Last Man in Tower - Aravind Adiga [16]
“Wouldn’t it be nice if someone gave us 81 lakh rupees?” Mrs. Puri said, after Ritika was out of earshot.
Ajwani the broker, who was punching away at his mobile phone, looked up and smiled sardonically.
The value of their own homes was uncertain. The last attempted sale had been seven years ago, when Mr. Costello (5C) put his fifth-floor place on sale after his son had jumped from the terrace; no one had purchased the flat, and it was still under lock and key while the owner had himself moved to the Gulf.
“The poor in this city were never poor, and now the ….” Mrs. Puri moved her head to the right—Mrs. Saldanha’s daughter, Radhika, had entered her mother’s kitchen in a most thoughtless manner, obstructing the parliamentarians’ view of the TV. “… are becoming rich. Free electricity in the slums and 24-hour cable. Only we are stuck.”
“Careful,” Mr. Pinto whispered. “Battleship is here. Careful.”
Mrs. Rego—the “Battleship” for her wide grey skirts, formidable girth, and stentorian voice—was returning home with her children.
With a “Hello, Uncle, Hello, Aunty,” Sunil and Sarah Rego went up the stairs. Their mother, without a word to the others, sat down and watched the TV.
“Have you heard, Mrs. Rego, about the 81 lakh offer? For a one-room in the slums?”
The Battleship said nothing.
“Even a Communist like you must be interested in this,” Mrs. Puri said with a smile.
The Battleship spoke without turning her face.
“What is the definition of a dying city, Mrs. Puri? I will tell you, as you do not know: a city that ceases to surprise you. And that is what this Bombay has become. Show people a little cash, and they’ll jump, dance, run naked in the streets. That Muslim man is never going to see his money. These developers and builders are mafia. The other day they shot a member of the city corporation dead. It was in the papers.”
Mr. Pinto and his wife slipped away like doves before a thunderstorm.
But it did not start at once.
The TV presenter, as if to add to the atmosphere of gloom, mentioned that the water shortage was likely to get worse unless the monsoons arrived—for once—on time.
“Too many people come into the city, it’s a fact,” Mrs. Puri said. “Everyone wants to suck on our ….” She touched her breasts.
The Battleship turned to her.
“And did you drop to Bombay from heaven, Mrs. Puri? Isn’t your family from Delhi?”
“My parents were born in Delhi, Mrs. Rego, but I was born right here. There was enough space in those days. Now it’s full. The Shiv Sena is right, outsiders should stop coming here.”
“Without migrants, this city would be dust. We are ruled by fascists, Mrs. Puri, but everything is second-rate here, even our fascists. They don’t give us trains, don’t give us roads. All they do is beat up hard-working migrants.”
“I don’t know what a fascist does, but I know what a Communist does. You don’t like developers who make people rich, but you like the beggars who get off at Victoria Terminus every day.”
“I am a Christian, Mrs. Puri. We are meant to care for the poor.”
Mrs. Puri—debating champion at KC College—was about to finish her opponent off with a riposte, but Ramu came to his mother’s ear and whispered.
“There’s no water coming up the pipes, Ramu,” she said. “No water tonight, dear. I told you, didn’t I?”
Ramu’s lower lip covered his upper, and bulged up towards his nose: his mother knew this as a sign that he was thinking. He pointed to the pipes that went up the sides of Vishram Society’s walls.
“Quiet, Ramu. Mummy is speaking to Communist aunty.”
“I am not a Communist, and I am not anyone’s aunty, Mrs. Puri.”
Mrs. Kothari, the Secretary’s wife, put her head out of the window and shouted: “Water!”
It was an unscheduled blessing from the Municipality, a rare kindness. The fighting adjourned; both women had to obey a higher imperative—fresh water.
Where is Masterji? Mrs. Puri wondered, as she went up the stairs. He should have returned from seeing his grandson by now. After giving Ramu his evening bath, she made sure to collect