this, they say. Honest men.”
Ibrahim Kudwa put both hands in his beard and scratched.
“It is very strange, Mrs. Puri. Paying people ahead of schedule. There is some kind of plan here.”
“Plan, Ibby?