Last Man in Tower - Aravind Adiga [49]
With each deposit of rich food in his stomach, Kothari became less conscious of his 70 per cent polyester 30 per cent cotton shirt, bought near Andheri train station for 210 rupees, and of his banian, bought for thirty-five rupees a pack of six, that glowed underneath like in an X-ray.
Oh, that gorgeous buffet table, which launched satellites of silver trays filled with kebabs.
In the centre of the table he saw a vision of a Johnnie Walker Black Label, five or six times the size of a normal bottle, suspended upside-down from a metal rack and ending in a little plastic tap on which a bow-tied attendant had a finger permanently placed.
“Mr. Kothari! There you are!” The builder waved at him from the table.
Soon the Secretary found himself one of the charms auxiliary to the Johnnie Walker; Shah introduced him to each person who came up for a drink, saying, “This is Mr. Kothari.”
Each one of the guests appeared to run a construction company. One of them, after shaking his hand, asked: “Which Group do you represent?”
“Vishram,” the Secretary replied.
The man nodded knowingly, as if recognizing the name. “A good Group. Good work you fellows are doing.”
Now the Secretary found himself led to one of the tables, where he sat next to a chubby unhappy teenager in a golden jacket, whom he took for the birthday boy.
The host was speaking into a cordless mike.
“I want to thank all of you for coming here to attend my son’s birthday. The community to which we belong, the builders’ community, is known to be a close-knit one, and your presence here demonstrates this continuing closeness.” (Scattered applause.) “I will come to your tables to thank each of you personally. But first, as a surprise treat, I am honoured to present a man who brings back lots of memories for all of us: the original dream-merchant himself.”
Music blared on the loudspeakers. To the rhythm of the audience’s clapping, a man in a grey suit got up from one of the tables, and came to the buffet table. A once-famous actor, now in his forties, a professional guest at birthday parties and weddings. With a forced smile, he turned a few steps with his right hand up in the air. A young girl in a red dress joined him in the dancing, and guests whistled. A mobile phone flashed its camera.
Back at the table, the star was out of breath, paunchy, and suddenly twenty years older. A guest asked for an autograph; the film star obliged on a napkin.
The napkin flew from the table. The builder had burst out coughing.
The film star was worth every rupee he charged to appear at such events: placing his hand on Shah’s, he grinned, as if nothing had happened.
“They call me a dream-merchant, I am aware of this. But what am I, really? Just a small dream-merchant next to a big one.” He pointed at the builder, who was wiping his face with the sleeve of his shirt.
“When they come out of a film, people throw away the tickets, but the builder’s name is always on the building. It becomes part of the family name. I am a Hiranandani Towers man. He is a Raheja Complex man.”
The builder swallowed his spit and turned to the Secretary.
“And what about you, Mr. Kothari? Will you be a Raheja man or a Hiranandani man after 3 October? Or do you plan on spending all your money on expensive vices?”
The Secretary, who had been watching a platter of mutton kebabs, turned around. “My vices are sandwiches and cricket. Ask my wife.”
People laughed. The film star clapped and said, “Just like me.”
Which provoked much more laughter.
“What do you do, exactly?” Shah asked.
“Business,” Kothari said.
The builder coughed again.
Kothari handed him a napkin, and said, “I was in timber. Now I keep myself happy with some bonds, some stocks. I don’t have vices, but ….” He took a breath and puffed his chest, as if the attention were expanding his personality, “I do have a secret. I am moving, after 3 October, to Sewri.”
Shah, wiping his lips with the napkin, had to explain to the others.
“In most redevelopment projects, as you know, the residents are offered