Last Man in Tower - Aravind Adiga [78]
Purnima’s function in life had been to restrain him; and now this dim stairwell forced him into self-reflection, as if her spirit had been reincarnated here. You’re doing it again, she said. Imagining the worst in humans. He stood in the stairwell, scooping out dirt from the wet octagonal stars of the grille.
Half an hour later, the pink orthopaedic bandage fastened around his knee to ease the tension in it, he was on his bed turning the Rubik’s Cube when two sets of knuckles knocked on his door: one rhythm insistent, the other unctuous.
“I’m coming, Sangeeta. And don’t knock so loudly, Ajwani.”
When he opened the door, Mrs. Puri smiled.
“Masterji, I just went down to the Pintos’ house. And asked them again if they would sign.”
Ajwani stayed a few feet behind Mrs. Puri, looking at his feet. Masterji felt that there had been some tension between the two of them, and that he was the source of this tension.
“Don’t speak to the Pintos. Speak to me. My answer is still no.”
“Masterji, I am not a brilliant human being as you are. I just have one question for you. Why do you want to stay in a building that is about to fall down?”
He knew, from the absolute nature of the silence, the ceasing of all ambient noise, that the Pintos were listening in.
“I have memories here, Mrs. Puri. My late daughter, my late wife. Shall I show you Sandhya’s sketchbook? It is full of drawings of the garden. Every tree and plant and spider’s web and stone and ….”
She nodded.
“I remember her. A beautiful girl. But you are not the only one with memories in this building. I have them, too. I have one of this very spot. Do you remember, Masterji, that day eighteen years ago, when I came here and told you what the doctors had told me about Ramu? Purnima was at the door and you put your book down on your teakwood table. And you remember what you did, what your eyes did, when you heard the news about Ramu?”
The old man blinked with emphasis. He remembered.
“Masterji, I love the Pintos as much as you do. For years they have looked after my Ramu as he played in the compound. But will they pay for his hospital and his nurse when he grows old and needs medical attention? Ask them.”
He listened: not a cough, not a scratch on a table, from downstairs. The Pintos did not object to the logic.
“Thirty years,” Mrs. Puri said, “I’ve come to you for advice. Now I ask you to listen to a foolish, fat woman just this once. Speak to Gaurav. Ask him what he thinks, as a father should ask his son. Will you do that for me, for your Mrs. Puri?”
She glared at the small dark man next to her.
The markings on Ajwani’s cheeks rose ingratiatingly: he forced out a grin.
“Masterji, my two sons are your biggest fans. R and R. I am your third-biggest fan in the world.”
When the rain had ended, Masterji walked down the stairs to the compound. Mrs. Saldanha’s door opened.
“Masterji, I have avoided meetings all my life, as you may have noticed. But I have something to tell you.”
“Yes, Mrs. Saldanha.”
She stood in a shapeless green gown; worry-lines cut into her brow and strands of untidy silver coiled out of her hair. He remembered her twenty years ago: the most beautiful woman in the building.
“Masterji, my Radhika wants to study journalism. At Syracuse University.”
He avoided her eyes.
“There was a Syracuse in the Roman empire. A place of learning.”
“This one is in America. New York State. And they won’t give scholarships to Indians, so we have to pay for everything ….”
He passed through his neighbours sitting out in the parliament and walked around the compound. Mrs. Kudwa, bringing along little Mohammad, in his white tae kwon-do outfit, came to see him next. The boy hid his face behind his mother; he had skipped Friday’s science tutorial.
When she was gone, others followed: Mrs. Ganguly