Last Man in Tower - Aravind Adiga [145]
BOOK NINE
THE SIMPLEST OF THINGS
4 OCTOBER
They stood, white and pink, on a metal tray in front of the glass-encased figure of the Virgin; their individual flames merged into a thick fire and swayed, alternately answering the sea breeze and the chanting of the kneeling penitents. Thick, blackened wicks emerged from the melting candles like bone from a wound.
White and pink wax dripped like noisy, molten fat onto the metal under-plate, then hardened into white flakes that were blown around like snow.
“How long is Mummy going to pray today?”
The Virgin stood on a terrace with the sea of Bandra behind her and the stony grey Gothic façade of the church of Mount Mary in front of her.
Sunil and Sarah Rego waited at the wall of the terrace; Mrs. Puri stood beside them, ruffling Ramu’s hair and goading him to say the words (which he once knew so well): “Holy Roman Catholic.”
It had been Mrs. Puri’s idea that they should come here: the black cross in the compound had failed them. Eaten prayer after prayer and flower garland after flower garland and done nothing to change Masterji’s mind.
So she made them all climb into two autorickshaws, brave the fumes of the Khar subway, and come here, to the most famous church in the city.
Mrs. Rego was on her knees before the Virgin, her hands folded, her eyes closed, her lips working.
Sunil had prayed for a respectable time; now he leaned over the edge of the terrace, reading aloud the holy words painted along its steps.
“That word is ‘Rosary.’ And the next word is ‘Sacrifice.’ And that word is ‘Re-pa-ra-tion.’ It’s a big word. Mummy can use it to trump Aunty Catherine.”
Mummy had not moved for half an hour. The person praying by Mrs. Rego’s side got up; an old woman in a purple sari moved in to fill the gap, touching her forehead three times to the ground.
“Is someone ill? Is it Daddy in the Philippines?”
“Keep quiet, Sarah,” Sunil whispered.
“Why else is Mummy praying so long?”
Half an hour later, all five of them walked down the hill to the Bandra bandstand. They bought four plates of bhelpuri from a roadside vendor and sat in the shade of the pavilion; Sunil and Sarah gobbled theirs, while Mrs. Puri brought a spoonful of her bhelpuri to Ramu’s mouth.
Mrs. Rego asked: “Why did no one come today from the Confidence Group to tell us it is over?”
“Mr. Shah must be preparing the papers for his half-Shanghai. My guess is that he will send Shanmugham over tomorrow.”
Ramu chewed his food. His mother watched him, gently pressing the stray puffed rice to his mouth.
“Do you know everyone in Tower B got their final instalment last week?”
“So quickly?”
“Ahead of schedule, once again. Ritika phoned. This man, this Mr. Shah—he does keep his word.”
Mrs. Puri fed her son another spoonful.
“Do you know what Kala Paani means? They used to call the ocean that. People were frightened to cross it. Ajwani says we are all at the Kala Paani now. Mr. Shah says the same thing. We must cross the line. The way he did, when he came to Mumbai without shoes on his feet.”
“How do you know this?” Mrs. Rego’s voice dropped. “Did you meet him?”
Mrs. Puri nodded.
“Did you talk about money?”
“No. He didn’t try to bribe me.”
Mrs. Rego looked away.
“It is a simple thing,” Mrs. Puri said. “And then this nightmare is over for all of us. We can phone Mr. Shah at once. Before Shanmugham comes.”
“We already tried the simple thing. I didn’t like it. Criminals inside my Society.”
Mummy smiled and wiped Ramu’s mouth.
“There is an even simpler thing. Just a push. But it must be done now.”
Mrs. Rego frowned; she tried to understand what her neighbour had said.
“Georgina! What are you doing in Bandra?”
A woman in a green dress was walking towards them; a tall, bald foreigner with a goatee followed behind her.
Introductions were made: the woman in the green dress was Catherine, Mrs. Rego’s sister, and the foreign thing with her was her American journalist husband, Frank. His articles appeared in many, many progressive magazines.
“We read about your Society in