Last Man in Tower - Aravind Adiga [44]
Shah straightened out his son’s arm, and pushed him into the temple. Shanmugham followed.
The temple was crowded, as it is at any hour of the day, yet the Lord Ganesha was receptive to free-market logic, and an “express” line, for anyone who could pay fifty rupees a head, sped the three of them into the sanctum.
“You’ll be seventeen in a few days. Do you know what I was doing when I was your age? Have you thought about those people whose cars you damaged? You will never again hang out with that gang. Understand?”
“Yes, Father.”
In his fat fingers his father held a cheque. Satish, by craning his neck as he moved in the queue behind his father, could see that it was a donation of one lakh and one rupees, drawn on the Industrial Development Bank of India. A petition to God to improve his moral character? No, probably for a new building his father was starting today. A Confidence Group project could only begin after two divine interventions: a call from a Tamil astrologer in Matunga with a precise time to lay the foundation stone, and a visit here, to the shrine of Ganesha, whose image was the official emblem of the Confidence Group, embossed onto every formal communication and every building.
They were in sight of the sanctum. Within gilded columns, the red image of the deity was surrounded by four Brahmins, bare-chested, with enormous light-skinned pot bellies filmed over with downy hair: a purdah of human fat around His image. This was the final challenge to the devotees—only a faith that was 100 per cent pure would penetrate through this to reach the Lord.
Satish saw his father joining his palms over his head. Behind Mr. Shah, Shanmugham did the same. “How cute: he thinks my father is God.” The chanting of the devotees grew louder—they were right in front of the sanctum now—and Shah turned and glared at his son: “Pray.”
Satish closed his eyes, bowed his head, and tried to think of something he really wanted.
“Please Lord Ganesha,” he prayed, “make my father’s new project fail and I’ll write you a much bigger cheque when I have money.”
At six twenty, with the builder expected at any moment, the compound of Vishram Society glowed with rows of white chairs facing the black cross.
The event had raised the metabolism of the old Society. The lamps over the entranceway had been turned so they would shine on the plastic chairs. The microphone near the black cross, borrowed from Gold Coin Society, had been attached to a speaker, borrowed from Hibiscus Society. The members of both Vishram Societies were filling the seats. Secretary Kothari stood by the cross along with Mr. Ravi, the Secretary of Tower B.
Looking down from his window, Masterji saw Mr. Pinto sitting in the middle of the array of chairs, his hand on the vacant white seat next to him, looking up.
Masterji raised his right hand—coming, coming.
The phone rang again. It was Gaurav, for the second time in an hour.
“No, the real-estate developer hasn’t come. Of course I’m going down to listen to him. Yes, I’ll keep an open mind. Now: goodbye, and tell Ronak his grandfather will take him to the aquarium one of these days.”
Back at the window, Masterji saw the person he had been waiting for. He had guessed that a journalist wouldn’t miss an event like this. She moved through the crowd, taking care not to tread on the feet of older and slower people.
He waited with his ear to the door: listening for footsteps on the stairs. He had to do this: had to apologize to the girl. What did his neighbours call him? English gentleman.
“Ms Meenakshi,” he said, opening the door. “Would you wait a minute? Just a minute?”
His neighbour, who had already put her key into the door of 3B, did not stop.
“I’m sorry for the other night. I shouldn’t have pushed your friend. The young man. Please tell him I’m sorry.”
Her face partly hidden behind her door, the girl looked at him.
“Why did you do it? He wasn’t harming you.”
“Would you come into my room for a minute, Ms. Meenakshi? It’ll be easier for you to understand in here.