Last Man in Tower - Aravind Adiga [130]
“I don’t know exactly ….” Ibrahim Kudwa scratched his beard faster. “… but something is going on here.” He picked up an India Today magazine that was lying on the floor and brushed it clean; then he picked up a Femina magazine and did the same.
Telling Ibby to let the magazines stay on the floor, Mrs. Puri offered him a glass of milk with rose-syrup stirred into it; as he drank she checked on Ramu, who was sleeping under his blue aeroplane quilt.
In the evening, she went down to see Ritika, who was leaving. The two women stood by the gate of Tower B, watching over the workmen who were loading the bags onto the truck. Ritika held a big red box of sweets, which the Secretary of Tower B was handing out to each departing family as a farewell gift from the builder. Mrs. Puri saw that this red box was twice the size of the earlier ones.
“Do you want an almirah for free, Sangeeta?” Ritika asked. “We can’t take that old one with us.”
“Can’t take it to Goregaon? Why not?”
“We’re not going to Goregaon,” Ritika said. She tapped on her red box. “We’re first going to Bandra, to stay with my in-laws. Next year, we’ll be moving to Kolkata. What is one and a half crores in this city, Sangeeta? Nothing. Ramesh asked for a transfer. We can have a nice big place near Minto Park for the same money. He grew up in Bengal, you know.”
Mrs. Puri felt better at once: how lucky could anyone be, if they were going to live in Calcutta?
“What do we need an almirah for, Ritika? We too will be moving soon.”
“Oh, I do hope so, Sangeeta. I do hope so.”
The two old college friends embraced; and then Ritika left Vishram Society for good.
On her way back into the building, Ram Khare came up to Mrs. Puri and said: “That man wants to speak to you. The one from Confidence.”
Shanmugham, on his red bike, was right outside the gate.
She wished she had had time to put her make-up on. At least a bit of blusher.
She sat on the back of his Hero Honda; they drove down towards the highway, where they stopped at the red light.
At last. Her one-on-one with Mr. Shah.
Mrs. Rego had been to some restaurant in Juhu; Masterji had been asked to his palace in Malabar Hill; she thought the minimum for her would be a five-star. Probably the Hyatt, right here in Vakola. Over Italian coffee and cakes, Mr. Shah would offer her a little sweetener. For the work she had done with Mrs. Rego. And a little more, if she could persuade Masterji.
Of course, Masterji and Mrs. Rego had been brought to see him in the Mercedes. Not like this. She would have to mention this to the builder. Her disappointment.
To her surprise, Shanmugham did not turn either left or right at the signal, but went straight down to the train station.
The bike stopped in front of Vihar. She knew the place: a dingy South Indian restaurant where she had tea when she took the train home from the city. She brushed her hair as she got off the bike.
Ceremonial strings of fresh moosambi and oranges, tied high up, welcomed visitors to the outdoor eating area. Mr. Shah sat at one table, talking to the man in khaki whom she recognized as the constable, Karlekar, who had come once to Vishram.
The constable smiled at her, and left with a red box in his hand.
Shah sat next to a plastic bag full of sweet-boxes; he was sipping tea from a glass. He glanced at her as she sat down.
“The deadline is almost over, Mrs. Puri.”
“Don’t I know it, Mr. Shah? I’ve been telling people from day one to sign your agreement. Maybe if we could have another day or two added to the deadline. I will do my best to help ….”
Shah finished his tea. She assumed that a waiter had been told to bring her something.
The builder put his glass down; he licked his teeth and spat into the glass.
“The same thing that is wrong in this city is wrong in your Society: no will power. One after the other, you have come to me and offered your help. First the Secretary. Then your Mr. Ajwani. Now you offer. And one after the other you have let me down. That teacher has still not signed. I don’t want to see you