Last Man in Tower - Aravind Adiga [86]
Khare closed the log book and sniffed.
“Before that I was the guard at the Raj Kiran Housing Society in Kalina. A good Society. There too they had an offer of redevelopment from a builder. One man refused to sign the offer—a healthy young fellow, not like you—and one morning he tripped down the stairs and broke his knees. He signed in his hospital bed.”
Masterji closed his eyes for a beat.
“Are you threatening me, Ram Khare?”
“No, sir. I am informing you that there is a snake in my mind. It is long and black.”
The guard spread his arms wide.
“And I wanted you to see this black snake too. Every day Mrs. Puri or Mrs. Saldanha or someone else comes to your door and knocks, and asks: ‘Have you made up your mind? Will you sign?’ And every day you say: ‘I’m thinking about it.’ How long can this go on, Masterji? Now it makes no difference to me whether you say yes or no. If this building stands, I have this job. If it falls, I have a job somewhere else. But ….”
Ram Khare opened the door for his guest: “… there is the question of my duty to you. And whatever happens now, I’ve discharged it. The Lord Krishna has taken note of that.”
And with that, he went back to his holy digest: “… it does not die. It cannot hurt and cannot be hurt. It is invincible, immortal, and ….”
What cheek, Masterji thought, walking to the entranceway of his Society. Talking of a “black snake” in Vishram.
He should complain to the Secretary. Mrs. Rego was right; Ram Khare was drinking too much. He had smelled molasses in that booth.
Mrs. Puri was at her window, watching him from behind her grille.
“Mrs. Puri,” he shouted, “will you listen to what Ram Khare just said? He said I should be worried about what you and my other neighbours will do to me.”
As he watched, she shut the window and pulled down the blind. Must not have seen me, he thought. He did it all the time himself, ignored people right in front of him. Can’t be helped after a certain age.
He walked into the building with the coriander.
Retreating to the mirror in her bedroom, Mrs. Puri brushed her long black hair to soothe herself.
Her husband had yelled at her in the morning as he left. The first time he had yelled at her in Ramu’s presence. He had never trusted that old man. She was the one who described Masterji as “an English gentleman.” She was the one who had called him a “big jackfruit.”
Ramu, sensing his mother was upset, sat by her side, and imitated her with a phantom brush. She saw this, and in gratitude, sobbed a little.
Wiping her mobile phone clean on her forearm, she re-dialled a number.
“Gaurav, it’s me again,” she said. “Why don’t you come here, Gaurav. Speak to him. Bring Ronak. He will change his mind: he is your father. Don’t be obstinate like him, Gaurav. You must come to see him. Do it for your Sangeeta Aunty, won’t you?”
Wiping the mobile phone on her forearm, she put it down on the table and turned to her son.
“Can you believe it, Ramu? All those mangoes, all those years. I cut them into long thin slices and put them in his fridge. You remember, don’t you?”
She could hear Masterji opening the fridge to pour himself a glass of cold water.
“What a selfish, greedy old man he has become, Ramu. He wants to take our wooden cupboards away from us. The Evil Eye must have found out about my good luck. This time too.”
Ramu had put his fingers in his ears. His face began to shake; his teeth chattered. Mrs. Puri knew what was coming, but he beat her to it, ran into the toilet, and slammed the door. No: he wouldn’t open the door for Mummy.
“Ramu, I won’t say anything bad about Masterji again. I promise.”
The door opened at last, but Ramu wouldn’t get up from the toilet bowl. Breathing as normally as she could, to show that she was not angry with him, that he had not made a stinky mess in the toilet, Mummy washed his behind clean with a mug of water, changed his trousers, and put him into bed with Spider-Man and the Friendly Duck.
She struggled down to her knees and scrubbed the toilet floor clean. When he was frightened, he missed