Last Man in Tower - Aravind Adiga [67]
“A civilized place. Pune is civilized. So is Nagpur.”
Mrs. Puri tied a knot into her sari to remind herself. This would be settled after Ramu went to sleep with his Friendly Duck.
“We have checked this Confidence man,” Ritika’s short husband said in a low voice. “I know someone who knows someone in the construction business. He delays with the money: always delays. But he does pay. We may have to fight him in court to get the money, but we will get it. I don’t worry about him. Not about him.”
“Then who?”
“Sangeeta ….” Ritika smiled. “… we have heard that some people in Tower A are opposing the deal?”
“Absolutely no one in our Society opposes it. One person is saying ‘Maybe.’ She’s a Communist. We’ll make her change her mind.”
“But she’s not the only one, Sangeeta. That old teacher in your Society too.”
“Masterji?” Mrs. Puri laughed. “He’s just a big jackfruit. Prickly outside, soft and sweet inside. He’s a born quarreller, not a born fighter. Always complaining about this, about that. But the moment the Pintos say yes, he’ll say yes. I know my Masterji.”
The waiter approached with plates of crispy dosas.
“Just you wait and see, Ritika, we’ll beat you to it. Tower A will have our special general meeting and hand in our forms first.”
When the waiter put down their dosas, everyone noticed that the biggest one had been placed in front of Mrs. Puri.
They sat on a bench in the small open square outside the restaurant, in the shade of a small Ashoka tree. Mrs. Puri had not forgotten the knot in her sari, but it had to be established that there was no fighting between Mummy and Daddy, so they sat close to each other. Ramu, swinging his legs in between them, played alternately with her fingers and his.
A couple came up to them. The woman asked: “We’re looking for Rathore Towers.”
“Right behind us.” Mrs. Puri pointed.
The woman wore a svelte black salwar kameez. Her man was in a nice business shirt. Smart young couple.
Mrs. Puri put her arm around Ramu and told the young woman: “This is my son. His name is Ramesh. We may be your neighbours.”
Mr. Puri raised his eyebrows: a thing like this had never been done before. Introducing Ramu to a stranger.
All these years his wife had lived a leper’s length away from people. Her normal response when strangers came by was to tuck Ramu behind her body; that may have been why she let it grow so fat after his birth. He was still thinking about her extraordinary behaviour, when:
“This Sunday we are all going to the Taj. Did you hear me?”
“The Taj?” Mr. Puri asked. “Have you gone mad now, Sangeeta?”
Of course not. Since she was a child, she had seen its pale conical lampshades behind the dark windows: the Sea Lounge at the Taj Hotel. This Sunday they would walk in, hand in hand, and ask the waiter: “A table in Sea Lounge, please.” (“The Sea Lounge,” Mr. Puri corrected her.) Then they would sit down and say: “We want coffee, please.” Good behaviour would be observed by all, especially by Ramu, who would not rub his gums, drool, or kick legs about. Maybe a film star would come in. After settling the bill (hundreds and hundreds of rupees), they would keep it as a memento.
Mr. Puri, who was going to protest, kept quiet. Why not? he thought. Other human beings did it.
Two sharp fingers scraped his leg: a beggar child. Feeling guilty for his Taj fantasy, he gave the child a two-rupee coin.
“Don’t criticize me for doing that,” he said, expecting the worst from his wife.
“Why would I?”
“For twenty-five years I’ve always wanted to give to beggars. Even one rupee, and you became angry.”
This was a slander on her; but she let it stand—if it made Mr. Puri happy, let him say it. He too had suffered enough in life.
It began to rain. They scampered for a rickshaw; Mr. Puri got in first with the boy, and his wife, after undoing the knot in her sari, joined them.
25 JUNE
The end of the earth. As the sun dies out, it cools and turns into a red giant, and then expands and expands, until it has consumed all the inner planets, including