Last Man in Tower - Aravind Adiga [160]
Ibrahim Kudwa blinked, as if he couldn’t understand the Secretary’s words. “You are my neighbours of nine years,” he said.
The Secretary embraced him. “You were always one of us, Ibrahim. From the first day. Now go home and sleep.”
Kudwa shook his head.
“Nine years together. If you’re going to jail, I’m going to jail too.”
It was decided that the Puris would leave first. The back door that led from the inner room to a side alley closed behind them.
Kothari’s mobile phone rang a few minutes later.
“Masterji is on the terrace. Ram Khare is not in his booth. Come.”
They went out through the back door. They crossed the market. On the way to the Society, Kudwa said: “Maybe we should ask him. If he’ll sign.”
Both stopped. To their left, a paper kite had floated down and collapsed on the road.
The Secretary moved, but not Ibrahim Kudwa; the Hindu holy man was sleeping by the whitewashed banyan outside his cyber-café. A cyclostyled advertisement had been pasted over his head:
STRONGLY SCENTED PHENYL.
DISINFECTS. FRESHENS YOUR HOUSE.
BUY DIRECT.
170 RS FOR FIVE LITRES.
If only, Kudwa thought, I could inhale the cleansing scent of disinfectant right now. He looked up and saw the dark star from last Christmas over his café.
“Do you think … they expect me to come all the way to the Society?”
“What are you talking about, Ibrahim?”
“I mean, do Mrs. Puri and Mr. Puri expect me to come all the way? Or would they know I was being supportive if I came this far and went back?”
“Ibrahim, I expect you to come with me all the way. We have to make sure Mr. and Mrs. Puri are safe. We’re not doing anything.”
The door of the cyber-café trembled. Kudwa realized that it had not been doubled-bolted from the inside. How many times had he told Arjun, someone could pick the lock from the outside and steal the computers unless he …
“Ibrahim. I need you.”
“Coming.”
With Vishram Society in sight, the two men were spotted.
“It’s Trivedi. He’s coming this way. We should go back.”
“He won’t say a thing tomorrow. I know this man.”
Trivedi, bare-chested except for his shawl, smiled at the men, and passed them.
When they got to the gate, the Secretary looked up and said: “He’s not on the terrace.”
They unlatched the gate and tiptoed through the compound, the Secretary darting into his office for a few seconds, leaving Ibrahim Kudwa rubbing his hands by the noticeboard.
“What do you want that for?” he asked, when Kothari emerged with a roll of Scotch tape.
“Go into the office,” the Secretary whispered, “and bring the hammer with you. It’s sitting next to the typewriter.”
Mrs. Puri was waiting for them at the top of the stairs. Her husband stood behind her.
“He just returned from the terrace and closed his door. You men took too long.”
“Do we call it off?” Kudwa asked. “Another day?”
“No. Do you have the key, Kothari?”
The Scotch tape was not the only thing the Secretary had brought from the office. He inserted the spare key to 3A into the hole and struggled with it. They heard the sound of a television serial from the Pintos’ room.
“Should we ask him, one more time, if he will sign?”
“Shut up, Ibrahim. Just stay there and watch the door.”
The door opened. Masterji had gone to sleep in his living room, his feet on the teakwood table, the Rubik’s Cube by his chair.
Kudwa came in behind the others and closed the door. The Secretary, moving to the chair, cut a piece of Scotch tape and pressed it over Masterji’s mouth.
That awoke the sleeping man. He ripped the Scotch tape off his mouth.
“Kothari? How did you get in?”
“You have to agree now, Masterji. Right now.”
“Think of Gaurav,” Mrs. Puri asked. “Think of Ronak. Say ‘Yes.’ Now.”
“Get out,” the old man said. “All of you get out of my—”
The Secretary moved before he could finish the sentence: he cut another slice of Scotch tape and tried to stick it over the old man’s mouth. Masterji pushed the Secretary back. Mr. Puri stood stiff near the door.
“Kothari, don’t touch him,” Ibrahim Kudwa warned.
Masterji, recognizing the voice of his