Last Man in Tower - Aravind Adiga [21]
At Bandra, he realized he had only one stop left, and began pushing his way to the door—I’m getting out too, old man. You should be patient. When the train stopped he was three feet away from the door; he was pushed from behind and pushed those ahead of him. But now a reverse tide hit them all: men barged in from the platform. Those who wanted to get out at Santa Cruz wriggled, pressed, cursed, refused to give up, but the superior desperation of those wanting to get in won the day. The train moved; Masterji had missed his stop. “Uncle, I’ll make room for you,” one young man who had seen his plight moved back. “Get out at Vile Parle and take the next train back.” When the train slowed, the mass of departing commuters shouted, in one voice: “Move!” And nothing stopped them this time; they swept Masterji along with them onto the platform. Catching the Churchgate-bound train, he went back to Santa Cruz, where the station was so packed he had to climb the stairs leading out one step at a time.
He was released by the crowd into harsh light and strong fragrance. On the bridge that led out from the station, under bare electric bulbs, men sold orange and green perfumes in large bottles next to spreads of lemons, tennis shoes, keychains, wallets, chikoos. A boy handed him a cyclostyled advertisement on yellow paper as he left the bridge.
He dropped the advertisement and walked down the stairs, avoiding the one-armed beggar, into a welcome-carpet of fructose. In the market by the station, mango-sellers waited for the returning commuters: ripe and bursting, each mango was like a heartfelt apology from the city for the state of its trains. Masterji smelled the mangoes and accepted the apology.
Near the mango-sellers, a man who had his head and arms sticking through the holes of a cardboard sign that said: “Fight seven kinds of vermin,” with appropriate illustrations below (cockroaches, honeybees, mongoose, ants, termites, lice, mosquitoes), saluted Masterji. This pest control man often came to Vishram to knock down, with a long bamboo pole, an impromptu beehive or a wasps’ nest on the roofing. Extending his hand through the illustrated cardboard sign he wore, he seized the old teacher’s arm.
“Masterji. Someone was asking about Vishram Society in the market.”
“Asking what?”
“What kind of people lived in it, what their reputation was, did they fight with each other and with others, lots and lots of questions. He was a tall fellow, Masterji.”
“Did he wear a white shirt and black trousers?”
“Yes, I think so. I told him that any Society with a man like Masterji in it is a good Society.”
“Thank you, my friend,” Masterji said, having forgotten the pest control man’s name.
So the Secretary was right, something is going on, Masterji thought. He had a vision of the green cage in the zoo again; he smelled something animal and insolent. Maybe they should go to the police in the morning.
When he reached Vishram, the gate was padlocked. Walking with care over the recently filled-up construction hole, he slapped the heavy chains and lock against the gate. “Ram Khare!” he shouted. “Ram Khare, it’s me!”
The guard came from his room in the back of the building and unlocked the chain. “It’s past ten o’clock, Masterji. Be a little patient.”
The stairwell smelled. He found the stray dog lying on the first landing of the stairs, its body shivering, foam at the mouth. Did no one care that this dog could be sick? The animal had lost a layer of subcutaneous fat, and its ribcage was monstrously articulated, like the maw of another beast that was consuming it.
Masterji prodded at the dog’s ribs with his foot; when it did not move, he kicked. It yelped and rocketed down the stairs.
Waiting