Last Man in Tower - Aravind Adiga [82]
She came out with a glass of pineapple juice on a tray.
“Not for me, Sonal, too much sugar.”
He offered the glass to Ronak, who sat next to him on the sofa, but the well-mannered child refused.
“This Mr. Shah had better pay on time, Father-in-law. If not, Gaurav has a connection at work who knows a good property lawyer. Once you sign the agreement, you can move in here,” Sonal said. “Both our fathers will be with us.”
“It might be a good idea,” Masterji said. “To be close to Ronak.”
His son reached for the bar of chikki, broke off a chunk, and began chewing again.
Sonal smiled at her husband. “Of course, if Father-in-law doesn’t want to stay with us, he can always buy a one-bedroom flat in Vakola.” She said it out loud: “One-six-two-zero-zero-zero-zero-zero!”
Masterji, stroking his grandson’s wet hair, heard a gurgling noise from the inside room—as if even that brain-dead old man was excited. Senility for a banker, Masterji thought, must consist of lots of zeroes going round and round in his head.
“Are you sure you won’t drink that pineapple juice before you leave?” Sonal said. “Just a sip? Share it with your grandson?”
The lift was broken, so he walked down the stairs.
When he raised his leg, the stair dissolved, and he put it down into soft, wet black air. He held on to the solid banister to stop himself sliding. His arthritic left knee throbbed. O Purnima, he prayed, Purnima. His blood sugar was sputtering like the engine of an old autorickshaw. O Purnima.
Explosions of glucose—comets and supernovae—lit up his private darkness.
Holding on to the banister he lowered himself down onto the steps. He could hear Purnima yelling at him from the oceans of the other world. Why hadn’t he taken that diabetes test yet?
Is it possible, he wondered, that Sonal gave me that pineapple juice precisely to make this happen? She kept insisting.
Down below on the landing, a man in rags, one of the servants of Gaurav’s Society, slept with his arm over his face.
Masterji touched the wall of his son’s Society. It did not remember Purnima or Sandhya. Soon he would be living within four walls like this.
Striding over the sleeping servant, he walked on down, still wondering about Sonal and the pineapple juice.
“Why is it taking him so long to come back?” Mrs. Puri asked.
Half a dozen residents had gathered in the Secretary’s room to celebrate Masterji’s return. The moment he would walk in with a smile and say, “Yes.” A microphone had been placed near the black cross; the plan was to hold an impromptu general meeting and have the whole thing done within ten minutes.
The Secretary patted his comb-over into place. “He is stuck in the train, maybe.”
Ajwani had been standing in a corner of the office looking at his mobile phone: now he turned the phone around and tapped it against a filing cabinet.
“I’m getting worried. Look here ….” He smiled at the Secretary. “… why don’t you type out our Acceptance form now? Just type a form saying, All Members of Tower A have agreed and signed. As soon as he comes, get him to sign it. He may change his mind any minute. A man like that, he’s unpredictable. Remember what he did to the modern girl’s boyfriend?”
Ajwani gave the air a push.
Kothari put two fingers over the keys of the Remington, and then retracted them one by one.
“I think it’s against the rules to type a form like that until everyone has actually said yes.”
The broker shook his head, punched on his mobile phone, and murmured something.
“What did you call me?” The Secretary got up. “I know that you’ve been calling me that behind my back, Ajwani. Nothing man.”
The broker looked up from his mobile phone. “I speak my mind, Kothari. Don’t hide things.”
“What does that mean? What have I been hiding all these years?”
Ibrahim Kudwa was waiting in the office; Mumtaz was by his side, with baby Mariam on her lap. He was going to intervene in the quarrel when Mrs. Puri walked in and said: “Ibby.”
He smiled. “Sangeeta-ji,” he said.
“Ibby, the internet connection at home is a bit slow today. I don’t know if