Last Man in Tower - Aravind Adiga [32]
“Do you know the name of this god, miss? He is called ‘Information.’ Make him your master too. Now, please sit down.”
Waiting for her to return to her seat, he turned a framed diptych of photographs around to her.
“R and R, my two boys. Rajeev and Raghav. Just like me. R for Ramesh. Also my brokerage, R for Renaissance. And notice they are both wearing tae kwon-do outfits. Fitness is my fourth god.”
While the young lady admired the diptych, he leaned in.
“Miss Swathi, this Ajwani of yours is neat, happy, ugly, crude, truthful, mongoose-faced.” He emphasized each adjective with his hands, which were covered with cheap rings. “And these are his virtues.”
The girl tried hard to suppress the urge, then put her hand on her mouth, and succumbed. She shook with laughter; the broker beamed.
“I also enjoy making people laugh. Especially young women. Their laughter is the sweet ….”
Just then the glass door of the Renaissance Real-Estate Agency opened. Secretary Kothari walked in with another man—tall, dark, dressed like a salesman in a white shirt and black trousers.
“What is it, Kothari?” Ajwani asked. “I’m with a client.”
“It’s urgent,” the Secretary said.
Ajwani was talking to a young woman in a sky-blue sari that exposed her navel. Nothing could be more urgent right now.
“We are looking for a two-bedroom for her parents and herself. I’ll come and see you in your office when we have finished our work, Kothari. And you, sir, I’m not interested in any more insurance, thank you very much.”
“Ajwani, Ajwani.” The Secretary put his fists on the desk. His voice trembled. “All your dreams are about to come true, Ajwani.”
The man who looked like an insurance salesman sat down, and slid a piece of paper over the laminated table towards the broker.
Ajwani put on his half-moon glasses; then he picked up the paper and began reading.
A small Hindu temple stood at an intersection just beyond the fruit and vegetable market. Beggars crouched about it; dappled brown goats wandered around it; Mrs. Puri prayed.
Move it, God. The stone that blocks Ramu’s mind. That was how she had always pictured it: a boulder had locked her Ramu’s mind inside a cave. At least stop it from rolling backwards and pushing him deeper into the cave. Who will take care of him when he grows old?
When it came to places of worship in Mumbai Mrs. Puri was an expert; Muslim, Christian, and Hindu, she had been to each of them for her Ramu. Haji Ali, Mount Mary, SiddhiVinayak, Mahalakshmi, you name it, she had prayed there.
She gave a rupee each to the supplicants squatting by the temple, making sure they earned their money—“Ramesh Puri. We call him Ramu. Pray for him with all your strength”—and went to the market to buy fresh vegetables for dinner.
Curved green stems bearing yellow bananas were suspended from the ceilings of the grocery shops; glitzy plastic satchels of instant Chinese noodles and malt powder twinkled beside the bananas like nouveau-riche cousins. Two Catholic priests, head to toe in white cassocks, stood at the counter of a grocery store, learning about the Reliance Company’s prepaid mobile phone plans from the owner. Mrs. Puri overheard. Reliance? Oh, no. Vodafone had much better reception here. She was about to save the two holy men from being swindled, when:
“Good evening, Sangeeta-ji.”
Ibrahim Kudwa (4C) passed her on his Honda Activa scooter with a wave. His wife had her arms around his waist, and his ten-year-old son Mohammad sat in front of him in his martial-arts outfit (GOJU-RU TAE KWON-DO); inside his bulky, billowing white kurta, Kudwa had the look of a bleached kangaroo carrying its entire family in its pouches.
Mrs. Puri felt lighter. She envied Kudwa his happy family life—just as she knew he in secret envied Ajwani for owning a Toyota Qualis; just as Ajwani probably envied someone else; and this chain of envy linked them, showing each what was lacking in life, but offering also the consolation that happiness was present right next door, in the life of a neighbour, an element of the