Last Man in Tower - Aravind Adiga [58]
He cut across the compound in the direction of Tower B. In the parking area in front of the building, he pointed to a vehicle with a gold “V” ribbon on its bonnet.
Fresh from the showroom, a Toyota Innova. It had been bought two days ago; the order, however, must have been placed weeks before Mr. Shah’s offer.
Ajwani, who hoarded information on all the middle-class residents of Vakola, had quickly discovered the name of the owner: Mr. Ashish, a software engineer, one of the residents of Tower B.
“What do you see?” Ajwani asked.
“A car. A new car.”
“No. You see ten years of slogging, skimping, and sacrificing, before you can buy something like this. There is a new way to look at new things, Ibrahim. Touch it.”
“Touch it?”
Ajwani brushed a few spots of dandruff from Kudwa’s shoulder, and gestured for Mariam.
“Don’t worry about the owner. He wants you to touch it. You know what people in Tower B are like, don’t you?”
Ibrahim Kudwa handed his daughter over to his neighbour. He ran his hands through his beard, then took a step towards the gold-ribboned car. His index finger reached for its shining metal skin: and at once the shell surrounding the Innova that said “Ten years from now” broke and fell to pieces. He spread all his fingers on its skin, and could not repress a grin.
On the way back, Kudwa asked for his red sweet-box at the guard’s booth.
Tapping his fingers behind his back, Ajwani went down to the fruit and vegetable market.
He did all his best thinking in the market. At least once a week he came here with his two boys to teach them how to bargain. An essential part of their education. If a man could not be cheated on his food, he could not be cheated on anything else.
Africa, Ajwani said to himself, as he went among carts full of ripe watermelons. He had never been to Africa. Nor America, Europe, Canada, Australia. Had never crossed the ocean.
Women had been his Africa. They come into a real-estate broker’s office all the time—air hostesses, models, sales girls, single girls, divorced women—looking for rooms in a hurry, sometimes in a desperate hurry. A broker can seem a fatherly figure to them—benevolent, decisive. In his younger days, Ajwani, while never resorting to coercion or blackmail, had slept with plenty of his clients. Plenty. At first there was a hotel by the train station, the Wood-Lands, that rented rooms by the hour. Later he built an inner room in his office. A coconut to sip on, as they lay side by side in bed. The women were happy; he was happier than they were. That was how he liked his deals to be.
Money—money had been his India. He had not made a rupee on the stock market; even in real estate, his own field, his investments had flopped. Someone or other had always tricked him. He had bought the Toyota Qualis from a cousin so he could feel rich, but it was killing him. Drank too much diesel. Needed repairs month after month. Once again he had been cheated. In the movie of his own life, he had to admit, he was just a comedian.
But not this time.
Small dark apples sat in a pyramid on a blue cart like medieval munitions; pointy-tipped papayas, modern artillery shells, surrounded them on all sides. Ajwani picked up a papaya and smelled its base for ripeness. He would do the same with Masterji, the Pintos, and Mrs. Rego; sniff and tap, sniff and tap, find their weak spots, break them open. Kudwa he had done for free, but Mr. Shah would have to pay for the next three.
The talk in the market, as it was every year at this time, was that the rains would be late, and that the water shortage would soon become terrible.
Stale gossip to the left, mediocre produce to the right: Ramesh Ajwani knew that his eyes were the brightest things for sale in Vakola market.
BOOK FOUR
THE RAINS BEGIN
19 JUNE
Intercepted raindrops fell from a coconut palm.
From their bedroom window Ramu and the Friendly Duck watched.
The metal trellis meant to guard the window from burglars came to life; the wrought-iron foliage dripped and became real leaves and real flowers.
“Oy, oy, oy, my