Last Man in Tower - Aravind Adiga [87]
When she opened the door of his bedroom, Ramu was sitting up, angling the book in which his father had drawn lizards and spiders so that the Friendly Duck could see the pictures too.
Just outside the bedroom, a bird began to trill, its notes long and sharp like a needled thread, as if it were darning some torn corner of the world. Mother and son listened together.
When Mrs. Puri came down the stairs, she found three women on the first landing, talking in whispers.
“He plays with his Rubik’s Cube all day long. But does he have a solution?” Mrs. Kothari, the Secretary’s wife, asked. “He’s just a block of darkness.”
“Won’t even do it for his son. Or his grandson,” Mrs. Ganguly said.
“It’s that girl next door. She made him crazy,” Mrs. Nagpal, of the first floor, said.
They went silent as Mrs. Puri passed. She knew they suspected her of sympathy with Masterji.
She took a left at the gate and walked past the slums. Soon she was at the site of the two new Confidence buildings. Under the blue tarpaulin covers, the work of laying slabs of granite and marble continued despite the rains. A drizzle began. She waited under an umbrella and hoped Ramu had not woken up.
A tall man came running up to her from one of the buildings. He got under her umbrella; she spoke to him and he listened.
“Mrs. Puri,” Shanmugham smiled. “You are a person of initiative. Just last year, in a redevelopment project in Sion, we encountered a problem like this Masterji of yours. There are many things we can do, and we will try them one by one. But you must trust me and Mr. Shah.”
23 JULY
The lift at Vishram Society moved like a coffin on wheels. When a button was pressed, a loud click followed: ropes, levers, and chains went into action. Through the lattice of the metal shutter guarding the open elevator shaft, you could see a wooden rectangle—a counterweight—sliding down the wall, and a circular light on the top of the lift rising as the large box scraped past to the floor above, carrying with it a sign: IT’S YOUR SOCIETY. KEEP IT CLEAN.
Masterji saw the lift pass him before slamming its dark mass into the fourth floor. A latch clicked and the door opened, but he heard no one come out.
It was one of those phantom trips that the Otis sometimes took on its own—compensating for weeks of inertia with these spectral bursts of activity.
No children yet. He went back to his room, leaving the front door open.
It was seven o’clock on a Monday. Time for the first science top-up of the week. The ceiling lights were turned off in anticipation, and the lamp light projected onto the far wall.
Ten minutes later, Masterji ran down the stairs and found the boys playing cricket in the compound. Mohammad Kudwa was bowling; Anand Ganguly held a bat high. Sunil Rego was fielding at cover point.
“Masterji, don’t stand there,” Mohammad called out, “the ball might hit you.”
“It’s time for class, Mohammad.”
The boy turned and grinned.
“Boycott, Masterji.”
He released the ball towards Anand Ganguly, who leaned back and smacked it high and hard; it bounced off a grille at a fourth-floor window and returned to the ground.
“Boycott?” Masterji asked, stepping back to avoid the bouncing ball. “Is this a new excuse not to come to the top-up?”
He walked towards parliament, where he found Mrs. Saldanha talking to Mrs. Kudwa, who was tickling Mariam on her lap.
“Your son is refusing to attend the top-up class, Mrs. Kudwa. Are you aware of this?”
The two women at once got up from their chairs, went into the building, and stood by the noticeboard. There they continued to talk.
“They are not speaking to us either,” Mr. Pinto said.
Masterji went up the stairs to 3C. Mrs. Puri opened the door with her left hand, the fingers of her right bunched together and stained with the curd and rice she had been feeding Ramu. He was seated at the table in his apron; he gave his Masterji a big smile.
“Sangeeta, what is going on?”
“Ramu ….” She turned to her son and said (forcing a big smile on her face so he would not suspect the content of her words), “… tell your