Last Man in Tower - Aravind Adiga [65]
“A light year,” Masterji conceded. “But I’m hopeful. There’s a long way to go yet before this monsoon is over.”
“I don’t like this competition,” Ajwani said. “The roof that’s collapsing could one day be our own.”
“Vishram? Never. This building would have lasted a thousand years.”
“Will last,” Masterji corrected the Secretary, with a smile.
“Would have lasted.”
Masterji looked at the ceiling with a stylish wave of his hand: sardonic forbearance, as a character in a play might express it.
“One point to your party,” he said.
“How is the girl in 3B? The journalist. Still troubling you?”
“Oh, not at all. We’re friends now. She had tea with me the other day.”
“Import-Export gave her notice. She has to leave by 3 October.”
Masterji turned to his left to face the broker. “Is Hiranandani finding a new tenant?”
“Yes,” Ajwani smiled. “Mr. Shah, of the Confidence Group.”
Masterji looked at the ceiling and raised his voice. “Another point for that party. We’re losing here, my fellow Opposition members.”
Removing his glasses, Ajwani smiled. “I’ll give you the point, Masterji. I’ll give you one hundred debating points. But in return, will you do something for me? Both my boys are in your science top-up. Your two biggest fans in the world. Tell me everything you say. We must always make experiments before we believe things. Correct? Just for today, Masterji, let this Ajwani be a teacher to you. Make an experiment for him? Will you walk down the road, and take a look at what Mr. Shah is building beyond the slums? And then will you honestly say that you are not impressed by this Mr. Shah?”
Ramu, in T-shirt and jeans, had come down the stairs with his mother’s NO NOISE sign in his hands.
“We’re going to SiddhiVinayak Temple—we’ll pray for everyone,” Mrs. Puri said, telling the boy to wave at his three uncles, who waved back.
Ajwani, drawing his chair up to the Secretary’s table, summoned the other two with his fingers.
“She comes back every day with brochures for new buildings, which turn up in her rubbish next day. Yet she says she goes to the temple.”
Masterji whispered back: “Your competition has just increased, Ajwani. God must have joined the real-estate business.”
Three men burst out laughing, and one of them thought: Exactly like old times. Nothing has changed.
When Masterji went outside, he found Ram Khare by the compound wall, examining a gleaming red object, a brand-new Bajaj Pulsar motorbike.
“It’s Ibrahim Kudwa’s,” Ram Khare said. “Bought it yesterday.”
“He shouldn’t be spending money he doesn’t have.”
The guard smiled. “The mouth waters before it has food. It’s the human way, Masterji.”
The Pulsar’s metal skin gleamed like red chocolate. The segments of its body were taut, swollen, crab-like; the owner’s black helmet was impaled on the rear-view mirror. Masterji remembered the scooter he had once owned, and his hand reached out.
A rooster, one of those that wandered about Vakola and sometimes slipped into the compound of a Housing Society, flew onto the driver’s seat and clucked like a warning spirit.
This is what a woman wants. Not gold, not big cars, not easy cash.
This.
Rich dark fine-grained wood, with a fresh coat of varnish and golden handles.
Mrs. Puri moved her hands over the face of the built-in cupboard, pulled the doors open, and inhaled the fresh-wood smell.
“Madam can open the drawers too, if she wants.”
But Madam was already doing that.
The family Puri were in a sample flat on the sixth floor of the Rathore Towers—beige, brand-new, double-bedroomed, approximately 1,200-square-foot built-up area. Mr. Puri stood by the window with Ramu, showing his son the common swimming pool, the gym with weight-loss guarantee, and the common table-tennis room down below.
The guide, who was holding a brochure in her hands, turned on a light.
“And here is the second bedroom. If Madam would come this way?”
Madam was too busy opening the drawers. She was imagining the sunlight glowing on this beautiful piece of dark wood every morning for the rest