Last Man in Tower - Aravind Adiga [4]
Just one glance at Vishram in the evening, as its residents sit in white plastic chairs in the compound, chit-chatting, fanning themselves with the Times of India, and you know that this Society is—what else?—pucca.
BOOK ONE
HOW THE OFFER WAS MADE
11 MAY
Three o’clock: the heat at its annual worst.
Ram Khare, the guard, cooled himself with his checked handkerchief, while reading aloud from a digest of the Bhagavad Gita scarred in places by the long fingernails which he pressed down on it.
… never over a man’s actions, said the Lord Krishna, but only over the fruit of a man’s actions, is …
A fly rubbed its legs near the holy book; two sticks of jasmine incense burned under an image of Lord Shiva, only partly masking the odour of rum inside the guard’s booth.
A tall man in a white shirt and black trousers—salesman, Ram Khare assumed—stood in front of the booth and entered his details into the ledger. The visitor put his pen back in his pocket. “Can I go in now?”
Ram Khare moved a thumb from his holy digest to the visitors’ register.
“You haven’t filled in this last column.”
The visitor smiled; an upper tooth was chipped. Clicking the ballpoint pen back to life he wrote in the column headed Person(s) to see:
Hon’ble Sec
Turning to his right upon entering the building, as directed by Ram Khare, the visitor walked into a small room with an open door, where a bald man sat at a desk, one finger of his left hand poised over a typewriter.
“… no-tice … to … the … res-ee-den-ts … of Vi-shraaa ….”
His other hand held a sandwich over a scalloped paper plate brightened by comets of mint chutney. He bit into the sandwich, then typed with one finger as he ate, breathing laboriously, and murmuring between breaths: “… sub-ject … Gen-ral … Wa-ter … May-n-ten-ans ….”
The visitor knocked on the door with the back of his hand.
“Is there a place to rent here?”
The man with the sandwich, Mr. Kothari, Secretary of Vishram Tower A, paused with a finger over the old Remington.
“There is,” he said. “Sit down.”
Ignoring the visitor, he continued typing, eating, and mumbling. There were three printed sheets on his desk, and he picked one up and read aloud: “… questionnaire from the Municipality. Have all the children in the Society received anti-polio drops? If so, kindly provide … if not, kindly ….”
A small hammer sat near the typewriter. With the polio notice in one hand, the Secretary stood up with the hammer in the other hand and went to the noticeboard, whose glass face he opened. The visitor saw him pinning the notice into place with a nail, then driving the nail into the wooden board with three quick blows—tuck, tuck, tuck—before closing the glass. The hammer returned to its spot near the typewriter.
Back in his chair, the Secretary picked up the next piece of paper. “… complaint from Mrs. Rego. Giant wasps are attacking … why am I paying monthly maintenance fees if the Society cannot hire the ….” He crushed it.
And then the final sheet. “… complaint from Mrs. Rego. Ram Khare has been drinking again. He should be replaced with a sober, professional … Why am I paying monthly maintenance ….” He crushed it.
About to return to his typing, he remembered the visitor.
“A place to buy, you said?” he asked hopefully.
“Rent.”
“Good. What is your line of work?”
“Chemicals.”
“Good. Very good.”
Dark-skinned, tall, upright, in well-ironed Oxford-style shirt and pleated cotton trousers, the visitor gave the Secretary no reason to doubt that he was in a solid field like Drug & Chem.
“Nothing is strictly speaking available now,” the Secretary confessed, as the two men climbed the stairs. (“Ninety-nine per cent of the time the lift works.”) “But, I can tell you, confidentially, that the owner of 3B is not fully happy with the present situation.”
An eczema of blue-skinned gods, bearded godmen, and haloed Christs covered the metal door of 3B—a testament to generations of ecumenical tenants who had each added a few icons of their own faith without removing