Last Man in Tower - Aravind Adiga [131]
Shanmugham, sitting down next to them, had taken out his black book, as if he planned to record the conversation. Shah snatched the book and turned one of the pages, with its neat small handwriting, towards Mrs. Puri.
He knocked on the page. “This is Vishram, Towers A and B.”
He folded it, ripped the page down the middle, and held up one half.
“This is Tower A.”
He shoved the piece of paper into the dregs of his tea-glass. Sangeeta Puri’s mouth opened; tears came into her eyes. Shah smiled at her.
“Why are you sobbing? Is it the thought of staying on in Vishram for ever? Is that old building like hell for you?”
Mrs. Puri nodded.
“Yes. I have to clean my son’s bottom every day. That is what the future means for me without your money.”
“Good,” Shah said. “Good. That old teacher makes you clean your son’s bottom. I know this. Does he know it? Have you made him understand what it is, to clean a child’s bottom day in and day out for the rest of your life?”
She shook her head.
“Another thing. He has a son in Marine Lines who is fighting with him. I am told you are close to this boy.”
“He is like a child to me,” she said.
“Then use him. Don’t you know how much a son can hurt his father?”
On the way back, Mrs. Puri declined Shanmugham’s offer of a “drop-off.” She caught an auto to Vishram. Making sure Ramu was asleep, she went up to Ibrahim Kudwa’s door and rang the bell.
“Gaurav,” Mrs. Puri fought her sobs. “I want to speak to Gaurav. This is his Sangeeta Aunty from Vishram Society calling. Thank you, Sonal.”
She was using her mobile phone in Ibrahim Kudwa’s living room. She could not call from her own home; it might upset her Ramu.
The table lamp had been turned on, and excavated half of Ibrahim Kudwa’s face from the evening gloom. Sitting on the sofa with his feet crossed, he watched Mrs. Puri. Mumtaz was in the bedroom, with the door closed, feeding Mariam.
“Wait,” Kudwa said. “Don’t speak to Gaurav, Sangeeta-ji. Don’t do it.”
“Why not, Ibby?” she asked, holding the phone an inch away from her ear. “I told you what Mr. Shah said, didn’t I? The deadline is almost over. We have to do this.”
“Mr. Shah is tricking us. Don’t you see? It’s obvious.”
Kudwa got off the sofa and came up to Mrs. Puri. He could hear the ringing from her phone: Gaurav’s number had already been dialled. With a glance in the direction of the closed bedroom door, he dropped his voice to a whisper.
“You know what his reputation is, Sangeeta-ji.”
Mrs. Puri saw flakes of dandruff on her neighbour’s shoulders, and smelled cologne. She nodded.
“We’ve discussed it in parliament,” Kudwa said. “He pays, but he always delays his payments as long as possible. So why is he paying Tower B on time? Why is he paying them ahead of time? I was thinking about this all of today in my cyber-café. Now I see it. It’s so obvious. But some traps work like that: you have to see them to fall into them. When those people who are left behind see their neighbours getting the money, it will turn them mad with envy. I’m talking about us. He is turning good people into bad people. Changing our nature. Because he wants us to do it to Masterji ourselves,” Kudwa said. “What other builders do to men like him in situations like this.”
Mrs. Puri frowned, as if she were going to think about this. But it was too late.
There was a clicking noise from her phone, and then a voice said: “Yes? Sangeeta Aunty, is this you calling?”
“Gaurav,” she said, “the builder just spoke to me. Yes, that Mr. Shah. We are about to lose