Last Man in Tower - Aravind Adiga [134]
“Yes, of course, I remember you. Good boys, all three of you.”
“We saw you in the newspapers, Masterji. There was a big article on you this morning.”
“I have not yet read the article, boys. He didn’t speak to me, that reporter. I don’t know what he’s written. I gather it’s a small article, just three or four inches.”
Yet those three or four inches of newsprint, like a bugle call, had instantly summoned these students whom he had failed to locate for all these months.
“We are proud you’re not letting that builder push you around, sir. He must give you good money if he wants you to leave.”
“But I don’t want the money, boys. I’ll explain again. India is a republic. If a man wants to stay in his home, then it is his freedom to do so. If he wants to go, then ….”
The three listened; at the end, one of them said: “You used to quote Romans in class, sir. The one who knew about the sun.”
“Anaxagoras. A Greek.”
“You’re as tough as any Roman, sir. You’re like that fellow in the movie … Maximus the Gladiator.”
“Which movie is this?”
That made them laugh.
“Maximus Masterji!” said one, and all three left in a good mood.
Masterji saw his story—the interpretation of his recent actions, which had until now been held securely in his conscience—slipping away from him. He had become part of the market: his story, in newsprint, was used by the vendors to cover their produce. The okra was wrapped in him; fresh bread lent him its aroma.
“Masterji!” It was Mary. She had a copy of the Sun.
“You’re in the English papers.” She grinned and showed him her big front teeth. “We’re all so proud of you. We passed it around the nullah. When my son comes back from school, I’ll have him read it to us.”
“I haven’t read it, Mary,” he said.
“You haven’t?” Mary, scandalized, insisted that he take the paper. She turned to the article with the photograph of Vishram Society.
Old Man in Tower Says No to Builder
Masterji skimmed:
… only one man, Yogesh Murthy, retired teacher at the nearby school, has resisted the generous offer of the reputable … “it is a question of an individual’s freedom to say Yes, No, or Go to Hell” …
By describing himself thus as the small man in this situation, Murthy may hope to win the sympathy of some, but how honest is this picture he paints? One of the residents of the Society, not wishing to be identified, said, “He is the most selfish man in the world. His own son does not speak to him now ….”
… was borne out by many others to whom this reporter spoke. According to one of Mr. Murthy’s former students, who did not wish to be named, “He had no patience and he was always ready to punish. We used to call him names behind his back. To say that we remember him fondly would be the biggest ….”
Mary bent down to pick up the paper; it had fallen from Masterji’s hands.
Looking down, Masterji saw a bird, smaller than the centre of a man’s palm, thrashing about on the ground like a vitalized chunk of brown sugar. This only makes things worse, he thought, as he followed the bird’s dizzying movements. My neighbours will blame me for it.
A little boy with a black string amulet around his neck began circling Masterji in off-balance, chick-like loops, hands flapping by his side. The onion-seller came running behind him: “Bad boy!” He caught the little fellow and pinched him; the chastised boy cried with operatic emotion: “Pa-pa-jee!”
Seconds later, he had escaped his father again, had been caught again, and was now bawling: “Ma-maa-jee!”
To make the boy stop crying, Masterji offered him a piece of bread. “Would you like this?”
A big nod of the little head; the boy nibbled.
Masterji insisted that Mary take the rest of his fresh bread for her son.
For over thirty years he had handed out sweet, soft things to the children of Vishram Society on Gandhi Jayanti.
He stopped at the whitewashed banyan outside Ibrahim Kudwa’s cyber-café. Arjun, Kudwa’s assistant, had placed a photograph of the Mahatma in a niche in the banyan, and he and the Hindu